Loving the Landlord

by Amelia C. Adams

  Byron raised an eyebrow, but didn’t comment. “We can certainly see to that. What is the name that will be going on the deed?”

  Wendell opened his mouth, then closed it again. He wasn’t actually sure. He’d been so confused after his conversation with Miss Chapel that he hadn’t asked Mr. Wells all the questions he should have. “I’ll find out for you straightaway,” he replied.

  “Excellent. Let me know, and then we can start drawing up bills of sale.” Byron shook his hand, and Wendell left the bank feeling as though he’d done something good. If only all his business transactions went that smoothly.

  His feet led him past the tea shop, but then stopped, turned, and walked right through the door. It was almost as though he’d been dragged in there by an invisible force. Regina Honeycutt stood behind the counter and smiled as he approached.

  “Good morning, Mr. Thurgood. How are you today?”

  “I’m fine,” he answered, pulling his hat from his head. “And you?”

  “Doing well. How may I help you?”

  “I …” His courage failed, but he dredged it back up again. He would never get anything he wanted in life if he ran from the opportunities. “I wondered if Miss Ariadne was in today.”

  “Yes, she’s in the back for a moment. Would you like me to get her for you?”

  His face must have shown his uncertainty because she added, “It’s no trouble.”

  “Yes, please,” he blurted, and she stepped around the partition that led to the back of the shop.

  His heart was pounding in his chest so fast, he thought it might pop right through his coat buttons. He’d never in his life asked to see a young lady. He hoped that Miss Chapel, wherever she was, could see the immense danger he was putting himself in and could appreciate what he was going through. If he ended up on JT’s doorstep with some sort of stress-related ailment, he wouldn’t be surprised.

  Ariadne came around the partition, her face full of smiles, but a flicker of disappointment crossed her features when she saw him. Nevertheless, she greeted him kindly. “Hello, Mr. Thurgood. What can I do for you?”

  It was on the tip of his tongue to say “Marry me,” but he didn’t think it was quite time for that. Instead, he said, “I’m told you make a very good cup of Earl Grey, and I thought I’d like to try it for myself. I’ve never had it, you see.”

  “Oh? Who told you about it?” She glanced around, as though looking for his friend.

  “Someone I met yesterday.”

  “I see.” She smiled again, looking as though she had some hidden secret. “I’d be more than happy to make you some. Please have a seat.”

  He lowered himself onto a chair and waited, trying not to stare as she set a saucer and cup on the counter, then placed a small bowl of sugar on a tray. Each of her movements were so graceful, so precise, it was like she was performing an ancient tea ritual. He was absolutely fascinated by it.

  He knew from overhearing others speak that she was well educated and very well read, that she excelled in handicrafts, and that she enjoyed music. These were bits he’d been collecting for weeks, picking them up from random conversations and tucking them away in his memory like pearls to be strung together to make up a whole woman’s character. He would love to discuss music with her—that was one thing they’d have in common, and something he could include in his letters. Miss Chapel would be glad to hear that he’d thought of another interest.

  When Ariadne brought over his tray, she set it down and turned to leave. “Wait,” he said, desperate to talk to her. “Tell me about the tea,” he finished lamely, realizing he needed an excuse for his request.

  “Earl Grey? Well, it’s black tea flavored with oil of bergamot. That’s a type of orange,” she replied. “Taste it. See what you think. It’s one of my favorites.”

  He lifted the cup to his nose, sniffed, and then took a sip. The flavor hit his senses, and he blinked a few times.

  “That’s delicious,” he replied, pleasantly surprised. He didn’t know why he hadn’t expected to like it.

  She smiled, and it warmed him to his toes. “I’m so glad. I used to have a cup of it every afternoon when it rained in England, and it does rain in England quite a lot.”

  “I’m sure that makes it very green,” he offered.

  “It does, out in the country and in the parks. In the towns themselves, however, it just makes things a bit more gray.”

  “And where did you live?” He was exhilarated to realize he was actually having a conversation with her, and that he sounded normal and not like the babbling idiot he’d feared he would.

  “We lived in London, but we did go out into the country quite a bit. My father had a friend who owned a lovely country estate, and we’d go boating or have picnics in the woods. Some of my fondest memories are of the country.”

  Just then, the door to the shop opened, and four ladies came in. Ariadne smiled at Wendell apologetically. “Please excuse me. I hope you enjoy your tea.”

  “Oh, no problem,” he said. “It’s very tasty …” But she was already helping her new customers, and likely hadn’t heard him.

  He sat back in his chair and took another sip, trying to decide how to feel. On the one hand, she had a business to run, and she needed to see to the needs of all her customers—not just him. She did have rent to pay, after all, and he was keenly invested in whether or not she paid that rent. On the other hand, he wished she could have stayed forever, chatting about boats and picnics and whatever else came to mind. She could have asked Regina to help the new customers, couldn’t she?

  But that was a foolish wish. She had no idea how badly he wanted to get to know her, so of course she would move on with her day. The best thing was for him to go back to the office, write her a letter, and get this plan under way—the sooner the better.

  He stood and placed some money on the counter. As he was leaving, he passed the table where she was setting a pot of tea, and she called out, “Mr. Thurgood?”

  He turned. “Yes?”

  “It was nice talking to you.”

  That unexpected olive branch warmed his soul clear to his toes. “Thank you, Miss Stoker. I enjoyed it myself.”

  He walked back to the office without even feeling the ground beneath his feet.

  ***

  As soon as all their customers had left, Ariadne cornered Regina behind the counter. “When you tell me I have a gentleman caller out front, you need to tell me what sort of gentleman caller it is,” she said. “I was expecting … well, I was hoping it was Mr. Wells.”

  “I’m sorry,” Regina replied. “I didn’t realize you had any hopes up. I was just trying to be funny.”

  “It wasn’t funny at all. And poor Mr. Thurgood. He was trying to be kind to me, and I likely treated him like a leper.” Ariadne leaned against the counter. “I don’t want him to think badly of me, but it’s difficult to be polite when you’re expecting Mr. Wells and get the landlord instead.”

  “I’m sorry,” Regina said again. “I might need to go hunt down this Mr. Wells and see what has you in such a tizzy about him.”

  “He’s just … well, he’s just about perfect,” Ariadne said. She smiled, then giggled, thinking about him. “Oh, I’m sure I’ve built him up in my imagination to be all sorts of things he’s really not, but yes, you do need to meet him. He’s charming and witty, and so handsome. Regina, honestly, I’ve never met a more handsome man in my life.”

  Regina raised an eyebrow. “That’s quite a claim you’re making.”

  “And it’s absolutely true. I wish I knew where he was staying so I could have you go hover around until you caught a glimpse of him.”

  “Well, I’m glad you don’t know then—I’m not the hovering-around type.” Regina took her bag from under the counter. “I’ll run over to the mercantile and see if Toria has any cinnamon today. We’re on our very last bit.”

  “Thank you. And also some molasses, please.”

  “All right.” Regina left, the shop was
empty once again, and Ariadne took a moment to breathe before washing up the dishes that had been dirtied over the last hour. She had actually enjoyed chatting with Mr. Thurgood—he’d seemed genuinely interested when she mentioned her holidays in the country, and she’d been sorry to end their conversation so soon. Perhaps he wasn’t quite as unpleasant as she’d originally thought, but she still had to wonder—what did he want?

  Chapter Five

  Thomas Wells was the next person to enter Wendell’s office, and Wendell was glad to see him. He shoved the scribbled letter he’d been trying to write into his desk drawer and stood up, shaking hands with his new client.

  “I visited the bank this morning and learned that all the properties you’re interested in are still available,” he said once all the pleasantries had been exchanged. “Mr. Cromwell just needs to know what name to put on the deed so he can begin the paperwork.”

  Mr. Wells reached into his jacket and pulled out a thick envelope. “I think you’ll find this adequate.”

  Wendell took the envelope and opened it. It was full of money—the tallest stack he’d ever seen. “I’m not sure I understand.”

  “That will cover the purchase of all the properties on that list, and the remainder is your share,” Mr. Wells explained. “We’d like you to buy it in your name, hold it for six months, and then sell it to us. That will give my employer time to establish his residency in the States.”

  “So, he’s not here now?” Wendell asked.

  “He’s in transit, and won’t be able to conduct business of his own for a short time.”

  “Coming from England?”

  “By way of England, yes.”

  Mr. Wells seemed rather short with his answers, and Wendell didn’t know what to think. He was holding genuine money in his hands, so this couldn’t be some kind of counterfeiting scheme, but something still felt off about it. “You’d like me to buy the property and then sell it to you in six months? That’s on paper, of course, as this is your money—you’re essentially buying it right now.”

  “It’s all a technicality, isn’t it?” Mr. Wells said, waving his hand. “It will all sort out, and you’ll have profit in your pocket at the end of it.”

  Wendell thought back to what Miss Chapel had said about profit not being everything. He couldn’t see anything blatantly wrong with this deal, however. “Is that an agreement you’d be willing to put in writing?”

  “Of course,” Mr. Wells said with a chuckle. “In fact, I assumed you’d ask, so I had this drawn up.” He slid a piece of paper across the table. It was a standard contract written in simple language stating that in six months, Mr. Wells would return to the office of Wendell Thurgood and purchase the listed properties, and that Wendell Thurgood would hold them until that time. It was exactly the sort of contract Wendell would have requested.

  “This looks good,” he said, and Mr. Wells nodded.

  “I have two copies. Let’s sign them both, and we each keep one. I’m pleased that we’re able to help each other out, Mr. Thurgood.”

  “As am I.”

  Once the contracts were signed and Wendell made sure that both copies were identical, he put the money he’d received into his safe and told Mr. Wells he’d return to the bank that very afternoon to begin the transaction. Mr. Wells gave a nod, touched his hat, and was on his way.

  Wendell was tempted to pull out the money and count it to see just how much of a commission he was getting, but he knew it was best to keep the money in the safe until it was time to head off to the bank. His office had large glass windows that faced the street, and he didn’t want some desperate gambler passing by to see him handling so much cash and decide he had nothing to lose.

  Instead, he pulled out the letter he’d been working on and read it over. It was nonsense. Utter, sheer nonsense.

  “I thought we were going to work on that together.” Miss Chapel peered over his shoulder. “Oh, I’m sorry. I was supposed to do this.” She held up the bell and rang it. “Better?”

  “Definitely,” he said dryly. “I don’t know what to write. You’ll be proud of me, though—I thought of something she and I have in common. We enjoy music.”

  “That’s certainly good news.” Miss Chapel took off her hat, set it on top of the bookcase in the corner, and sat. “Let’s talk this out. A good form of address is crucial. How have you begun?”

  “I wrote, ‘Dear Miss Stoker.’ Is that all right?”

  She looked thoughtful. “It’s all right, but it lacks a little something. What if you changed it to, ‘My dear Miss Stoker’? That makes it a bit more personal.”

  “But she’s not mine,” Wendell protested. “I can’t say she’s mine if she’s not.”

  Miss Chapel sighed. “Very well. Leave that part as is for now. We can discuss it later if it’s still bothering me. What’s the next part?”

  “It’s not very interesting, I’m afraid.”

  “Not surprisingly, but let’s hear it anyway.”

  Wendell cleared his throat. “‘I wondered if you would like to go for a walk with me this evening.’”

  Miss Chapel raised an eyebrow. “And?”

  “And that’s all I have.”

  She gave him a look of such incredulity, he was surprised that her eyebrows didn’t leave her face and go flapping around the room on their own. “Have you ever read a poem or a novel or even listened to the way someone in love speaks about the object of their affections? You’re not asking the girl to help you construct a shopping list—you’re asking her to consider marrying you. That takes … skills, Wendell.”

  “And that’s why I need your help.” Wendell set down his pen. “I have no idea what to say.”

  “Tell her the way she makes you feel. Tell her why she’s caught your fancy so very much. Tell her … oh, gracious. Anything with emotion. Anything, Wendell. I don’t believe I’ve ever wanted smelling salts so much in my life as I do right now. You’re proving to be quite a challenge.”

  “I’m sorry,” he mumbled.

  “And don’t mumble! It’s very unromantic!”

  “And smelling salts can damage your nostrils and your windpipe if you use them too often!” he shot back, picking up his pen. He scribbled for a few minutes, then said, “Are you ready?”

  “I’m as ready as I’ll ever be.”

  He swallowed, then began. “‘Dear Miss Stoker, as I passed by the tea shop this morning, I happened to glance in and noticed the way the morning sun lit up your hair. It was the loveliest thing I’ve seen in a very long time. I hope you don’t think me forward, but I have treasured the moments we’ve spent conversing, and I would like to repeat the experience soon, perhaps on a moonlit walk some evening this week.’”

  Miss Chapel didn’t answer immediately, and he looked up, afraid to see the expression on her face. Instead of being disappointed, like he feared, she was beaming.

  “That was perfect! Absolutely perfect! Wendell, I should have trusted you more. You had it inside you all the time—you just needed some help to bring it out!”

  “So … this is good?”

  “Just what do you think the word ‘perfect’ means?” She stood up. “The stationery came with envelopes, didn’t it?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good. I do love a nice, crisp envelope. Package it up and let it be on its way. I’d slip it under her door, if I were you, or have Willie deliver it. Yes! Have Willie deliver it. He’s a reliable boy.”

  “If he’s not too busy,” Wendell replied. “It seems he has several jobs as it is.”

  “It won’t take him but a minute. I’m sure he can fit it in.”

  Wendell slid the letter into an envelope, wrote “Miss Ariadne Stoker” on the front so there wouldn’t be any chance of Regina opening it instead, even though her name was now Honeycutt, and sealed the flap. It did look nice and crisp.

  “And here comes Willie now,” Miss Chapel said, as though she’d planned the whole thing. Perhaps she had. Maybe she had the ability to conj
ure up delivery boys out of thin air, just like she did scissors.

  Wendell stepped outside, flagged the boy down, swore him to secrecy, and gave him a coin. Then he came back inside and collapsed in his chair.

  “Done,” he said. “And I’m sure I’ve aged twenty years.”

  “Oh, no. Don’t do that. You’re already quite old enough as it is.” Miss Chapel picked up her hat and put it on. “Once again, I’m off, but I’ll see you shortly. I’m going to call ’round the tea shop in a bit and see how things were received. Chin up, Wendell. This is exciting, not an execution.”

  He sat up a little straighter. “I do appreciate your help, Miss Chapel. I’m just not sure what to do with it.”

  “Leave it all up to me. Before long, that young lady will see the real you, and then she’ll decide what she thinks of you. Just remember, if she chooses someone else, it’s not the end of the world. Every person born upon the earth must have the right to their own choices.”

  “I understand.”

  She wiggled her fingers at him and then vanished. This time, he didn’t even bother trying to decide if she was real. Things like that just wasted his energy.

  He was somewhat tempted to take a little walk down past the tea shop himself to see if he could gauge Miss Stoker’s reaction to the letter, but that was likely pushing things too far. He did have work to do, after all.

  The first thing he did when he opened the safe was to take out and put on the holster he kept in there, then the pistol. He kept a smaller firearm in the drawer of his desk, but this one meant business. He wore it whenever he had to take a large sum of money from the office to the bank, and in his line of work, that happened quite often.

  Once the holster was resting comfortably against his hip, he then took out the large envelope of money, tucked it inside his vest, and then put his coat on over the top. Making sure the office door was locked, he headed down the street, eager to get this transaction over and done with. He never liked keeping money in his office for long.

  ***

  When Regina had returned from the mercantile, she took one look at Ariadne and shook her head. “I suppose you’ve been moping ever since I left,” she said. “I should have sent you to the store instead—you need an outing.”