Cascades Christmas

by Mildred Colvin

  Chapter 7

  Hearing Papa’s voice, Larkin woke with a jolt. She’d fallen asleep against the library door as she’d waited for Mama and E.V. to stop talking. She scrambled to her feet then smoothed the navy fringe on the bodice and three-quarters-length sleeves of her pale yellow gown. Thankfully her stomach had settled, her eyes no longer burned, and the vertigo was gone. However, the mortification she felt over what had happened—

  Only a man blindly in love would still wish to court a woman who’d spewed eggs and broth on his chest.

  “I cannot believe I did that,” she groaned.

  Knowing the embarrassment she felt added needed color to her cheeks, Larkin gently opened the door leading to the parlor.

  Papa, E.V., and Mama immediately looked her way from where they sat in the west end of the room.

  Only E.V. stood.

  With a slight grin strained by the tension she felt in every nerve, she tried to think of a logical excuse for having left Mama and E.V. alone for the last—she glanced at the clock—oh dear—hour and twelve minutes.

  Sometimes the best explanation was no explanation.

  She hoped.

  As slowly as she could traverse the large rectangular room without making it look like she was stalling, Larkin moved toward the sitting area nearest the double-door entrance to the front foyer.

  With one leg crossed over the other, Papa sat in the second chair opposite Mama’s place on the settee. The angle at which he sat gave him a clear view of E.V.—whose chair was a good three feet from Papa’s—without having to turn to look at him. While the elbow of Papa’s left arm rested on the curved armrest, two of his fingers on his right hand tapped his chin. His thinking position.

  His you’re about to get a lecture on decorum position.

  Because of the heavy brown mustache covering his upper lip, Larkin couldn’t tell if Papa’s handsome face held a frown or a grin. Not that she expected a grin.

  While E.V. wasn’t smiling either, he didn’t seem intimidated by Papa’s presence, but neither was he as at ease as he’d been talking to Mama.

  “Oh, how nice, tea and crumpets.” Larkin sat on the empty side of the settee, smoothing the fringe on her skirt while E.V. resumed his seat.

  Mama filled a teacup and handed it to her. “How was your nap, darling?”

  Not at all surprised by her mother’s forthrightness, Larkin casually took a sip of her tea while raising her eyebrows as if to say—nap?

  “Your cheek has the imprint of the carvings on the library door.” Mama lifted a plate off the tea tray. “Crumpet?”

  Larkin shook her head. She shuddered at the thought of putting anything into her stomach for the next twenty-four hours.

  Mama put the tray down. “They’re here if you change your mind. Eric enjoyed them.”

  At Mama’s use of E.V.’s given name, Larkin looked at E.V. He hated being called by his father’s name. E.V. shrugged as if the usage was of no import.

  Papa cleared his throat.

  Dreading the lecture but knowing Papa would wait until they were alone because he would never—never—air their conflicts in public, Larkin met his gaze and smiled softly. She said nothing. This was the moment where E.V. would show himself to be the true hero he was and ask Papa for her hand in marriage. Right here. In the parlor. In the very room where she and E.V. had met over a tray of spilled cookies.

  Papa would then agree to the marriage because he loved her, and he wanted her to be happy. Mama would cry yet be happy. And Larkin would cry, too, because she was finally going to marry the man she loved.

  All was about to be well with the world.

  Papa stopped tapping his chin. “Larkin, are you in love with this man?”

  Realizing her hand trembled with nervous anticipation, she rested her teacup and saucer on the tea tray. “Yes sir.”

  “Have you been cavorting with him?”

  “No sir.”

  “Would you elope with him if I refused to allow you to marry?”

  Confused by his line of questioning, Larkin looked to E.V., who leaned forward in his chair, his fingers steepled together, his eyes intent on her face. What did he want her to say? Yes? No? Maybe? It depends? Give me time to pray over it?

  Panic welling within, she looked to Mama.

  Her mother’s dark eyes pleaded with her to say no.

  Could she?

  Help me, Lord. How do I choose between love for my parents and love for E.V.?

  “Stop.” E.V.’s voice was so soft, Larkin wasn’t sure she’d heard him. “Stop,” he repeated, rising to his feet. “I won’t let you force her to choose. I’ll carry the burden.”

  Papa’s jaw shifted yet he said nothing. He didn’t have to. The narrowing of his eyes conveyed his dislike of E.V., which confused Larkin all the more. How could Papa despise someone he barely knew? Someone he’d barely had half a dozen conversations with?

  E.V. inclined his head to Mama. “Mrs. Whitworth, thank you for the hospitality.” His gaze settled on Larkin. “Miss Whitworth, I pray all will go well with you in your future endeavors. Merry Christmas to you all.”

  With that, he strolled from the parlor and out the front door, allowing a chill to steal into the room.

  Larkin stood. “Papa. Why?”

  “Renier only cares about your inheritance.”

  “He loves me. Me!”

  “Has he ever told you?”

  She opened her mouth but didn’t answer. He had never said the words, but—

  “You’re money to men like him,” he said coolly. “He’ll forget you soon enough.”

  She shook her head. “No. E.V. is faithful and kind and patient and … I will never stop believing God will work out things for us to be together.”

  Papa’s fingers tapped his chin again. “So you choose him?”

  “I—”

  Mama grabbed Larkin’s hand, silencing her. “Patrick, please. Don’t do this to our family. I can’t bear losing another child—I can’t. Please make this right.”

  Papa stood and, without another word, followed E.V.’s path out the front door.

  Willum was right. He should cut his losses. Rain soaked through every layer of clothing as he walked away from the Whitworth mansion.

  Hearing a door slam somewhere behind him, E.V. stopped in the middle of the street, turned around, and rolled his eyes. Wind gusts were the only thing he could think of that would make the moment worse. Or an audience. Actually that would be worse.

  Whitworth approached with the fervor of a man on a mission. “Stop proposing!”

  “What?”

  “You heard me.” Whitworth halted before E.V. and looked him directly in the eye—an easy task since they were nearly the same height. “I will never give my permission,” he growled.

  “Why not?” E.V. growled right back, having simply had enough of being patient with the man he’d thought would be his father-in-law someday.

  “You don’t have the character to be faithful to her in the tough times.”

  “I don’t—” E.V. bit back his angry retort.

  Knowing yelling wasn’t the way to bring peace between them, he drew in a breath. Jesus living through me, Jesus living through me.

  Focused and calm, he said, “After all the conversations we’ve had, how is it you still don’t know my character? I know yours. I know that Patrick Whitworth has one of the most astute financial minds in the country. He is loyal, fair, judicious, yet will take educated risks and selflessly help his business associates prosper, too. You love your family, routinely ignore advances from other women, give generously to the community and charities throughout the Pacific Northwest, carry guilt over your son’s death, work too much, and are too self-possessed and arrogant to humble yourself before God.”

  Whitworth’s mouth clamped into a thin line. In anger? Shame? Resentment that E.V. knew all that about him?

  E.V. wasn’t sure and, to be frank, at that moment he couldn’t have cared less. “What do I have
to do to prove myself to you?”

  “You are your father’s son.” Whitworth gave him a slit-eyed look. “You can’t change that.”

  E.V. flinched. How many times had he accused himself? Were it not for his friends’ intervention and determination to pray him to salvation, he would still be following his father’s path of debauchery and greed. Yet, as the rain poured down on them, he suddenly saw his past more clearly. Mrs. Whitworth was right.

  “Sir, my heritage made me who I am today, good and bad,” E.V. said with a peace that could only be God-supplied, “but Jesus living in and through me, not my heritage, defines who I am and who I will be. My sawmill has grown. I’m on the verge of securing a large supplier, and I don’t need Larkin’s inheritance. I can provide for all her needs.”

  Whitworth stared in silence. Then he slowly shook his head. “This isn’t about money.”

  E.V. gaped at the man. Whitworth lived and breathed money. “For two years, I worked day and night to build my mill and prove my work ethic to you. For two years, I’ve allowed you to harass me with questions about my past, and I’ve respected your demands and honored your rule of not telling Larkin exactly how I feel. If money is not the issue, then what’s this about?”

  “God may have changed you,” Whitworth answered furiously, “but He can’t—won’t—hasn’t changed my wife. And now, like her brother, Larkin is showing the same weakness for—” His shoulders slumped, his voice lost its intensity. “I don’t hate you. I love my daughter and wife too much to risk trusting you to protect our family honor when your reputation is on the line. They’re mine to protect.”

  “Give me a chance to prove—”

  “No, Renier. This is my burden to carry alone.”

  Unsure of how to respond—how could he when he had no idea what weakness Whitworth was alluding to—E.V. wiped his brow, which did little good because the rain continued to run down his face.

  “I don’t hate you,” Whitworth repeated. “Saying no to you is easier for me.” With that, he turned and walked back to his house.

  E.V. turned as well. Each step back to his mill took him farther away from Larkin.

  Cut his losses. That’s what he should do.

  Chapter 8

  You and a guest are cordially invited to…

  In the solitude of his office, E.V. stared at the gold letters on the embossed invitation to the Whitworth’s annual Christmas soiree on Saturday, December 20. Three days away. Music. Dancing. Food.

  Larkin.

  Not everyone in Tumwater attended, because not everyone was invited, and the list varied each year. To receive an invitation put one on the People Significant to the Whitworth Family list that included business associates, local clergy, politicians, law officials, close friends, family. No one under the age of sixteen allowed.

  Dress: formal.

  His first year in Tumwater, E.V. attended at the personal invitation of Mr. Whitworth to Tuck, Frederick, Willum, and himself as they were leaving Larkin’s nineteenth birthday party. By the time the date of the soiree arrived two months later, he’d already asked Whitworth twice for Larkin’s hand in marriage. At that time, Whitworth had still been cordial to him.

  Last year he never received an invitation.

  What was he to make of this year’s invitation? Even more intriguing, who sent it? Larkin? Her mother? Why write no reply necessary on the back?

  For the third (or eighth) time since the invitation arrived in his office last week, a few days after Whitworth confronted him in the rain, E.V. tossed it in the wooden milk crate he used to collect wastepaper for kindling. This time he wasn’t taking it back out. And he wasn’t attending. His heart hurt too much.

  Instead, he’d help Willum cut and piece the intricate first-floor crown molding demanded by the increasingly particular owner of the house Willum was building. At the rate the owner was making changes to the design, Willum would be an old man before he’d finish building the house. See—now that was a situation for cutting one’s losses.

  E.V. grabbed his pencil off the accounting book and re-examined the month’s numbers. If he sold out his shares in the mill, he could take his profits and move to anywhere he desired, do any job he wanted. He’d find a nice girl and settle down and have a bevy of children. And a dog—no, dogs. A bevy of them, too—as many as he had children, so they’d each have their own and no reason to fight over who the dog loved best.

  Frustrated with his absurd thoughts, E.V. dropped his pencil. Elbows on his desk, he rested his forehead against his fingertips. What do I do, Lord? Where should I go?

  Wait. The word whispered again across his soul, as it had each time he’d prayed for guidance.

  Could he wait? Could he stay in Tumwater?

  More aptly, how could he stay now that the grapevine telegraph claimed Whitworth had given Harvey Milton permission to court Larkin? Harvey Milton, Esq., the very lawyer who had yet to win a case. Harvey Milton, who for the last year, had courted and stopped courting—before starting and stopping again—Miss Abigail Leonard. Every shop E.V. entered, even before and after worship services this past Sunday, someone had been talking about the news.

  If that wasn’t frustrating enough, the number of women who ceased talking when E.V. approached was making him wonder if someone had overheard him and Whitworth in the rain. He didn’t remember seeing anyone out on the street watching them.

  But in a town this size … with a gossip chain this strong…

  In the two years he’d lived in Tumwater, he’d never heard anyone—except Miss Leonard—say an unkind word about Larkin. Now the descriptions ranged from princess to imposter to hypocrite to drunkard to Jezebel. The latter occurred when he overheard two of his workers repeating that Larkin had been “leading the boss man on with the goal of making Milton jealous.”

  With Tuck’s wife, Anna, on bed rest because of sporadic contractions, only cranky ol’ Mrs. Ellis remained to champion Larkin’s reputation, which did little good, because Mrs. Ellis was the least-liked person in town. That left him. As Reverend Bollen had advised, telling people they shouldn’t gossip silenced the talk but did nothing to restore the damage to Larkin’s reputation. How could E.V. come to her defense if doing so would only cause her father to believe he was plotting a nefarious plan to kidnap Larkin and hold her for ransom? Or elope. Either amounted to the same in Whitworth’s eyes. Why add fuel to the gossips’ fire?

  Doomed if he did, doomed if he didn’t.

  “Ugh,” E.V. groaned. He snapped his pencil and tossed it in the trash. Then he sat listening to the saws buzz and his workers yell orders to each other. And sat. And sat.

  The door to his office opened. Willum stepped inside, unbuttoning his winter coat. His bright-eyed gaze fell to the trash crate before centering on E.V. “You busy?”

  “Yes—no,” he corrected. “Something wrong with your order?”

  “No. It’s all loaded.” Willum motioned to the doorway. “Thought I’d warn you, Silas Leonard just arrived with a manila envelope and his daughter.” Removing his work gloves, he stepped to the enclosed stove in the corner of the room to warm his hands. “Saw a few snowflakes earlier. Think we’ll get any accumulation?”

  Uninterested in discussing weather, E.V. leaned back in his chair, gripped the V-edges of his tweed work vest, and stared at the remaining hat of Larkin’s he hadn’t had delivered to her at home with her father’s shirt and waistcoat. He wasn’t ready to part with the only tangible object of hers that he could hold. Larkin hadn’t looked at him Sunday. Neither had she looked at Milton. Whatever day she was delivering food to the Bollens wasn’t Wednesday.

  No, today E.V. had delivered his customary half ham alone.

  Two years without declaring himself to her.

  Two years being a model of propriety.

  Two years of stifling his desire to kiss her senseless.

  E.V. rested his head against the back of his chair and grimaced. Two years of being a faithful yet utter fool.

 
; Bam!

  E.V. flinched and looked at his surroundings. He then glared at Willum. “Why is there a log on my desk?”

  Willum shrugged. “I couldn’t reach the back of your head to knock sense into you. Go sign the contract with Leonard. Then you’ll at least have half of what you think you want in life.”

  “You want what?” Feeling his brows draw together in stunned disbelief at what had been asked of him, E.V. stopped reading the contract and looked at Silas Leonard, who stood with his back to the door of the mill’s main entrance. With the saws running and workers scrambling to load and unload the machines, this waiting area was the quietest part of the building besides his office.

  “Son, it’ll be one last favor,” Leonard explained, grinning and putting his arm around the shoulders of his daughter’s some-shade-of-red (or maybe pink) cloak that matched the bonnet she clenched with both hands.

  Now that E.V. noticed what she wore, he realized in all the times he’d seen Miss Leonard since Emma and Frederick’s wedding, she’d been wearing either red or pink or a shade thereof. Much like the way Larkin wore clothes in one color spectrum for an entire year—something he had never pondered the reason behind. Some of a woman’s mysteries needed to stay mysterious. Though he knew this was Larkin’s yellow year.

  Why would Miss Leonard want to follow the behavior of someone she clearly hated? Did she want to be—

  E.V. looked the young woman over and felt his frown deepen. Her blond hair was pinned in a simple bun at the back of her neck while loose strands grazed her cheekbones, similar to Larkin’s preferred coiffure. The style actually made Miss Leonard’s Caesar-like nose seem less—no, no it didn’t. Her nose was still too large for her face.

  “Renier!”

  At the sound of his name, E.V. refocused on Silas Leonard. “Why?” he couldn’t help asking.

  “Abby can’t get a husband on her own. She lost her chance with Milton now that Whitworth bought him for his daughter.”