Chapter 4

The carriage swayed to a stop, and Neil pressed his fingers against the throbbing at his temple. As if trying to walk without stumbling like an oaf wasn’t enough, all the conversations he’d had with his tenants, employees, and Helen today hurt his jaw—and now he had a headache.

Mr. Ferguson opened the carriage door. Bright orange highlighted the darkening sky behind him. “Here we are, Mr. Oliver. Home at last.”

His driver had never sung such a cheery greeting when he’d delivered him home before. Then, of course, maybe he had at first but soon realized superfluous talk wasn’t needed. Maybe he was cheery for Helen’s sake.

He glanced over at his wife gathering her notebook and shawl. Why hadn’t she said anything on the way home? Over the last several days, she’d asked him questions in the carriage. Perhaps she’d noticed the pain written across his face this evening.

Hmmmm, he was gritting his teeth against the throbbing. Maybe that’s why his jaw ached.

Trying to relax, he followed Helen out of the carriage but nearly tumbled down the steps. Thankfully, he caught the door.

He pulled out the carved cane he’d started to use to walk. With attempted confidence, he strode toward the house despite knowing he could not see that one uneven pavestone. He needed to hire someone to fix that.

Mr. Ferguson’s cologne grew stronger, and Neil looked up from his attempt to watch his feet and nodded at his approaching driver.

“If you have no more need of me, sir …”

“None, and tomorrow, take a holiday. I intend to stay home.” If he didn’t talk to anyone for twenty-four hours, he might actually get rid of his headache. How did Mr. Cannes deal with so many people every day?

“All right, sir.” The movement and swish of air indicated Mr. Ferguson had doffed his beat-up felt hat as usual, then he walked past whistling.

Helen cleared her throat. “I suppose you don’t want me going out on my own then?”

“I’m sorry.” He’d forgotten to take Helen into account when he’d dismissed Mr. Ferguson, but surely she’d want to rest as well. “Did you want to go out? I think we deserve a respite.”

“If that’s what you wish.”

Did he note a bit of frustration in her tone? But the doorway was now an empty rectangular hole, so he marched forward, slowing where he knew there was a step, and went in after her. The smell of garlic and rosemary made his stomach rumble. His insides pinched with the hunger his headache had helped him ignore.

“Smells good, Mrs. Winthrop,” Helen said from somewhere inside.

The robust older woman had never made a meal that disappointed, though he’d have eaten almost anything. Some days he had to wait an extra hour for dinner when she’d decided her first attempt was a failure, but she made sure he was fed only the best she could make.

Shrugging out of his coat, he followed his wife to the kitchen table, where Mrs. Winthrop hummed contentedly. For some reason, his cook seemed happier cooking for two.

“Just let me get the butter crock, and you two can eat.”

He heard his chair scrape in front of him, and he grabbed the back. He could do that himself; he wasn’t quite an invalid yet. Plus the scraping … ugh, he grit his teeth again. He took a deep breath and tried to lower himself in the chair without accidentally bumping anything on the table.

“Good night, you two.” And the powdery smell of Mrs. Winthrop passed him and dissipated.

“I feel rather unnecessary.”

Neil stilled his attempts to find the knife that should be beside his plate. “Come again?”

He looked across the multitude of candles between them. Why had Mrs. Winthrop started burning so many? Did she think that would help him see? Thankfully, he could afford to burn as many as she chose to light, otherwise he’d have to give up reading at night. Someday he’d have to give up reading all together, so he was determined to read as much as he could before then.

“Mrs. Winthrop does the cooking. Mrs. Giles does the cleaning. I follow you and Mr. Yates around, doing nothing but feeling like a third leg.”

“Soon you’ll be able to take over the weekly rounds, if you wish.” Not that he’d force her to do so while he could still get around. However, whenever she felt ready to take over the talking, he’d certainly let her do that.

“I just feel wrong about not doing the things I’m actually capable of doing. Like making dinner.”

“You can if you want to.” He didn’t relish the idea of firing Mrs. Winthrop, but if his wife wanted to cook, he hoped she was good at it.

After praying, he scooped potatoes from the roasting pan and pulled Matthew Henry’s commentary closer. He felt around for the big magnifying glass he’d just received in the mail yesterday, then he pulled a few candles closer and … there, he could see words. Not too many at a time, but enough to read. He sighed and plopped a few potatoes into his mouth.

After a minute or two of steady clinking of silverware, Helen sighed and grumbled something.

Was the roast not to her liking? He wouldn’t have minded more pepper.

“I feel like a piece of furniture.”

“What?” He brought his hand up after realizing he’d talked with his mouth full. Did she say something about furniture?

“Nothing.”

“All right.” He went back to reading, even though his head throbbed more. After a week of frustration with his other magnifier, he’d breathed easier with yesterday’s post, thankful that reading had yet to be stolen from him. Too soon, he’d have to ask Helen to start reading to him. Maybe tonight’s headache was more from long reading with his new magnifier last night than the talking he’d done today.

Maybe he should limit his reading time.

He let out a small sniff of amusement. No, he’d cram in as much reading as possible. It wasn’t as if his eyesight had improved when he’d tortured himself last year by not reading for two months.

“Did you read something funny?”

He startled. “I—uh no, I was just talking to myself and realized I shouldn’t bother to listen to my own advice.”

“So you’re over there talking silently to yourself while I’m right here?”

“Do you want me to talk to you?” He set down his glass.

“No, I want you to want to talk to me.”

He straightened in his seat. Though he couldn’t quite see Helen giving him a biting glare, he could feel it. Back when his sisters and mother were in a huff, he’d simply disappeared from the room and let his father deal with it.

Maybe he should’ve stuck around back then and paid attention to how his father diffused the situation.

“I suppose that’s more than you’re willing to give though.” Her silverware clinked and the ice in her glass rattled.

Confound the stupid candles, he couldn’t see anything but movement behind them.

More than he was willing to give? Did Helen doubt his loyalty? Hadn’t she said right before the wedding she trusted him? “I vowed to you my life—as expected by God. If you want to talk—”

“Your life?”

He cocked his head. Doubt completely underlined the tone of her voice. “Yes, not that my life is worth much, seeing that I’m going blind.”

“Your life is your books, Neil.”

He felt the bend of paper under his palm, his fingers still near where he’d stopped reading. He pulled his hand away.

“Oh, go back to your reading. I didn’t mean to intrude upon your life.” She stood. “I have a headache anyway.”

Had she finished eating already? How long had he been reading?

And a headache made her want to leave? So had she wanted to talk or not?

She dumped her plates into the wash bin then glided past him and shut the door to her room.

He picked up his fork and pushed around his cold dinner. His pursuit of knowledge and business had consumed his time for decades. Did she really want him to abandon reading when he’d soon be forced to anyway?

Did she truly expect him to become as talkative as the late Mr. Cannes or as congenial as Mr. Yates, when she’d known he was neither before she married him? Could people change their personality?

He’d not been lying about being prepared to lay down his life for her. Death did not scare him. But did he have to give up his studies for her?

The food he’d been chewing became suddenly difficult to swallow. Giving up his books would be far harder to do than flinging himself in front of a train.

He pulled his Bible over to find the fifth chapter of Ephesians. He’d read the verses many times while contemplating proposing to Helen. Had he missed something?

“So ought men to love their wives as their own bodies. He that loveth his wife loveth himself.”

And if his wife wanted him to talk during dinner instead of read as was his habit, was that all it’d take to prove he truly did love her as he did himself?

But did he love her?

He’d assumed laying down his life was biblical love, all that was truly required. But loving a wife as he did himself seemed much more … involved.

He closed the leather cover of his Bible and stood to take his dishes to the sink. Scraping off soap into the water, he started washing the dishes for Helen since she refused to let them sit overnight for Mrs. Giles to clean in the morning.

With each item he washed and rinsed, with each tick of the clock that told him Helen would not return before he retired, the more he wished she’d come and spend the quiet evening hours with him.

Never before had he wished for someone to disturb his solitude. He’d always felt more energized when alone.

He’d have to lay down his books. Maybe not forever, hopefully not. But he’d have to leave behind the solitary habits he’d developed over decades of bachelorhood until he spent enough time with Helen to figure out what she really wanted from him.

He couldn’t use his personality as an excuse to keep from following the Word of God.

If his attention and conversation were what she wanted, he wanted to give her that and anything else she asked for. Just as he wished to be understood by her, he also longed to understand her.

I do desire to care for my wife as much as I would care for myself.

I do love her.

So what was he going to do about it?

“Oh, how I’ve missed your apple pie, Aunt Helen.” Jeffrey rubbed his hands together as he took an exaggerated sniff of his dessert, his eyes shut tight. “When they’d told me you were moving out, I shed a tear or two.”

“I haven’t left the state. You can always come over to get—” Helen licked her lips. She hadn’t baked anything since moving in with Neil, whose cook outshone her completely. Though she’d informed him she could cook, why would he want her to?

She scraped at a burnt piece of crust. “Well, if you want apple pie, give me notice before dropping in, since I’m not baking anymore. Mrs. Winthrop leaves us with a dessert every other day. Yesterday we had blueberry crumble.”

“But you don’t like blueberries.” Margaret wrinkled her face as if she’d tasted something foul.

Helen rubbed a hand under her nose, masking the desire to tell her sister she never cooked with blueberries because Margaret didn’t care for them, not because she herself was averse.

“If he’s going to marry a woman and not expect her to cook, he should at least make sure his cook makes stuff you want to eat.” Margaret dolloped some whipping cream onto her pie. “Don, now that we don’t have Helen, I really think we need a cook. I just can’t handle the stove’s heat on days that aren’t at least fifty degrees or colder.”

Helen cut through the pie to serve herself a second piece. As if it had been pleasurable for her to cook in ninety-degree weather while seeing to her sister’s children as well. “I’m surprised you haven’t hired a cook already.”

Margaret sniffed and glared across at her husband. “See, even she thinks we need one.”

They definitely didn’t need one. If they hadn’t needed one with ten people in the house, then they didn’t need one now. But Don not caving to her sister’s whining for one? Impressive.

Had they even eaten every night? Margaret hadn’t done much more than bake bread and boil tea since Helen had moved in with them.

“And a hired cook would actually listen when I say the fried chicken needs more salt.” Margaret gave her a glare.

Helen kept her hands under the table where she wrung her napkin as if it were her sister’s neck. Why couldn’t Margaret be a smidgen grateful for all the cooking she’d done?

With Neil’s perpetual silence these past few weeks, she’d forgotten how many underhanded insults she’d endured every day at her sister’s house.

Why not tell Margaret right now how that’d felt? She didn’t have to live here anymore. But venting would only ruffle her sister’s feathers. She’d not stoop to her level just because she no longer relied on her good graces to keep clothed and fed.

Even so, she couldn’t just give up on her family. Who else could help them change?

Sighing, she passed the cinnamon to Jeffrey, who’d pointed at the shaker since his mouth was too full to ask politely. Maybe she didn’t deserve her sister’s gratitude for helping raise her family if this was an example of her nephew’s best table manners. What other childish habits had he not shed despite being five and twenty?

“Did you see this sale advertisement, Jeff?” Don smoothed out the newspaper he’d been reading and slid the paper over to his son. “Isn’t this the property you sold to Mr. Oliver?”

Jeffrey leaned over the paper and read the ad. “Yes, that’s the block. He’s added another building though, but wait—” He pulled the paper closer. “He’s asking five times what that property’s worth.” He glanced over at Helen for a second before shaking his head. “That’s highway robbery.”

Her lips twitched, like they had for decades when she worked to keep her thoughts to herself at the Abernathy table. Just because Jeffrey didn’t like the price didn’t mean Neil was forcing people to buy.

“Well, Helen is supposed to be Mr. Oliver’s go-to now.” Margaret pointed her fork at her sister. “Why don’t you ask your aunt for a deal. That’s all Mr. Oliver married her for.”

And now her throat was dry and her face aflame, but the two men didn’t even blink at the insult.

She was supposed to do business on Neil’s behalf, yes, but she wasn’t yet comfortable with it all. Still, what would Margaret think of her if she refused to do the one thing she’d bragged about Neil needing her for?

Though if he’d taken more time to adjust to his vision loss, he would’ve realized he didn’t need her at all. How long until he figured out marrying her was a mistake? She forced herself to stop twisting her napkin. “I’m sure if you wanted the property, he’d sell it back to you.”

“I thought you could make decisions.” Margaret’s broad grin irked.

“I can make decisions, but—”

“What would you want to pay for it, Jeffrey?” Don wiped the apple pie crumbs from his mustache. “You certainly know what it’s worth.”

The young man sighed then gazed at the ceiling as if calculating. “A third of that price would be fair. It’d cover the improvements he made since I sold it.” He reached over to touch his mother’s hand and smiled. “Have I told you I’ve decided to stay in town for good? If I can find property I’m interested in, that is.”

Margaret’s mouth quivered. “Oh, Jeffrey. I’m so pleased.”

Helen bit her lip. How could she not help Jeffrey? He’d always been her sister’s favorite.

Margaret grabbed Helen’s hand. “You will help him get it, right?”

“I’m sure I can.” What did it matter who bought the property? If she kept Jeffrey from buying this piece of land, her sister would never let her hear the end of it.

And with Neil as quiet as he was, could she let go of the only family she had over a deal that wouldn’t hurt Neil much one way or the other?

“Well, since I sold it to him for spittle, he shouldn’t be upset about going down two-thirds in price for me.” Jeffrey scratched his chin and looked at his father. “If you drew up papers, then they wouldn’t even have lawyer’s fees to contend with.”

Don leaned back and shrugged. “Sure, we could go to Mr. Oliver’s secretary as soon as we’ve finished lunch and start the process.”

“At least half, Jeffrey.” Helen bit her lip. Why had she just blurted that out? Jeffrey would give her a fit now if she tried to negotiate higher. But him thinking he could just decide the price for her made her tongue stupid. “Granting that’s enough to cover any debt Neil has on the place.”

Jeffrey smirked and looked sideways at his father, who smiled back before folding up his newspaper, tucking it under his arm, and standing. “I’m finished eating. Why don’t we head over to Oliver’s office?”

The apple pie all of a sudden felt heavy in her gut. Would it be worth fighting these two? Neil wasn’t in any financial distress. One sale below market value wouldn’t hurt him, and he was generous with his tenants. “What do you intend to do with the property, Jeffrey? I hope you won’t bet it in a card game again.”

The room stilled.

“No, Aunt Helen, I’ve grown wiser in five years. Please don’t keep me from making a good start in this town because of one mishap in my past.”

How could she not offer the boy a second chance? “I’ll see what I can do.”