To Win Her Favor

by Tamera Alexander

  Maggie nodded, wishing she had such a treasure from one of her parents. “How is Carolyne? I heard she was ill.”

  “She is, but how did you know?”

  Maggie quickly relayed the scene at the shop, and by the time she was finished they were laughing together. And it felt so good.

  “Oh . . .” Savannah sighed. “I wish I could have seen Miss Hildegard’s face.”

  Maggie smiled. “It wasn’t pleasant, I can tell you that. I do, however, think your job is secure. But only if I never return there again.”

  Savannah laughed softly then glanced behind her. Her expression sobered. “Carolyne is sick. It’s bronchitis. The doctor says she’ll be fine, but—” Again, that hesitance. “Andrew found work delivering newspapers today, and someone needed to stay with her.”

  “Andrew is delivering newspapers?” As soon as she said it, Maggie wished she could take back the question. The boy was eleven years old, two years older than little Carolyne, which was certainly old enough to do the work. But with those braces on his legs, she wondered how he could manage.

  “It’s only temporary. We needed a little extra money to make ends meet, so Andrew is doing odd jobs as he can. He’s tired when he gets home, but he’s managing it all right. And again . . .” She shrugged. “It’s only for a short time.” Her eyes brightened. “A new Widows and Children’s Home opened here in town recently. There were several columns about it in the newspapers.”

  Maggie nodded. She had read about it, and had thought about Savannah, Carolyne, and Andrew at the time.

  “They serve meals every night,” Savannah continued. “We’ve eaten there a few times already. It’s quite nice, and the food is delicious. I spoke with the director of the home last time, a Miss Braddock, and we put our names on the list to live there. But it’s a very long list, as you can imagine. And we do already have a place to stay.”

  Maggie nodded and smiled, but on the inside she was still trying to picture young Andrew walking all over town on his clubbed feet. The doctors had done all they could to correct the boy’s condition when he was born, but the way his feet turned inward had always made walking a challenge.

  Not for the first time, Maggie tried to imagine what Savannah’s life must be like. Taking care of two younger siblings while working to provide for them. Given the same circumstances, she wondered if she would have done as well. Which made her think of what her life would be like now if not for Cullen.

  Suddenly she was more eager to return home. To Linden Downs. And to him.

  The silence lengthened, and Maggie noticed Savannah eyeing her black dress.

  “You sewed it well for me,” Maggie said softly, fingering the sleeve. “Thank you.” She remembered when Savannah had delivered the dress to her house days before her brothers’ funerals, then how her friend altered it yet again when Maggie’s mother passed.

  Savannah’s expression held the weight of memory. “I’m only sorry you’ve had to wear it so often.” Sighing, she looked around the sparsely furnished room. “Life didn’t turn out quite the way we thought it would, did it, Maggie?”

  Maggie followed her gaze, seeing the room but thinking of Savannah’s father and two brothers who were killed in the war. And then of her mother who died shortly thereafter. Maggie thought of her own family, too, and of Richard, and all the other boys she and Savannah had attended school with. Gone. All of them.

  “No,” Maggie whispered. “It didn’t.”

  Her gaze fell upon a marble-top table in the corner. One fashioned by John Henry Belter, if she wasn’t mistaken. Quite valuable. She remembered seeing the table in the Darbys’ central parlor throughout the years. Savannah’s family home had contained so many lovely antiques and heirloom pieces. And still did, she guessed, since the house had been auctioned as furnished.

  “It’s the only piece I brought from home,” Savannah said softly. “I’ve come close to parting with it many times, but it was Mother’s favorite. I’ve been able to keep it so far.”

  “I’m glad. You need something to remind you of home.”

  Savannah’s composure wavered, and a shadow crossed her face.

  A moment passed. The rumble of wagons and carriages making their way on the street below rose to fill the empty spaces between them. Spaces Maggie wished weren’t there.

  “So . . .” Savannah’s expression grew more timid, as did her voice. “What is it like . . . being married? Or should I say”—a trace of mischief touched her tone—“being in a ‘business arrangement’ with such a man?”

  Maggie smiled at her friend’s gentle teasing, but her sense of discomfort grew with the heat warming her face. She knew what Savannah was asking. As girls, they’d discussed in hushed whispers the imagined intimacies between a husband and wife. Not only physically but what it would be like to live with a man who wasn’t your father or brother.

  Yet even pooling their knowledge, the three of them—Mary included—had still lacked the necessary pieces of the puzzle to see the whole. And Maggie hated to admit to her friend that, even after having been married for weeks, she still hadn’t solved that mystery.

  “Marriage is,” she began softly, knowing she was walking a fine line, “not quite what I thought it would be.” Seeing the furrow in Savannah’s brow, she hurried to add, “We’re taking time to get to know one another, which is good. Very good.”

  Coughing sounded from the next room, and a weak voice called out, “Savannah?”

  “I’ll be right there,” Savannah answered, then looked at Maggie, apology in her eyes.

  “I need to be going anyway.” Maggie rose, relieved but trying not to show it. “Please tell Carolyne hello for me and that I hope she’s better soon. And thank you for the visit.”

  “I’m glad you came.” Savannah walked her to the door. “I know I’ve told you this already, but . . . I’m so sorry about your father. He was such a kind man and always treated us so well. Even after we lost everything.”

  “Thank you,” Maggie whispered, the mention of her father reminding her why she’d come. The guilt she’d felt earlier returned with renewed vigor. “I feel as though I owe you an apology, Savannah.”

  “An apology? Whatever for?”

  Maggie looked at her friend. “For still living at Linden Downs.”

  Savannah took hold of her hand. “Margaret Laurel Linden, don’t you dare say that. I’m so happy for you that you’re still there. Truly I am.” Savannah’s eyes watered. “And I’m sorry for how I reacted that day at Belle Meade. Finding out your farm wasn’t going to auction was one thing. But then learning you were married too.” She shook her head. “Well, it was a lot to take in, that’s all.” She smiled brightly. “But I’m thrilled for you, Maggie. Really, I am. Friends?” she said sweetly.

  “Always,” Maggie answered, returning her hug.

  But Maggie knew her friend’s smile as well as she knew her own. And the one she was looking at now clearly came with an effort.

  Chapter

  TWENTY-TWO

  Maggie found traffic on the streets much busier than when she first arrived, and it took her longer to walk back to the livery where she’d left Bourbon Belle.

  Waiting on a corner to cross the street, she kept thinking of Savannah, Andrew, and Carolyne. Savannah was right. Life hadn’t turned out the way they’d imagined. But could anyone not say the same? The world had changed so much in the past few years. The world she remembered as a girl and the one she knew now bore scarce resemblance to each other.

  She crossed the street, and a flyer on a shop window caught her eye.

  THE PEYTON STAKES

  BURNS ISLAND TRACK

  NASHVILLE, TENNESSEE

  SATURDAY, OCTOBER 16

  Her pulse skipped up a notch.

  It wasn’t as though she didn’t already know about the race, but seeing it advertised made it all the more real. As did seeing the winning purse listed in heavy print at the bottom. $35,000. Linden Downs could have successful crops for a dec
ade or more and still not see that amount of money.

  Somewhere in this town there had to be a jockey looking for work. All she had to do was find him. And then broach the subject with Cullen, and win him over.

  She continued down the street, pedestrians rushing past, intent on reaching their destinations. Most never looked her way. She searched the sea of faces, recognizing none. Many of the people were foreign. Maggie couldn’t fathom traveling halfway around the world to live somewhere else. New language, new customs. Leaving everything familiar behind.

  And yet, according to the newspapers, immigrants continued to pour into this city, this country, every day it seemed, eager for the chance to live here. To start life over again. Or perhaps, just to start.

  Someone bumped her from behind, and Maggie scrambled to keep her footing. She would’ve fallen, if not for a steadying hand on her upper arm.

  “Miss Linden!”

  Maggie looked up to see a familiar face. “Mr. Drake.” She got her balance with his help, then accepted the offer of his arm. He escorted her off to the side.

  “The city is a busy place, is it not, Miss Linden? Or—I should say—” Embarrassment shone in his features, and he frowned as though attempting to remember.

  “Mrs. McGrath,” she offered, surprised he didn’t recall the name, considering the scene he’d had with Cullen the last time they were in town.

  “That’s right, please forgive me.”

  “No harm done.” Sensing a less-than-sincere apology, she decided to give him the benefit of the doubt. She glanced toward the street. “Thank you for helping me just now.”

  “My pleasure, I assure you. So many . . . newcomers among us.” Distaste colored his tone. “I fear they do not share our sense of hospitality or tradition. Nor, frankly, do they respect the natural order of things. Or what is good and decent, as do we. Those of us of similar mind must rise up and band together, should we not?”

  The intensity with which he voiced his opinions, and so freely, not seeming to care who overheard, set her ill at ease. Not to mention his assumption that she would agree with them. And she was slightly surprised that he would make such a bold and sweeping statement when he knew Cullen was her husband.

  She was especially grateful now that Cullen hadn’t come into town with her. If he were to see her at this moment . . .

  The thought of which made her all the more eager to extricate herself from present company.

  “Tell me, Mrs. McGrath”—Drake’s eyes narrowed in interest—“how is life at Linden Downs?”

  Maggie looked at him, wondering if perhaps he hadn’t heard about Papa. “Life is . . . slowly moving from the shadows, Mr. Drake. You might not have heard about my father’s death.”

  “Oh, yes.” His expression turned pained, his gaze falling briefly to her dress. “Of course I heard. I’m so sorry.” He took her hand in his. “I hope you received my written condolences?”

  She shook her head, uncomfortable with the liberty he’d taken in holding her hand. But he had been a friend of the family for some time.

  “I’m so sorry for your loss. Your father was a pillar in this community and will be sorely missed by all who knew him.”

  The keenness in the man’s eyes sharply contrasted with his sympathetic tone, and a protectiveness over her father’s memory rose inside her. She took that opportunity to relieve Mr. Drake of her hand, pretending not to notice his reluctance to let go.

  “Thank you, Mr. Drake, for your kindness. Now if you’ll kindly excuse me, I need to be going.”

  “Allow me to escort you to your wagon.”

  “No need. I have other errands I need to pursue.”

  He eyed her. “Very well then.”

  She turned to leave.

  “Mrs. McGrath.”

  Hearing a subtle challenge in the way he said her name, Maggie looked back.

  “Do give your husband my regards. I haven’t had the pleasure of seeing him recently.” His brow furrowed. “He is still in town, I take it?”

  Though his tone was guardedly pleasant, the dark flicker in his gaze told the truer story, while also letting her know he already knew the answer to his question. Stephen Drake and Cullen McGrath shared a mutual dislike, that much was clear. But as she recalled Cullen’s recent actions and his calm, measured response when she’d questioned him about Drake, then contrasted it with Mr. Drake’s blatant antagonism, she was surprised to find which man came through the comparison showing greater restraint, kindness, and even . . .

  Strength of character.

  Maggie forced a smile, eager to be on her way. “Yes, Mr. Drake. My husband is still at Linden Downs. And rest assured, I’ll be certain to ask him to accompany me the next time I come to town. Perhaps then you can deliver your regards personally. Good day.”

  She cut a path for the livery, her heart pounding harder than usual. She sensed Drake’s gaze on her retreat but didn’t look back.

  After walking several blocks, she paused to check the chatelaine watch affixed to her bodice. Nearly four o’clock. Later than she thought. A train whistle blew, and steam from the locomotive engine rose above the buildings two streets over. She’d always loved the sound of train whistles. Found them adventuresome, in a way.

  This side of town was even more crowded than the other now, and she frequently had to turn her shoulder as she walked to keep from colliding with somebody.

  Swept up in a crush of people on a corner waiting for the street to clear so they could cross, Maggie recognized an approaching carriage and strained to see if Mary was inside. About to wave, she refrained when she saw only General Harding occupying the compartment. The carriage passed and—

  She squinted.

  Cullen?

  She caught sight of him on the opposite side of the street. What was he doing in town?

  The crowd surrounding her surged forward, and she had no choice but to follow. Glancing back over her shoulder every few seconds, she tried to find him again. But couldn’t. She’d lost him in the bustle of traffic.

  Had he followed her? Surely not. Maybe he’d needed a new part for the wagon. But the question she most wanted answered . . .

  Since when had he started wearing a hat?

  “You’re certain you weren’t in town today?”

  Cullen looked up from his plate. “I’ve told you three times, woman. I was here the whole day.”

  Margaret held his gaze as though waiting to see if he smiled. Which only made him smile.

  “See?” She narrowed her eyes at him. “It was you.”

  He laughed and shook his head. It was good to see her in a cheerier mood. It was just good to see her.

  She cut up her roast, a task, he knew from experience, that would take her at least two minutes. So he enjoyed the chance to watch her as he ate. And as he did, he vowed again, deep within himself, to love and protect her as best he could. Just as he’d promised her father he would do.

  He looked over at Mr. Linden’s empty chair, able to picture the man sitting there, his smile at the ready, kindness instructing his words. Cullen would be sore to admit it, but he missed Sunday mornings and the man’s readings. He’d seen his father-in-law’s Bible on Margaret’s bedside table, but he hadn’t felt the freedom to pick it up and read it.

  Cullen checked her progress across the table, her dicing nearly done. She’d changed from the black mourning dress she’d worn into town. She now wore a dark gray skirt and similarly colored shirtwaist—the latter fitting her nicely.

  She’d left the top two buttons at the collar unfastened. Not something that would have normally drawn his attention, but the past few weeks of living alone in this house with her had sharpened his senses in that regard. He was fairly certain he could hear naked now.

  When she briefly closed her door at night as she readied for bed, his imagination kicked in, and not even the Farmers’ Almanac charted phases of the moon could put him to sleep once that started.

  From the way she’d responded to him
when he’d kissed her that once, he felt sure he could persuade his way into her bed. But he wanted her to want him there, not simply succumb to his desires. He just didn’t know how long it would take for that to happen.

  Or if there was enough patience left in the world to see him through the vigil.

  “Tell me about the crops.”

  He blinked, realizing he’d been staring at the soft hollow at the base of her throat, all thanks to the work of those two devilish little buttons. He lifted his gaze. “You want to talk about crops.”

  “That’s right.” She took a bite of roast and chewed.

  He sat back, trying to size up what she was doing. “What would you like to know?”

  “Everything.”

  He smiled slowly.

  She did the same.

  Then he stood. “All right. We leave in ten minutes.”

  Her fork paused midair. “Where are we going?”

  He held up both hands, fingers splayed. “Ten minutes, Margaret. Meet me in front of the barn.” He motioned for Bucket to follow him, and the collie fell into step.

  The woman wanted to know about crops. He would teach her about crops. And a wee bit more, if she was willing.

  Chapter

  TWENTY-THREE

  Belle’s going to be jealous, you know.” Maggie looked at the Percheron, then back at Cullen already in the saddle.

  Cullen sidled Levi closer to the hitching post then leaned down and offered his hand. “I’m thinkin’ she’ll cope.”

  Skirts gathered, Maggie grasped his hand and started to climb atop the hitching post when she spotted Mr. Ennis coming up the road.

  She let go of Cullen’s hand and was certain she heard him groan.

  “Mister McGrath!”

  Cullen dismounted, looking none too pleased.

  Ennis nodded to them both. “I sorry to bother you, sir, but I need to talk with you ’bout them”—he briefly glanced away—“wolves, sir. Ones that been takin’ the chickens. Seems they got ’em a cow last night too. One of the men found it in the field just now.”