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The first item on Spence’s itinerary this afternoon was to confirm the delivery of his gift.
Standing inside S. F. Newland’s and Company, he eyed the groups of women gathered around tantalizing displays. Though the store’s inventory didn’t ignore men, almost every department was designed to attract the attention of female shoppers.
His gaze skimmed the expansive first floor, highlighted by a wide staircase with wrought iron handrails. It led to two upper floors of merchandise with each floor fenced in by additional wrought iron. The elevator next to the stairs had been installed for the convenience of their less robust customers and those who worked on the fourth floor.
Every square foot of Newland’s provided almost anything a customer could want, tempted her with much more than she needed, and did it all within a modern atmosphere of glass, marble, and electric lighting.
His father, Spencer Newland the Second, was an ingenious entrepreneur like Grandfather, Spencer the First. Nevertheless, the toll the ’93 Panic had taken on their business and personal assets had almost closed this magnificent building.
After three hard years God had blessed their efforts and their numbers were growing again. Even so, Spence foresaw his idea of diversifying into five-and ten-cent stores as being critical to their future.
He glanced at the dollhouse in the window and shook his head. Most of the time his father was ingenious. The machine-made work was shoddy and the materials cheap. However, according to Father, what mattered was bringing in parents who wanted to please their children. With Christmas a month away, they hoped to ensure that those customers entered and remained inside the store until they had completed buying their gifts.
His gaze narrowed on a couple near the perfumes. Gilbert Malone, their chief accountant and a college friend, gripped the arm of his wife, Roslyn—also a Newland’s employee—in a firm hold and leaned in while he spoke to her. The anxiety on her face pointed to an unpleasant conversation. Normally they didn’t employ married women, but he had done an old friend a favor. Now he hoped he hadn’t made a mistake.
Before Spence could react, Gil let Roslyn go and stalked toward the elevator. She returned to her place behind the counter, hostility written in the glower she aimed at her husband’s back.
The couple’s behavior was unacceptable in the store, and he would have a word with the Malones later.
He crossed to the counter in the center of the first floor, where Wallace Pittman, one of the few male employees working outside the stockroom and offices, had finished providing a gentleman with the location of men’s hats.
Spence glanced from side to side to be sure they weren’t overheard by customers, then he asked Wallace, “Well?”
“She came in like you said, Mr. Newland.”
“Good.” When he discovered that potential investor Clifton Lark had a penchant for cigars, Spence had prepared a special gift for the businessman. However, Mr. Lark had sent his wife to Riverport for their meeting, a disappointing move but not bewildering given the rumors of his elusiveness during the past year.
“And you gave her the box?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Nice work, Wallace.”
Spence had expected Juliet Lark to come in for one last tour of their new five-and ten-cent section. Unable to see her off on her return to Chicago, he had instructed Wallace to give the box to the pretty brunette when she came in today.
“Funny thing, sir. She didn’t want it and kept muttering, ‘Must be a mistake.’”
Spence’s grin died. He had asked Mrs. Lark to take the gift to her husband. Why would she think it a mistake?
With Juliet Lark’s help, Spence had hoped to prove the Newlands’s earnestness to do business with her husband. Securing the man’s financial backing would assure his family that Spence’s potential to lead their business interests was as great as that of his predecessors.
Maybe she hadn’t liked the box. Maybe she considered it inferior work. What if her husband felt the same? What if Spence had tarnished the company’s name?
“She was disappointed?”
“No, sir. Despite the surprise, I’d say she was tickled with it. In fact, I’ve never seen Mrs. Crain look so impressed.”
Spence fought to breathe, his chest as tight as a debutante’s corset. “D-Did you say Mrs. Crain?”
Wallace leaned over the counter and whispered, “Don’t worry, Mr. Newland. I’ll keep your lady friend’s identity a secret.”
Spence recoiled. “Mrs. Crain is not my lady friend.”
She wasn’t a friend at all. What he’d ever done to the woman was a mystery. She treated others with respect and friendliness, but from their first meeting, she had expressed her dislike of him through a constant cold shoulder.
“Why would you give my gift to Phoebe Crain?”
The clerk’s eyes rounded. “Y-You told me to.”
Spence gritted his teeth, then said, “The name I gave you was Mrs. Lark, not Mrs. Crain.”
Wallace’s eyebrows shot skyward. “I’m sorry, sir. I was looking at that new wallpaper right after you told me and guess I got confused. I mean, both women have bird names, and the wallpaper does have cranes on it.”
Bird names? Cranes? Spence had seen that wallpaper. They were egrets. But that was beside the point.
“I should add that Mrs. Crain is a pretty brunette.”
Spence pressed his balled fists against his thighs. Why hadn’t he delegated the emergency with the lamp supplier to someone else and escorted Mrs. Lark onto the train? He could have given her the gift then.
He relaxed his hands. Although he’d had a brief introduction to Mrs. Lark the other day, Wallace wouldn’t have connected the woman’s importance to their future. This wasn’t his fault. Much.
In addition, Mrs. Crain was a pretty brunette with a bird name.
Spence would get that box back and ship it to Chicago. Pronto. “It’s fine, Wallace. It will be fine.”
It must be fine. His reputation in the Newland family depended on it.
***
“IS THAT ANOTHER SCARF for a child at the orphanage?”
Phoebe glanced up from crocheting to answer her mother. “Yes, ma’am. I want to finish it before the next Widow’s Might meeting.”
She had suggested the group make scarves and mittens for the boys and girls as their charitable undertaking for the season. A few of their members had plentiful resources and provided most of the supplies. The rest, like Phoebe, were able to donate little more than their time and talents.
“You and your friends do good work for the children, Phoebe.”
It was the least she could do to ease another’s life. Like the apostle Paul, she had known what it was like to have much and what it was like to be in need.
Not all who resided at the Bethel Children’s Home had lost a mother and father to death. For some, one parent lived. For others, one or both parents lived but couldn’t afford to raise their children. They abandoned them to orphanages.
Lord, please don’t ever place me in such a position with Maura. Not my baby.
In recent years Phoebe had wondered if her prayers fell on the ears of a deaf God. As much as she wanted to believe He heard her, nothing changed in her life.
Tired of dwelling on gloom, she said, “You should join us when we get together, Mama.”
“I’m content with watching Maura and don’t want to interfere in Verbenia’s ministry.”
“I’m sure she wouldn’t think of it as interference. We’re all friends.”
Her mother set her Bible next to her on the sofa. “I could use some tea. How about you?”
The signal to end their conversation. “No, thank you.”
The arthritis in Mama’s hands had grown steadily worse. The pain and embarrassment over her gnarled fingers kept her from socializing and prevented steady employment. But Phoebe longed for her mother to find good friends in Riverport.
At a loud rap on the front door, Phoebe poked the crochet hook into the ball of wool yarn, set it aside, and opened the door.
What was he doing here?
“Good afternoon, Mrs. Crain.” Spencer Newland the Third’s smile broadened the slim face behind the hazelnut-colored mustache. At the same time, uncertainty flashed in his chestnut eyes. He shuffled his feet and rubbed his gloved hands together. “May I come in?”
“Why?” The word burst from her, followed by regret over the rude response.
His movements froze like the drips of icicles after sunset. “Because it’s cold?”
By now almost anyone else would have been invited into the warmth of her home, but it wasn’t that cold. He probably worried about an illness.
“I understand you have some unknown grievance against me, ma’am. This won’t take long, and I’ll be on my way.”
With her mother here to act as a guardian, she tipped her head to gesture him inside.
“I’m afraid you received something of mine by mistake, Mrs. Crain. A small box wrapped with a red ribbon.”
It belonged to him? The sooner she got rid of it and sent him on his way, the better.
“Just a moment.” Phoebe entered the sitting room and opened the drawer in her mother’s sewing cabinet, pulled out the white box, and carried it to him. “This?”
His shoulders relaxed. “Yes.”
“It’s stunning.” She might resent men like him, but she could acknowledge beauty when she saw it.
His sparkling smile sent a shiver through her. “Thank you. It turned out to be one of my best pieces.”
“You made this?”
“I did.”
She opened the outer box and ran a finger over the wooden one inside—smooth as velvet and pieced together with the precision of an artisan. This wealthy and spoiled man had a talent she hadn’t expected of him.
An idea percolated in Phoebe’s mind and refused the inner warning that said it was wrong. It might be her only chance to give her little girl the Christmas she deserved.
He reached for the box, but she whisked it from his grasp. “I have a request, Mr. Newland.”
“A request?”
Phoebe vacillated. She had no right to withhold the box and almost handed it over, until she remembered Maura’s awe as she’d gazed through the store’s window that afternoon.
“What can I do for you, Mrs. Crain?”
Still smiling, his voice was tinged with the calm of an experienced salesman, as though he would grant her every wish. She had seen that look before. This time she denied its persuasive power. “My daughter has her heart set on a dollhouse. I can’t afford the one in your store window but would like her to receive a similar one for Christmas.”
With a slight tilt of his head, he watched her through wary pupils.
Simply ask him in a polite and friendly manner to build Maura a dollhouse.
How could she? She had no money to pay for it and refused to be indebted to him. One day he would decide to take advantage of that debt. Wasn’t that the way men like him operated?
“I’m suggesting an exchange.”
Both the calm and the smile disappeared from his face. “Let me be sure I understand. You would keep what you received in error and hold it for ransom in exchange for a shabbily made dollhouse?”
“I said similar to the one in the window, Mr. Newland. I’m not asking for that one. Judging by what I’m holding, I’m convinced you can build something much nicer.”
His lips parted as if he wasn’t sure how to respond to her compliment.
“I’m merely proposing a trade. But if you prefer not to deal...” She placed the lid on the container.
His laugh was hoarse and humorless. “I knew you were as frosty as a windowpane. I had no idea your flaws sank to the depths of extortion.”
Her jaw tensed at the same time her fingers tightened on the box. And I knew you were no better than other young men in your social circle.
With as much dignity as Phoebe could muster under the circumstances, she walked around him to the door and opened it. “Good day, Mr. Newland.”
He hesitated. Despite the cold seeping into her house, beads of perspiration clung to her upper lip.
His attention shifted to take in the entire front room. Perhaps she imagined the slight wrinkling of his nose but didn’t think so. Evidently, the poor rich man had never seen a house with such sparse furnishings and worn wallpaper. His attention focused on the piano at the far wall. “You are not sorry for keeping my box?”
Phoebe wavered, then said, “No, sir.”
He stomped outside without saying another word. Once he’d reached his fancy new safety bicycle at the edge of the street, she shut the door and pressed her back against the wood. He might not realize she’d just told a lie, but God knew.
She closed her eyes. Mr. Newland was right. She had sunk to the level of an extortionist.
“What have you done, Phoebe?”
Her eyes popped open to see her mother standing at the other end of the hallway.
“What were you thinking? His family is influential in this town, and you’re just—”
“I know. I’m nothing. I’ve heard it before.”
After a heavy sigh, her mother walked toward her. “You know I didn’t mean that.”
Phoebe stepped away from the door and held out the box. “Look at this. I’ve never seen such handiwork. If he can create something this lovely and intricate, a dollhouse for Maura would be a simple project for him.”
Mama stopped a foot away, her attention locked on Phoebe, not the box. “It doesn’t make what you’ve done right.”
“No, but for the first time in her life, Maura would receive something special for Christmas, something I can’t give her.” When her mother continued to stare at her, Phoebe defended her decision. “It won’t cost him anything but time and a few materials that he can easily afford.”
Mama wrapped her arms around her and drew her close, sharing the warmth of body and spirit. “Perhaps, my dear Phoebe. But what will it cost you?”
If she continued to feel no cleaner than the dirt under Mr. Newland’s feet, it would cost her too much. How was her treatment of The Third any more noble than the way Douglas had treated her? The circumstances between Phoebe and Maura’s father were different, but the result was the same—manipulation and abuse.
Phoebe pulled away. “You’re right, Mama. It was a momentary lapse.”
Hoping to catch Mr. Newland before he got away, she carried the box outside and hurried down the walk. Anger probably propelled his bicycle at top speed, because she searched each end of the street to no avail.
After returning to the house, she told her mother, “I’ll take it to him when I finish my lessons tomorrow.”
At the same time, she would eat the crow she already smelled cooking.
