One

CHICAGO
JULY 1858

At the sound of light footsteps in the hall outside her aunt’s study, Merrie Bentley paused in the act of dipping her pen into an inkwell. She groaned to herself. Another interruption. She’d promised the editor of Kipler’s Home Weekly an article by next week, but at this rate she’d never fulfill her agreement.

“Miss Merrie.” The housekeeper’s voice carried into the book-lined room. In another moment, the door swung open and Mrs. Wagner dashed in, her ruffled cap askew. “Did you forget your piano lesson? Mr. Thackery has been waiting in the music room for ten minutes.”

“Why didn’t you tell me he’d arrived?” Merrie dropped a paperweight over her manuscript and scrambled to her feet.

“I reminded you this morning at breakfast. He’s here at three every Thursday.” Arms akimbo, Mrs. Wagner frowned. “You’re twenty years old—I expect you to keep your own appointments.”

“I apologize. You did remind me.” She slipped her arm around the shoulders of her aunt’s diminutive housekeeper. “I don’t know what I’d do without you to look after me.”

“I don’t know either, and that’s a fact. Once you shut yourself away with your writing, lightning could strike and you wouldn’t notice.”

She opened her mouth to argue, then closed it. Nothing captured her attention as thoroughly as writing her articles. Not even Mr. Thackery’s dark eyes and shy smile. She glanced down at her emerald-sprigged muslin skirt and brushed at wrinkles.

“I wish I had time to change to a better dress.”

“Just go on. Your aunt pays him whether you’re learning anything or not. Don’t waste her money.”

She chafed at the reminder. One of these days, she’d earn enough from her writing to take care of herself. “I’m not wasting her money. I enjoy the piano. Mr. Thackery is a good teacher.” She left the study and directed her steps toward the music room off the reception hall of her aunt’s spacious home.

“Wait. I forgot to give you this.” Mrs. Wagner held out an envelope. “Peters brought it for you when he came back from town.” She shook her head. “Don’t know why they can’t get your name right.”

When Merrie read the address—“Mr. M. M. Bentley”—her heartbeat quickened. Payment from Kipler’s Home Weekly for her most recent article.

“Thank you,” she called after the housekeeper’s retreating back.

Mrs. Wagner waved her hand and continued toward the kitchen.

As soon as she was out of sight, Merrie paused beneath a lighted sconce in the hall and used her forefinger to slit open the missive. She’d submitted a longer piece last time, with several references, and hoped for a larger sum in payment. Her conscience pricked at not correcting the editor when he assumed she was a man, but she knew she had a better chance of being published as Mr. M. M. Bentley.

Her eyes widened when she saw the amount of the bank draft, then narrowed with concern when she noticed a folded sheet of paper remaining in the envelope. Most unusual. Mr. Kipler seldom sent messages with her payment. She glanced toward the music room where Mr. Thackery waited, knowing she should wait to read the letter until after her instructor departed. But another minute or two wouldn’t hurt. She unfolded the page and scanned the contents, then drew a sharp breath and read the message again.

Colin Thackery paced across the Persian rug to stand in front of the grand piano that filled one corner of the music room. Miss Bentley was late again. Her hour would be over before they had time to review last week’s lesson. His fingers itched to touch the keys, to stroke one of Chopin’s nocturnes from the beautiful instrument.

He folded his arms and turned away. He couldn’t presume to use the piano for his own enjoyment. He was hired to teach Miss Bentley the musical skills expected of a young lady of her social standing. His personal time at the keyboard would have to wait until he returned home, where he could use the upright in the church his father pastored.

The latch on the glass-paned door clicked downward, and Miss Bentley flew into the room. A few coppery-brown curls corkscrewed loose above her ears. Her cheeks were bright pink and worry lines wrinkled her forehead. She looked prettier every time he saw her.

He made a point of glancing at the ornate case clock against the rear wall. “We’ve lost more than fifteen minutes. I hope you’re prepared to learn a new piece this week.” He cringed at the sternness in his tone. She must think him a dry stick.

Instead of going to the piano bench, she sank onto a tapestry-covered settee facing the window. “I’m sorry I’m late.” She folded her arms across her middle. One slippered foot tapped the floor.

“Being a few minutes late isn’t that serious. Please don’t be upset.”

“That’s not why I’m upset.” She waved a sheet of paper at him. “I just received this letter, and I’m trying to think what to do.”

“Bad news?”

“The very worst.”

“Nothing has happened to your parents, I hope.” He knew they had left her with her aunt while they devoted their attention to business interests back East.

“No. The last I heard, they’re both well.” She rubbed one side of her head, dislodging more curls.

Seeing her in distress called forth his protective instincts. He dragged the piano bench across the room and sat facing her. “I’m a good listener. Would you care to tell me what’s happened?”

A moment of silence passed between them while she surveyed his face.

He rubbed moist palms on his trouser legs, praying she couldn’t see past his surface platonic concern to the attraction he felt toward her. If she believed him to be over-familiar, she could have him dismissed.

Apparently she decided to trust him, because she exhaled a long breath and leaned forward. “Mrs. Wagner is the only person who knows about this.” She folded the letter into a square and rubbed her fingers against the paper. “I’ve been writing articles about marriage for Kipler’s Home Weekly for several months now.”

“Marriage?” His amazement echoed in his voice.

She drilled him with a stern look. “You don’t actually have to be married to know what the Lord expects.”

He decided to let her statement pass. From what he’d seen of his father’s ministry, being married was a prerequisite to possessing an intelligent opinion of matrimony.

“How did you . . . why did they . . . ?”

“I read a notice in the magazine requesting submissions on the subject. So I sent a sample, and to my delight Mr. Kipler agreed to publish my thoughts. He pays me by sending a draft, which is what I thought this letter was about.”

He stared at her dumbfounded, any thoughts of a closer relationship dissolving. She was not only part of a higher social class, she was an ambitious woman.

“You want to be a writer, like Mrs. Hale?”

“She’s far more accomplished than I—look how popular Godey’s Lady’s Book has become. But later on, who knows?” Miss Bentley spread her hands. “For now, I’m just thankful to see my words in print.”

He rose and crossed to the piano. “Then why are you upset over the letter? Didn’t he send payment?”

“He did. But the message that accompanied the draft . . .” She unfolded the paper, then held it out to him.

When he read the salutation, his jaw dropped. “Dear Mr. Bentley?”

“Read the rest.”

I’ve heard from a number of my subscribers regarding the quality of your matrimonial advice. May I suggest a meeting in my office on Monday, the 19th, at ten o’clock in the morning, with the object of discussing your future with our publication?

Sincerely yours,
Horatio Kipler