The delicious scent of roasting turkey greeted family and guests as they entered the McKinley home a short while before noon. Inez Cheevers, the housekeeper, was near the front door to take hats and coats and was half buried beneath them before Morgan insisted on helping with the rest. The maid, Louise, took command of the two children, escorting them upstairs to the nursery, while Gwen invited everyone into the front parlor.
Daphne had always admired the way her sister-in-law made others feel welcome in her home. She moved around the room, speaking with each guest, making sure they were comfortable, asking if they needed anything, sharing a moment of laughter or a word of encouragement. Being a gracious hostess was second nature to Guinevere Arlington McKinley, and Daphne couldn’t help but envy her that.
Daphne had been trained in the social graces, of course. One wasn’t raised the daughter of Alastair and Danielle McKinley without knowing how to entertain a vast array of people. Still, she’d never taken to hostess duties with the ease that was true of her sister-in-law.
At least Daphne was acquainted with everyone present. In addition to the family—Morgan and Gwen, Woody and Cleo, and Griff—the guests included Fagan Doyle, Morgan’s business manager and close friend, who had recently returned to Bethlehem Springs after overseeing a McKinley building project in Southern California; Christina Patterson, on her own for her first Thanksgiving since her husband’s death; Crow County Sheriff Jedidiah Winston and his unmarried daughter Rose; Ashley Thurber, one of Bethlehem Springs’ spinster schoolteachers; and Joshua Crawford.
A perfectly balanced company of six men and six women, and Daphne couldn’t help wondering if her sister-in-law had matchmaking in mind when she’d made up her guest list. The thought took her eyes to Joshua who was now seated between Rose Winston and Christina Patterson.
Silly to be jealous of Christina. She was still mourning the death of her beloved husband. But what about Rose? Rose was close to Daphne’s age, and while not especially pretty, she was handsome and had a pleasant demeanor. Daphne had heard that Rose once wanted to win Morgan’s affections, back before he’d fallen in love with Gwen. Perhaps it was only idle gossip. Or perhaps it explained why the young woman had never married.
A wry smile curved the corners of her mouth. She could almost hear someone in the room thinking, Why hasn’t Daphne McKinley married? She’s pretty enough and the heiress to a fortune. She’s not getting any younger, you know. The first blush of youth is already gone. Twenty-seven and no man in sight.
She felt a little catch in her chest as she glanced once more at Joshua. There was a man in sight. She just didn’t know if he was interested. He’d taken great care of her while she was ill. He surely knew her more intimately than any other man of her acquaintance, and yet he didn’t seem inclined to pursue her beyond as a columnist for the newspaper. How disappointing.
She turned to look at her reflection in the mirror on the wall. Perhaps I’m not pretty enough. Her complexion remained pale, and there were dark smudges beneath her eyes that didn’t seem inclined to go away anytime soon.
Fagan Doyle stepped to her side. “Aye, ’tis a lovely reflection, Miss McKinley. Sure, and it is.”
Daphne felt warmth rise in her cheeks, embarrassed to be caught assessing herself in the looking glass. “Don’t tease me, Mr. Doyle.”
“Mr. Doyle?” He grinned and gave her a sly wink. “I’m thinking we’re better friends than that.”
She laughed. “Of course we are, Fagan.” She leaned forward to kiss his cheek. “And I’m glad you’re back. Morgan won’t be sending you off to another project anytime soon, will he?”
“I’m thinkin’ not until spring.”
“Good. We’ll have time for plenty of games of chess, and I shall give you a proper drubbing.”
“We shall see about that.”
Fagan Doyle was a wiry sort, of average height with not an ounce of fat on him. He looked to be in his early thirties, although Joshua wasn’t a great judge of a person’s age. When Gwen had introduced the two men, she’d told Joshua that Fagan was Morgan’s friend and that he worked for McKinley Enterprises. That could explain why Fagan and Daphne looked so chummy as they stood talking across the room from where he sat.
The two of them laughed, and Joshua felt like grinding his teeth as he watched them. Was she smitten with the Irishman?
He might have risen from the sofa, excused himself from the others, and gone to speak with her. He might have done his best to steal her away from the other fellow’s company. But he was saved from the inclination by a summons to dinner.
The dining room was ablaze with light reflected off the gold-rimmed china, crystal, and silver service. Place cards marked the seating arrangements, and Joshua felt a rush of relief when he found himself on Daphne’s left with Griff Arlington on her right. So much for Fagan Doyle.
He held out Daphne’s chair for her. “Miss McKinley.”
“Thank you, Mr. Crawford.”
He scooted her chair in, then sat in his assigned place. “You’re feeling stronger, I trust.”
“Much stronger. Thank you.” She smiled as she added, “And I have my column ready for you. If you wish, you can take it with you when you leave today.”
“Of course. I’d be delighted to take it with me. May I ask the title?”
“I haven’t a title for it. Perhaps you can help with that. I wrote about what we don’t know about the people we know.”
Joshua cocked an eyebrow.
She lowered her voice to a whisper. “Don’t worry. It’s inspired by you and your grandfather, but I don’t say so. The piece is philosophical rather than factual.”
“You’re good at keeping secrets, aren’t you, Miss McKinley?” He leaned closer. “I like that in a woman.”
He saw her eyes widen, watched as the tip of her tongue moistened her lips. The temptation to kiss her was almost more than he could resist—even knowing it would be a disaster to do so here, surrounded by these people. Fortunately, Griff chose that moment to address her, and she turned away before Joshua could act on the reckless impulse.
But those few moments had taught him something—she was attracted to him too. She would have let him kiss her. He was convinced of it. And it wasn’t because she was a columnist and he her editor. It wasn’t because she’d written dime novels about his grandfather.
What we don’t know about the people we know. Wasn’t that what she’d said her column’s topic was? Well, there was a great deal more about Daphne McKinley that he wanted to know. Far, far more. He was determined to learn it all, and soon.
November 2, 1872
The St. Louis Men’s Association opened its doors today. Although it has no affiliation with the YMCA, Kevin and I share that organization’s desire to provide safe housing and healthy activities as well as spiritual development to young men who come to the city to find work in the factories.
St. Louis is now the nation’s fourth largest city, and with growth has come problems as well as prosperity. The hope of the SLMA is to serve men who would otherwise find themselves sleeping in the open and indulging in less than desirable activities (the same kind I provided to men for too many years—alcohol and women).
Kevin will manage the daily operations of the SLMA along with the fine staff we have employed, and I pray that God will use me as a volunteer wherever He sees fit.
NINETEEN
Daphne waved to her brother as he pulled away from the curb, then quickly closed the door against the encroaching cold. She went into the kitchen and stood near the stove, where the fire had taken hold after some coaxing by Morgan. Once she was warm again, she walked to the back door and looked out at the shed near the alley. Through the shed’s partially open door, she saw the red hood of the McLaughlin-Buick. Sometime during her recovery, Morgan and his friends had managed to retrieve Mack from its snowy grave and bring it back to Bethlehem Springs. Bless them all. Her brother had told her the motorcar was none the worse for wear. She hoped he was right, but
she wasn’t interested enough to see for herself right now.
She turned and leaned her back against the door, her gaze taking in the kitchen with its stove and icebox, table and chairs. Beyond the kitchen was her cozy parlor with its upright piano and chintz-covered sofa and chairs. The rooms seemed compact and crowded after two weeks in the McKinley home, but they also felt just right. Perfect. It would be nice to do as she pleased without someone looking over her shoulder, warning her not to do too much or asking if it wasn’t time for her to lie down and take a nap. As much as she loved her brother and sister-in-law, they could make her feel as if she were still a child.
She pushed off the door and walked to her office. Not a speck of dust anywhere. Someone had been in to clean her house in expectation of her return. She wondered who. Perhaps Gwen had sent Mrs. Cheevers. Or it might have been one of her neighbors. She would have to find out and thank them properly.
The Royal Typewriter sat in the center of her desk, reminding her how long it had been since she’d used it. Would she remember what she’d learned, or had her progress been lost already? She took paper from a drawer in the desk and rolled it into the platen. Then she sank onto the chair. What should she type? Another column? The next scene in her book?
Her fingers struck the keys slowly: JoshuaCrawford
She stared at the black letters on the white sheet of paper. What on earth had possessed her to type his name? She hadn’t even been thinking of him.
Liar!
She’d thought of little other than Joshua since they’d visited over Gwen’s delicious Thanksgiving meal yesterday. There’d been moments when the look in his eyes had made it impossible for her to breathe normally. She’d scarcely heard a word anyone else at the table had said, although she’d pretended otherwise. If someone laughed, she’d laughed with them. When someone addressed her, she’d nodded as if in understanding. No matter what her outward response, her thoughts were on Joshua, Joshua, Joshua.
“Oh, my,” she whispered on a sigh.
Daphne had enjoyed more than one flirtation through the years. She’d had her male callers and had received proposals of marriage. Not once had she been tempted to give up the freedom she enjoyed for matrimony. Besides, she’d never been too sure she wasn’t being courted for her fortune rather than her charms. When she married—if she married—she wanted it to be a love match, as her parents’ marriage had been.
Joshua wasn’t wealthy. In fact, she suspected he had few worldly possessions beyond the clothes he’d brought with him from St. Louis and the salary Christina paid him. He might only be interested in her money too. For that matter, he might not be interested in her at all. And yet—
A knock sounded at her door, and she jumped guiltily, as if whoever was there could read her thoughts from the front porch.
“Coming.”
She pulled the sheet of paper from the typewriter, wadded it, and tossed it into the small trash receptacle at the side of the desk. Another knock convinced her to hurry to the front door.
Joshua stood on the other side of the screen. “Good morning, Miss McKinley.” He swept off his hat.
“Mr. Crawford.”
“I hope you don’t mind me dropping by. I…I wanted to discuss your column.”
“Not at all.” She pushed open the screen door. “Do come in out of the cold.”
He stepped inside.
“You’re lucky you found me at home. Morgan only dropped me off a short while ago.”
“I know. I saw him driving up Main Street and assumed he’d brought you home.”
A frisson of pleasure rolled around in her stomach. He’d come to see her as soon as he’d thought she was home.
Drawing a slow breath, she held out a hand. “May I take your hat and coat?”
“Yes. Thank you.”
She hung them on the rack. “Is there a problem with my column?” she asked as she faced him again.
A hint of a smile curved the corners of his mouth. “On the contrary. I think it’s wonderful work.”
“You do?”
“You have a distinctive voice, Daphne.”
She loved the sound of her given name on his lips and was glad he felt comfortable enough to use it again.
“I believe you’re a naturally gifted storyteller. You shouldn’t waste that gift. Your latest column is superior work.”
“That’s kind of you to say.” Feeling a blush rise in her cheeks—delighted by the compliment—she motioned to the sofa. “Please, won’t you sit down?” She settled onto the chair opposite him. “I hope, now that I’m feeling myself, to get back to writing every day, the way I used to do. My book publisher is growing impatient.”
An odd expression crossed his face. Disappointment? Disapproval? And she realized it didn’t matter that he thought her gifted. He would never like, praise, or appreciate The McFarland Chronicles. Not as long as her novels painted Richard Terrell as a scoundrel.
“Speaking of your latest book, I’m going down to the capital city this afternoon to see if I can learn more about my grandfather, about his activities while he was in Idaho.”
May I come with you? She managed to stifle the question before it could burst forth. It would have been inappropriate to ask and even more so to go. There were already some in Bethlehem Springs who thought ill of the two of them. No need to add fuel to the fire.
She cleared her throat. “I hope you find what you’re looking for.”
She meant it. With all her heart, she meant it. She would write a hundred retractions if they would bring him peace of mind, peace of heart.
Retractions? Really? But if what she’d written was the true story—as it seemed to be, as even Joshua had to believe it to be by now—how could she do that?
“I hope to find the full story of Grandfather’s time in Idaho,” he said.
Do you, Joshua? What if you’ve heard the whole story already and just don’t like it. Will you leave Idaho once it’s confirmed? Will you go back to St. Louis and leave me here, missing you?
The blue of his eyes seemed to darken as he looked at her. What was he thinking? She wished she could read his thoughts. She so desperately would like to understand him, to know him better, perhaps even to love him.
The silence between them grew long and awkward.
Joshua cleared his throat. “I’d best get back to the paper. There are a number of things I must wrap up before I catch the afternoon train.” He rose from the sofa.
Disappointment sluiced through Daphne as she stood too. “Will you be gone long?”
“I hope not.”
He walked toward the door, Daphne following right behind. But before he reached it, he stopped and turned—so abruptly, she nearly ran into him. As she swayed forward, he caught hold of her upper arms with his hands. Surprised, she looked up into his eyes—and saw something there that stopped her in her tracks.
Time ceased its forward motion as they stood there, his gaze holding hers as she waited for something, anything, to happen. Vaguely she noticed she held her breath.
He studied her for a long moment. Then, finally, his brows drew together in a thoughtful frown. And, ever so slowly, his head lowered toward hers. She rose on tiptoe, impatient for their lips to meet…
The kiss sent a shock wave through her. Her knees weakened and her stomach tumbled. Heat flowed through her, as did a strange longing to get closer to him.
Closer.
Closer.
Closer.
Joshua stepped back, breaking the connection far too soon. “I’m sorry, Miss McKinley.” His voice sounded gruff and gravelly. “I shouldn’t have done that. Please forgive me.”
“There’s nothing to forgive,” she answered softly.
“Yes, there is.” After another long look, he turned and opened the door. “Good day, Miss McKinley.”
Long after he left the house, Daphne remained in the same spot, longing for the feel of his hands gripping her arms, for the feel of his mouth upon hers. She ached to feel t
he warmth of his breath upon her skin, to hear the beating of his heart in time with her own.
Now that he’d kissed her, she would never be the same. She was changed forever. If only he’d stayed a little longer. If only he’d kept on kissing her.
“I shouldn’t have done that. Please forgive me.”
Forgive him? For what? For kissing her as she’d never been kissed before? For making her feel more alive than she’d felt in all her twenty-seven years? For making her world a brighter, more exciting place?
He was wrong to seek forgiveness, and the next time she saw him, she would tell him so.
Joshua thought of little besides that kiss as he finished his tasks at the newspaper and as he packed a few belongings in a satchel and as he sat in the passenger car as the train made its way to Boise. Thoughts of the kiss lingered as he made his way from the depot in the capital city to the Idanha Hotel and checked into his room. The memories of the kiss followed him to the hotel’s dining room and were ever present as he ate his evening meal. And they were with him as he lay in his bed and tried to find sleep.
Daphne had tasted sweet and innocent and passionate. She’d felt right in his arms, as if she’d been made for that very purpose, that very place. Desire had swept over him as he’d embraced her, and it had taken all of his strength to move away, to let go of her arms, to forsake the warm feel of her lips upon his.
He didn’t have a right to kiss her. No matter what he felt for Daphne, he didn’t have the right to kiss her until he’d spoken to Mary Theresa. They weren’t engaged, but there’d always been the understanding that they would one day marry. An understanding between the families. An understanding between the two of them. He needed to tell Mary Theresa it wasn’t going to happen. He wasn’t going to marry her. She would be hurt but it couldn’t be helped. He couldn’t marry her when he cared for another woman. It wouldn’t be fair to either of them.
Breaking off that understanding wasn’t something he could do by letter. He knew that was true. He’d made several attempts to put his feelings on paper the previous night, but it hadn’t worked. No, this was a conversation that should take place face to face. Since that wasn’t possible—he couldn’t wait until he returned to St. Louis for good and he couldn’t afford to take the long trip back to Missouri just for that purpose—he would have to call her on the telephone. He would do it in the morning.
Robin Lee Thatcher - [The Sisters of Bethlehem Springs] Page 15
