CHAPTER
4
I can’t believe I’m doing this. Abigail smoothed the skirt of her second-best ensemble, wishing she could eradicate her nerves as easily as smoothing a few wayward wrinkles from the russet fabric of her skirt. The high collar of her ivory shirtwaist didn’t help matters, strangling her with the jet brooch she wore at her neck in honor of her father’s passing.
With trembling fingers, she retrieved the business proposal sitting on the hall table in her rooms above the bakery. She’d spent the better half of the last week crafting and reconfiguring the document until she had the recipe just right. Her family’s future depended on her ability to bribe a man into marriage without forfeiting her control of the bakery. No easy task.
Then again, running a bakery on her own for the last year while her father lay ill had been no easy task, either, and she’d accomplished that feat. She’d manage this one as well.
Lifting her chin, Abigail slid the document into the small satchel already hanging from her right shoulder and marched down the stairs into the darkened bakery.
They closed at three in the afternoon, since most of her breads sold out by midday, which gave her a few precious hours to conduct business of her own before everyone scattered to their homes for the evening. She’d spent one of those hours bathing and debating with her sister over which outfit to wear. Rosalind had wanted her to wear something bright and cheerful. Abigail preferred a more sober, businesslike ensemble. This wasn’t a romantic rendezvous, after all. It was a negotiation. Besides, they were still mourning Papa. Standards might be more lax in the west than back east, but even here, pinks and yellows would be frowned upon by the townsfolk. So they’d compromised on the ivory blouse with the mourning brooch. The touch of lace on the bodice along with the gently puffed sleeves would have to suffice for displaying her femininity.
Exiting from the kitchen into the alley, Abigail locked the door behind her, then turned her feet toward Sinclair’s Lumberyard. She might as well try for the top prize first. If he didn’t pan out, she’d approach the next bachelor on her list.
Unfortunately, she only made it halfway to her destination before being waylaid by a man who was neither a bachelor nor on any type of desirable list in her estimation.
“Miss Kemp.” Samson Gerard waved and crossed the street, neatly blocking her path along the boardwalk and making it impossible for her to pretend that she hadn’t seen or heard him.
Abigail halted and nodded, not trying terribly hard to hide her impatience. “Mr. Gerard.” The spindly man looked even less Samson-like than usual today, dressed in a brown checkered suit with trousers so tapered that his legs resembled sticks. Perhaps if Mrs. Gerard frequented the bakery more regularly than the milliner’s, her husband would have a little more flesh on his bones.
“Are you ready to accept my offer?” His unctuous smile settled on her like a family of bugs crawling over her skin. “I’ve asked around town, and it doesn’t seem that you’ve sought a partnership with any of our local businessmen. I applaud your intelligence in forgoing that route.”
Abigail bristled at his condescending tone. She hadn’t needed Samson Gerard to point out the perils of partnering with a third party who didn’t share her passion for the bakery. Handing over the reins to a man who deemed himself better equipped to make financial decisions than his female partner simply because he had the ability to grow chin whiskers grated on her every nerve and would surely cause dissention. Not to mention the fact that an outsider helping himself to a hefty chunk of her profits every month would leave her and Rosalind with a pathetically small income.
Abigail longed to tell Gerard to stuff his offer in his hat and leave her be, but a wise woman never burned a bridge she might need to cross at a future date. If her marriage scheme didn’t pan out, she might find herself at Gerard’s door.
She smiled around her grinding teeth. “I have a few more avenues to explore first, but I’ll let you know if I change my mind.”
His composure slipped a notch. “What other avenues?” he pressed, as if he had the right to know.
“I’m not at liberty to say.”
Tired of playing mouse to Gerard’s cat, Abigail strode forward, hoping he’d take the hint and get out of her way. Even if he didn’t, she figured her greater heft would prevail. Sometimes being a woman of substance paid dividends.
“I’m sorry to dash off,” she said as she bowled forward, sending Gerard skittering toward the storefront to avoid the collision course she’d set, “but I have a pressing matter to attend to. I’m sure you understand.” She threw a consolation smile in his direction as she swept past. “Have a pleasant evening.”
“You . . . too.” He tugged the brim of his hat, but the move seemed more automatic than deferential.
Abigail sighed as she continued her march. Samson Gerard might be rooting for her demise, but he didn’t deserve to be treated shabbily. She could have been more patient with him. It was just that she was already wound so tight. She pressed her lips together as she stepped down from the boardwalk into the street. Proposing to a man completely out of the blue wasn’t exactly an everyday occurrence. She’d been storing up courage for this since that awful ruling last week, and now that she’d begun, she wanted to get it over with before she lost her gumption.
She still couldn’t believe Judge Hardcastle hadn’t overturned that ridiculous ordinance in her favor. From what she’d been able to uncover, that antiquated law had been added to the books half a century ago in order to rid the town of a female brothel owner. Clearly the spirit of the law had been to protect the citizens of Honey Grove from a den of iniquity. What were they trying to protect Honey Grove from in her case? Promiscuous popovers? A new century loomed on the horizon, yet these curmudgeons had the gall to assert that the spirit of the law meant nothing. It was the letter of the law that must be upheld at all cost.
Or at least at her cost.
Why she had expected anything different, she couldn’t fathom. Her own father would have voted right along with the rest of them.
Edward Kemp had owned the Taste of Heaven storefront outright, had been inordinately proud of that fact, and had dreamed of passing it down to his son one day. Only he’d had no sons, despite driving Mama to an early grave trying to produce one. His only surviving progeny had been female. His greatest disappointment.
When Abigail showed an aptitude in the kitchen, he’d grudgingly agreed to train her, and when she proved her mettle, he put her to work. They’d punched dough side by side for years, until his bad heart slowed him down. Gradually, she took over. The baking, the books—everything but the name on the deed. In the meantime, Papa schemed to use his younger daughter’s beauty to land a son-in-law he could train to take over the business that Abigail had earned. Thankfully, his illness delayed his plans for the youngest Kemp sister. Rosalind deserved to marry a man of her own choosing instead of being bartered away like a horse at auction.
Abigail might be bartering herself, but it was her choice to do so, and she fully intended to maintain control over the negotiations. The man she chose would agree to her terms or have his candidacy rescinded.
Fueled by indignation and desperation, her steps quickened, and before she knew it, Abigail stood in front of Sinclair’s Lumberyard. Like a kettle that had run out of steam, her footsteps faltered. She stared at the door looming before her, apprehension billowing.
You’ve come too far to turn back now.
Setting her chin, she grasped the handle and strode inside. Only to find the small office empty save for a young boy around eight or nine years of age seated behind a desk that dwarfed his small frame. The lad looked up from the schoolbook he’d been reading, then shot to his feet.
“Afternoon, ma’am.” He darted around the desk and stood at attention before her. “How can Sinclair’s Lumberyard serve you today?”
Abigail couldn’t help but be impressed by the young man’s professionalism. His parents had trained him well. She could remember her own parents instructing her on how to interact with customers. She’d always been more comfortable in the kitchen than in the front of the shop, but her father had made sure she could handle both duties from an early age. Good posture, eye contact, a deferential tone, and most important, a smile. Young Simeon Sinclair exhibited all four hallmarks.
Abigail returned his smile. “I’m looking for Mr. Hamilton. Do you know where I might find him?”
Simeon nodded. “Yes, ma’am. He and my pa are planing in the dressing yard. I can take you there, if you like.”
“Yes, thank you.” She’d hoped to find Mr. Hamilton alone, but this was not a day to let embarrassment keep her from her objective. A woman on the verge of losing her business couldn’t afford the luxury of pride. The whole town would learn of her scheme eventually, anyway.
She followed the sandy-haired boy out the office’s rear door and through the main yard to a covered area that housed the dressed wood. Inside, a pair of men worked at matching benches, scraping long planks with a rectangular box that must contain a blade of some sort, for a curl of shaved wood pushed out the top as they moved. Well, she assumed both men produced shavings. In truth, she had no idea what Reuben Sinclair did or did not produce. Her gaze had focused solely upon Zacharias Hamilton the instant she’d spotted his dark head bent over his work.
A craftsman, like herself, he moved methodically, his strokes rhythmic. The scrape of the plane ebbed and waned in perfect symmetry as he scraped, stepped forward with arms still in place, then scraped again, along the entire length of the board pinned to the workbench with a set of vises.
The voice did not belong to Mr. Hamilton, but at the sound of her name, his head lifted, and for a heartbeat, their gazes held. Feeling a blush warm her cheeks, Abigail looked away and focused instead on Mr. Sinclair as he set aside his tools and strode forward to greet her.
“How can I be of assistance?”
Simeon, bless his enthusiastic heart, blurted out her business before she could find the wherewithal to answer. “She’s here to see Mr. Zach, Pa.”
“I see.” Mr. Sinclair turned a teasing grin toward his partner. “I suppose I could spare him for a few minutes.” He crooked an arm around his son’s neck. “Simeon and I will start inventorying that shipment of pine that just came in.”
Abigail peeked back at Mr. Hamilton. He stood beside his bench, one brow quirked slightly higher than the other. Yet he said nothing. Just waited for her to get on with whatever had brought her here.
The Sinclairs’ footsteps faded. Abigail shot a glance at the departing father and son to make sure they were out of earshot, then gripped the satchel slung over her shoulder and marched forward.
Mr. Hamilton stood in place, his legs braced slightly apart as if prepared for any eventuality. This was not a man who would be easily bowled over. The observation should have given her pause, seeing as how she aimed to be in charge of this arrangement, yet she found it oddly comforting instead. He wouldn’t be blown off course when life’s storms battered his hull. He’d hold fast, a shelter for those under his protection.
Now all she had to do was convince him to take on a passenger with sizeable baggage and a penchant for steering the ship.
Before she could lose her courage, Abigail unstrapped her satchel and retrieved the marriage contract she’d constructed.
“Mr. Hamilton,” she said, thankful that her voice trembled only slightly, since her insides were quaking like the ground beneath a racing locomotive, “I have a proposition for you.”