Listening for footsteps and hearing none, Savannah opened the door as Mrs. Pruitt’s voice carried toward her from the kitchen.
“Yes, Miss Sinclair. Last I saw Miss Anderson, she was upstairs sewing the pillows you requested, ma’am.”
Peering down the hallway and seeing the back of Miss Sinclair’s dress, Savannah made a dash for the stairs and raced up, avoiding the risers with the worst creaks and half deciding that whatever box her father had hidden was gone. Or perhaps . . . Heart pounding, she slipped into the boys’ bedroom and took her seat at the sewing machine. Perhaps it had already been found.
Miss Sinclair’s steps sounded on the stairs, and Savannah picked up one of the partially sewn patterns, trying not to appear as guilty as she felt. It had been hard enough to be in Priscilla Sinclair’s company before. But with what had happened with Mr. Bedford—
But what had really happened? After all was said and done? Nothing. He’d looked at her. That was all. And as she and Maggie and Mary—her closest friends—had said in younger years, “It doesn’t take much to get a boy to look. It is getting him to look at the right things that matters.”
The same was true for men, she guessed. Even though she wanted to believe Aidan Bedford was different. But in the end, how much did she really know about the man? Other than that he’d purchased her family’s farm, he was searching for a haven, and he held an appreciation for Shakespeare.
As well as a tiny part of her heart.
“Miss Anderson?” Miss Sinclair peered through the doorway, breathless. “Quickly! I need to discuss something with you in the central parlor. Posthaste! It’s about the furniture!”
“—AND EVERY PIECE OF FURNITURE IN THIS ROOM MUST GO. Surely you’re in agreement, Miss Anderson.”
Aidan overheard Priscilla’s voice as he opened the front door. His interest more than piqued, especially after the day he’d had, he paused in the foyer. The door to the central parlor on his right wasn’t quite closed, and he spotted Miss Anderson, her back to him. But he couldn’t see Priscilla.
“Do you know of an establishment in town that will take such pieces, Miss Anderson? Passé though they may be?”
Miss Anderson glanced about the room as though taking inventory of its contents, and Aidan sensed her hesitance.
“Yes, Miss Sinclair. There’s a . . . Widows’ and Children’s Home in Nashville that might be able to make use of the furniture. I could speak with the home’s director, if you wish. But are you certain Mr. Bedford doesn’t wish to retain any of it?”
Aidan’s appreciation for the young woman increased tenfold.
“There’s no need to mention any of this to Mr. Bedford, Miss Anderson. I’m still choosing the last of the pieces, but I’d prefer the new furniture be a surprise for him. Do you understand?”
Aidan rubbed the back of his neck, the muscles taut. Oh, it would be a surprise all right. Or would’ve been. If she’d managed the purchase. Which she certainly wouldn’t now.
Work in recent days had been unrelenting. Regardless of the personal grudge people in this town held against Northerners—to date, he’d been called arrogant, aggressive, and brutish—it appeared they desired those traits in an attorney. His desk was piled high with files, and his satchel bulged.
He’d finally left the office a little early in hopes of getting some work done in his study this afternoon. He sighed. Returning home was supposed to be a man’s respite. But since Priscilla’s arrival, it had been anything but. Between his attempts to avoid Miss Anderson while also trying to spend time with Priscilla, he felt a little like a prisoner in his own home. When Miss Anderson was in a particular room, he tried to avoid going in, while doing his best not to make it look intentional.
The young woman had done nothing wrong. It was his mistake. He was the one who had overstepped his bounds. Yet, if her behavior when he did see her was any indication, she seemed to have forgiven him completely, for which he was grateful.
And also not.
Because even as fleeting as those moments had been with her, and as silly as it sounded to him even now, he’d felt more of a connection with her in that brief space of time than he’d felt with Priscilla in months. Perhaps ever.
Which left him feeling like an entirely different kind of prisoner.
He glimpsed Priscilla briefly through the open doorway, her back to him. He’d told her she could redecorate, and it had seemed fitting since the house was going to be hers as well. But she was going far beyond anything he’d imagined. Replacing entire rooms of furniture? Furniture he liked?
“I found a borne settee this morning,” Priscilla continued, her voice overly dramatic as though she might swoon. “Rococo Revival period with rich damask fabric. I bought it immediately, of course, and believe it will work best right over . . . there. What do you think, Miss Anderson?”
The grandfather clock beside him ticked off the seconds.
“A borne settee?” Miss Anderson finally answered, her tone polite but clearly questioning. “That’s a rather large and formal piece for a central parlor, Miss Sinclair.”
“Which is precisely why I bought it. This house is starved for elegance. My future husband is an attorney for now. But someday he’ll be a judge, and I want this house to—”
Having heard enough—for his wallet, his respectability, and his patience—Aidan stepped back to the front door and opened and closed it again, louder this time.
Shushed whispers came from the parlor. Seconds later Priscilla waltzed through the doorway, arms outstretched as though they’d been separated for seven years instead of seven hours. She clasped his hand and offered her cheek for a kiss. He obliged, aware of Miss Anderson watching from the other room before she quickly looked away.
“Dearest.” Priscilla linked arms with him. “You’re home early.”
Along with surprise in her voice, he also detected another quality, one that had a definite note of falseness to it. Aided by what he’d just overheard, he found himself viewing the woman in a somewhat different light, and he realized he’d heard that tone from her before. Many times. “I wasn’t getting any work done at the firm, so I decided to come home and work here.”
“Wonderful! I’ll ask Mrs. Pruitt to fix us some tea. We can sit on the front porch and visit for a while before you—”
He gently squeezed her hand. “I’m sorry, Priscilla, but I have two very important cases coming up next week, and I must read through some briefs.”
Her smile faltered. She removed her hand from the crook of his arm. “Of course. You’re busy. More so, it seems, than you were in Boston.”
“That’s not true. I’ve—”
Knowing Miss Anderson could hear their conversation, even without trying, Aidan urged Priscilla into the sitting room to their left, then eased the door closed.
AIDAN KEPT HIS VOICE QUIET, NOT WISHING FOR MISS ANDERSON to hear them. “Since you’ve been visiting, Priscilla, I’ve gone in late most every morning so we can spend time together. But I’m getting further behind, so—”
“I didn’t realize spending time with me was such a burden, Aidan.”
He looked at her. “I didn’t say that. What I’m saying is that my schedule here is every bit as demanding as it was in Boston.”
“But there’s nothing for me to do here.”
His laugh held no humor. “Quite the contrary, from what I’m seeing. You’re changing nearly every room in the house.”
“And can you blame me?”
Tempted to answer more honestly than was fair in the moment, he took a deep breath. “I don’t blame you for being lonely. You haven’t had the opportunity to make friends here yet.”
“These people are so . . . different from us. The land is handsome enough, I guess, as you said it would be. But all the rest . . .” She bowed her head, and the silence completed her thought with unmistakable clarity.
Still dwelling on the “different from us,” Aidan looked at the woman beside him and heard the echo of another conversation from years earlier.
“My sweetheart, she’s a pretty little thing. Hair all buttery and golden, like wheat in the summer sun. And kind too. She’s a lady through and through, but she can hold her own, let me tell you that. Shoots as well as I do, baits her own hook. But can still cook up a mess of ham and biscuits the likes of which you ain’t never tasted up north. Let me tell you, Boston, you’re on the wrong side in more ways than one.”
Had Nashville known what a gift he’d possessed? In his family? In his sweetheart? How fortunate he’d been? Most people went through life without a fraction of that depth of love and commitment.
“But if everything in the world were such as this, where would the longing for heaven be?”
Like guarding a priceless nugget, he’d carried what Miss Anderson had said with him, taking it out now and again, examining it, then tucking it away again for safekeeping. As he did now.
It occurred to him then: he didn’t even know the woman’s first name.
“Come back to Boston with me for a few days, Aidan. It’ll do you good.” Priscilla took hold of his hand, and her touch already felt foreign. “I know you miss it. I see it in your eyes.”
Knowing what she was seeing wasn’t him missing Boston, but him missing Darby Farm—the way it had been before she arrived—he took his time in answering. “I can’t,” he finally said. “My job is here now.”
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