by Dorothy Love
“Certainly, if you don’t mind waiting while I make myself presentable to a lady.” He blushed. “I was walking in the woods, and I’m afraid I’m in no state to receive guests.”
She followed him through the antique door from Scotland, hiding a smile at the sight of his leather notebook protruding from the back pocket of his grass-stained trousers.
He showed her into his office and asked his red-haired secretary to bring tea. “I won’t be long.” Then he disappeared.
In a moment, Mr. O’Brien returned with a tea tray and filled her cup. “Anything else you need?”
“Maybe some information?” She lifted her cup.
O’Brien’s eyes widened. “Now, that’s the one thing I can’t supply, miss, seein’ as how anything I say is likely to wind up in that paper of yours.”
She picked up the tongs, plopped a sugar cube into her cup, and stirred the tea with a silver spoon. “I understand. I was just curious about the work camp. It’s so primitive, considering how long the men have worked here.”
He frowned. “How would you know about that?”
“Oh, I . . . never mind.” She sipped. “This is very good tea. No doubt it’s the finest available.”
The secretary relaxed and leaned against the door frame. “Of course it is. Mr. Blakely insists on the best of everything, but he wants it at a rock-bottom price. It’s surely a burden to Mr. Heyward, trying to satisfy Mr. Blakely and keep the men happy and bring the project in on budget.”
“I imagine so. What do you suppose Mr. Heyward will do once the resort is finished?”
“I really couldn’t say. He keeps to himself, doesn’t confide in me all that much. More tea?”
“The papers say he’s from a long line of Georgia planters, so perhaps he’ll return home when he’s through.”
She held out her cup for a refill. “Mr. Heyward seems to delight in building lovely things. Perhaps he’ll go back and build something as beautiful as Blue Smoke.”
“I don’t think so, miss. They say something terrible happened there when he was a boy, and he hasn’t been back there since. If the story is true, I wouldn’t blame him for never wanting to set foot in Georgia again.”
“What happened? Did someone—”
The door opened, and Mr. Heyward came in wearing fresh clothes, his shoes shined, his hair neatly combed. He nodded to his secretary. “I hope there’s still some tea.”
“Of course.” O’Brien poured a cup for his boss. “Will you be needing anything else, sir?”
“Not at the moment. Supply train brought the mail up.” Ethan took up the sugar tongs and dropped a couple of cubes into his cup. “You might get it sorted for me. And update the guest list for the ball. Li Chung will want to order his supplies soon, and I want to be sure Mr. Pruitt has enough of everything.”
The secretary left, closing the door behind him. Mr. Heyward stirred his tea and took a long sip. “Now, Miss Caldwell, what brings you to Blue Smoke?”
“Caleb Stanhope needs his job back.” Sophie set down her cup and folded her hands in her lap. “He told me he’s supporting his mother and two younger brothers.”
Mr. Heyward nodded. “Mary Bell. I understand she ran the telegraph office before she married. The boy told me her husband died shortly thereafter.” He took a sip of tea. “Killed in a railway accident in Chicago. Tragic for all of them.”
“Then how can you deprive him of his livelihood when the welfare of others is at stake?”
He sat forward in his chair. “Believe me, Miss Caldwell, I hated to let him go. But he shouldn’t have discussed Blue Smoke with you.”
“That isn’t his fault. He didn’t know I’d write about it, and now I’m sorry I did. Not because the situation here isn’t utterly abominable, but because—”
“Pardon me. What do you know, really, about the ‘situation,’ as you put it?”
“I stumbled across the workers’ camp just now. It’s unfit for human habitation, in my opinion, and that open sewer is an invitation for serious illness. No wonder your men are prone to fighting. I’d be angry myself, having to live day after day in such deplorable conditions.”
He opened his desk drawer, took out a couple of photographs, and slid them across the desk. “This is what the place looked like when I got here.”
She studied the blurred images of haggard-looking men posing before a row of sagging canvas tents, their boots mired in a sea of mud. The pictures reminded her of Mr. Mathew Brady’s heart-rending photographs of the war. Misery seemed etched onto every soldier’s face.
“When Horace asked me to come on board to supervise this project, I said I wouldn’t do it until he hired a decent cook and got those men out of tents and into permanent quarters.” Mr. Heyward studied her, his deep-blue eyes serious behind his spectacles. “I realize the cabins aren’t much to look at, but they’re much more substantial than those tents. At least the men are kept warm and dry. And they have plenty to eat.” He smiled. “Not that they don’t complain daily about Li Chung’s menu choices.”
Sophie’s heart softened as he spoke. Had she misjudged him? Perhaps Ethan Heyward was not as hard a man as he seemed. Still . . . “What about Caleb? Will you reconsider?”
“I’m afraid I cannot. Mr. Blakely is quite adamant that the men honor the promises they made when they were hired. One of those promises was not to say anything that could damage the reputation of Blue Smoke.”
“I see.” She rose. “Your stationery order is ready. Perhaps Mr. O’Brien can pick it up tomorrow.”
“I’ll ask him to call at your office.” He walked her to the door. “Despite what you might think, I am truly sorry about Caleb. I understand what it’s like to be young and without a father for guidance.”
“But not sorry enough to take him back.”
“Horace Blakely has the final say around here. About everything.” He paused, his hand on the crystal doorknob. “I don’t agree with his every opinion, but he’s the boss. Caleb’s smart enough. He’s strong and willing to work. He’ll land on his feet one way or the other.”
She clutched her reticule to her chest. “If that is your final word on the matter and you won’t help rectify a situation that was really my fault, I suppose I’ll have to do something about it myself.”
“I’d advise you to be careful what you print in that newspaper of yours from now on.”
“Is that a threat, Mr. Heyward?”
He held up both hands, palms out. “Not at all. Just some friendly counsel.”
They walked out into the brilliant May sunshine. Sophie climbed into her rig and turned it around in time to see Mr. Heyward raise one hand in farewell, the hint of a smile playing on his full lips.
He was infuriating. And yet impossible to ignore.
SEVEN
“Miss Caldwell?” Caleb Stanhope poked his head into the office and frowned. “Something’s wrong with the jobbing press again.”
Sophie rolled a sheet of paper from her typewriting machine and set it in the wire basket on the corner of her desk. “I’ll be right there.”
In the wake of Mr. Heyward’s refusal to give Caleb his job back, Sophie had hired him to work at the Gazette. True, she could afford him only two days a week, but it was better than nothing, and Caleb was a fast learner. In the three weeks since she’d hired him, he’d learned to mix ink and had mastered the operation of the rotary press. Today he was printing up a notice for the upcoming meeting of the Ladies Benevolent Society to discuss the establishment of Gillie’s infirmary. If the boy ever learned to spell, which seemed doubtful, she’d put him to work setting type.
She joined Caleb in the back room and bent over the small jobbing press.
“It’s not my fault.” Caleb jerked an ink-blackened thumb toward the press. “I didn’t break it or anything.”
“I know you didn’t.” She lifted the handle and shoved a worn coupling pin back into place. “This machine is so old, it breaks down most every time. Usually it’s because this
pin has slipped loose.” She sat down and worked the treadle, and a clean copy of Gillie’s flier slid into the tray. “There we are. Good as new.”
Caleb grinned. “Thanks, Miss Caldwell.”
“Caleb?” She smiled at the boy. “I’m not that much older than you. Could you please call me Sophie? ‘Miss Caldwell’ seems much too stuffy, and makes me feel older than dirt.”
“Sure, Miss . . . Sophie. I’ve been meaning to thank you again for this job. I really like it, and my wages sure help out at home.”
“I’m the one who got you fired. It was the least I could do.”
He ducked his head. “Reckon I better finish this job before Miss Gilman gets here. She sure is all het up over that hospital idea of hers.”
“The infirmary is a wonderful idea. I’m planning to run a series of articles about it as soon as we get the opening at Blue Smoke out of the way.”
Caleb sat down at the press. “I heard you’re going to the big party Mr. Heyward is throwing tonight.”
“That’s right. He’s expecting a writer from Harper’s magazine. A lot of other newspaper people will be there as well. I’m looking forward to meeting everyone.”
Caleb cranked out a few more copies. “You going to the ball tomorrow too?”
“I am. Just like Cinderella.”
“Don’t lose your glass shoes.”
She glanced at the clock on the wall. “It’s after five already, so I suppose I should get going. Mr. Heyward is calling for me at six.”
Caleb nodded. “You go on and get yourself all prettified. I can lock up for you when I’m finished here.”
She took her key from her desk drawer and handed it to him. “Leave it at the front desk at the Verandah if you don’t mind.”
“No trouble. Have fun tonight.”
She smiled. “I’m going there to work. I’ll be so busy taking notes and talking to people I won’t have time for much else. It is exciting, though. When I lived in Hickory Ridge as a child, I never dreamed I’d be back here one day running this paper, or that there would be anything as fancy as Blue Smoke in this little town.”
“Ma’s real excited about Blue Smoke. She says a fancy place like that adds to the quality of our town. But I reckon it’s the people of a place that make it quality. Don’t you?”
“I sure do.” She headed for the door. “See you next week.”
“Yep.” Caleb rolled his eyes. “Give my regards to Prince Charming.”
She crossed the street and headed for the hotel. Lucy Partridge had promised to have a warm bath waiting for her. The new dress she’d purchased from Jeanne Pruitt’s shop, a cream-colored silk with a matching jacket trimmed in white braid, waited in a nest of tissue paper. It was too bad she couldn’t afford a new gown for tomorrow night’s ball. The dress she’d brought from Texas wasn’t her fanciest, but it was nearly new, the silk fabric was of the best quality, and it fit her like a dream. And it had seemed more important to have a new dress for meeting her colleagues.
She hurried to the Verandah, eager for the evening to begin. After the difficulties of her childhood, she did feel a bit like a fairytale princess.
Not that Ethan Heyward would ever turn out to be her Prince Charming.
Ethan picked up his hat and gloves and sent O’Brien in search of his driver and carriage. The conveyance was nearly too wide to negotiate the narrow, bumpy mountain road, but tonight called for the best he had to offer. Waiting outside in the portico as the carriage arrived, imagining the glittering night ahead, he felt a jolt of anticipation and a sense of pride.
Every member of the press he’d invited to this evening’s reception had accepted, eager to sample the food and admire the sumptuous rooms and the resort’s breathtaking mountain setting. Already, to Horace’s delight, some had begun calling Hickory Ridge the Saratoga of the South. Perhaps the comparison to New York’s famous resort town was a bit too ambitious just now. But with time and the right management, the resort’s reputation would grow until Blue Smoke became as impressive a destination as anything the country had to offer.
This afternoon, after a week in Baltimore attending to his interests there, Horace had returned for the summer with his wife and three lively daughters. Now, thank goodness, they were napping in their rooms, a small army of chambermaids at the ready to answer to their every whim. Despite disagreements over developing Blue Smoke, Horace was thrilled with the results. He’d pronounced Ethan’s efforts nothing short of miraculous and proffered a generous bonus check. A check that had somehow failed to cheer him as much as he’d imagined.
Money was useful, of course. No Southerner who had lived through the years of privation during and after the war would ever dispute that. But now the job was done, and Ethan had no idea what would come next. He could stay on here and run Blue Smoke. But the prospect of continuing to work for Blakely, despite their long association, seemed vaguely depressing.
And Sophie Caldwell had more than a little to do with his feelings. He couldn’t forget the sharp look of disapproval in her eyes when he refused her request to rehire the Stanhope boy. He didn’t really blame her. He didn’t like himself very much for giving in to Horace’s iron will and rigid policies. On the other hand, he owed his boss some loyalty. Had he not met the man all those years ago, who knew how his life might have turned out?
“Your carriage, Mr. Heyward.” The gray-haired driver halted beneath the portico, jumped down, and opened the door with a flourish. “Big night for you tonight.”
Ethan nodded. “And for everyone at Blue Smoke. It’s been a long time coming.”
“Yes, sir, but I don’t imagine there’s anybody in Hickory Ridge that regrets that. Before you and Mr. Blakely got here, we were fadin’ fast.” He shook his grizzled head. “The depression just about did us all in. If it hadn’t been for Mr. Gilman startin’ that horse race and Mr. Blakely takin’ a shine to our little town, well, I hate to think of what might have become of us.”
He motioned Ethan into the carriage and closed the door. “You just sit back and relax, and I’ll have you to the Verandah in no time.”
Ethan settled onto the rich red leather seat and braced himself as the carriage rolled down the brick drive and onto the mountain road. The sun rode low in the trees. The air was heavy with the sweet smell of honeysuckle and the promise of the evening ahead.
An image of Sophie rose in his mind. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt as excited about a woman as he did about Sophie Caldwell. Here lately she’d occupied more of his thoughts than was good for him. He tried not to think about her so often, but it was no use. Despite her headstrong opinions and trouble-making ways, he wanted to spend much more time with her.
Was it too much to hope for, that she might want to see more of him too?
EIGHT
“Sophie, there you are!” Gillie rose from the rocking chair on the Verandah’s newly painted porch and hurried down the front steps. “I know you’re on your way to that fancy reception up at Blue Smoke, but I’m hoping you have a minute. I need a favor.”
Sophie took Gillie’s arm, grateful for a few minutes with her friend. Their growing closeness seemed almost a miracle, considering that her work at the paper and Gillie’s rounds with Doc Spencer left so little time for socializing. For the most part they had to be content with hurried visits before and after church and an occasional tea at Miss Hattie’s.
“Mr. Heyward will be here soon,” she told Gillie, “but of course I have time for you. What is it?”
The two of them sat in the creaking rocking chairs Sophie remembered from her childhood. The summer breeze smelled like Ada’s teacakes, yeasty and moist. The rosebush beside the door sagged beneath the weight of the season’s first blooms. From inside came the clank of silverware and the muted voices of the women who soon would begin new jobs at Blue Smoke.
“It’s about my infirmary,” Gillie said. “I want to talk to the town council about it, but Mayor Scott won’t give me a place on the agenda.”
Sophie frowned. She didn’t know the mayor very well, though he and his wife attended services at Robbie Whiting’s church every week. He had been mayor forever, accustomed to getting his way, but she had never considered him to be unfair. “Did he say why?”
Gillie took her fan from her reticule and fanned her face. “He says Hickory Ridge can’t afford a free infirmary, even though that is not exactly what Dr. Spencer and I are proposing, and he also thinks it’s a waste of time anyway because the women who need help the most won’t take it. But how does he know?”
Sophie shook her head. “I’m sorry to say this, but he may be right. Remember the woman I met on the mountain? She was clearly sick, but she told me in no uncertain terms to leave her alone. It seems she’d rather be sick than wound her husband’s pride by asking for help. I’m all for your idea, but honestly, I don’t see how having an infirmary will convince people like that to come in when they need help.”
“I know it won’t be easy. But I’m hoping that if the leaders of Hickory Ridge show their support for the infirmary, then those husbands whose pride is standing in the way of their wives’ well-being will be more apt to accept it.” She shrugged. “Maybe we can shame them into seeking help.”
“Maybe.” Sophie chewed her lip. “I can’t help but wonder if there’s more to it than pride. Perhaps the men fear having to take on more of the burdens at home if their wives are indisposed.” She watched a wren darting in and out of a nest. “Change comes slowly to small towns. Maybe they’re simply afraid of anything new.”
“Well, it isn’t as if this is a brand-new idea. Infirmaries are opening in Asheville and Knoxville, and just last week Doc told me about a sanatorium opening up on a lake in New York—Adirondack Cottage. It’s for treatment of tuberculosis. He says it’s only one large room, but still, to the patients who need it, it’s a godsend.”
Sophie regarded her friend. “Suppose the town council approves the infirmary. Where would you put it? There’s not an empty room to be had here at the Verandah or at the inn. Even Mr. Webster’s school is bursting at the seams.”
