THE GENTLEMAN FILLED THE DOORWAY.

Savannah lifted her gaze to meet his and read frustration in his face. His very . . . handsome face. Able to guess the source of his annoyance, she hastened to offer apology. “Please forgive my tardiness, sir. My coworker has taken ill and—”

“Miss Anderson.” He moved to one side. “Miss Sinclair is expecting you. Please, come in.”

His tone, while polite, possessed a quality that brooked no argument. But his accent—she bristled—was like a burr in her stocking, despite the cultured gentility in his voice. Because no matter how well spoken, or darkly attractive, the man was still a Yankee.

Yet understanding he was also likely the one controlling the purse strings, she quickly masked her annoyance beneath a polite facade, accepted his invitation, and stepped across the threshold.

And in the time it took to draw breath, she realized she’d underestimated what effect being back in this house again would have on her. Memories pressed in from all sides, siphoning the air from her lungs. But oddly, it wasn’t familiar surroundings that threw her off kilter. Nor was it seeing precious family treasures—among them the side table crafted by her paternal grandfather and the grandfather clock crafted by her mother’s father. It was something more furtive that threatened her undoing.

Something the past year of living in the boarding house had all but erased from her memory.

The presence of this house, the warmth it exuded. As if every bit of love and laughter that had been shared within these walls, along with every tear, had somehow been absorbed and translated into a wordless language only the heart could comprehend.

And hers did. A swell of emotion rose inside her to—

“Miss Anderson? Are you well?”

Savannah blinked. The gentleman’s expression was keen, and she swallowed, her throat parched. “Yes, sir. I’m fine. But actually, I’m—”

“Late!” a female voice interrupted. “That’s what you are, Miss Anderson. Late.” A striking brunette in a beautifully tailored teal ensemble strode toward them from the central parlor. Her smile was lovely, but her clouded features told the truer story. “I believe the agreed-upon hour was nine o’clock, was it not?”

Sensing Mr. Bedford tense beside her, Savannah nodded, the momentary web of nostalgia swept clean. “Yes, ma’am. Please accept my apologies. However, as I was about to explain, I’m not—”

“No excuses, please.” The woman glanced at Savannah’s satchel, then cast the gentleman a parting smile. “You’re here now, and we have much to do, you and I. Let’s not waste any more time, shall we?”

The woman turned on her heel and retraced her path to the parlor, leaving Savannah feeling firmly put in her place.

Feeling pressure to follow the woman, she still hesitated, knowing decorum demanded that someone in her position of employ be dismissed before leaving the presence of such a man.

“Allow me to introduce myself, Miss Anderson.”

Hearing a hint of apology in his voice, she turned.

He gave a tilt of his head. “I’m Aidan Bedford, the owner of Darby Farm, and that . . . is my fiancée, Miss Priscilla Sinclair.”

His mouth curved, but the tightness in his expression led Savannah to believe this particular smile wasn’t one nature had given him.

“Nice to meet you, Mr. Bedford,” she said, telling herself the statement was partly true—the part that connected her meeting him with the opportunity to be in this house again.

He glanced toward the closed front door. “I don’t believe I saw a carriage just now.”

“No, sir. I walked.”

“All the way from town?”

Seeing such a man perplexed helped her to relax a little. “I enjoy walking.”

His gaze held appraisal, and the intensity in his gray eyes gave her the impression that divining truth from fiction was one of this man’s talents. She was grateful her actions warranted no fear of it.

Yet, anyway.

“May I offer your guest some refreshment, sir?”

A petite older woman, features soft with age, hair white as snow, stood at the base of the stairs.

Mr. Bedford nodded. “That would be appreciated, Mrs. Pruitt. We’ll take it in the parlor.”

We? Savannah turned. In her experience, husbands usually made themselves scarce as soon as she arrived. But Aidan Bedford—not quite a husband yet—seemed unaware of the freedom afforded his gender.

He gestured for her to precede him, and she soaked up the nuances of the house and what it felt like to be home again.

Miss Sinclair sat poised on the edge of the settee, posture erect, countenance attentive, if not a tad impatient—until seeing her fiancée. “You’re joining us?”

“Only for a moment.” He placed his portfolio on the side table.

Feeling something pass between the couple, Savannah deposited the satchel by her father’s favorite chair, grateful to be relieved of the burden. Without the additional weight, her arm felt as though it might just float up and out of its socket.

“I trust Miss Hildegard sent samples of all the fabrics I chose the other day while in the store?”

“Yes, Miss Sinclair. She did.” Savannah unlatched the satchel, aware of Mr. Bedford standing off to the side, watching. She reached for the fabrics, wondering what she sensed between the couple. Tension, most certainly. But something else. She hoped, for Miss Sinclair’s sake, that Aidan Bedford wasn’t the controlling type. Although, from what little she’d seen, Miss Sinclair didn’t seem the type of woman to be easily controlled.

Savannah quelled a smile. Good. They deserved each other.

She withdrew the swatches, dozens of them in every imaginable fabric and color. “As you requested, Miss Sinclair, I brought silks, satins, taffetas, failles, moirés, silk poplins from Ireland, and velvets. In mixtures of florals and patterns including everything from the richer earthy tones of umber, green, and crimson to the more vibrant hues of purple, saffron, and blue.”

Taking into account the stylishness of Miss Sinclair’s fitted skirt with bustle and matching jacket—the latest in fashion—Savannah chose the most recent fabrics from Paris and draped them across the settee for her perusal.

Miss Sinclair gave a satisfied sigh, her hand moving to the most expensive first, and lingering. “C’est belle.”

“Oui, il est très belle,” Savannah answered, fully expecting the surprise in the woman’s face.

“Parlez vous français?” Miss Sinclair asked, glancing at Mr. Bedford.

Savannah nodded. “Oui, mademoiselle. Je l’ai étudié le français pendant des années.” It was a little prideful on her part, she knew, but she had indeed studied French for years, and she wanted women like Priscilla Sinclair to know she could do something other than merely sew.

And she didn’t mind Mr. Aidan Bedford knowing either.

As Miss Sinclair studied the swatches, Savannah let her gaze roam the parlor. Strange how you could be gone from a place, and have changed so much while away, only to return and find the place that had so influenced you remarkably unchanged itself.

But even with her surroundings familiar, she found herself viewing the room in a different way, wondering where someone would hide something they didn’t want discovered. Say, for instance, a box. She had no idea what size it would be, but certainly something small enough to be well hidden.

Her father wouldn’t have put it in a drawer or tucked it on a shelf behind something. She knew from his letter he’d chosen more wisely: “I left additional monies in the box as well. Save it if you can. Spend it if necessary. Even if the house is commandeered, it will be safe.”

No, the hiding place had to be somewhere more . . . permanent. Somewhere that even a Yankee soldier scavenging a home wouldn’t find it. And having witnessed neighbors’ homes searched during the war, she’d seen firsthand how thorough—and brutal—a Yankee soldier could be.

Her gaze slid across the room to Mr. Bedford who, much to her surprise, was watching her. It wasn’t difficult to imagine him dressed as a bluecoat. But imagining him in blue made her think of her own father and older brothers clad in gray, and she found she couldn’t contrive even the faintest smile before looking away.

The housekeeper entered and set a tray containing a silver service and a plate of biscuits on a side table, then served each of them. The silver service was similar to what Savannah’s family had owned, but it wasn’t theirs. She and her mother had sold all of those niceties during the war and in the months following, to keep food on the table.

“Thank you,” Savannah said softly when the housekeeper came to her. Famished, she helped herself to two biscuits. She had heard of the dry, tasteless fare served by their Northern neighbors, yet after taking a bite of a biscuit, she wished she could sit down to the entire plate. She ate the second and finished her tea.

“Is this your first assignment, Miss Anderson?”

Noting skepticism in Mr. Bedford’s voice, Savannah saw it in his face as well and gradually realized why he’d stayed. He’d mistaken her behavior upon first arriving for nervousness.

The man thought her a novice.

“No, sir.” She lifted her chin, taking more pleasure than she should have in setting him straight. “I’ve been employed at Miss Hattie’s for several years. I’m actually a master seamstress. I’m pleased to say that my draperies hang in some of the finest homes in Nashville, and I’ve also served as dressmaker to many of the mistresses of those homes. Should you require references, I’ll happily provide them.”