When I Fall in Love

by Wendy Lindstrom

  The discordant sound of felt-covered hammers striking metal wires in the soundboard followed him out of the house.

  When he returned, Hal deposited her valise on the only bed in the house, a wooden framed thing with a lumpy mattress where John had slept. Hal had been sleeping on the parlor sofa, but tonight he would sleep in the barn loft. He didn’t want any question about Miss Mitchell being compromised, because he was getting rid of her tomorrow. Gads! What had possessed him to bring her home? “I’ll return momentarily with your travel trunks and then bid you good night,” he told her.

  She was so engrossed with the pianoforte she barely lifted her head to acknowledge him.

  When he returned, he quickly deposited the heavy trunk in John’s room, fetched her second and third smaller but heavier trunks, and then headed to the foyer. “Good night, Miss Mitchell. I’ll be around at daybreak to take you to the station. I apologize that you’ll have to wait for your train, but I’ll need to get back to the mill as early as possible.”

  Her delicate hands slipped from the keys and she turned to face him. “Must you rush out so soon?” she asked, appearing small and uncertain as she stood beside the pianoforte. “It’s still early and I thought... I hoped we might talk about our arrangement?”

  He planted his hands on his aching hips and looked straight into her beautiful brown eyes. “There is no arrangement, Miss Mitchell. You’ll rest here for the night and I’ll take you to the station in the morning.”

  Hal berated himself all the way to the barn. Nancy Mitchell wasn’t supposed to be here. Hal and his brother should be scrambling eggs and wolfing them down with cold coffee and buttered bread. They should be hunched over the scarred kitchen table too exhausted to hold their heads up and yet too excited to stop talking about how they would make the impossible deadline for delivering cherry planks to Edwards Furniture. Instead, Hal found himself camped out in his woodshop listening to the distant sound of the out-of-tune pianoforte and thinking about the ridiculously obstinate and painfully beautiful Miss Mitchell.

  Chapter 3

  Just before dawn, Hal entered his small home. He hadn’t slept much the previous night because his mind had raced with thoughts of his brother, his father, and the haunting eyes of Nancy Mitchell sleeping just mere feet away in his house. He’d known better than to bring the woman home, but he’d been too distracted by her to think clearly and make other arrangements. He would take care of the problem this morning. First, however, he needed to wash up and grab an apple for breakfast before taking Miss Mitchell to the station.

  Two steps into the foyer the smell of smoke spiked Hal’s heartbeat and sent him bolting toward the kitchen.

  He found Miss Mitchell standing beside the smoking firebox, coughing and fanning her face with a singed potholder.

  “What did you put in the firebox?” he asked, trying to peer inside through tearing eyes.

  “Wood.”

  “I assumed that, Miss Mitchell. What wood did you deposit in the box?”

  She coughed and pressed a kitchen linen to her nose. “Two chunks of wood from the wood box.”

  “Did you add tinder?” he asked, already knowing the answer.

  She nodded, eyes streaming. “I used a bit of newspaper that was in the box.”

  That bit of newspaper would have been plenty to build a fire had she used kindling. “You need to start with tinder,” he said. “You have to wait until the flames are high before you add the larger wood. And one piece will suffice.”

  She frowned and coughed. “I’ve never built a fire before, Mr. Grayson. Being privy to that information last evening would have been most helpful.” She squinted against the roiling smoke and coughed again.

  “I assumed all women your age would know how to set a fire in the firebox.”

  “Well, I assumed John would have staff to tend to that chore.”

  Coughing, Hal threw open the windows in the kitchen. “A disappointment for both of us.”

  “Apparently,” she said, her comment muffled by the linen.

  Hal took up the iron tongs from beside the stove, locked onto the large chunk of oak and tossed it out the back door. “Keep the firebox closed until I return,” he said, then strode through the house closing all the doors behind him to keep the smoke out of the other rooms. How was it possible for a woman of Miss Mitchell’s age to have no experience building a fire? How did she cook anything? If she didn’t start her own fires, who had managed that task for her? Gads, he knew absolutely nothing about the woman. Had John known anything about his intended?

  Outside, Hal fetched the smoldering piece of firewood, doused it in a pail of water beside the well, and laid the saturated log aside for later use. When he returned, he found Nancy standing beside the window, her back to him.

  “Let’s get you out of the smoke,” he said. “I hope an apple will suffice for breakfast, Miss Mitchell, because I need to deliver you to the train station now so I can make that delivery.”

  “I’m too ill to travel, Mr. Grayson. The smoke has made me feel quite dreadful, I’m afraid.”

  “Is this a ploy of some sort?” he asked, becoming impatient and exasperated by the course his morning was taking. Because if she thought she could manipulate him again, he wasn’t having it.

  The woman turned from the window, her face ashen, eyes streaming, hands trembling. “Forgive me, but I’m unable to make it to the chamber pot.” With a gasp she turned and hung her head out the window.

  Hal stood open-mouthed as Miss Mitchell retched out his kitchen window.

  “I... forgive me, Miss Mitchell... I apologize.” Ashamed of his own bad behavior, he crossed the floor to stand at her back. “Let me help you to your room where you can lie down for a spell.” He waited for her to catch her breath, then tucked her shaking arm against his side and guided her through the haze. “I’m sorry I don’t have a clean handkerchief to give you.”

  With her face buried in the kitchen linen it was difficult to understand her, but it sounded as if she laughed... or perhaps she’d sobbed.

  He opened the bedroom door and nudged it closed behind them with his foot. He led her to the bed and made sure she was seated on the mattress before he opened both windows to let in the early morning breeze. It was a bit damp and cool, but refreshing.

  “This is highly unacceptable,” she croaked, holding the linen close to her mouth as if she might retch again.

  Was she was referring to him being in her sleeping quarters? Or that she had vomited out his kitchen window? Or that she had spent a night in his home without a chaperone? It was all unacceptable by his measure.

  “Why don’t you lie down, Miss Mitchell. If you can manage without assistance, I have a delivery I must make first thing this morning. I’ll air the house before I leave and then I’ll check on you when I return.”

  She flapped a dismissive hand at him. “I plan to spend the day right here, Mr. Grayson, so you may as well go about your business or wherever you’re needed today.”

  Her ashen complexion confirmed the fact that she wasn’t fit for travel and that he would be stuck with her another night. “I’ll check on you before I head to the mill.”

  “Do what you will,” she whispered, sounding so miserable that his concern overrode his exasperation.

  Hal shook his head and set about airing the house. He stumbled over dirty clothing and stepped around misplaced furniture, fully viewing the extent of his mess as Miss Mitchell must surely see the place. For an instant he wished she could have viewed the small home the day he and John purchased it. The pianoforte and some pieces of furniture had been left behind. Hal and John had needed everything and had gratefully accepted the items from the Fiske family.

  Neither John nor Hal could play the pianoforte, but Hal’s desire to keep the beautiful instrument had provided fuel for John’s endless heckling. He’d wanted to know if Hal would be taking up lessons or if he planned to find himself a lady who could play for him. Hal had cuffed John, which started a r
ound of good natured tussling until they knocked a lantern off the parlor table. They laughed and shrugged off the loss of the glass lamp globe and went about their day. That’s how things went between them. They heckled one another. They tussled and laughed and worked themselves weary, but all the while they’d been happy.

  Now there was nothing but misery in the house — and a woman Hal deeply regretted bringing her home. What promise had his misguided action planted in her mind? He didn’t want to imagine what she was thinking.

  Already she was laying claim to his home as if it were her own.

  She was smoking up his kitchen, lying in his brother’s bed, and playing his pianoforte.

  Hearing the melancholy songs drifting from the open windows last evening was bittersweet. In the middle of the night, the distant sounds of her playing woke him, and he wondered if those long lonely chords were a reflection of her emotions. What trouble had driven her from Buffalo and made her determined not to return? He’d seen fear and anxiety in her eyes when he’d informed her at the depot of his intent to send her back. Curiosity had driven him to linger and allow her to miss the returning train. In his defense, because of his brother’s promise, he’d felt an honest need to do right by her.

  Sighing in exasperation — with himself — Hal turned away from the window where he’d been woolgathering. He returned to the bedchamber and cast a final look upon the pallid face of the woman lying on John’s bed... in Hal’s house. With her long lashes dark against her cheek, Miss Mitchell’s gray pallor made her appear more delicate and vulnerable and it caused an upwelling of pity in Hal’s chest. This is exactly why he didn’t want a woman around. They twisted a man up inside and were a dreaded distraction. He stepped out of the room and pulled the door behind him, wanting to leave his troubles behind as easily.

  Chapter 4

  Nancy buried her face in the pillow and regretted it instantly. The sour scent of unwashed bedding filled her nose and gagged her. Moaning, she rolled to her back. She felt positively wretched... and foolish. She’d wanted to show Hal Grayson that she could run his household. All she’d done was fill his house with smoke and show him how inept she would be as a wife. Now he would surely put her back on that train tomorrow and ruin her life forever.

  Unless she died first.

  Which she might.

  Her gut twisted violently and she vaulted from the bed and rushed to the open window.

  After her stomach quieted, she collapsed back on the bed, too weak to move or care about the soiled bedding.

  The sun was setting when a knock on her door startled her awake. Mr. Grayson entered the room.

  “I’ve brought you a bowl of boiled calf’s head and cornbread that Mary Tucker delivered this evening. Perhaps a little food will settle your stomach,” he said.

  Her sinuses still burned and her stomach churned. “Please don’t mention another word about food.”

  “I thought you’d have improved by now.”

  “I have. My head is resting on the pillow instead of hanging out the window.”

  A slight smile lifted his mouth, making him more handsome and almost approachable. “All right then, I’ll let you rest for the night. Before I head to the barn, are you in need of anything?”

  She wanted comfort and friendship and to be home in her own bed. “I would be grateful for a glass of water.”

  “I’ll fetch it for you.” He returned in a few minutes with a glass of water, the plate of fragrant food nowhere in sight.

  “Thank you,” she whispered, trembling as she tried to push herself upright.

  He sat beside her, looped his strong arm around her waist, and drew her up beside him.

  She stiffened, unaccustomed to the touch of a man, especially in such a familiar manner. But he seemed oblivious to her reaction, or perhaps he simply did not care.

  “You’re a bit wobbly, Miss Mitchell.” His lips quirked up on one side, making her wonder if he was taking pleasure in her illness or if there might actually be a kinder side to him.

  “You find that entertaining?” she asked, her head still woozy.

  “I’ve never met a person over the age of ten who doesn’t know how to build a fire.”

  “Well, now you have. May I please partake of that water before I wilt?”

  He gave her the glass.

  She’d planned to sip it like a lady, but the first taste of the cool, refreshing liquid had her gulping the cold liquid down her parched throat like her mare used to drink from the stream after a good run. The frigid water soothed her throat... and upset her stomach. “Oh, dear,” she said, pressing her fingers to her mouth. “I shouldn’t have been so greedy.”

  “Shall I fetch a bucket?”

  “No, I... I just need to lie down,” she said, tipping over onto her side, praying she wouldn’t vomit.

  He lifted her feet onto the bed and draped the smelly old quilt over her legs. “I’ll let you rest then,” he said.

  “Wait. Please.” She looked up at him as he stood beside the bed. “Are you opposed to marriage?”

  He arched one black eyebrow and surprise filled his eyes.

  “I know it’s terribly rude to ask such a thing,” she whispered, feeling wretched in every way, “but I... I need to know.”

  “I’m opposed to marrying a stranger if that’s where this conversation is headed,” he said. “When I fall in love, I intend that love to last forever.”

  He did? This man intrigued her and she found herself asking, “What sort of woman would you court were you interested in seeking a bride?”

  Both of his black eyebrows lifted like a raven spreading its wings. “One who doesn’t ask so many questions.”

  Warmth flooded her face for being so bold, and yet to her surprise she could see gentleness and a hint of humor in his eyes. He seemed to find her lack of etiquette entertaining rather than off-putting. The knowledge gave her hope. “I suspect you would be bored by such a lady. You strike me as a man who prefers adventure and lively conversation.”

  “Perhaps, but I’m not adventurous enough to marry a stranger,” he said, and all warmth fled his expression. “I mean no offense, Miss Mitchell, but when I’m ready to take a bride I’ll seek a more mature lady who can make a warm and loving home for our children.”

  His words stung and swept away all hope, but his eyes told another story that confused her. In those golden-brown irises she saw curiosity and interest... in her? Perhaps this situation wasn’t as hopeless as she’d initially thought.

  “I need to head to work now and you should rest. I’ll check in on you later, Miss Mitchell.”

  “Thank you,” she whispered, but he’d already closed the door behind him.

  Tears still seeped from her eyes an hour later, but not all of them were caused by the noxious smoke. If Mr. Grayson put her back on that train, her life—and her sister’s life—would be ruined. Nancy had nowhere else to go. Her father’s men would already be visiting the homes of relatives and friends to find her. There was absolutely no one she could turn to without being found and returned home to a devastating marriage arrangement.

  She couldn’t go back. Nancy levered herself upright. Head swooning, she dug her fingers into the worn quilt. She would not ruin her sister’s, and ultimately her own, life.

  But as Nancy looked around the disheveled room she saw her trunks packed and waiting for Mr. Grayson to load them onto the wagon and deposit them – and her – at the train depot in the morning. He did not want her here. He intended to send her away.

  In truth, she didn’t want to stay. But she had to. She had no other options.

  * * *

  In the early morning hours when Hal Grayson returned for her, Nancy told him she was still too ill to travel. It was true. She felt sick at heart.

  The news clearly disturbed and irritated him, but her pallor and trembling convinced him she was being truthful. And she was, for the most part.

  He insisted she try to eat breakfast.

  She said
she would try hot tea and a biscuit when she got up.

  After giving her a curt nod, he fetched a fresh glass of water for her and then left for the day.

  Nancy wanted to sag back on the mattress and rest until her head quit spinning, but she forced herself to stand. Her legs trembled and her stomach still felt queasy, but she staggered into the parlor.

  The blue haze had cleared out of the parlor and also the kitchen, but the acrid smell lingered, increasing her nausea. She placed her palm over her tender stomach and made her way to the kitchen.

  She couldn’t build a fire. So what. She couldn’t’ cook either. So be it. She could clean things up a bit and make some improvements to Mr. Grayson’s living conditions, which might please him and would also benefit her.

  As she sipped a cup of tea and nibbled half a dry biscuit she surveyed the mess around her.

  Soiled clothing littered the parlor. Plates with dried on egg yolk filled the kitchen sink. The house was in shambles unlike anything she’d ever seen. Did all men live like this? Is that why they all took wives? This certainly wasn’t what Nancy expected when she’d answered John Grayson’s letter. The Graysons were a good family in Buffalo albeit not as well off as her family. But she surely didn’t expect the squalor she found upon arriving. Determined to make the most of her situation and prove her value to Hal Grayson, she went to work.

  Rolling up her dress sleeves, Nancy started cleaning in the kitchen. Heaping stacks of dirty dishes were piled everywhere. The only soap she could find was a cake of lye soap that had last seen a pair of filthy hands evidenced by the rings of dirt clinging to it. As she scrubbed dirt and debris from the misshapen lump of soap she shook her head at the irony of washing a cake of soap, and then cringed at the necessity. Cleanliness would be the first lesson she would teach Mr. Grayson.

  He could teach her how to build a fire.

  But who would teach her how to cook?

  She had thought she would manage a household staff. She hadn’t been trained for manual labor that would ruin her skin and strain her back and turn her into an old crone before her twentieth birthday.