Six

The following Monday, Colin arrived at Mrs. Daintree’s home a few minutes ahead of his expected time. He’d awakened early, eager to spend the additional hour with Merrie, and once he’d shaved and dressed he couldn’t think of a reason to wait any longer to see her.

Mrs. Wagner escorted him to the music room. “If you’ll wait a moment, she’ll be right down.” She cocked her head and studied him for a moment. “Does this extra visit have anything to do with ‘Mr.’ Bentley?”

His mind raced. Merrie told him the housekeeper knew of her writing for Kipler’s Home Weekly, but he didn’t know whether the woman was aware of the depth of his involvement. He tugged at his tie. “You mean Miss Bentley’s father?”

“Hardly.” She took a step closer. “I notice you’re not carrying your music portfolio.”

If she hadn’t been watching, he’d have slapped his forehead. How could he pretend to be here for lessons without his music? He met her gaze, determined not to add another lie to the deception. “You already know I agreed to play the part of Mr. Bentley. She didn’t tell you what happened?”

She shook her head. “What with her aunt’s return and all, I’ve been busy.” Curiosity lit her eyes. “So, did he believe you’re the one who did the writing?”

“We fooled him too well. He took me into his office and left Merrie in the reception room. Then he spelled out what he’d like to see in her next several pieces.”

“And you told her what he said.”

“Not right away.” He squirmed inwardly at her incredulous expression. “We went over the assignment when we met on Thursday, but I’m not sure I gave her a clear idea what Mr. Kipler wants. I promised I’d help by looking over the articles as she writes them.”

Chuckling, she said, “That girl has a way with her, doesn’t she?”

“She does.” He thought of her brilliant blue eyes and compelling smile. He’d given in and pretended to be Mr. Bentley, even though he knew he should have refused to be part of a lie. Now he was being drawn further into the conspiracy.

“Just so you know, Mrs. Daintree is expecting you to present a bill for adding another day to your schedule.”

“I don’t want money. I told Merrie I’d help her, and I will.”

Mrs. Wagner’s expression softened. She put her index finger to her lips. “In that case, your secret is safe with me. I’ll let you explain these visits to Mrs. Daintree yourself. Remember, she doesn’t know Merrie wants to be a writer—is a writer.”

He swallowed. “I’ll remember.” One deception led to another, like stacking uneven stones to build a wall. Sooner or later, the whole thing would collapse.

At that moment, Merrie appeared on the stairs carrying a sheaf of paper and an inkwell. When she saw him, her lips lifted in her beautiful smile. Then a shadow crossed her brow and the smile faded. “You’re very prompt.”

“I’m eager to see what you wrote.”

“Shh. Aunt Isabella’s in her study. She may hear us. Would you mind if I sit on the piano bench while we talk?” Without waiting for his answer, she preceded him into the room and arranged her pages on the music rack above the keyboard, placing the ink and a pen to one side.

He closed the door. Once she settled on the bench, he stepped behind her. A few tendrils of hair had escaped from her braids and curled against the back of her neck. He jammed his hands into his pockets so he wouldn’t give in to the temptation to run one of the silky-looking strands between his fingers.

She tilted her head up, a serious expression on her face. “I’ll play ‘Mockingbird’ while you read over my shoulder. If you see that I’ve missed what Mr. Kipler wanted, tap the page and tell me where I went wrong.”

“Fine.”

Her hands struck the opening chords, and he bent forward to read.

Heaven’s Plan for a Godly Home

Happy is the wife who follows the example set out in the Gospel According to St. John, which tells us that our Lord went ahead to prepare a place for us. Clearly, this message is for wives. Ladies, be faithful in keeping your homes prepared for your husband. Whether the house be grand or humble, it should be clean and welcoming.

When your husband returns home at the end of his busy workday, he should find the children quiet and occupied, and a lovely supper waiting on the stove. Be sure you are wearing a clean apron, and your hair is freshly arranged. All of these actions will communicate your love for him. Love in the home is the chief happiness of all who dwell within. . . .

His lips twitched at the image of his mother at the end of a day made up of pastoral calls, cleaning, cooking, and chasing after him and his older sister. Apparently Mama hadn’t quite mastered the technique of appearing unruffled. Yet love had been the chief happiness of his childhood.

While Merrie played the tune, he read to the end of her article, trying to recall precisely what Mr. Kipler had specified in his request for a piece about the home. Try as he might, he couldn’t come up with the man’s exact words.

He tapped the page after the final period.

She dropped her hands in her lap. Without turning around, she said, “Do you think he’ll approve this?”

“I certainly do. What man wouldn’t?”

She slid to the end of the piano bench and faced him.

“Really? You’re sure I don’t need to make changes?”

“I think it’s perfect.” He gazed at Merrie, picturing her in a clean apron, greeting him at the end of the day. He shoved the image from his mind. She hadn’t written the article for his benefit—he was merely an unacknowledged collaborator.

“Which topic shall I choose next?”

Mr. Kipler’s suggestions fled from his memory when he gazed into her eyes. He tried to think. “Hmm. Why don’t you pick one and surprise me? You can tell me your choice when I come on Thursday.”

“Will you be back next Monday as well?”

“Absolutely. That reminds me, I need to speak to your aunt. Would she mind an interruption?”

Her expression turned stony. “I’m sure she won’t. I’ll take you to her.” An unmistakable chill iced her tone.

Bewildered at the change in her attitude, he followed her to her aunt’s study at the end of the hall. The door stood ajar. Merrie tapped on the frame and then stepped across the threshold.

“If you have a moment, Mr. Thackery wishes to speak to you.”

Mrs. Daintree laid the newspaper she was reading to one side of her desk. “Of course. I was expecting him to see me today.” She glanced at Colin and gestured toward an armchair. “Come in, young man. Merrie, would you please close the door when you leave?”

Merrie lifted her chin and obeyed without looking at him. He couldn’t understand what he’d done to bring about the sudden chill. Following Mrs. Daintree’s request, he sank onto the soft brocade upholstery and faced her.

“I hope it’s not inconvenient to your household to have me here on Mondays as well as Thursdays. I had no other appointments, so I’m happy to help.”

“Not inconvenient at all. Our schedule isn’t crowded. However, it would have been better if you’d stated your terms ahead of time.” She bent to one side and lifted a small box, which she placed on the desktop. “I’m going to assume your fee for Monday lessons will be the same as you’re receiving for your Thursdays?” A metallic click accompanied the opening of the lid.

She must think him greedy, or even worse, opportunistic. He sprang to his feet. “No, ma’am. It isn’t.”

“A discount, then?”

“No! No fee at all.” He leaned forward, resting his palms on her desk. “If you don’t mind my presence, we’ll just consider the Monday hour part of the lesson, not an addition.”

She folded her arms over her waist and regarded him with a half smile. The look on her face reminded him of his mother, when she suspected there was something he wasn’t telling her.

Mrs. Daintree closed the metal box. “You came highly recommended, and from what I hear of my niece’s playing, she’s progressing well. If you don’t mind donating another hour of your time, I have no objection.”

Colin relaxed and turned toward the door. “Thank you.”

“One more thing.”

He stopped.

“I’ve tried to get her to participate in outside activities, but her shyness keeps her at home. Perhaps you could encourage her to develop interests other than music to fill her days.”

“I’ll do what I can, ma’am. I’m sure we’ll arrive at something.”

He smiled inwardly at the thought of Merrie’s articles for Kipler’s Home Weekly. Her days were already filled. The next time they were alone, he’d ask why she hadn’t confided in her aunt.

After she closed the door behind Colin and Aunt Isabella, Merrie hurried back toward the music room. Colin was asking for more money—for spending an extra hour with her. Her face felt hot. Somehow she’d believed he offered so they could have more time together. Obviously, she’d misjudged him.

She dashed over to the piano and removed her papers and ink from the top of the instrument. Perhaps after Mr. Kipler approved one or two of the new articles, she’d be able to conclude her assignment without Colin’s participation. She hoped so. Why should he profit from his own error? If he’d paid better attention to Mr. Kipler, there’d be no need for a Monday “lesson” at all.

Merrie heard the door to her aunt’s study click open. She scurried from the music room and hastened up the main stairway before Colin emerged. She’d look over the pages one final time to be sure there were no errors, then give the article to the coachman to post.

Half an hour later, she descended the back stairs to the kitchen carrying a sealed envelope. When Mrs. Wagner saw Merrie, she stopped buffing the silver bowl she held and laid her cleaning cloth next to a container of whiting powder. After a glance at the envelope, she asked, “You seeking Peters?”

“Yes. He’s here, I hope?”

“Busy with the horses, I’m sure. Your aunt told him to be ready with the carriage at noon. She’s off to lunch with one of her women’s rights ladies.”

“Then I just have time to give this to him.”

She stepped out onto the paved drive leading to the stable. Fragrance from honeysuckle vines wrapped around an arbor perfumed the humid July air. She took a deep breath and held it for a moment, preparing herself to enter the anything-but-perfumed stable.

Before she took more than a dozen steps in that direction, the carriage approached, Mr. Peters on the driver’s seat. He wore his full uniform, including a top hat. Perspiration dotted his forehead.

“Ye going w’ Mrs. Daintree?”

“No.” She held the envelope up.

“Ye’ll be wanting me to post this, then?”

“Please. Perhaps you could arrange to do so while she’s with her friend?”

He tipped his hat. “Be glad to.” Sending her a conspiratorial grin, he leaned down from the driver’s seat. “That young feller was looking for ye awhile ago. Said he wanted to have a few words with ye before he left.”

She straightened her shoulders. “Why would he look for me in the stable, of all places?”

“He weren’t in the stable.” Peters pointed with the whip. “He walked about in the garden, said he thought you might be there.”

“Did he tell you what he wanted?”

“No, miss.” He shook the reins and guided the horses to the carriage entrance.

How curious. Since Colin was here only because he needed extra money, she couldn’t think of anything he’d have to say that couldn’t wait until he returned on Thursday.

She hurried back to the kitchen before her aunt could come outside and invite Merrie to join her for a luncheon with a boring women’s rights supporter. Or worse yet, ask her why she needed to speak to the coachman.

On Thursday, Merrie’s fingers coaxed the closing notes of Mendelssohn’s “Wedding March” from the keyboard. Her shoulders slumped and she blew out a long breath. “I’ll never be able to play this well. I’ve practiced and practiced.”

“Nonsense. You’re improving all the time.” Colin folded his arms and beamed down at her. “Play the opening section again. Listen to yourself. You’re progressing nicely.”

If she didn’t know his true motives, she’d think he was enjoying her company.

He encouraged her through several more repetitions, until she dropped her hands in her lap. “No more, please.”

“You’re tired. Why don’t we walk in the garden for a few minutes? You’ll feel better if you get some fresh air.”

His face wore a caring expression, one she supposed he’d learned from his father. She knew Colin was assuming a role. Still, she felt herself responding to the comfort he offered. Between struggling to master Mendelssohn and working her way through her latest article for Mr. Kipler, a stroll around the garden sounded like a few moments of heaven.

“What a good idea. It’s a beautiful day.” She rose from the piano bench. “Please give me a moment to fetch my parasol. We’ll leave by the carriage entrance—it’s closer.”

Colin kept his hands clasped behind his back as they walked together along the paved drive and passed through the wrought-iron archway leading to the formal gardens. Colorful buntings flitted among the branches of a redbud growing to one side of the curving brick pathway.

Merrie paused next to a sundial set on a pedestal in the center of a riot of purple coneflowers. The shadow across the face told her the hour was near four.

“Your time is almost up. Perhaps we’d better postpone our walk.”

He moved close to her side. “I’m in no hurry. There’s no place I’d rather be than here.”

At the tone of his voice, butterflies tickled in her throat. She shooed them away, reminding herself again that Aunt Isabella paid him to spend time with her. She’d treat him with the same politeness she used with her aunt’s friends.

“It is pleasant, isn’t it?” She stepped onto the brick path. While they strolled, she pointed to a shady area at the far side of the lawn. “This path will take us around the flower beds. We’ll end up under that oak tree over there. By then I expect we’ll have had enough sun.”

They walked in silence for a minute or two. When they reached a carved bench at the far end of the garden, he turned and gazed back at the house. “Your aunt has one of the finest homes in Chicago. I expect you know that. Coming here is a treat for me.”

Her heart softened at the sincerity in his tone. She gave him a half smile. “My parents brought me for visits often when I was growing up. It’s a treat for me to be here, too. If only Aunt Isabella—”

“You’d like her to understand about your goal to be a writer.”

“How did you know?”

He leaned closer and she inhaled the sweet, woody fragrance of the oil he used on his dark hair. “Because she seems determined to get you out into society. She said as much when I met with her on Monday. I’ve considered her words since, and obviously she has no idea of the amount of time you need to spend writing in order to succeed.”

Merrie stiffened. “You were discussing me? I thought the two of you were talking about your wages.”

“We did talk about wages. She expected to pay me for coming an extra day.”

“I know. I trust her terms were satisfactory.” Ice coated her words.

“Not at all.”

Her eyes widened. “You asked for more?”

“I can’t accept pay for something that’s my idea. I told you we’d work together, and we will.”

She walked to the bench and sank down, tipping her parasol forward to hide her flushed cheeks. He really did want to spend time with her. The butterflies were back.