Miranda. Wyatt couldn’t care less what the gossipy woman was saying. He’d seen Miranda. Time to put an end to this visiting nonsense of Corinne’s.
“What’s behind that door?” He pointed at the door that the maid had just passed through.
Mrs. Stuyvesant stopped midsentence and had to think, as if her house was so big she couldn’t remember—and maybe it was.
“That leads to the kitchen. Are the sandwiches not to your liking?”
“Are the Wimplegates here?”
Aunt Corinne made a funny noise. Mrs. Stuyvesant’s mouth got small and bunched up.
“The Wimplegates? Absolutely not. While I don’t condemn those who’ve been forced by circumstances to employ those sort of people, Mr. Stuyvesant and I would never need their services.”
Aunt Corinne’s eyes widened. “Like my brother did?” Whew, her voice could freeze salt water in August.
Mrs. Stuyvesant sputtered. “As I said, there are times . . .”
But Wyatt was done. He’d been done from the time he introduced himself to the butler and shook his hand. Evidently, that was taboo in these parts, as if you’re supposed to ignore the only other man in the room.
Mrs. Stuyvesant might be high society, but she was as sorry a liar as Leland Moore. Aunt Corinne should be proud that he remembered to say “Excuse me” before racing through the kitchen door, but it wasn’t the kitchen. It was another hallway full of uniformed help that stood around with their mouths hanging open and eyes bugging out.
“May I help you, sir?” an aproned girl asked.
“Where’d that lady go? The one who was just standing here?”
The girl looked over her shoulder for permission from that Balford fellow, but they were wasting precious time.
“I’m not sure of whom you speak,” the butler said, “but I do believe someone exited the building recently.”
Wyatt narrowed his eyes.
“Follow me,” Balford wisely amended.
After a quick pass through an enormous kitchen—did his own house have one this big?—he burst through a door and found himself in an alley. He looked both ways. No one.
Wyatt scratched his head, only then realizing he’d left his hat inside. No matter. He wasn’t going back. He had to find out what Miranda was doing in the kitchen. Were the Wimplegates in money trouble?
Wyatt started out for the main road. Although still waiting for the judge’s ruling, he had been able to send some discreet help to the Wimplegates. At his insistence, Frederic had Monty buy the sale barn in Pine Gap from them. If it hadn’t been for Monty’s threats, they would’ve never bought it in the first place. He’d paid the Wimplegates twice what they’d paid Pritchard, but were they still running short?
He turned toward the sun, hoping he remembered his way through the maze. He’d wanted to have everything ready when he went to Miranda again. He wanted to know for sure what he could offer. He wanted to have his city manners down and be a man she could be proud of here, but now, after seeing her, that didn’t matter as much. Being with her was all he wanted. He was who he was—and he missed her.
Chapter 31
Miranda stood before her mirror with the daring blue silk blouse reflecting back at her. Why had she allowed Mother to talk her into this? She’d thought the black overskirt would help to sober the effect, but nothing could tame the wild blue of the bodice and the cascading underskirt. It begged to be noticed.
As she reached for a somber jacket to cover the color, her eyes fell on the newspaper—one of many that had been thrown in the trash bin. She couldn’t read it from that distance, but the words had permanently burned themselves into her memory.
Is it any wonder the debutantes of Boston begged to be noticed by the young Mr. LeBlanc, whose swashbuckling countenance and thick portfolio make him one of the most desirable . . .
Miranda lifted a hand to her temple, and then, with slow deliberation, ran her fingers into her thick dark hair, remembering the gentle hands that’d caressed her. No one else here had ever had Wyatt Ballentine LeBlanc run his fingers through their hair while whispering sweet words of love.
Or had they?
With a start, Miranda flung the jacket against the wall. The buttons slapped into the wood paneling, and it slid to the floor in a heap. She’d spent too much time playing it safe. What if she made a mistake? What if everyone thought she was stupid? She couldn’t fall back into her old pattern. She had to stop worrying about what people thought of her.
Although it’d only been a few days since seeing Wyatt at the Stuyvesants’, Miranda had all but given up hope of hearing from him. Obviously he had time to make visits, but she wasn’t a priority. She should’ve taken her chance while she had it. She sulked out of her bedroom, pulling snug the fitted polonaise bodice that emphasized the figure she usually kept hidden.
“We thought we’d have to leave you.” Mother balanced a tray of delectables against her hip. “The gentlemen have gone on without us.”
“Even Grandfather?” Miranda took her bonnet from the entryway hooks.
“Even Grandfather. Remember, if you see him acting erratically, tell your father. You don’t have to do it alone anymore.” She started to the door, but Miranda stepped in her way.
“Isn’t there another tray?”
“Certainly, but those are for later tonight. We’ll need something, since dinner will be so late.”
“But Essie can make another, right?” Miranda swished past her mother and trotted to the kitchen. Before the cook could protest, she snatched the tray and called over her shoulder, “Sorry, Essie. You have until nightfall to make more.”
“We don’t need those. Let Essie bring them by later. They’ll be picked over before we get a chance to stop and eat.”
“No, they’ll be gone by then. I’m going to share them with the paper boys.” The sapphire of her shirt reflected in the silver tray. Her spirits rose at the thought of giving a treat to her friends. “Those boys appreciate a tidy snack more than all the old goats in the auction combined.”
Her mother raised her eyebrow. “You’re going to feed our hors d’oeuvres to the paper boys?” She tried not to smile. “What about the shoeshine boys?”
“They’ll get the petit fours.” Miranda said it matter-of-factly, as if it were her decision.
Mother studied her, then seeming to have found what she was looking for, said, “Just keep an eye on the trays. Earlier this summer, one of them suffered substantial damage. We still haven’t figured out how it happened.” She pushed open the front door and motioned Miranda toward the waiting public carriage.
Miranda wanted to laugh aloud. That’s all it took? Why had she been so afraid to ask for anything before? And even if Mother said no, there was no great shame in having an idea. She hadn’t lost anything.
When they disembarked before the thick stone pillars, the excited gathering of the newsboys across the street told Miranda that they had marked her return. Newspapers lowered as they greedily watched the extra tray. She spotted Ralphie, who braved a small wave. Connor jerked his chin in the air by way of greeting. A flash of blond hair caught her eye, bringing happy memories of Betsy, always underfoot with a song, a joke, or some news. Taking time for a quick prayer for the girl, that she’d find another confidante now that both Miranda and Wyatt had left Pine Gap, Miranda summoned the boys with a toss of her head. They didn’t move immediately, instead looking at each other nervously and consulting behind gritty fingers.
Her mother stepped up next to her. “Are they afraid of me?”
Miranda nodded, remembering the number of times she hid from her mother while serving her friends. No wonder they were waiting. Miranda stepped back to stand side-by-side with her mother, and when Miranda lifted her tray, so did the older woman. Finally convinced, the boys streamed through the street, dodging around carriages and stopping traffic. Once they reached the ladies, they hesitated.
“I’m Mrs. Wimplegate. Pleased to meet you.”
Neither lady could keep from laughing at their wide eyes, but it only took a heartbeat for them to recover and to demolish the pretty offerings on the trays.
“Oh, Miranda. This is much more fun than serving the buyers,” Mother said as the boys elbowed each other for the last of the crumbs.
Miranda smiled. She wasn’t the only one who’d changed over the summer.
She’d never looked more beautiful. Wyatt waited in the carriage across the street, enjoying the sight of Miranda surrounded by the grimy, enthusiastic kids. Her bonnet shaded her face, but nothing could dim her radiant smile. She belonged here, spanning the gap between those who were comfortable and those who were needy. Always thinking of others, always willing to give. And while she might not like to stand on a stage in front of bidders, she had no qualms about rubbing elbows with rough and tumble guttersnipes. They didn’t intimidate her at all.
Maybe that’s why she was willing to stand up to him.
Seeing her now made him realize how much he’d missed her. The crowd around her thinned. She leaned in as her mother wrapped a proud arm around her waist and they sashayed inside the auction house with empty trays dangling from their hands. What would she think of him? Would she find his sudden citification ridiculous, or would he remain the dirty laborer in her eyes?
No use standing around a’wondering. Wyatt hopped down, adjusted his new hat, and headed toward the auction house, brimming with enthusiasm. So much he wanted to accomplish today—apologize to Miranda, meet her parents, and make plans for their next encounter, if she wasn’t willing to run off with him immediately. And he might make that offer. Wyatt hadn’t figured on being so lonely in the big city. He missed everyone from back home, but even though he’d spent his life with those people, he missed Miranda even more.
He entered the roomy building. The marble walls raced to the sky, holding the lacy expanse above his head on solid columns. The thick carpet cushioned each step toward the registration table. Miranda’s mother cruised behind the table to look over the shoulders of the young clerks as they helped the bidders.
“Cornelius, don’t forget to record the bidder’s bank in the blank here. If you don’t know it already, you must ask them.”
Cornelius? Next thing he knew he was standing at the front of the line, staring down at the uptight man.
“Can I help you?” Disdain and cold recognition. So Cousin Cornelius had figured out his identity? Wyatt sized the man up and made his decision.
“Yes, my buggy is outside and my horse has been acting up. I wondered if you could come rub its skull and tell me if it’s got a bad case of stubborn, or if it might be indigestion?”
Cornelius’s lips whitened. “I take it you’re not a man of science.”
Wyatt leaned close. “I’ve got no bone to pick with science, but first off I’m a man of faith. If you’re using science to put limits on what God can accomplish with a person, that’s where we part ways.”
“Mr. LeBlanc?” Mrs. Wimplegate rested a gentle hand on the back of Cornelius’s chair. “I’m Mrs. Wimplegate. We’re honored you’ve decided to visit. Can we help you find anything in particular?”
“Your daughter.”
Mrs. Wimplegate’s eyes widened. Maybe he should’ve thought before answering. But her kind face eased into a smile. “And you’d want to meet Mr. Wimplegate, as well. If you’ll follow me.”
As he followed Mrs. Wimplegate, the whispered comments were hard to ignore.
“That’s the LeBlanc heir.”
“Didn’t they blame the Wimplegates for the whole mess?”
“My wife insists we throw a party for him. I suppose I might as well introduce myself—”
The room they entered had red cushioned chairs arranged in rows facing an elaborate desk. The auction arena. No wonder they didn’t sell animals. The rugs would be ruined in minutes. Wyatt snatched a folded pamphlet from a pile on a brass stand as he passed by. With the stage empty, every eye was trained on him and the man he was approaching, but still no sign of Miranda.
What was he doing here? She had expected . . . well, hoped really . . . for a letter, a card, maybe even a polite social call . . . some token to acknowledge their acquaintance so he could tie up the loose ends and move on with his new life. But why would he come here?
Miranda had promised that she’d never hide again, but she found herself standing in the storage area behind the stage. It wasn’t her fault that it was dark, that no one could see her. And Mother was looking for her—her back never straighter as she presented Wyatt to Father. Father drew back. His handshake offered only conditional approval, and then with some quip from Wyatt, he beamed. Next thing she knew, Father had slapped Wyatt on the back as if they were old friends.
One by one the men left their seats to be presented to the recent oddity. As Father introduced Wyatt around, Miranda watched proudly as their attitudes went from condescension to marked approval upon a few short exchanges. Certainly there’d be those who would refuse to be impressed, but Wyatt had no flaw that would keep him from taking his place in society—a place far above hers.
Three sharp raps rang out. Miranda spun to the stage and there was Grandfather with the gavel, gripping the podium and calling the sale into order, and in his hand . . . a wrinkled, dried up apple doll.
“Good morning, gentlemen. It’s time to open the bidding on our offerings today. Our first item for sale is this one-of-a-kind, handmade statuette from a gifted artist in the Ozarks.”
Heads spun. Puzzlement turned to amusement as people found their seats. Miranda squeezed the rolled up catalog in her hands until it collapsed upon itself. It was happening again. Would she take the coward’s way out, or would she try to save Grandfather’s dignity?
“You’ll notice the fine stitching on the gown that delineates this work from other less established artists. . . .”
She couldn’t let this go on. Her heart pounded, her stomach floated, but her feet carried her out of the shadows and onto the stage.
“So what do I hear for this fine piece? We’ll start the bidding at five dollars. Five dollars just to get us started.”
Miranda reached his side. Moving slowly as to not startle him, she stretched a hand to the podium and pulled herself next to him.
“Grandfather, let’s wait a bit before starting the sale. Let’s wait for Father.”
He shook his head. “Miranda,” he whispered, “I’m busy. You’re causing a scene.”
She might not have caused it, but she was a part of it, and that was bad enough.
“Here comes Father. Let’s talk to him.”
“Five dollars!” Grandfather cried. “Will no one give me five dollars?”
The vibration beneath her feet told her that her father had stepped onto the wooden platform. Grandfather’s cry was weaker this time. “Will no one give me five dollars?”
“Twenty, right here.”
Miranda’s head jerked, but she knew the voice even before she located the tall man in the crowd.
“I’ll give you twenty dollars for that beautiful doll, Mr. Wimplegate.” Wyatt weaved his way through the crowd toward the front. “I’ve never seen anything finer.”
Was he mocking them? Miranda turned pale.
Grandfather snorted. “You might be able to buy pigs and goats, Wyatt, but you can’t afford pieces like this.”
The room went deathly silent. Her father groaned. After all they’d done to pacify the LeBlancs, Grandfather was insulting them again. Just think how the buyers would repeat this story.
“Mr. LeBlanc.” Her faithful customer Mr. Wakefield stepped forward. “Mr. Wimplegate hasn’t been himself recently. He doesn’t mean any offense.”
Wyatt shook the man’s hand. “Mr. Wimplegate and I are old friends. No offense taken.”
“Grandfather,” she whispered. “He doesn’t want the doll. Let’s go get a drink of water and—”
“I do want it.” Wyatt had reached the stage. “Twenty-five dollars. Twenty-five dollars for the do
ll as long as it is delivered to my house . . . with a rhubarb pie.”
Miranda had to clutch the podium to keep from swaying. The excited comments blurred into a roar, and every eye was on her.
“You don’t have to humor him—”
“Wyatt is my employee,” Grandfather belted. “He feeds the pigs and cows. He needs to get back to work and stop interrupting this sale.”
Wyatt kept calm amid the horrified gasps. “No truer words were ever spoken. And I do have to say that you have a right nice sale barn here. Maybe not as clean as my own—”
“Clean?” Grandfather snorted and turned to her father. “You should see his place. It smells worse than the fish market.”
“I can’t wait to hear about it.” Father took his arm and motioned Cornelius over. “You haven’t had a chance to tell Cornelius about your trip, either. . . .” As the two men led him away, Miranda snatched the gavel from his hand and picked up the doll from the stand. Now would be a good time to direct the buyers to the refreshments, if she hadn’t given them all away. She wanted to look up but she couldn’t without seeing the handsome man waiting at the foot of the stage. She drew a shaky breath and then announced, “Forgive us the interruption. The sale will begin shortly.”
But no one moved. She hugged the apple doll over her sapphire bosom and turned to exit at the back, but before she could make it to the curtain, Wyatt was there.
“Thirty dollars,” he said. “Thirty dollars for the doll and the pie as long as it’s delivered by you.”
She hurried out of the salon and into the warehouse area. “Are you mocking me?”
With quick steps, he followed. “Not at all. But you haven’t accepted my bid. Aren’t you supposed to bang on the stand and say something? Going . . . going . . . gone?”
“This isn’t funny,” she whispered.
“Miranda . . .”
A warm thrill ran up her spine at the sound of her name on his lips. The squares of marble spun beneath her feet. Every snub she’d made in Missouri, every insult played back to her. How she’d put on airs, and now Wyatt was in Boston and could see for himself what her true condition was. Just another working girl dependent on the upperclass for her wages.
At Love's Bidding Page 27
