Chapter 2

 

New York City

 

“Phoebe Christine Hill,” her mother intoned in a firm voice as she sank into the nearby armchair, her cane propped between her hands. “Will you kindly stop moving about this room like a thundercloud?”

Grabbing up another pile of clothes from the bureau drawer, Phoebe remarked, “We’ll be late for the train, Mother. I told James we’d be back in Newport today, which means we need to finish packing up both of our hotel rooms—”

“Phoebe . . .” Her name came out as much a command as a kind entreaty. There’d be no budging until she stopped and listened.

With a sigh, she shut the drawer and turned around. “Yes?”

Her mother regarded her with curious concern in her blue eyes. They shared the same hair color, or had until Margaret Hill’s turned gray, but Phoebe’s brown eyes were a gift from the father she’d never known. She loved that she shared one thing with the man who had adored her mother and her, however briefly.

“Why are we going to Baywood House now instead of waiting for the auction?”

“I told you earlier. James needs our help to ready the house.” She moved to place the clothes inside her suitcase. They only had four pieces of luggage between them, a far cry from what a typical heiress would own. But after purchasing a few new dresses, Phoebe didn’t wish to spend any more of her inheritance on frivolities. Especially after learning Baywood House was for sale.

Her mother rose and moved with a slightly limping gait toward the bed. After years of service—as a maid, then a cook, and until their employer’s recent death, as a housekeeper—her knees were no longer what they’d been in her youth. She sat on the edge of the bed and placed her hand on Phoebe’s sleeve.

“I understand why James wants us there. What I don’t understand is why you want to be there for so long before the auction?” She gave Phoebe a sad smile. “He already told you he can’t change his mother’s wishes and sell you the house outright.”

Phoebe flinched at the reminder as she stared down into the half-full suitcase. “I know that,” she murmured. The heaviness she’d felt the other day after learning about the auction stole back onto her shoulders. “But it will be nice to live in Baywood House for almost a month. And not as servants this time, Mother, but as guests. I’ve enjoyed these last few months on our own, but like you, I want a home we can call ours.”

Releasing her sleeve, Margaret placed her palm on Phoebe’s cheek and gently turned her face. “Is that the only reason you agreed to James’s plan?”

She couldn’t quite meet her mother’s eyes. Truth be told, it was James who’d agreed to the arrangement, not the other way around. And Phoebe did have another reason for wanting to help him restore Baywood House to its former inner glory.

“Phoebe?” her mother prompted again.

After pushing aside the suitcase, she sat on the bed. “I was the one to suggest to James that we could help him. And I did it for more than just living in the house.”

Silence met her confession, but it wasn’t censoring or unkind. Her mother would let her talk before voicing her own thoughts. Phoebe glanced down at her hands. They’d known less work while she’d served as the companion to the elderly Mrs. Tanley, a widowed heiress with no children. But still, her hands weren’t exactly the same as those of other wealthy young ladies, and she hoped to keep them that way. If Baywood House became hers, she planned to live and work there, employing only a small staff of servants to help alongside her and her mother. She would be as independent as she’d longed to be for years.

“I’m hoping our help might mean an advantage over the competition.” Phoebe turned to look at her mother. “I know James said he can’t do anything, but he’s an Austin. Perhaps he can pave the way for us so we still have a fighting chance at buying the house.”

Margaret frowned. “And if our help doesn’t change anything in the end?”

“Then we still get to live for nearly a whole month, rent-free, in a place we both adore.” She rested her hand on top of her mother’s where it gripped the cane. “Nothing may come of our helping James or even bidding everything I have at the auction, but I’m not ready to give up on this dream completely. Not yet.”

Her mother’s troubled expression eased. “As long as you understand the situation may not change, even with our help, I’m willing to lend a hand.”

“Thank you, Mother.” Phoebe hugged her tightly.

“You’re welcome,” she said softly when Phoebe sat back. A sly smile appeared on her lips a moment later. “James must be about twenty-nine years old now. You haven’t yet said what he looks like. Even as a boy he was rather handsome.”

Laughing, Phoebe climbed to her feet and resumed packing. “He is quite handsome, but it doesn’t matter. So there’s no use matchmaking.”

“Oh?” She knew her mother was feigning innocence. “And why is that?”

“Because he lives in England, Mother, and Mrs. Austin would never condone her son marrying the daughter of a former servant. We are there as his guests, and possibly his friends, but nothing more.”

Margaret stood, an impish glint in her blue eyes. “Be that as it may, James is his own man, my dear. And far more unsuitable marriages have taken place and thrived.”

Phoebe shook her head at the futile conversation and felt relief when her mother dropped the topic to help her finish filling their suitcases. The thought of seeing James again and spending time together was more than a little appealing to her. But she was going to Newport for the house, not the man. A fact she felt certain she wouldn’t soon forget.

 

• • •

 

Newport, Rhode Island

 

James strode down the front steps as the automobile pulled to a stop in front of the mansion. Deciding not to wait for the cabdriver, he opened the door for the two women. “Welcome to Baywood House, Mrs. Hill.” He handed her out of the car, noting the cane she used to steady herself on the gravel drive. It wasn’t something she’d needed when he’d known her as a boy.

“Thank you, James.” Her lined face radiated mature beauty and kindness from beneath her large hat. “It’s wonderful to see you again.”

“And you,” he said, nodding. Reaching back inside the car to help Phoebe, he felt a familiar jolt of warmth in his chest when she smiled up at him and clasped his hand. “Phoebe. Welcome back.” She wore a wider hat than the last time he’d seen her, and he liked the way the green color offset her dark hair.

“Thank you, James.” She slipped out the door and released his hand to grip the skirt of her long dress. A sliver of disappointment moved through him at no longer having her hand in his. Tipping her head back, Phoebe gazed up at the house as if she hadn’t seen it just three days earlier. “Isn’t it as lovely as you remember, Mother?”

Mrs. Hill murmured agreement. “Which rooms should we put our things in, James?”

He’d been watching Phoebe and the way the afternoon light played with her cream skin. Clearing his throat and pushing aside his embarrassment, he turned his attention to Mrs. Hill. “How about two of the guest rooms?”

“Really?” Phoebe exclaimed, her brown eyes as bright as a child’s on Christmas morning.

Had they expected him to put them up in the servants’ quarters? “You are here as guests, both of you. So please, feel free to make the place your home too.”

He motioned for the two women to enter the house, then started after them. From the corner of his eye, he caught sight of the cabdriver unloading their bags. With no other able-bodied men about, he didn’t see why he shouldn’t help, though his mother would likely have plenty of objections over such a menial task. James hefted two of the suitcases, leaving the other two for the driver.

The man’s eyes widened with surprise. “Thank you, sir.”

James led the driver inside, where Phoebe and her mother stood waiting. Then he guided the group up the grand staircase. The red plush carpet muffled their footsteps as they made their way to the second floor. He stopped in the hallway to indicate which two guest rooms the women could use. Neither of the bedrooms had been cleaned, which would likely be the first order of business.

Once he’d escorted the driver back downstairs and paid him, James returned upstairs to find Phoebe and her mother hard at work in their respective rooms. Both women had already changed into simpler dresses and aprons, their sleeves rolled back to work. They were pulling sheets off furniture and making the beds. He watched the activity from the hallway, feeling both fascinated and a bit inept. Every house he’d ever lived in or visited had been ready and waiting before his arrival. He’d never observed the frenetic preparations beforehand.

“What about your room, James?” Phoebe asked when she saw him standing there. “Has it been set to rights?”

He rubbed a hand to the back of his neck. The last two nights he’d slept at a hotel in town. It hadn’t taken him long after Phoebe’s departure the other day to realize he knew nothing about preparing a house like Baywood for daily living.

“No, not yet,” he admitted. “I was going to sleep in my father’s old room.”

Phoebe stopped her bustling about to glance at him, her expression gentle. “When I’m done in here, would you like some help?”

No laughing, no condemnation, no spoken irony at the reversal of his role from heir to servant. He smiled. “I would be ever so grateful for some help.”

He moved down the hallway to his father’s room. The idea to stay in here had come to him in the same moment he’d voiced it to Phoebe. Pushing through the door, James peered at the shrouded space. Whatever work was required, his tidy suit would likely be a hindrance.

He removed his jacket and vest then rolled up his sleeves and loosened his tie. A breath of stale air filled his nostrils, presenting a problem he knew how to solve. He crossed to the window and opened it. Fresh autumn air, laced with the smell of dying leaves, rolled into the room.

“Seems you do know what you’re doing,” Phoebe said from behind.

James turned. “What do you mean?”

She waved at the window as she set down a bundle of linens. “First order of business when readying the house, open the windows and air out the rooms.” Moving to the twin armchairs before the fireplace, she yanked off the sheets that covered them.

Unsure what to do next, he waited until she approached him with a smile and pressed a rag into his hand. “Swipe this over every flat surface.”

“Done,” he said, chuckling. He walked to the bookshelves and began wiping at the dusty leather covers. “I’d forgotten how much my father loved books.”

“The library downstairs is certainly a testament to that.” Phoebe began making the bed.

“He loved his library, yes, but he also wanted books closer to his room. That’s why he had these shelves built and stocked here at Baywood and at our house in New York.”

James pulled out a slim volume and opened the cover to see his father’s name scrawled inside along with a single-sentence quote. George Austin had penned little sayings or phrases onto the first pages of most of his books. This one read, To every thing there is a season. James recognized the Bible verse from Ecclesiastes. One he’d always liked. Though lately, he’d been wondering more and more what he ought to be doing with this season of his life.

Shutting the book and replacing it on the shelf, he continued dusting. “If my father had a wish to read in the middle of the night, he didn’t have to go all the way downstairs to find a book. He could simply walk over to the shelves here. I’ve done the same in England.”

“I think that’s lovely.” Phoebe straightened the blankets and asked, “Do you miss him?”

“Very much.” The confession surprised James. He hadn’t voiced to another person, in years, how much he missed his father. “He was a good man.”

“I don’t remember much about him, but he had very kind eyes,” Phoebe said. James smiled at her memory and perception—it fit his own. “Do you miss living in America?”

Moving on to dust the windowsill, he considered the question. “There are a great many things I miss. I do enjoy playing cricket and the English countryside is breathtaking.”

“What do you do there?”

He sensed no judgment in the question, only curiosity. And yet the old resentments he’d harbored at feeling useless crept into his voice as he replied, “Most of the time I’m staying at my stepfather’s estate in Yorkshire or Scotland, overseeing the upkeep of the house and lands and addressing any problems the tenants might have.”

“Do you enjoy it?” Phoebe asked with uncanny perception.

James glanced out the window at the red and gold trees and the waves beyond. The ocean was something else he’d missed. What would he do for a living if he had the choice? A demanding voice in his head protested he had no choice, not if he wished to please his family. But for the first time in a long while, he ignored it and instead searched his heart for a different answer.

“If I had my wish, I think I’d be a gentleman farmer. That’s the part I enjoy the most, working alongside the tenants.”

“A farmer?” she repeated, her tone surprised. “You’d wish to give up a life of ease for one of daily work and toil?”

“There are days I think I’d like that.” Something about Phoebe prompted him to answer her curious questions with truthful responses. Their open, honest conversation was a welcome change and a sharp contrast to what he’d experienced speaking to other young ladies back in England.

He took a seat on the edge of the sill, the dusting rag dangling between his knees as he leaned forward. “I’ve repaired roofs and built stone walls. I’ve helped bring in the harvest and planted gardens. I’ve even milked a cow, though rather poorly, I’ll admit.” He chuckled at the memory. “And I rather enjoyed every one of those days.”

“No time like the present then to learn something new.” A pillow arced across the room toward him, but he caught the object before it bludgeoned him in the head. “Ever fluffed a pillow as lord of the manor?” Phoebe’s teasing gaze and smile reminded him of the feeling he’d had of soaring when he stood atop a towering peak in Scotland.

His gaze locked with hers as an invisible, kinetic energy leapt between them. “I am no lord of the manor, Phoebe. And no, I have never fluffed a pillow.”

“If you can repair a roof, you can certainly fluff your own pillows.” Her eyes lit with that impish spark he well remembered from his youth.

Dropping his rag, he rose to his feet. “Is that a challenge, Miss Hill?”

“Perhaps,” she said with an upward tilt of her chin. But James thought her voice sounded a bit breathless. Did he have the same effect on her as she did on him? “Here’s the other pillow.”

She tossed it at him, but he’d anticipated her move this time. He lobbed his pillow in her direction. It bounced off her hip at the same moment hers struck his leg. Phoebe dissolved into laughter and sank onto the bed, clutching at her sides. James laughed right along with her. He couldn’t recall the last time he’d done something a bit unruly. Probably not since his childhood days here each summer.

At that moment, Margaret Hill appeared in the doorway, leaning on her cane. “What is going on in here?”

Another round of giggles consumed Phoebe, so James volunteered an answer. “We are fluffing pillows, ma’am,” he said with a smart bow. Phoebe clapped a hand to her mouth, and James could see her shoulders were still shaking with hidden laughter. Laughter he’d inspired and hoped to inspire again.

How many heiresses of his acquaintance enjoyed working and laughing and conversing about meaningful topics? None, except Phoebe. Once again he found himself admiring the fact that even with her newfound wealth she hadn’t changed who she was inside.

Mrs. Hill arched an imperious eyebrow at them before her face relaxed into a smile. “If you two are finished fluffing pillows, I could use your help in the kitchen.”

“We’re coming, Mother.”

Phoebe stood as James scooped up the pillows from off the floor. After he handed them to her, she placed them back onto the neatly made bed. “You really milked a cow?” she asked as he followed her out of the room.

He grinned. “I really did. Though I think I’m better at fluffing pillows.”

“That poor cow,” she quipped as they walked side by side down the hall.

James shook his head in mock solemnity. “You mean my poor pillows.”

He solicited another laugh from her, as he’d wished. And as they made their way down the back stairs toward the kitchen, he couldn’t help thinking this last trip to Baywood House might prove to be his favorite one yet.