How a conversation with a complete stranger six years ago had so altered the course of his life, he couldn’t explain. A most unlikely exchange on a field in North Carolina during the lull of war. With a Johnny Reb, no less. It was a conversation—and battle—he would never forget.
He’d never told Priscilla about what happened that day. He’d never told anyone. But for sure Priscilla Sinclair, daughter to one of the finest families in Massachusetts, wouldn’t understand.
Since finally closing the door to the most prestigious law firm in Boston nearly two months ago, he’d not once looked back.
But she did.
Even now, as she studied the draperies framing the windows, the table and chair to the side, he sensed her longing for home, her thoughts undoubtedly returning to the handsome redbrick brownstone he still owned in Beacon Hill. He’d thought about selling the home in recent months but had held back, wanting to make certain he enjoyed living here as much as he thought he would.
And he did.
Darby Farm was exactly what he wanted, what he’d been searching for. The house was older, yes, but it was well built and full of character and had cost a fraction of what he would glean from selling his brownstone.
But even without the capital gained from the sale, he had the funds to get the farm up and running again. Which was a good thing, because despite his investment thus far, there was much yet to be done.
“Aidan,” Priscilla purred, moving around to his side of the desk. She pressed a hand against his suit jacket, her pale-blue eyes hinting at conspiracy and her coy smile saying she didn’t mind him knowing. “Now that I think of it, why don’t you leave the redecorating to me? It’s one of my fortes, after all. Your job is to transform this”—she hesitated, her brow quirking the way it did whenever she sought a word other than the one that described her true feelings—“humble little property into the grand estate we both know it can be.”
“ ‘Humble little property’? It’s nearly four hundred acres, Priscilla. And as I’ve told you, this will be a working farm. Not an elaborate estate. Remember that as you’re putting your touches on things.”
Her lips firmed, then just as quickly formed a smile. “It’s such a beautiful morning, Aidan. You should go for a ride.”
He eyed her, knowing something was amiss. “You began this conversation by telling me a seamstress—”
“A Miss Anderson,” she supplied.
“Miss Anderson,” he repeated, “was coming to discuss proposed changes to the house and you wanted my input. Now you want me to go riding? And this after the last four mornings you’ve said that leaving you to go riding would be considered rude since you’re only here for a matter of days.”
She met his gaze, then gave a seductive little laugh. “No wonder you’ll soon be Nashville’s leading attorney. Nothing escapes your scrutiny. Or memory.”
She stood on tiptoe to kiss his cheek, then lingered, making her mouth available to him. When he didn’t respond, she moved closer, yet not even the brush of her body against his stirred his desire as it once had.
And she knew it.
Early on, he’d found these games she played mildly intriguing. Not so anymore. Aidan planted an obligatory kiss on her forehead, unable to reconcile this distance between them and the growing unease he felt when they were together. She sensed it, too, he knew.
Hence why she was trying so hard.
But he was trying as well. He knew how painful it was to lose both parents. Her father, a good man he’d greatly respected, had passed last fall. Her mother a month later. The adjustment had been difficult for her. Especially as an only child.
“Give it time,” a trusted colleague had told him. And he was. He only hoped things smoothed between them soon.
“I believe I will go for that ride,” he said gently, sensing subtle triumph in her eyes. “It’ll give me a chance to check with the foreman before leaving for town. The office is expecting me midmorning.”
She smoothed a hand over his lapel. “That sounds splendid, Aidan. And when you return, I’ll give you a full accounting of everything Miss Anderson and I have discussed.”
“Which will contain far more detail than required, I’m sure.”
All smiles, she preceded him into the hallway where Mrs. Pruitt, his housekeeper from Boston, was busily dusting the marbleized pier table. When he’d told the older woman he was moving to Tennessee, her request to move with him had caught him off guard, something which didn’t happen often. But widowed and childless, Mrs. Pruitt seemed almost as happy to be here as he was.
Besides her skills, there was another reason he was grateful for her presence. Though he was no prude, and Darby Farm was likely too far from town to draw gossip, he was grateful to Mrs. Pruitt for playing the role of chaperone during Priscilla’s visit. The housekeeper’s quarters were on the main floor, while the rest of the bedrooms were aloft on the second story, but having her in the house fulfilled the letter of the law. And for the time being, at least, his present feelings toward Priscilla more than fulfilled its spirit.
“Good morning, Mrs. Pruitt,” he offered, noticing Priscilla didn’t even look her way.
“Good morning, Mr. Bedford.” The housekeeper offered her customary smile, curtsying to them both. “Will you be taking lunch here today, sir?”
“No, Mrs. Pruitt. It will be only Miss Sinclair today. But I’ll be back for dinner.”
“Very good, sir.” She moved on to the small study.
“Aidan, before you go . . .” Priscilla paused in the entryway to the central parlor. “Have you given further thought to the date?”
Knowing to which date she referred, he resisted the urge to look away. “Not since we discussed it last night after dinner.”
Her pouty smile said she’d caught his meaning. “I know I’m being a trifle impatient, dear. But it’s only because I want to be with you. As your wife.”
The response he knew she wanted to hear, the words he would’ve said to her only a few weeks earlier, wouldn’t come. “You’re not being impatient. I said we’d set a date for the wedding before you return to Boston, and . . . we will.”
With effort, he pushed past the doubt inside him, trusting it would fade and trusting in the wishes of so many they’d known in Boston who’d said how splendid they would be together. He hoped they were right. Because in asking her to marry him, he’d given her his word, something he didn’t do lightly. He’d never gone back on a promise yet, and he didn’t intend to start now.
Priscilla’s expression brightened. “So within a month I’ll know when I’m going to become Mrs. Aidan Gunning Bedford.”
He smiled, but the gesture felt traitorous.
Remembering his portfolio in the study, he retrieved it and was on his way to the front door when he caught sight of Priscilla in the parlor. She ran an index finger over the draperies, the settee, the chairs, even the mantel over the hearth, then cast a frown about the entire room, including the Persian runner beneath her feet, as though she wished she could make it all disappear in a blink.
He’d told her she could redecorate, and he’d meant it. After all, what harm was there in allowing her to make a few changes? But sensing the woman’s fervor . . .
“One request, Priscilla, as you meet with this Miss Anderson this morning.”
She looked up, her expression first conveying surprise, then guardedness.
“Not a single change to my study.”
Savannah stared up at the house, her heart heavy as the gap between the present and the past swiftly evaporated. Seconds slowed to a crawl.
The last she’d seen her family home it had looked so neglected and lonely, with the grass gone to seed and the weeds leggy and wild, the occasional shutter hanging at odds with its window. But now the grounds were neat and tidy, grass clipped, weeds tamed, all shutters behaving nicely. She’d even seen workers in the fields.
Her gaze moved beyond the house to the apple grove, then, in her mind, to her favorite part o
f the farm—the land that had belonged to her maternal grandparents. “Meant more for beauty than for farming” is what her grandfather had said, so neither he nor her father had ever planted it.
Her legs like lead, she managed the climb to the front porch that wrapped the house like a hug. Colorful pots of coleus and fragrant mint adorned the steps, similar to the flowers and herbs she’d glimpsed growing on the second-story porch above.
The house had sat untended for so long she knew she should be pleased to see it being loved and cared for again. But the discovery only brought a lump to her throat.
Her gaze went to the porch railing, and her throat tightened as memory conjured an image so clearly in her mind’s eye. She could see Jake, her eldest brother, balancing on the top rail, her father laughing as her mother commented with feigned worry that the balusters might not support his weight. But they did. And Jake had sung one of his silly made-up songs as he strode back and forth before ending the performance with a faultless backward flip off the porch, landing flat on his feet as he always did.
Oh, how she missed him. Adam too. She didn’t know the details of her brothers’ deaths in the war, or her father’s. Only that they’d been killed in battle. She hoped, as she’d done many times before, that they’d somehow been at peace in those final moments, even in the midst of such unfathomable carnage.
A breeze rustled the leaves of the oak and poplar trees overhead like a whisper from a ghost and sent a hushed murmur through the magnolias. The sound resembled susurrations from the past, and she reached for confidence beyond herself and prayed that, by some stroke of mercy, God would see fit to saying yes this time to her heart’s desire—to helping her find what her father had hidden—instead of responding with His customary silence.
Even a definitive no would be better than that. Because at least then she’d be assured He was listening.
A squeak drew her attention, and she looked to her right.
The swing her father had crafted from poplar wood—the same swing in which she’d read, studied, and dreamed as a girl, in which she had curled up tightly, swallowed by grief, following her father’s and older brothers’ passings, then her mother’s—swayed gently, carefree in the breeze.
Savannah stepped up to the front door, hearing the echo of Miss Hildegard’s parting instructions. “Don’t you dare let that couple know you once lived there.”
She had no intention of telling Mr. Bedford or his fiancée she’d lived here. But how hard would it be for them to put two and two together? Her last name was Darby, and this was Darby Farm.
Taking a deep breath, she knocked on the door and heard the muffled sound of voices coming from within. Her stomach knotted, and memories dearly cherished but firmly packed away suddenly tugged at frayed emotions, threatening to undermine her confidence.
Leave propriety on the porch. Leave propriety on the porch.
She’d scarcely drawn her hand away before the door opened.
CHAPTER THREE
THE GENTLEMAN FILLED THE DOORWAY.
Savannah lifted her gaze to meet his and read frustration in his face. His very . . . handsome face. Able to guess the source of his annoyance, she hastened to offer apology. “Please forgive my tardiness, sir. My coworker has taken ill and—”
“Miss Anderson.” He moved to one side. “Miss Sinclair is expecting you. Please, come in.”
His tone, while polite, possessed a quality that brooked no argument. But his accent—she bristled—was like a burr in her stocking, despite the cultured gentility in his voice. Because no matter how well spoken, or darkly attractive, the man was still a Yankee.
Yet understanding he was also likely the one controlling the purse strings, she quickly masked her annoyance beneath a polite facade, accepted his invitation, and stepped across the threshold.
And in the time it took to draw breath, she realized she’d underestimated what effect being back in this house again would have on her. Memories pressed in from all sides, siphoning the air from her lungs. But oddly, it wasn’t familiar surroundings that threw her off kilter. Nor was it seeing precious family treasures—among them the side table crafted by her paternal grandfather and the grandfather clock crafted by her mother’s father. It was something more furtive that threatened her undoing.
Something the past year of living in the boarding house had all but erased from her memory.
The presence of this house, the warmth it exuded. As if every bit of love and laughter that had been shared within these walls, along with every tear, had somehow been absorbed and translated into a wordless language only the heart could comprehend.
And hers did. A swell of emotion rose inside her to—
“Miss Anderson? Are you well?”
Savannah blinked. The gentleman’s expression was keen, and she swallowed, her throat parched. “Yes, sir. I’m fine. But actually, I’m—”
“Late!” a female voice interrupted. “That’s what you are, Miss Anderson. Late.” A striking brunette in a beautifully tailored teal ensemble strode toward them from the central parlor. Her smile was lovely, but her clouded features told the truer story. “I believe the agreed-upon hour was nine o’clock, was it not?”
Sensing Mr. Bedford tense beside her, Savannah nodded, the momentary web of nostalgia swept clean. “Yes, ma’am. Please accept my apologies. However, as I was about to explain, I’m not—”
“No excuses, please.” The woman glanced at Savannah’s satchel, then cast the gentleman a parting smile. “You’re here now, and we have much to do, you and I. Let’s not waste any more time, shall we?”
The woman turned on her heel and retraced her path to the parlor, leaving Savannah feeling firmly put in her place.
Feeling pressure to follow the woman, she still hesitated, knowing decorum demanded that someone in her position of employ be dismissed before leaving the presence of such a man.
“Allow me to introduce myself, Miss Anderson.”
Hearing a hint of apology in his voice, she turned.
He gave a tilt of his head. “I’m Aidan Bedford, the owner of Darby Farm, and that . . . is my fiancée, Miss Priscilla Sinclair.”
His mouth curved, but the tightness in his expression led Savannah to believe this particular smile wasn’t one nature had given him.
“Nice to meet you, Mr. Bedford,” she said, telling herself the statement was partly true—the part that connected her meeting him with the opportunity to be in this house again.
He glanced toward the closed front door. “I don’t believe I saw a carriage just now.”
“No, sir. I walked.”
“All the way from town?”
Seeing such a man perplexed helped her to relax a little. “I enjoy walking.”
His gaze held appraisal, and the intensity in his gray eyes gave her the impression that divining truth from fiction was one of this man’s talents. She was grateful her actions warranted no fear of it.
Yet, anyway.
“May I offer your guest some refreshment, sir?”
A petite older woman, features soft with age, hair white as snow, stood at the base of the stairs.
Mr. Bedford nodded. “That would be appreciated, Mrs. Pruitt. We’ll take it in the parlor.”
We? Savannah turned. In her experience, husbands usually made themselves scarce as soon as she arrived. But Aidan Bedford—not quite a husband yet—seemed unaware of the freedom afforded his gender.
He gestured for her to precede him, and she soaked up the nuances of the house and what it felt like to be home again.
Miss Sinclair sat poised on the edge of the settee, posture erect, countenance attentive, if not a tad impatient—until seeing her fiancée. “You’re joining us?”
“Only for a moment.” He placed his portfolio on the side table.
Feeling something pass between the couple, Savannah deposited the satchel by her father’s favorite chair, grateful to be relieved of the burden. Without the additional weight, her arm felt as though it might
just float up and out of its socket.
“I trust Miss Hildegard sent samples of all the fabrics I chose the other day while in the store?”
“Yes, Miss Sinclair. She did.” Savannah unlatched the satchel, aware of Mr. Bedford standing off to the side, watching. She reached for the fabrics, wondering what she sensed between the couple. Tension, most certainly. But something else. She hoped, for Miss Sinclair’s sake, that Aidan Bedford wasn’t the controlling type. Although, from what little she’d seen, Miss Sinclair didn’t seem the type of woman to be easily controlled.
Savannah quelled a smile. Good. They deserved each other.
She withdrew the swatches, dozens of them in every imaginable fabric and color. “As you requested, Miss Sinclair, I brought silks, satins, taffetas, failles, moirés, silk poplins from Ireland, and velvets. In mixtures of florals and patterns including everything from the richer earthy tones of umber, green, and crimson to the more vibrant hues of purple, saffron, and blue.”
Taking into account the stylishness of Miss Sinclair’s fitted skirt with bustle and matching jacket—the latest in fashion—Savannah chose the most recent fabrics from Paris and draped them across the settee for her perusal.
Miss Sinclair gave a satisfied sigh, her hand moving to the most expensive first, and lingering. “C’est belle.”
“Oui, il est très belle,” Savannah answered, fully expecting the surprise in the woman’s face.
“Parlez vous français?” Miss Sinclair asked, glancing at Mr. Bedford.
Savannah nodded. “Oui, mademoiselle. Je l’ai étudié le français pendant des années.” It was a little prideful on her part, she knew, but she had indeed studied French for years, and she wanted women like Priscilla Sinclair to know she could do something other than merely sew.
To Mend a Dream Page 2
