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When his housekeeper announced the visit by Mrs. Crain and Mrs. Jensen, Spence almost wrenched his neck to eye the entrance hall for a glimpse of the young widow.
“Show them to the drawing room, please, Mrs. Rosenbach. I’ll be in shortly.” He set aside the note he’d been writing to ship with the cigar box, unrolled his shirtsleeves, and shrugged into the suit coat draped across the back of the desk chair.
What did the ladies want with him at his home on this late Sunday afternoon? On any afternoon for that matter? Maybe Mrs. Crain thought she’d try once more to press him into making her daughter a dollhouse. Then again, with the presence of Mrs. Jensen, it might mean they were collecting for a charity.
Since the return of the cigar box, he’d found it hard to think of much more than the woman and her charming little girl. What had changed Phoebe Crain’s mind? Gratitude?
He crossed the hall and found his guests poised on the edge of the drawing room’s striped davenport. Mrs. Crain sat with her back straight and her profile set in stone. Frankly, even stony, it was a nice profile.
“Good afternoon, ladies.”
Both women stood at his entrance. Mrs. Jensen smiled. “Good afternoon, Mr. Newland. What a lovely home.”
“Thank you.” Given Mrs. Crain’s animosity toward him, there wasn’t much point in chitchat. “What brings you two to see me?”
Mrs. Jensen gave her companion an encouraging nod, and Mrs. Crain inhaled, as if she needed courage. She sneezed.
With his childhood propensity for taking ill, he affected a smile but kept his distance from her. He wouldn’t put it past her to come here to share a cold with him.
“Excuse me.” She pressed a handkerchief to her pink nose, then balled it in her hand. “Mr. Newland, are you aware that a Cincinnati store has hired a quartet to provide music during the holidays?” The words rushed out as though, if she didn’t hurry, she would keep her purpose for coming bottled inside.
Spence didn’t admit to being ignorant of her news. If she knew something like that, why didn’t he? “Please have a seat.”
She retook her spot on the davenport, and the flowers in her dress clashed with the material surrounding her. He settled in the armchair a few feet away and waited.
“I-I think you should consider such a thing for your store. Besides providing entertainment, I believe it will relax your customers and encourage them to spend more money.” She voiced the latter part of her statement with a hint of humor, just enough to keep him from considering it impertinent. “Music often has the power to soothe people.”
“You think it’s a good business idea to hire someone to play for our customers?” He restrained his amusement over the sly attempt to steer him into offering her employment.
“I see the merit in it.”
“What about you, Mrs. Jensen? As an employee, you know our customers. Do you believe their time in the store will be enhanced by background music?”
A twinkle lit the woman’s blue eyes. “I do, sir.”
Now he understood why Verbenia Jensen sat in his drawing room. Not only was she a chaperone, she was Mrs. Crain’s champion.
He turned to Phoebe. “You play the piano, Mrs. Crain, so I assume you think Newland’s would do well to hire you.”
She raised her chin with confidence. “I do.”
“Where did you learn to play?”
“My mother was housekeeper to a concert pianist who saw potential in me at an early age. He insisted I learn. He was an amazing man.” She cleared her voice of its wistfulness and added, “My benefactor didn’t want people to connect me with my mother, so I performed in music halls under the name Phoebe Langford.”
The name was familiar.
“You’re Phoebe Langford?” Verbenia Jensen’s mouth opened with awe. “My son and his wife saw you perform in Chicago. They said you were magnificent. Oh, my dear, I never knew. Why didn’t you tell us?”
Before the conversation got away from its intent, Spence said, “You must have started young.”
Phoebe squeezed the handkerchief. “I began at sixteen and performed throughout the Midwest. While doing so, I learned the finer points of circulating in society—how to talk, walk, act, dress. I won’t be an embarrassment to S. F. Newland’s and Company.”
Spence didn’t doubt it, but he still frowned. With a background like that, why had she quit the concert stage? For marriage? “Do you miss performing before audiences?”
She shifted her attention to her hands. “No.”
Which of them was she trying to convince?
He pointed to the grand piano near the window, amazed he was considering her suggestion. “I’d like to hear you play.”
Mrs. Crain took a seat on the bench. “Is there anything in particular you would like to hear?”
“I’ll leave it up to you.”
The familiar piece began calm and unhurried. Soon Spence’s vision worked to keep up with her fingers as they danced over the keys. Finally, he followed Mrs. Jensen’s example and shut his eyes, letting his ears do the work. Phoebe Langford—or Crain, if she preferred—had chosen one of the hardest compositions known.
After the last note faded, he said, “‘Étude No. 6.’”
“You know Listz?”
“I’ve attempted to play that piece on occasion. Unlike you, I failed.”
She rose from the piano stool, her face flushed from the exertion. “You found it satisfactory?”
Highly. “Yes. It was satisfactory.”
The optimism expressed in Mrs. Crain’s shining and fervent gaze dimmed at his halfhearted response. Mrs. Jensen studied him. Her arched brow said she found his comment astonishing.
Why hadn’t he said what he really thought? Phoebe Crain was a brilliant musician. Had he restrained his praise because her stiff upper lip unsettled him? Because it irritated him to think the change from her normally cool attitude stemmed from her desire for employment? He hoped he wasn’t that petty but feared it was true.
She sneezed again and apologized.
Hire her.
He quenched the inner command and guided the ladies to the hall, making sure to stay away from Maura’s mother. He had no time to be bedridden and had spent too many days over the years as an invalid to desire a return to that state. “Thank you for coming, Mrs. Crain. I’ll let you know my decision.”
Mrs. Jensen said goodbye and waited on the porch.
Mrs. Crain paused by the door. She opened her mouth and shut it again. Her head bobbed. “Good day, Mr. Newland.”
Spence peered through the side panel next to the door as she walked down the sidewalk to the street. Her bearing was erect, as though signaling that his lack of enthusiasm would not affect her.
She conducted herself in a well-bred and well-educated fashion. Her gentle mannerisms and cultured speech reflected that of a lady accustomed to mixing in society. She possessed a talent he envied, yet she struggled to provide for her family. Why?
Spence often saw her as a snarling guard dog. On occasion, she reminded him of a vulnerable stray—one whose mistrust said she suspected him of a nefarious intent. For the life of him, he couldn’t understand what he’d done to give her that idea.
Maybe that was why he hadn’t obeyed the urge to hire her on the spot.
Phoebe Crain was a mystery that begged to be solved.
***
PHOEBE LIFTED THE COVERS on her bed. She might be better to try to lift the butcher’s draft horse. With the attempt to sit up, her head swam, and she sank back into the mattress, issuing a low groan that was like slicing the inside of her throat with a knife.
Her mother opened the bedroom door and peeked into the room. “Phoebe, it’s eight o’clock. Why are you still in bed?”
“B-Because...” Phoebe coughed and pressed her fingertips against each side of her throbbing head.
Mama crossed the room and felt her forehead. “You have a fever.” She settled the covers around Phoebe’s shoulders and neck.
Phoebe gazed at the empty bed on the other side of the room. “Maura...”
“The child is fine. I’ll take care of her. You stay here and rest.”
“I...can’t.” Phoebe cleared her throat, but her voice was little more than a hoarse whisper when she added, “I have...students.”
“Do you think their mothers will want them sick too? What will that do for their wish to send their children to you?”
She had a point.
Mama felt her head again. “It’s not bad, but I should send for a doctor.”
“Can’t...afford it.” Speaking hurt her raw throat, but Phoebe couldn’t let her mother waste money on a doctor’s fee to tell her she had a cold. She couldn’t afford to miss the income from her lessons either. Another groan skipped like a rock on the surface of the Wabash River.
Oh, that Teddy!
“I’ll make you some hot tea and honey to soothe your throat,” her mother said.
Phoebe nodded. The sooner she was well, the sooner she could get back to work.
“You should be up and around in a few days.”
Days? “No, I...” She swallowed, wincing at the rawness. By the time she could speak again, her mother had left the room.
What if Mr. Newland decided he would hire her to play piano in the store? What if he wanted her to start today or tomorrow?
A croaky laugh bubbled up. What chance had she of being hired when his response to her playing was as exciting as a yawn?
He had humiliated her yesterday, and she had to admit it was well deserved. By the time she had left his house, she’d felt so small she could have walked out under his front door.
If necessary, she would face more embarrassment, because she would do anything for her child.
She shut her eyes and let her mind drift to the first time Douglas had heard her play. He’d brought her red roses and talked the stage manager into granting him access behind the theater curtain. He’d fawned over her talent, clapping and smiling and shouting “Bravo!” Maura’s father had made her feel as though she owned the world that night.
From then on, Phoebe had fallen for every lie he’d told.
