Two

Merrie took the letter from Mr. Thackery’s outstretched fingers. The expression on his face had slipped from stunned to disapproving. She swallowed her embarrassment at what he must think of her. The question now was what to do about Mr. Kipler’s request. She tilted her head and studied Mr. Thackery’s square-chinned profile. Hmm. Considering his patrician features, he looked like a Bentley.

“I’m open to any ideas you may suggest.” She tried for an airy tone.

He shook his head. “Why did you pass yourself off as a man? If you’d told the truth in the first place, you wouldn’t have this dilemma.”

“I didn’t lie. I’ve always signed my name as ‘M. M. Bentley.’ It’s easier than writing ‘Marigold Montgomery Bentley.’ Mr. Kipler just assumed the signature was that of a man.”

“Marigold Montgomery?” A smile flitted across his face. “I’d probably use initials too.”

“I’m glad you’re finding this so humorous. This letter is a serious matter to me.”

He carried the bench across the room, placing the polished seat in front of the piano. “Let’s try to redeem some of your lesson time. You have almost two weeks to respond. By then I’m sure someone as resourceful as you are will arrive at a solution.”

She stalked to the instrument and ran through the scales with a staccato touch. “I already have a solution.” She relaxed her fingers, stroked the opening bars of “Listen to the Mockingbird” from the keyboard, then swung around on the bench to face him.

“If you will accompany me on the call to Mr. Kipler’s office, you can pretend to be Mr. Bentley, and I’ll be your wife. That way I can hear what he has to say without revealing I’m the author of the articles.”

He jerked his head back as though she’d slapped him. “I can’t be a party to something like that. My father would be appalled if he knew of your request—not to mention what Mrs. Daintree would say.”

“My aunt is currently in Springfield trying to persuade members of the legislature to allow women’s rights. She’s too busy with her own concerns to bother with me.” Inside, she quaked at the thought of what Aunt Isabella might say. Merrie’s parents had left her in Chicago with the hope she’d make a good match among society’s elite. They had no knowledge of her ambition to be a writer, nor did her aunt.

“You’re presuming, Miss Bentley. I’m here to help you master the piano, not to make you the next editress of Godey’s. Aside from the hour we spend together each week, we hardly know one another.” He swallowed hard. “I can’t risk losing my position here. I teach students all over the city—if word got out that someone of your aunt’s stature in society dismissed me, my reputation would be ruined.”

From the agonized expression on his face, she knew his admission had embarrassed him. His unlined skin and shining black hair indicated he could be only a few years her senior. He’d undoubtedly worked hard to be so well-regarded for his skill at the piano. She dipped her head with sudden shame.

“Please forgive me. I was so caught up in my own concerns that I failed to consider yours.” She rose, her hands clasped in front of her waist. “I’ll think of something. The meeting with Mr. Kipler is only for this one time. Maybe Mr. Peters . . .”

His eyebrows shot up. “Your coachman?”

“I’m not asking him to marry me.” She shot him an indignant glance. “Just to pretend for an hour or so.”

“Nevertheless, who’d believe a man his age would be your husband?”

“Mr. Thackery. Since you won’t help me, please allow me to make my own decisions.” She turned to the keyboard, her chin thrust upward. “We have a few minutes remaining. Please show me the piece you want me to learn next.”

His color high, he settled on the piano bench. “From what I heard of your rendition of ‘Mockingbird,’ we need to spend more time on the current lesson. Please watch my hands as I play the opening notes.”

She moved closer to stand behind him as his long fingers traveled over the keys. Something stirred in her chest as she watched. He’d said he had students all over the city. She wondered how many of them were girls of marriageable age.

She shook her head to remove the thought. At the moment, she needed to focus on finding a temporary husband, instead of being distracted by her handsome piano teacher.

After the lesson ended, Colin walked toward the stables behind Mrs. Daintree’s mansion. He paused at the sight of Mr. Peters resting in the shade of a wisteria-covered trellis. The coachman’s trouser legs were tucked into muck-splashed boots, and he wore a collarless shirt open at the neck. A pipe was clenched between his teeth.

He jumped to his feet when he saw Colin.

“I’ll have yer horse out to ye in just a shake.” He loped toward the stable.

How Miss Bentley thought she could pass the coachman off as her husband was a mystery. Even if she found suitable clothing for him, there was nothing about Mr. Peters that fitted with her dainty beauty. Not to mention that once the man opened his mouth the masquerade would be over.

He considered her request again. An hour or so together away from her aunt’s home wasn’t so much to ask. If only the prospect of being her husband were really possible . . .

“Here ye be.” Mr. Peters led the bay gelding toward the mounting block.

Colin took the reins and swung onto the saddle. “Thank you.”

“Pleasure, sir.” He doffed his cap, revealing sweaty strands of gray hair.

The horse’s hooves clattered against the stones that paved Mrs. Daintree’s curved drive. Once he reached the street, Colin traveled the remainder of the distance to his home on quieter, but dusty, roads. Miss Bentley’s answer to her dilemma rode with him.

In the long run, what would it hurt if he offered to help her? He pondered how he could get around the introductions without actually referring to himself as Mr. Bentley. Perhaps the editor would assume that’s who he was, and he wouldn’t have to say a word. He wiped the sweat that gathered on his forehead. Maybe by next week, a better solution would present itself.

After Mr. Thackery left, Merrie took the letter and walked through the house to the back garden, where she sought a bench in the shelter of an oak tree. A manicured lawn surrounded by formal flower beds stretched to the wrought-iron fence at the boundary of her aunt’s property. At the edge of the brick pathway, a few dandelions dared to grow amid the landscaped perfection. The sight made her smile. No matter how her aunt tried to bend nature to her will, some rebel plants went their own way.

After unfolding the letter and reading again, a new thought struck her. What if Mr. Kipler’s phrase “the object of discussing your future with our publication” meant she had no future? Perhaps this was his way of telling her they no longer wanted her articles. She hadn’t thought so at first, but on closer perusal, he hadn’t said he liked the articles, merely that he wanted to discuss her future with the magazine.

Anxiety clutched her throat. Instead of worrying about whom she’d ask to pretend to be Mr. Bentley, she should have considered the possibility that after the nineteenth, no pretense would be necessary.

Perhaps Mrs. Wagner could offer a solution. Merrie rose and hurried toward the kitchen, careful not to tread on the dandelions.

She slipped into the light-filled room where the housekeeper sat at a worktable with her hands cradling a cup of tea. She looked up, smiling. “Just having a bit of a rest. Sit with me a minute, lovey. Something’s on your mind, isn’t it?”

“How did you know?”

“That pretty face of yours gives you away.” She blew on her tea and took a sip. “Well?”

“This letter from Kipler’s magazine . . . he wants to meet with me at his office the week after next. I’m afraid he’ll tell me he doesn’t want me to write for him anymore.”

Mrs. Wagner held out her hand. “Let me see.” She read slowly, her lips moving, then placed the message next to her cup. “He doesn’t say any such thing.”

“He doesn’t say he likes my writing, either.” Merrie stood and paced between the stove and the table. “I don’t know what I’ll do if I can’t write for his magazine. I like not having to ask Aunt Isabella or my parents for money when I want to buy books or paper.”

“Most young ladies are content to ask. It’s the way of the world.”

“It’s not my way. My mother helps Father with his business—she earns as much as he does.”

“Your mother is . . . different.”

“Then maybe I am too.” She plopped on the chair she’d vacated a moment earlier. “What do you think I should do about the letter?”

“Go. If he tells you to quit writing for him, the least you can do is listen to his reasons.”

“I plan to. But there’s another problem.” Merrie lowered her voice. “He didn’t make a mistake on the envelope. He truly believes I’m a mister.”

“Oh, my.” The laugh lines around Mrs. Wagner’s eyes deepened when she smiled. “You’ve really done it this time. What will you wear? Trousers?”

“Of course not. I have a better idea.”

Before returning to her room, Merrie slipped out the carriage entrance and feigned a casual stroll along the drive toward the stable. In spite of Mr. Thackery’s opinion, she didn’t see why her aunt’s coachman couldn’t serve as an escort. When they met with Mr. Kipler, she’d inform the editor that she needed to speak for her husband, since the poor man suffered from laryngitis. All Mr. Peters would have to do would be to nod at appropriate times.

“Miss Bentley. You needing to go somewhere?” Carrying a pitchfork, Mr. Peters stepped out from the stables. The odor of manure followed him like an affectionate dog.

She drew a shallow breath while studying him. Creases seamed his affable face. Strands of gray hair poked out from under his cap, straggling down his neck to rest on the grimy shirt he wore. Her shoulders sagged. Her aunt provided him with a smart uniform to wear when he drove her carriage, but by no means would he be believable as Mr. Bentley.

“No, thank you, Mr. Peters. I just came out to get some air.”

“Stable ain’t the best place for that, miss.” His mouth curved up at his own humor.

“Indeed not.” She smiled back at him, then turned toward the house. Her mind circled around the few young men she’d met since coming to live with her aunt. She hadn’t liked any of them. Taking one into her confidence was out of the question.

Merrie set her jaw in a firm line. As long as Aunt Isabella remained in Springfield, she’d never learn of Mr. Thackery’s pretense. Somehow, there had to be a way to convince him. She could hardly wait for next week’s lesson.