Byron raced to Adela’s room and found it empty, except for his bed and chest of drawers. He entered the room quietly, as he might enter a crypt. A hint of lavender, the scent Adela used, was the only thing left to prove she’d ever been here.
He backed out of the room. Suddenly, the house didn’t have enough oxygen for him to breath. Outside, he dragged in a deep lungful of rain-washed air and trudged to the barn.
Regret followed him, pecking at his neck like an angry bird whose nest he’d disturbed. Memories of all the things he should have done but didn’t, and all the things he didn’t do but should have hovered like red-hot coals. He pulled them down over his head, one by one.
He hadn’t brought her flowers or taken her for rides as he’d intended. The work of harvest had eaten up his time. Why hadn’t he thought of that before? Worst of all, he’d sat back and allowed Ma and Hilda Jane to belittle Adela. He hadn’t even thanked her for finding that mistake in the books and saving the ranch land.
Ma was right about one thing. He needed time. Time to think and pray.
Somehow, he dragged through the next two days. Catching up on the work he’d left behind occupied some of his mind. When the pain got too bad, he jumped on Nellie and rode like a mad man until he and horse were in a lather.
Byron left Nellie with Dick and went into the house, intending to work on the books. He’d avoided this task because Adela had set them up. She’d touched those papers, the pen.
There was another job he had to do, and now was the time. Write her and demand an explanation. If she thought she could just waltz out of his life, she had another think coming.
He opened the bureau drawer where the writing supplies were kept and drew out the stack of clean paper. Shuffling through the papers, he noticed sheets that had been used and put back in with the clean stationery. Scribbling that made no sense. Letters repeated over and over, and whole rows of words like a schoolchild’s writing exercise. Sandwiched between those pages was an old letter he’d sent Ma when he went to Chicago with Pa two years ago. Something told him the pages and the letter were connected in some way.
Pans clattered in the kitchen, and Byron made his way in that direction, the scribbled pages in hand. “Do you know what these are?” He held them up for Ma to see.
Color drained from her face. He was afraid she was having a spell and helped her to the table. “What’s this all about? Did Adela do this?”
Ma just shook her down-cast head. When she raised her eyes, they were filled with tears. “Please forgive me. I didn’t know you’d take it so hard.”
“Forgive you—for what?”
She rose from the chair. “Just stay here. I need to get something.”
Before he could say a word, she hustled away. When she came back, she was unfolding a crumple piece of paper. She laid it on the table in front of him, smoothing it with the heel of her palm.
At first the words swam before his eyes. Then he looked from the crumpled paper to the one with the lines of letter and words. “Somebody forged this to appear to be my writing. Who?” Anger overcame him as he realized Adela must have read this, thinking he’d left it for her—like a coward. He shook the paper under Ma’s nose. “Did you do this? Or Hilda Jane?”
“No, not Hilda Jane. She was threatening to run off with the stage master if you married Adela…and Clint…well…he was frantic to stop that.”
Byron drew in a breath. So that was it. Clint was influencing Ma to stop Byron from marrying Adela, and of course, Ma was smitten with Clint. “So you wanted to help Clint, but why are you confessing now? You accomplished what you set out to do.”
“I didn’t realize you were so fond of Adela, you must believe me, Son. I guess I was so engrossed in my own feelings for Clint, I failed to consider yours…didn’t pay attention. Didn’t notice you’d fallen in love with her. Anyway, it didn’t work out for Clint. Hilda Jane eloped with that man day before yesterday.”
Byron wasn’t exactly surprised by that. The stage manager had money, and though he was twice as old as Hilda Jane, the money would have attracted her. Hilda Jane had never cared for Byron. She’d just used him to make the station master jealous.
“So where does that leave you and Clint?”
Ma blushed. “He proposed and I accepted right before you went to St. Louis. I was so happy, I failed to notice how much you cared for Adela.” Sobs shook her shoulders. “I swear I wouldn’t have deliberately done anything to hurt you. I didn’t realize you loved her until you came back.” She pulled an envelope from her apron pocket. “I’ve written to Adela to explain everything. I’ll get it in the mail today, so she’ll know the truth.”
Byron took the envelope. “You told her how you forged my handwriting and made up that note?”
Ma swiped a tear off the tip of her nose. “I asked her forgiveness too, though I don’t deserve it, seeing as how I treated her.”
He looked over Ma’s head to the ceiling where a cobweb escaped the last cleaning. “No, but she’ll forgive you because that’s the type of woman she is.”
“But can you forgive me?”
He stared at her, astonished she could ask the question. Forgive her? She was his mother—that was reason enough. Besides, God had again taken something meant for evil and turned it to good. And wasn’t love best when tested? Refined. As his and Adela’s was.
Then the full import of what happened hit him. All the anger and tension built up over the last two days drained away like the cow pond that time the dam broke. The dam broke in him too. Despondency evaporated, leaving an elation that had to spew out or he’d bust.
“Of course I forgive you, Ma.” He grabbed her in a bear hug and danced her around the room until she managed to stop him, eying him with alarm.
“Byron, what’s got into you?”
“Don’t you see, Ma?” He shook the crumpled note in her face. “Adela didn’t leave because she wanted to.” She’d left because she thought he’d sent her away. He cringed to think of the hurt that had caused her, but there was a chance she still cared for him, and he’d spend the rest of his life making it up to her.
This just made Ma cry harder, and he hugged her again. “It’s all right. I know how addled love can make you. Clint’s a good man, and Pa would want you to be happy.”
His mother’s watery eyes thanked him, and she pointed to the envelope lying on the table. “I put tickets for her to come back in with the letter. Now that I’ve had time to think about it, I’m sure she loves you. She’ll come back.”
Byron stooped to kiss her forehead, then took the envelope. “I’ll make sure she gets the letter and the tickets.”
Ma held on to him, reaching for the envelope. “I can get Dick to take it to the post office.”
“No need. I’ll take it. I’ve got to go pack.” He made for the door.
“Pack? Where’re you going?”
Why did she even have to ask? “To Cambridge.”
Chapter 20
Another rejection. Adela strode over the cobbled walk toward Carianne’s red brick townhouse. She’d been out all day inquiring into positions for keeping books, what she really wanted to do. She was well qualified, but no one wanted to hire a young woman. They never said so outright, but she knew they feared she’d marry and leave employment.
The sad reality was, she’d never marry. How was it possible to ever love another after Byron? Even if such a man would pursue her, which wasn’t likely.
She entered the house and put her cloak and bonnet in the closet. Carianne stuck her head out the door that led to the kitchen. “Milly has the night off, and I’m preparing dinner. Want to join me?”
Adela released a deep sigh. She followed Carianne through the butler’s pantry to the spacious kitchen. “Of course. I’m beginning to think I should give up hope of finding a position as a book-keeper and hire on as a cook.” She’d snagged an apron from the pantry and tied it on. “Where are Ramee and Prudie?”
“In the back garden, preparing
baskets to take to the old soldiers’ home. They decorate them with leaves and vines since most of the flowers are gone. Ramee is so creative. She can make anything look good.” Carianne stretched to reach a jar of pickles in the high cabinet. “Would you get the roast out of the icebox?”
“She certainly can. I should have been working on that. It’s time I stopped feeling sorry for myself and did some good works.” Adela set the roast on the sideboard and looked for the carving knife, coming up empty.
“You’ve had reason to feel sorrow. Losing your first love must be the worst kind of grief, or so I’ve heard.” Carianne offered her the carving knife, handle out. “Everything happens for a reason, even hangnails, according to Prudie.”
Carianne’s grin prompted Adela to laugh. “I’ll certainly take that to thought, and I promise to take my woe-be-gone self to task and accept that I’ll never marry.”
“Why would you think that?”
“Carianne, I’m almost twenty-five years old. Not many gentlemen are looking for an old maid. What are we having with the roast beef sandwiches?”
“Pickles and peaches with whipped cream.”
An interesting combination, but cooking wasn’t Carianne’s talent.
“I’ll whip the cream for you.” Adela dove back into the ice box for the cream.
Carianne began slicing the bread. “You aren’t too old, but if you’re determined to get a bookkeeping job, my grandmother’s solicitors have a position, and if she recommends you, which she will if I ask, they will employ you.”
Startled, Adela spilled some of the cream on the long work table. If she got a job, she wouldn’t have to go back to Uncle Hector. “Oh, that would be wonderful. I know most people think it tedious work, but I really enjoy it.” She’d never felt such accomplishment as working on the books for Byron’s farm. She wondered if he’d succeeded in getting the money he was due.
“There’s just one problem.” Carianne brought out the crock to butter the bread. “The job is in Philadelphia.”
A new setting. Maybe that’s what Adela needed to start over. “Oh…well, if that’s where the Lord would have me go, I’ll go. I can’t keep living off your generosity.”
“You know you can as long as you wish, or at least until I have to move to England.”
Adela beat the cream until it frothed. “I’ll miss you three so dreadfully, as I did when I was in Kansas.” But then she’d had Byron to occupy her thoughts.
Byron still occupied her thoughts. After a decent interval, she intended to write him to find out how he and his mother and Lem were doing. Even how Hilda Jane was doing. In the meantime, she kept praying his conscience would compel him to write her. She didn’t want to think Byron could be as cruel as he had been.
Sadness passed over Carianne’s features as if she had read Adela’s thoughts. “Let’s not think of it now. Perhaps you’ll find a job here, if you insist on making your own living.”
Carianne had already ladled out the peaches in dessert bowls, but Adela took the bowl of whipped cream to the ice box. “Let’s wait until later to dollop the cream.” She untied her apron. “I think I’ll go see if I can help Ramee and Prudie. I suppose we’ll eat as soon as they’ve finished.”
“You suppose correctly. Tell them it’s almost ready.”
Chapter 21
Byron got out of the hackney he’d taken from the train station. He paid the driver. “No need to wait,” he told the driver. If Adela wasn’t here, or if she wouldn’t see him, he’d walk to the nearest boardinghouse. He’d need a long walk to contemplate his future.
The impressive red brick house of classical Georgian design loomed before him, rich and formal, reminding him he was in a different world from his Kansas farm. Why would he think a genteel woman like Adela would marry him? Especially after the way she’d been treated. If all he got from his trip was her forgiveness, it would be worth it.
No, honesty compelled him to admit he wanted more.
He lifted the elegant brass knocker and drew in a deep breath, wishing he’d taken the time to wash the grime of the train off, but Adela had seen him worse than this. He had to rap several times before the door open.
An attractive young woman dressed like one of those ladies on the cover of Ma’s Ladies Home Journal stood before him, a curious look on her face. From Adela’s description of her friends, he knew this was Carianne. He was fortunate she answered the door. If he remembered correctly, she was described as the sweet-tempered one.
He swept his bowler to his chest. “Please excuse the intrusion, Miss Barlow. Is Adel…Miss Mason at home?”
Carianne nodded. She might be sweet, but her scrutiny made Byron think she could be harsh if she wanted to. He hastily gave his name, praying she wouldn’t slam the door in his face. She hitched her chin, inspecting him as if she knew she held the keys to his heaven and would make sure he was worthy before letting him in.
After several painful moments, her eyes softened, and a winsome smile curved her lips. “Come in. I’ll get her for you.” He stepped over the threshold and closed the door behind him as she turned away, adding, “You don’t look a bit like Jesse James.”
He didn’t know what to make of that, but his heart kicked into a faster beat in anticipation of seeing Adela. Would she take one look and run? Trying to calm his nerves, he glanced around the stately foyer and into the drawing room beyond, torturing the hat in his hands.
After managing a few steps forward, he turned to study a painting of a pastoral scene when he heard the door open from behind and jerked around.
Adela came into the room and stopped, leaving a lot of space between them. Byron closed the distance. “Adela, may I speak to you? I have a lot of explaining to do.”
She seemed reluctant to tear her gaze from his, but after several heavy seconds, waved a hand toward the drawing room. He took in the room with a glance. Chippendale furniture, dark green brocade sofa, and matching arm chairs. She sat on the edge of the sofa.
Byron pulled the chair facing her a bit closer and sank into the cushioned seat.
Adela kept her head downcast and folded her hands in her lap. He remembered those hands, small and soft. Now that she was close enough to touch, Byron couldn’t pull his words together.
An uncomfortable silence hung over them. He coughed. “There’s been a great mistake made, and I don’t exactly know how to explain it.” He fished in his pocket and pulled out Ma’s envelope. “Maybe if you’d read my mother’s letter, you’d understand.”
She didn’t lift her head, but took the letter he held out to her with a fleeting glance from under her dark lashes. The look was so enduring, his heart turned over. After what seemed an eternity, she tore the envelope open and took out the sheet. Byron watched her face with a lump in his throat. Would she accept Ma’s explanation? What would he do if she didn’t?
The letter trembled ever so slightly in Adela’s hands as her brows furrowed in disbelief. Finally she turned those beautiful doe eyes on him. “Your mother forged that note to me? But why?”
“Clint Lynstrum convinced her Hilda Jane would run off if I married you. Ma’s…she’s kind of smitten with Clint…but she asks your forgiveness, as I do.”
“There’s nothing for you to be forgiven, Byron. You were misrepresented. Perhaps I shouldn’t have run off as I did, but I…” She followed this up with a feeble smile, and he swallowed the lump rising in his throat. “It’s just that I’d thought you’d come to care for me, then when I read that awful letter I thought was yours…I felt such pain I only thought to run away.”
He inched the chair a little closer. All the elegant words he’d practiced left him. “I did care for you, Adela. I do…more than care. I love you. When I found you gone, I felt a despair I’d never imagined. My life was miserable without you.”
She leaned forward. “It was?”
He dove in his pocket again and brought out the ring. “I got this when I was in St. Louis, and I’m offering it to you—with my heart.�
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She took the ring as her eyes grew wide. “It’s so beautiful.”
“Not more beautiful than you, Adela. Will you take it—and my heart?”
He wasn’t doing this right. The chair scraped against the marble floor as he dropped to one knee. “Will you do me the honor of becoming my wife?”
Silence cloaked the room until Byron could hear his heart racing in time with the clock. Tears coursed unheeded from Adela’s downcast eyes to track over flushed cheeks.
A muffled feminine voice hissed from behind the door. “Say yes.”
He didn’t know which of Adela’s friends spoke, but he was grateful to her because Adela took the prompt.
Tears shone in those eyes when she looked up, then she looked over his shoulder and stood, her movement a bit wobbly. Then she slammed into him, almost knocking him over. “Oh Byron, I love you. My heart is so full, I can’t even express how much.”
He slipped his hand behind her neck and drew her to him, then kissed her puffy lips. “Will you marry me right away, so we can return home together?”
She nodded. “Yes, yes...I want—” He silenced her with another kiss and heard footsteps running in from behind.
Loud applause brought them both to their senses. Adela’s three friends surrounded them, clapping as they might when the curtain fell on a long awaited play. Byron scrambled to his feet, his arm sheltering his bride-to-be.
“We were about to sit down to a supper of roast beef sandwiches, if you’d like to join us,” Adela said.
“Oh no, I’m going to take you to the best restaurant in town, and we’ll stop by your pastor’s house and make the arrangements for tomorrow. I know that’s not much time for you to get ready, but I have to get back to the farm. It is harvest.”
“We’ll have the wedding right here, in the garden, tomorrow afternoon,” Carianne said. “Don’t worry about the preparations. We’ll take care of everything.”
The women scattered, supper apparently forgotten. Byron laid his arm around Adela’s shoulder, and they strode toward the door. “You won’t be bothered with Hilda Jane. She ran off with the stage master. Ma’s going to marry Clint, so the house will be all yours. You don’t have to worry about what color the curtains are, or how many lemons you use. And you can do with me whatever you want.”
The Annex Mail-Order Brides: Preque (Intrigue Under Western Skies Book 0) Page 10
