by Judith Stacy
“The more I look at those candlesticks…” she mused. “Maybe we should have a closer—oh, there’s Claudia. She told me she and Graham would be together today.”
Mitch spotted Rachel’s friend among the thinning crowd on the sidewalk. A man was with her, the “perfect” Graham Bixby, Mitch reckoned. He knew the Bixby family by reputation, thanks to Stuart Parker. Solid leaders in the community, good businessmen.
But Graham didn’t look anything close to perfect at the moment. He looked irritated.
Claudia spotted Rachel and spoke to Bixby. He seemed further irritated, but walked down to meet them. The men shook hands as introductions were made.
“I see you’ve wasted a day, also,” Graham said to Mitch, gesturing at the packages piled in the Branford carriage.
“How did your china pattern selection go?” Rachel asked.
“A waste of time,” Graham grumbled, throwing Claudia a disdainful look. “It took her hours to get ready, leaving us no time to accomplish anything.”
“I said I was sorry, Graham,” Claudia said in a small voice.
Graham seemed not to hear and continued speaking to Mitch. “Now we’re here and the stores are closing. I told her I only had today. Now I’m going to have to rearrange my schedule to come back and get this handled.”
Graham’s complaint brought an uncomfortable silence to the group.
“Claudia, come look at these candlesticks with me,” Rachel said, gesturing down the block.
Claudia looked relieved. “Of course—”
“No.” Graham gave her a sharp look. “I don’t have time. Haven’t you heard a word I’ve said?”
Claudia’s cheeks flushed.
“We’d better go, too,” Rachel said quickly.
Mitch picked up on her intentions, bade the other couple a goodbye and headed back down the block with Rachel.
“Don’t you want to look at the candlesticks?” he asked as they passed the shop window.
Rachel shook her head. “No. Not anymore.”
Graham Bixby had managed to take the joy out of the moment for everyone. But Mitch wasn’t ready to let it go so easily.
“Let’s go have a look.” He gave her a knowing smile. “I think they will reflect the correctness of the hostess’s personality quite well.”
She gazed at him, seemingly surprised that he remembered some of what she’d told him earlier. “Is that so?”
“Without overburdening the table, of course,” he added.
She smiled, and Mitch’s heart swelled with a sense of accomplishment no business deal had ever brought.
Chapter Twelve
“You ate at the Peacock Tea Room.”
Noah’s voice caused Mitch to pop up from behind the open door of the icebox, juggling an armload of food. In the darkened, cavernous kitchen he saw the boy standing near the worktable, a single overhead fixture lighting the area.
Mitch retrieved a bowl of eggs from the icebox, then closed the door with his knee.
“Why else would you be eating in the middle of the night?” Noah asked, gesturing to the food Mitch placed on the worktable.
Mitch couldn’t deny that he was hungry, or that the Peacock Tea Room had not been an enjoyable experience, beyond the fact that it pleased Rachel to eat there. Small tables crowded with silver, crystal and china. Tiny portions of odd foods. Women in big hats with big hips. Mitch had been one of only two men in the place and he’d drawn more than his share of stares when he’d walked in with Rachel.
“I think your sister is trying to starve me to death,” Mitch said, going through the cupboards. The supper she’d had the cook prepare tonight only made him hungrier.
“Mrs. Callihan will make whatever you want,” Noah said, waving his one arm toward the adjoining servants quarters.
“I won’t be here that long. No sense in causing the cook any trouble. She’s got enough to do as it is.” Mitch surveyed the food he’d assembled on the worktable. “Hungry?”
Noah’s gaze dropped to the ham steaks. He glanced away and shook his head.
Mitch understood. The steaks required two hands. Noah wasn’t about to ask for help cutting his meat. Even if Mitch performed that chore without comment, it would still embarrass Noah, as it had the first night Mitch had supper in the Branford home and his meal alone had been served already cut into bite-size chunks.
“I’m making omelets,” Mitch said, though that hadn’t been his initial choice.
“Uh, yeah, okay,” Noah said.
He pulled a stool up to the worktable and watched while Mitch diced the ham, onion, olives and peppers, shredded cheese and cracked eggs into a bowl.
“Where’d you learn to cook?” Noah asked.
“Picked it up here and there,” Mitch said, pouring beaten eggs into the sizzling skillet. “Get us something to drink, will you?”
A few minutes later the two of them sat at the worktable, plates of fat omelet, warmed-over biscuits and frosty glasses of milk in front of them.
They ate in silence, Mitch surprised at how quickly Noah cleaned his plate. Maybe the boy was as hungry for something other than vegetables, fruit and peculiar cuts of meat as he was. Maybe he should talk to the cook, after all.
When they finished, Mitch took away their plates and opened the pie safe.
“Look what I found.” He held up a cake covered with thick icing.
“I’ll get more milk.” Noah slid off the stool and poured each of them another tall glass.
They finished off a slice each, then Mitch cut them another.
“I know why you’re here,” Noah said after a few minutes. “You’re not an old family friend, like Rachel and Uncle Stuart said. I’ve never heard of you before.”
“It was their idea. They didn’t want anyone knowing your father wasn’t capable of running the family business.”
“You think Georgie did something with the family money, don’t you. You think that’s why he disappeared.”
“I’m not here to pass judgment on anybody. I’m just here to find out what’s wrong and figure a way to fix it,” Mitch said, taking another bite of cake. “What about you? What do you think about your brother?”
Noah looked up at him, a little startled, as if no one had asked his opinion in a very long time.
“Makes sense,” the boy finally said around another bite of cake. “Why else would he run off? I guess we won’t know for sure until we find him. Rachel’s determined to locate him. Bring him back. Make things the way they were.”
“I guess that’ll make her happy,” Mitch said.
“Will you finish your work here soon?”
“Won’t be much longer,” Mitch said, scraping the last few cake crumbs off his plate.
“Are we going to buy Rachel’s factory?”
Mitch paused. “What factory?”
“The one Mr. Prescott owns,” Noah said, licking the icing off his fork. “She’d been asking Georgie to buy it for a couple of months.”
“Rachel?” Mitch frowned. “What does she want it for?”
“Beats me.” Noah shrugged. “Why don’t you ask her?”
Mitch rose from the stool. He intended to do just that.
Pulling the coverlet under her chin, Rachel stared at the ceiling of her darkened bedchamber. She hadn’t been sleeping, just lying there thinking. Thoughts floated through her mind at random, it seemed, yet always led back to the same place.
Mitch.
Their shopping trip. His unexpected attentiveness. His easy way with their driver and the shop clerks. The five dollars he’d given a dirty-faced newsboy.
The stares they’d received at the Peacock Tea Room.
Rachel knew most all of the women in the Tea Room; the place was a favorite among her set. They’d all watched as the two of them had wound through the restaurant to a little table in the back.
They’d thought him handsome, Rachel knew. How could they not? Her heart fluttered a bit at the thought.
And the two of them
made a striking couple. She’d caught glimpses of them together in the glass display windows as they’d strolled the streets.
But the ladies of her social circle wouldn’t stop there. Rachel knew that, all too well.
Who was that man? she was sure they’d wondered. They’d undoubtedly whispered among themselves, cast furtive glances and exchanged eyebrow bobs trying to figure out who, exactly, Mitch was. Where was he from? Why was he here?
Did he belong?
Rachel’s stomach churned into a little knot as the old feelings—learned from her mother—came back to her. Being watched, judged, evaluated on the tilt of a hat, the script on a calling card, the silverware placement at a luncheon table.
Several of the women in the Peacock had spoken to her, and Rachel had introduced Mitch as a very dear friend of the family. He’d been gracious, favoring the women with a smile that bordered on charming, a smile that Rachel seldom saw.
Nothing untoward had happened during the luncheon. In fact, she’d enjoyed sitting across from Mitch. Something about his presence was comforting. How big and strong he looked among the ruffles and lace at the tiny table. How rugged he’d seemed next to the delicate china and crystal.
But as they left Rachel once again felt the heat of curious, judgmental stares on her.
Who, exactly, had she brought into their midst? Had she overstepped the bounds of propriety by her presence with him? Did they think her—
An urgent knock sounded on Rachel’s bedchamber door. Her heart rose in her throat as she threw back the covers and scrambled out of bed. It was late, very late. Had something happened?
Rachel slipped her arms into her robe and dashed across the room, her footsteps silent on the carpet. Opening the door she saw Mitch standing only inches away. He wore the trousers she’d seen him in earlier today, but no jacket or necktie. The collar of his white shirt stood open and his sleeves were rolled back.
“What’s wrong?” she demanded, the words coming out in a rush. “Is it Father? Has he—”
“No, he’s fine,” Mitch said impatiently. “I need—”
“Noah?” Her eyes darted down the hallway.
“I have to talk to you.”
Rachel gasped and her knees weakened. “They’ve found Georgie.”
“No,” Mitch told her. “And nothing’s wrong. We need to talk. You and I. Now.”
“Now?” Rachel leaned back a little. She drew her robe together and clutched it closed with her fist.
“It can’t wait,” he insisted.
She glanced up and down the hallway. “It’s the middle of the night. It’s simply not appropriate for me to—”
“Come on.”
Mitch caught her hand and urged her out of her bedchamber, then led her down the hallway, her robe billowing behind her.
When he paused outside the door to his own bedchamber, Rachel dug in her heels.
“I’m not going into your room,” she whispered urgently. “It simply isn’t done.”
Mitch looked down at her. “Didn’t you come into my room looking for me? The night you needed help with Noah?”
She straightened her shoulders. “Well, yes. But that was different.”
Mitch rolled his eyes, took her hand again and proceeded down the hallway to the attic entrance. He led the way upstairs, snapping on the electric light as they went.
The silence of the big room closed in around them as they stood facing each other. Rachel fastened the buttons on her robe, smoothing down the front. Another moment passed and she looked up at him.
“Well, for goodness’ sake, what is it?” she demanded, more than a little annoyed with his attitude and his actions. “You’ve gotten me up in the middle of the night, paraded me through the hallway for anyone to see and brought me to this secluded spot. What’s so important?”
“Your factory.”
Rachel gasped softly and sealed her lips together.
“The factory you claimed your brother wanted to buy.” Mitch took a step closer. “But it was you, wasn’t it. You’re the one who wanted it.”
How humiliating. Rachel’s cheeks burned. Bad enough to be caught in an outright lie. But a lie about the factory. A business. What would her mother say?
Rachel drew herself up, facing the consequences of her very unladylike actions. No point lying anymore.
“It’s true,” she admitted. “I wanted that factory. I asked Georgie to buy it.”
“For what reason?”
“Well, it’s a bit difficult to explain,” Rachel told him, embarrassed further to have to provide details of the whole sordid scheme.
“I’m sure I can follow.” Mitch crossed his arms over his chest, waiting.
Rachel touched her forehead, unsure of where to start. She’d never had to explain this situation to anyone before. Not even Georgie. She’d simply mentioned buying the factory to him and he’d promised to look into it, no questions asked. And she certainly hadn’t told her idea to anyone else.
“Well?” Mitch prompted her, leaning forward a little as if that might hurry her along.
“It was a number of things,” she finally said. “Ships. Hotels. Giants, really. And that dear Mr. Cabell in New York. And England, of course, where—”
Mitch waved both hands for silence. “What are you talking about?”
She lifted an eyebrow. “You said you could follow.”
He heaved an exasperated sigh. “Start at the beginning.”
Rachel paused for a moment, then proceeded. “About a year or so ago—before the…accident—Father took the whole family to England, except for Georgie, of course. We visited the shipyards through one of Father’s business acquaintances. And, oh my, those huge ships under construction were breathtaking. Have you ever seen them?”
Mitch shook his head.
“You can’t believe what’s being planned for the future. Cruise ships capable of carrying thousands of people in magnificent splendor,” Rachel told him. “England is known for its china production. It—”
“You mean dishes?” he asked.
“Yes, but the expensive sort,” she said. “It was in England that the formula for fine bone china was developed, the single most important discovery in the industry. It accounted for the phenomenal development of English tableware. Did you know that?”
Again, Mitch shook his head.
“Mother wanted a new china service so we visited several potteries there and also when we returned to the East Coast of America,” Rachel continued. “That’s where we met Mr. Cabell. He’s the foreman of a ceramic factory in New York. Very nice man. And in New York, oh my, we saw such beautiful hotels, all with magnificent restaurants capable of servicing hundreds of people.”
Mitch pressed his lips together, listening hard. He tilted his head a little, the way she’d seen him do in the study when he worked on her father’s finances and was trying to make sense of things. The way he was trying to make sense now of what she was telling him.
She pushed ahead. “So when we returned home I got to thinking about everything, the ships, the restaurants, the hotels and Mr. Cabell’s ceramic factory. It seemed to me that with those huge ships and grand hotels there would be a need for china services on a very large scale. It seemed to me that since Mr. Prescott’s City Ceramic Works factory already produced ceramic doorknobs and fixtures and pot handles and the like, that it could just as easily turn out china for this new, expanding market.”
Mitch didn’t say anything, just looked at her, his lips pressed, his brows furrowed, his head still tilted a little.
Rachel squirmed under his glower. In the harsh light of reality her idea suddenly seemed silly. Especially when told to Mitch, of all people, a “hired gun” so brilliant he routinely untangled the finances of some of the world’s wealthiest people.
For an instant, Rachel wished she could disappear in a puff of smoke. But she’d come this far. She may as well humiliate herself completely.
“And I wanted to—”
�
��Design the china.” Mitch nodded. “That’s what you’ve been painting. Not the sunrise or landscape. Colors and designs to use on the china.”
“Yes,” she whispered.
Mitch shifted his shoulders. “You came up with this idea? All by yourself?”
A bolt of anger threaded through her embarrassment.
“Is that so hard to believe?” she demanded. “Is it so hard to understand that I don’t want to simply set a nice table for the rest of my life? That I want something more?”
The words poured out in a hot rush, and the instant they were spoken, she should have regretted them.
Goodness, what would her mother say? What would her friends, the other ladies in her circle say? A woman involved in business?
“I know it isn’t done,” she told Mitch, reading what surely were his thoughts. “That has been my concern all along. That’s why Georgie was buying the factory. He would have run it, too, and I could have contributed my part quietly. But…but none of that matters now, anyway. Georgie is gone and there’s no money to buy the factory.”
Rachel drew a breath and looked up at Mitch, squaring her shoulders. “I do think it was a good idea.”
Another moment passed with Mitch just staring at her, his brows pulled together. Finally he said, “I think it’s a solid, timely, very workable idea.”
Her eyes widened. “You do?”
“I certainly do.”
A thrilling shiver zinged through Rachel, and for a moment, she reveled in it. Yet her excitement faded beneath the weight of reality.
“But there’s still no money to buy the factory, is there?”
“No, I’m afraid not.”
“Well, I guess that’s that,” Rachel said. “I didn’t mean to lie to you about me being the one who wanted the factory. It’s just that—”
“I understand,” Mitch said.
From the look on his face, Rachel knew that he did understand.
“I’d better go,” she said softly, then hurried down the attic steps.
Mitch fought the urge to run after her. Since arriving at the Branford home his heart had ached for her. His body had wanted her. Now his brain joined in.
