Five
Mrs. Bunting answered the door at their knock. Her face broke into a wide smile when she recognized her caller.
“Isabella! What a treat to see you.” She tilted her head at Merrie. “And this must be the niece you’ve told me so much about.”
Merrie flushed.
The woman swung the door wide. “Please, do come in. My son is eager to meet you both.”
Inside the dark-paneled entry, curved archways led to a drawing room on the right and what appeared to be a library on the left. A center hall led to the rear of the house.
Mrs. Bunting escorted them into the drawing room. She gestured toward an overstuffed sofa piled with brocade pillows. “Make yourselves comfortable. I’ll tell my son you’re here. Tea will be served in a moment.” She slipped out of the room.
“What did you tell her about me?” Merrie whispered.
“Nothing untrue. I said you were charming, talented, and accomplished on the piano.” Aunt Isabella fidgeted a bit, then cleared her throat. “I may have mentioned your father left it up to me to find a suitable husband for you.”
Heat swept over Merrie. “You didn’t!”
“That’s the way these things are done, dear. You don’t just wander about willy-nilly hoping to find a mate.”
Mrs. Bunting stepped into the room, her hand on the elbow of a stout young man who resembled his mother. His ash-blond hair was combed into a high wave over his forehead. His skin glowed pink, as if he’d been interrupted in the midst of strenuous exercise.
“My son, Elliott.” She beamed at Merrie. “This is my dear friend Isabella’s niece, Miss Bentley.”
He tucked a bow in her direction. “Pleased.”
Merrie nodded, forcing herself to meet his gaze. He didn’t look at all pleased. Her palms moistened inside her tight gloves. She tried to think of something to say, but failed.
Mrs. Bunting broke the silence. “I wonder what’s keeping the maid. Our tea should be here by now. If you’ll excuse me . . .”
Aunt Isabella looked at Elliott. “Your mother tells me you’ve recently returned from Europe. Did you have a pleasant tour?”
“Yes. Thank you.” He set his lips in a straight line.
“She also told me you had some lovely garden statuary shipped home. Perhaps you might show them to my niece. She enjoys gardens.”
Merrie’s mouth dropped open.
Elliott gave her an indifferent glance. “Of course. If you’ll come with me, Miss Bentley.” He extended his elbow.
“I . . . I’m sure my aunt would like to see the garden too. Wouldn’t you, Aunt Isabella?” She pinned her aunt with a daggerlike gaze.
“Not at all, my dear. You two go ahead. I’ll enjoy a chat with his mother while you’re gone.”
Merrie took his proffered elbow, knowing her face must be as red as the Persian carpet beneath her feet. Without speaking, Elliott moved along the hall to a sunroom at the rear of the house, then opened glass-paneled doors to the garden. He waved his hand at a pair of stone lions guarding the graveled path winding through the flower displays.
“Mother always fancied lions, so I sent these to her. Over there, that stone pedestal will hold an urn once she decides which one she wants.” He paused and studied her face. “You’re not the least bit interested, are you?”
“Truthfully, I’m mortified that my aunt so blatantly pushed me at you.” Her voice trembled. She hoped she wouldn’t cry.
His shoulders relaxed. “So this wasn’t your idea?”
She swallowed and shook her head.
“There’s a bench over there by the birdbath. Why don’t we sit for a few minutes before we rejoin those two schemers?” He took her elbow again and guided her to a stone bench.
“Thank you.”
He plopped down beside her, resting his hands on his plump thighs. After a moment, he cleared his throat. “You need to know, I plan to return to Europe before the end of the year. To Berlin, specifically. I met a young lady there during my travels, and we plan to marry.”
“How nice,” she murmured, wondering why he confided in her.
“Mother is aghast at the thought of me marrying a foreigner, so she’s dragging all her friends’ daughters over here to meet me, hoping I’ll find someone appealing. It hasn’t happened.”
Even though she wasn’t the smallest bit attracted to him, the remark stung. Merrie twisted her hands together, wishing the visit were over. She dragged her gaze from her lap to his eyes.
“I pray you’ll have a happy life.” The beginnings of a headache pushed at her temples. Without waiting for his response, she rose and hurried toward the house. Regardless of what her father and aunt wished, she would not go through this again.
Merrie sat stiffly beside her aunt as their carriage bore them home. The heat of the afternoon added to the waves of humiliation that cascaded over her. Words from someone like Elliott shouldn’t matter, but they did. Colin would never speak to her in such a haughty tone.
“The visit went well, don’t you think?” Aunt Isabella patted her arm. “Elliott looked disappointed when we left.”
“If anything disappointed him, it was probably the empty cookie plate. He knew you and his mother were presenting me for his approval, and he wasn’t interested. He told me he’s already met someone he wishes to marry.” She drew a deep breath. “No more arranged meetings, please. You can write Father and tell him I plan to be a spinster.”
“Surely not!”
“Well, no. But I want to wait for butterflies and tingles. And someone who’ll love me for who I am, not because I’m your niece.”
Her aunt shook her head. “I won’t write your father just yet. I’m not ready to admit defeat.”
In spite of herself, Merrie chuckled. How like her aunt to turn this into a personal mission. She leaned over until their shoulders touched.
“Neither am I.”
On Thursday afternoon, Merrie paced the music room awaiting Colin’s arrival. Fortunately, her aunt was out paying calls. She hoped another matchmaking attempt wasn’t in the offing.
She placed sheets of paper on a table beneath the front window and arranged two straight-backed chairs on either side. An inkwell and pen sat next to the blank pages. She’d transcribe his notes first, then they’d review her progress on the “Wedding March.”
As soon as she saw him climb the steps to the porch, she ran to open the door before he had time to knock.
“I thought today would never get here,” she said, then felt her cheeks warm. “That is, I’m dying to know what Mr. Kipler told you.”
His lean face creased in a smile. “If you’ll allow me to enter, I’ll tell you.”
She flushed again and stepped away from the entrance. “I have everything ready in the music room. Did you bring your notes?”
“Such as they are.” He followed her across the hall. “I had some unexpected interruptions when I left here Monday, so several hours passed before I had time to write things down.”
Apprehension prickled through her. “But you did remember everything, didn’t you?”
“I have an excellent memory.” He walked to the table and drew out a chair for her. “Shall we begin?”
“By all means.” She dipped the pen in the inkwell and held the instrument poised over the paper. “To begin with, how many articles does he want, and when is the first one due?”
“Hmm. He didn’t exactly say how many.”
“Then when does he want the first one?”
“Next week, then once a week thereafter.”
Her apprehension grew. With her aunt at home, she’d have less time to focus on writing. She hoped the topics would be simple ones. She dipped the pen in the inkwell a second time, although the nib was still damp. “I’ll need to start right away. Please, what themes did he request?”
Colin whipped a small piece of paper from his coat pocket. “Goals, gifts, speech, home, children, love, faith—things like that.”
She scribbled down his words while he was speaking, then paused. “What do you mean, ‘things like that’?” She jammed the pen in its holder and stared at him. “He must have given you more details. What are they?”
“He did talk a bit about what he wanted, but I had a hard time following every word. The man talks faster than an auctioneer at a farm sale. Why don’t you start on one of the topics, and Monday we can review the piece together? Once I see what you’ve said, I can tell you whether you’re going in the right direction.”
For a moment, Merrie feared she might faint. He thought she could write on a vague subject and trust him to make proper corrections? She tipped her head back and closed her eyes. The whole masquerade had been for naught.
“Merrie?” His voice sounded closer.
She opened her eyes to find him bending over her, concern shadowing his handsome features.
“We can do it. You’ll see. I’ll be here on Monday morning for our first collaboration.” He gave her hand a reassuring pat.
A tingle ran up her arm. “I’ll be ready.”
After Colin left, Merrie sped up the stairs to her room, carrying paper in one hand and the inkwell in the other. Her first article would be about godly homes. After living in a variety of places with her parents, often hotels or rented rooms, she cherished the home Aunt Isabella shared with her. Even when her aunt traveled, Merrie had Mrs. Wagner, who was more family member than servant.
Merrie reached for her Bible. She knew the Scriptures she wanted to use—the pages were already bookmarked. Humming, she turned to the verse that stated a place was prepared for her in heaven. A prepared place meant one that was clean and well-ordered, with dependable routines.
She wrote as fast as she could, thoughts tumbling through her mind, until she reached a stopping point. As she read over her words, she wondered what Colin would think when he read them. Somehow when she’d been writing, his face had been the one she visualized as sharing her perfect home.
“Your aunt sent me to fetch you. She’s waiting at the dinner table.” Mrs. Wagner stood in the doorway, an amused expression on her face. She gestured at the papers scattered across Merrie’s writing desk. “Lost in your words again, eh?”
She scrambled to her feet. “My goodness. The time got away from me.” She returned her pen to its holder and flipped the filled pages over, then rested her Bible on top. “Please tell her I’m on my way.”
Mrs. Wagner moved across the room and cradled Merrie’s right hand in her own callused palm. She tapped an ink stain on Merrie’s middle finger. “First, come to the kitchen with me and clean this off, so your aunt doesn’t wonder what you’ve been up to.”
“But she’s waiting.”
“Another minute or two won’t hurt.” She nodded toward the back stairs at the far end of the hallway.
Merrie followed her down the narrow steps. When they reached the kitchen, the aroma of curried chicken and fresh-baked rolls surrounded her. She noticed a white-frosted cake waiting on the worktable. “Mmm. You must be the best cook in Chicago.”
Mrs. Wagner beamed. “Go on with you.” She filled a basin with warm water and placed it next to a towel on the counter, then cut a lemon and set it to one side. “This should do the trick. Rub the juice on the ink, then rinse your hands in the water. I’ll tell your aunt you’ll be there directly.”
She hurried to comply, thankful for Mrs. Wagner’s attention to detail. While Aunt Isabella was away, she hadn’t needed to be careful to keep ink stains from her fingers, since no one noticed her hands. Unless Colin paid attention to her hands while she played . . .
Did he? She paused in her scrubbing and tried to remember. She studied her smooth, white skin and rounded nails, running her fingers along an imaginary keyboard to see how they looked in motion. Just in case he noticed, she’d be sure to remove any stains before her next lesson.
Mrs. Wagner bustled into the kitchen and sent her a pointed look. She grabbed a basket of rolls from the warming shelf over the stove, then dashed back to the dining room.
Seizing the towel, Merrie dried her hands and pushed through the swinging door after the housekeeper. Aunt Isabella sat in her usual place at the head of the table. She gave a slight huff when she saw Merrie, then made a show of spreading her napkin over her lap.
“You’ve put Mrs. Wagner to a great deal of trouble keeping our meal warm. I suppose you had your nose in a book again.”
“Not so much trouble, ma’am.” The housekeeper placed the rolls near a lighted candelabrum on the gleaming mahogany table.
“I apologize. The afternoon seemed to slip away.” She took a chair to her aunt’s right. “I apologize to you too, Mrs. Wagner.”
“You’re forgiven, lovey.” She patted Merrie’s shoulder and returned to the kitchen.
Aunt Isabella shook her head, smiling. “Well, if she’s not upset, then neither am I. Tell me, how are your piano lessons progressing? Mr. Thackery was here today, was he not?”
“Yes. He’s given me a difficult . . . assignment to master, but I’m doing my best. Fortunately, he’s offered to call here on Monday to provide extra help.” She drew in a breath, wondering how her aunt would react.
“Two days each week wasn’t our agreement. I imagine he’ll expect double wages.”
“Oh, no. That is, he didn’t mention charging more.” Surely Colin wouldn’t ask her aunt to pay him for spending additional time with her.