by Deeanne Gist
Scrutinizing the area, she looked for any rustling branches. Listened for a cracking of twigs. But nothing stirred. Only the steady clomp-clomp-clomp of her horse’s hooves touched her ears.
She flipped a blanket up over her head. The sun’s rays were no longer able to penetrate now that it had begun its descent. She hoped they’d arrive before it disappeared completely but bit back the question of how much longer.
Just before full dark, Mack led her into a clearing with the most rudimentary log cabin she’d ever seen. The logs had been hewed flat, leaving wide spaces between. She couldn’t imagine how its crumbling chinking would keep cold air from whipping through the structure. A long, narrow porch ran along the front, flanked by a big stone chimney at one end and a lean-to at the other for a kitchen.
“Stay put,” Mack said, handing her the reins.
He stomped onto the porch, knocking snow from his boots, then disappeared through a large plank door. The horse let out a shudder, his warm breath fogging the air about his muzzle.
A moment later, Mack returned without the sack and lifted his arms to her. She slid from the saddle, barely suppressing a moan. It had been a long time since she’d ridden. But how could she complain when he’d walked the entire way?
He pulled her against him, then swept an arm beneath her knees and gave her a long kiss. It warmed her as no fire could.
“I’m going to enjoy having a lifetime of those,” he said.
She tightened her arms about his neck. “Me too.”
He carried her across the threshold, then set her down while he tended a prelaid fire. Clearly someone had cleaned and prepared the cabin for them. It was a one-room affair without stain, varnish, or veneer. The interior walls had been hewn the same as the outside, and she realized the home must have been built while the timber was still green and unseasoned.
The wood sagged and the joints had warped, so none fit properly or sat squared. She could see dissolving daylight through exposed, curled shingles. And the floorboards had shrunk, leaving wide cracks which conducted outside air, sending it straight up her skirts.
Eight split-bottom chairs circled a homemade table holding her overnight sack. Two large beds graced the rugless room. One against the wall with no bedding. The other in front of the fireplace fully dressed with fresh linen, blankets, and fluffy pillows.
Blushing, she averted her gaze, noting a split-pole ladder leading to an empty cockloft. She tried to imagine growing up in such a place and could not.
Still, for all its archaic appearance, it held a homey, picturesque quality. The very fact that its lines were catawampus allowed it to fit in with its wild and rough surroundings. Anything more modern would have confused the senses.
The fire popped. The smell of burning wood began to permeate the room.
Mack rose and rubbed his hands against his thighs. “I’m going to tend to the horse.”
He slipped out the door, leaving her to wonder exactly what she was supposed to do or where she was supposed to sit. With the bed blocking the hearth, there was no room for her to drag any chairs close to the fire’s warmth.
Moving to the table, she opened her sack, then stalled. She couldn’t unpack her nightdress and lingerie. What would she do with it? Hang it on the pegs?
She gave a hysterical laugh at the thought of Mack returning to find the walls lined with her unmentionables.
Digging around, she found the foodstuffs Biltmore’s chef had packed for them. But there were no cupboards. No closets.
Four large trunks lined one wall. Perhaps there would be table linens in one of them. She raised a lid, then touched her throat. It was filled to the brim with books.
She ran her hand over the thick volumes. Picking one up, she angled it toward the fire. Payne’s Business Encyclopedia and Practical Education. Beside it, The Little Giant Bookkeeper, Bookkeeping at a Glance. And Blaine’s Handy Manual of Useful Information.
Closing the lid, she raised the next one. More books. Pictorial History of the United States. Conquest of Peru. Handbook of Pronunciation. Robert’s Rules of Order. Thimm’s French Self-Taught.
All four trunks contained books. Academics, essays, poetry, dialogues, recitations, etiquette, medical, religious, fiction, atlases.
Mack’s footfalls sounded on the porch. She pushed the lid closed and darted back to the table.
A cold whoosh of air and a flurry of snow entered with him before he secured the door. His gaze went first to the fire, then swept the cabin, snagging on her.
Snow dusted his hair and shoulders. He plucked off his gloves and stuffed them into a pocket. Keeping his eyes pinned to hers, he unbuttoned his jacket, shrugged it off, and blindly hooked it on a peg.
Her stomach bounced.
“You cold?” he asked, blowing into his hands.
“No.”
“You’ve still got the blanket on.”
“Oh!” She whipped it free and shook it out. Before she could hang it up, he was there, taking it from her, doing the honors.
“Gloves?” he asked.
Flushing, she tugged on each fingertip, slipping the outdoor gloves off.
He set them on the table, noticing the food. “You hungry?”
“Not really. Not after all the food we had at Biltmore. But I could eat if you’re hungry.”
“I’m not hungry.” Taking her hands into his, he brought them to his mouth.
“Your hands are freezing.” She covered one of his with both of hers and rubbed it quickly until it warmed, marveling anew at how rough and large his hands were compared to hers. She did the same with his other.
Finishing, she released him. They stood facing each other, his eyes dark. Very dark.
She fingered a button on her jacket. His gaze followed her movement. She snatched her hand to her side.
Slowly, he reached up and pushed her coat button through its housing, then the next and the next until all were undone. Turning her by the shoulders, he helped her out of it and hung it on a peg.
She didn’t move, afraid to face him, afraid not to.
Running his hands down her arms, he touched his lips to the back of her neck and left them there, his breath fanning the hairs on her nape. Tremors zipped down her spine and continued clear to her toes.
Finally, he lifted his head and slipped his arms about her waist, locking his fingers together and pulling her back against him. Swaying from side to side, he rocked her as if to a lullaby only he could hear.
Little by little, she relaxed. “Who prepared the cabin for us?”
“I did.”
“When?”
“Yesterday.”
“Good heavens,” she sighed, unable to believe he’d made such a trek two days in a row.
With one hand he slid a hatpin from her hat.
“You grew up here?” she asked, trying to digest how eight people had shared this one area. No wonder he valued freedom, air, and elbow room.
“I did.” Splaying one hand against her stomach to ensure she stayed put, he placed the pin and her hat on the table in front of them, then went back to rocking her.
“Whose books are in the trunks?” she asked.
“My father’s.”
A log on the fire shifted. Cold air ruffled her petticoat through the flooring.
He nuzzled her hair.
Tilting her head to the side, she gave him more access.
He nibbled her ear. Explored her neck. Kissed her shoulder through her bodice.
She shuddered.
Scooping her up, he carried her to the hearth, then placed her on her feet between the fire and the bed. He reached for a bed warmer she hadn’t noticed before and slipped it under the linens, running it along the mattress before returning it to the fire.
He tunneled his hands into her hair, tipped up her face, and kissed her. Heat pressed at her from within and without.
“Let’s go to bed, Tillie.”
Eyes closed, she nodded.
He removed the pins from her ha
ir, placing them on the mantel, then took her tresses into two fists and buried his face in it, inhaling deeply.
Her knees weakened, but she remained still, allowing him all the time he wanted.
Finally, he brushed it behind her back, then dipped down to find her collar fastenings. She reached up to detach it, but he pushed her hands away.
“Tonight,” he said, “I will be your lady’s maid, and I will do for you what you have done countless times for others.” His eyes slid to half-mast. “But this will be much, much more enjoyable.”
Flushing, she stood motionless as he tenderly removed collar and cuffs, setting them next to her pins on the mantel. Kneeling before her, he untied her boots, then slipped them off.
Still on one knee, he twisted to hold his hands to the fire before slipping them blindly beneath her skirts. She jumped, bracing her fingertips against his shoulders as he whisked her garters off and rolled down her stockings.
The plank floor was cold and rough beneath her feet, giving her blessed relief from the flush overtaking her body.
Bodice, overskirt, skirt lining, skirt, petticoat, corset cover, corset, and chemise. With the removal of each layer, he whispered words of praise and awe, paid homage in the age-old way of man, and then carefully attended to the piece of clothing in his hands, shaking it out before hooking it on a peg. Finally, his breathing deep, his eyes fierce, he lifted the bed linen.
She slid beneath the covers, heart full, every nerve quivering. He made quick work of his own clothing, suspenders swinging, articles flying.
He joined her in their marriage bed, and though the cold mountain air whistled through the cabin and snow collected at its corners, neither were touched by their icy presence.
CHAPTER
Epilogue
Let there be light.
Tillie pressed the white button. Electric lights flared, illuminating the living hall of the Irene Martin Home for Children. The large area held several groupings of child-size chairs and tables resting on wool rugs from the Sears, Roebuck catalogue.
It was her favorite room in the new orphanage. The children gathered here to mingle, play games, or spend a lazy afternoon reading. The piano Mr. Vanderbilt ordered had finally arrived, bringing a great deal of excitement with it.
Scattered on various tables were odds and ends the children had made or collected to amuse themselves with. Buttons, flower presses, wooden blocks, scraps of fabric, yarn dolls, and toy soldiers.
Her childhood library and the trunks of books which belonged to Mack’s father now lined one wall. Opposite it, a wall of windows and French doors looked out on the river, waiting for daybreak.
Mack leaned against the frame of an open door leading onto the terrace, his back to the room. He looked over his shoulder, brown eyes warm. “Can you turn off the lights? They’re disturbing the quiet.”
The hum of the light bulbs grew loud in her ears. She plunged the room into darkness, then stepped up beside him. It was moments before sunrise. Still too dark to see the beautiful view of the French Broad River, Mt. Pisgah, and the miles of open land surrounding the orphanage.
The only hint of illumination came from a sky stretched with black clouds against a light gray canvas. Little by little, behind a string of Carolina mountains, the edge of the horizon turned from gray to white, as if God had slathered it with a layer of whipping cream.
The clouds moved down, or maybe the white moved up, chased by a layer of pink with a light, light salmon hovering at its midpoint.
Mack slipped his arm around her, pulling her against his side. She rested her head against his shoulder. It was as if there were no one on earth but her, him, and God Almighty. Then suddenly, it was there, peeking over the mountains like the tip of a blacksmith’s white poker, turning the clouds purple. The landscape gray.
Though she never saw it move, the white nucleus somehow lifted above the horizon, breaking free of the mountains, lighting the sky and gilding the clouds with fire. Its blinding rays obliterated the sight of everything in its immediate path. As if God’s fingertip, so bright, so powerful, had touched the horizon and made an arc up into the sky.
Mack shifted, turning toward her, pulling her against him, his shirt soft, his chest hard.
She looked at him, amazed she had ever considered walking away from him when right here in the Irene Martin Home for Children she had been blessed with more riches than she’d ever dreamed of.
A beautiful sunrise. Purpose. Children she delighted in. A man she loved with more abundance than she could ever contain. And the freedom to enjoy it all.
She slipped her arms around his neck, glorying in the intensity of his eyes. “Good morning.”
“Yes, it is.” He enfolded her in his arms and lowered his mouth to hers, infusing her with a warmth and passion which could only come from the same source as the sunrise.
AUTHOR’S NOTE
Biltmore Estate was built in 1895 by George Vanderbilt and is still owned by the family. It is open to the public and is one of America’s greatest national treasures. What makes this particular historical home so unique (other than its sheer size, its grandeur, and its state-of-the-art technologies) are its furnishings and accessories. Every other historical home I have ever visited had furnishings “of the time.” But never was the house fully furnished with the original pieces. Yet Biltmore holds the very items that belonged to George and Edith Vanderbilt. I can’t tell you what a treat they were to see. If you haven’t visited the Estate, it’s not to be missed. I’m going again with my readers this fall and will be showing them behind-the-scenes settings from Maid to Match. If you’d like to join us, go to GetawayWithDee.com for more information.
Now for confession time. I had to bend a few things in order to make my novel work, and since the Vanderbilt family has gone to such lengths to preserve their history, I feel I should set the record straight. First, George and Edith were indeed married in Paris in 1898, but they didn’t arrive at Bilt-more until October. (I had them well ensconced in the house in August.)
Second, Edith did not bring a French lady’s maid with her. George had the housekeeper hire a local before they ever arrived. So I totally made that up. (George did like to hire from the area, though.)
Third, all the servants in my book are fictitious. I didn’t want to use the real names of the housekeeper, butler, or anyone else because I might have done them an injustice. So the household positions were accurate, but the characters were a figment of my imagination.
I portrayed the Vanderbilts’ progressive views of the servant class and their approachability according to what I discovered in my research. At first I thought the docents were being generous because the place where they worked was still owned by the family. But my study encompassed sources well outside the influence of the Vanderbilts, and every one of them underscored the same thing: George and Edith cared about their staff and treated them with unprecedented consideration.
The maternity baskets – true. Walls of windows in the basement – true. Central heat and electricity for the servants – true. New furniture bought specifically for the servants’ bedrooms – true. Indoor plumbing for the servants – true. The giving of gifts at Christmas – true. The newspaper account I included (of the Christmas celebration) was a real article and one of many that showed up, year after year, describing how Edith made her list and checked it twice. As a matter of fact, she did not send her lady’s maid to do the shopping, but did all the shopping herself. She also made sure it was done locally so as to boost the economy. Then they invited all the families that worked for them and had a big Christmas morning celebration where they gave a gift to every staff member and every child. That would be impressive if done today. In 1898, it was unheard of.
If you are an expert on the servant class of the late 1800s, you might have thought I didn’t do my homework. I want to assure you I did; it’s just that the American servant class differed from the British servant class. For example, in Britain, the butler was at the top of
the food chain, but in America, it was the housekeeper. In Britain, they called the leaders of the domestic corps the Upper Ten; in America, they were called the Swell Set. In Britain, there was no talking during staff meals. In America, they were a bit more relaxed. So if you find something that doesn’t jibe with what you know to be true in England, it’s likely that we backward Americans just did it a little differently.
As for the orphanage, I made that whole thing up. I could find no record of Asheville having an orphanage, nor did George Vanderbilt build one. That was merely a device on my part. (Though a local businessman did have a Swat That Fly contest in an effort to solve the fly problem the city had, and the owner of the mortuary really did parade a corpse down Main Street in an effort to drum up business.)
All in all, Biltmore was a great place to set a book. I hope you can join me live at Biltmore this coming fall. We’re going to have a great time. Again, all the details are at GetawayWith Dee.com. See you there!
Deeane Gist has a background in education and journalism. Her credits include People, Parents, Parenting, Family Fun, and the Houston Chronicle. She has a line of parenting products called I Did It® Productions and a degree from Texas A&M. She and her husband live in Houston, Texas, and have four grown children. Deeanne loves to hear from her readers at her Web site, www.IWantHerBook.com.
Books by
Deeanne Gist
A Bride Most Begrudging
The Measure of a Lady
Courting Trouble
Deep in the Heart of Trouble
A Bride in the Bargain
Beguiled
Maid to Match
Table of Contents
COVER PAGE
TITLE PAGE
COPYRIGHT PAGE
DEDICATION
CONTENTS
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
