Carpenter's Inheritance

by Laurie Alice Eakes

  Someone entered the room beyond, a heavy tread, a male cough. Paper rustled. Matt expected to find a hole in the wall for the rustling paper to come through that clearly. He began to inspect more thoroughly than even before. He used his hands and eyes—no, no holes—just a sheaf of papers, yellowed, edges curled, ink fading, still legible.

  Shockingly legible.

  three

  Shoe heels clicked on the wooden treads of the front steps. A sharp counterpoint to the thud, thud, thud of Matthew Templin’s hammer against the office wall. Lucinda wouldn’t have heard the approaching new arrivals if she hadn’t just reached the landing herself and paused on the threshold to admire the carpenter’s handiwork with the door.

  It wasn’t a new door. A few nicks and scratches marred the varnish, but it was finely paneled and hung more snugly than the previous door. The locks—two, she noted—gleamed with brass brilliance that would need regular polishing. Well, Lucinda wasn’t afraid of hard work if it kept her safe.

  Odd to think safe in a small town where she’d been assured she wouldn’t find herself asked to practice criminal law. Loveland didn’t have much in the way of violence, and only a few petty crimes. Vandalism, on the other hand. . .unruly boys’ tricks was all. Gertie had assured Lucinda of that, while trying to get her to eat too much rich and wholesome food, and tucking her into a bed far more comfortable than the sofa Lucinda slept on in her solitary room. The temptation to remain with the restaurant owner ran strong, but Lucinda didn’t want to spend any more money than necessary until she started making money.

  Slowly Lucinda turned to face the newcomers and blinked. If she’d hit her head recently, she would have thought she was seeing double. Both ladies were petite, nearly a head shorter than Lucinda, and as fragile-boned as birds. They wore yellow straw hats adorned with orange bows, set at the exact angle atop nearly black hair. Their skirts and jackets were of the same rich brown, and each lady wore a gold cat pin affixed to her left lapel.

  “We’re Hope and Hester Floyd,” one of the ladies said, holding out her hand in a yellow kid glove.

  “Twins,” the other said, quite unnecessarily.

  “Don’t worry about which of us is which.” The first one’s handshake was firm and warm, even through the leather. “I’m Hester and talk a little more than Hope, but even our own mother couldn’t tell us apart after she stopped changing our diapers.”

  “I have a birthmark,” Hope announced.

  Lucinda didn’t know whether to laugh, run, or blush. She decided to laugh. The way identical dark brown eyes twinkled at her, she knew that had been the right response.

  “I’m Lucinda Bell.” She shook Hope’s hand, which wasn’t quite as strong or warm as Hester’s. “My office is rather at sixes and sevens right now, but if you can step carefully through the dust, I’ll give you tea in my room.”

  The hammering had ceased.

  “Are you having work done?” Hester asked. “That looks like a new door and lock. You do have Matthew working here, don’t you? I wouldn’t let anyone else work on my house except for him. Will Flint—that’s who he apprenticed with—does good work, but Matthew is an artist. Hello, dear boy.”

  He stood behind Lucinda. She caught a whiff of freshly cut wood and something clean, like soap. No bay rum or Macassar oil. His hair would be springing up in those crisp waves, not slicked down. And no doubt dust and wood shavings would coat his clothes, instead of a gentleman’s pristine smoothness.

  As though it mattered. He was her handyman at present, no matter that his face had remained in her mind, a face that was really too attractive for a lady’s comfort.

  Lucinda led the Floyd sisters past Mr. Templin.

  “Good morning, ladies.” He spoke in that deep voice that also was too nice for comfort. “If you give me just a minute, I’ll sweep a path clear for you.”

  “That’s so kind of you, dear boy.” Hope Floyd positively simpered, though she was at least three times Matthew’s age. “And I’m so pleased to see you helping out Miss Bell. She needs a strong man around, being a lady on her own.”

  “Not that we ever needed one,” Hester said.

  “We have each other, Sister.”

  Lucinda kept herself from stiffening at the implication she needed a man around. She was paying Matthew Templin, not taking favors from him. Except for his working on the door the night before, of course. That had been above and beyond the work of a hired man. It had been sheer kindness.

  And your father helped you get this practice.

  Cringing at the reminder that she was being hypocritical, Lucinda led the Floyd sisters along the path Matthew swept through the dust on the floor. “I have a spirit lamp and can make you tea, but I’m afraid I don’t have any cake or cookies to offer.”

  “We brought some for you.” Hope lifted a large handbag, as though she expected Lucinda to see the contents behind the soft brown leather. “We made them ourselves.”

  “Lemon drops,” Hester added. “It’s Mother’s recipe, God rest her soul. Oh, isn’t this charming. Such a nice place to receive female clients, rather than an office with a desk and all. So masculine and cold.”

  Lucinda closed the door behind the sisters to keep in the room’s warmth so it didn’t flow out to where Matthew worked with the front door open. The hammering resumed, perhaps with more vigor. Lucinda hoped she would be able to hear the sisters over the racket.

  “If you make yourselves comfortable, ladies, and give me just a few minutes, I’ll have some tea made.” Lucinda busied herself with lighting the spirit lamp beneath the copper kettle that had gotten her through many late nights, reading and writing her way through law school.

  “Earl Grey tea or orange pekoe?” she asked, a little too loudly to be heard over the hammering.

  “Orange pekoe, if you have some milk.” One of the sisters joined Lucinda at the table and set down a cloth-wrapped parcel that smelled of lemon and anise seed. “If you tell me where you keep your plates and cups, I can help.”

  “And I’ll fetch the milk. Do you have an icebox?”

  “I’ll get it.” Lucinda ducked into the storage room, cold enough that her ice barely melted, and retrieved a bottle of milk. She hadn’t been in there since arriving a half hour earlier, and noticed that the back door bore a shiny new lock, too. The sight sent a curl of apprehension twisting through her middle. Mr. Templin claimed the incident the day before stemmed from mindless vandalism, and yet he’d taken the trouble of installing a new lock on this door, too, likely working late into the night.

  Her hand icy around the milk bottle, Lucinda returned to the light and warmth of the sitting room and the Floyd twins. The water had come to a boil, and one of the ladies poured it into the teapot, Lucinda’s mother’s teapot of blue Wedgwood from England. It matched the delicate cups, saucers, and biscuit plates. When the sisters glanced her way, their identical gazes held respect.

  “We’ll have to let that snob Charity Woodcocks know you have fine china,” one twin said. “She thinks you must come from the dregs of society to be a lady practicing something so indelicate as the law.”

  “Of course, I think doctoring would be more indelicate.” The other twin shuddered. Hope. Her hand trembled just a little on her cup, and her voice shook, if one listened carefully.

  “So why did you go to law school, child?” Hester asked. “Mind you, my sister and I both went to college.”

  “It wasn’t very common in those days,” Hope added. “Not that many girls do now, but more and more, and we like the notion of women getting educated. Harder for men to deny us the vote if we get ourselves educated.”

  “Which is why we cheered—yes, my dear, we cheered and clapped our hands—when we heard a lady lawyer had come to town. Roger Stagpole has everything his way, and that’s not right.”

  “And Charity Woodcocks thinks women have no business doing anything but serving the interests of the community over a teacup.” Hester laughed over her teacup. “She thinks we don�
�t know she really runs this town. Her husband doesn’t have two thoughts to rub together. But she pretends her place is only in her home, unless it’s planning how to raise money for the poor.”

  “Not that that isn’t worthy. Jesus would approve of charitable works.” Hope dabbed at her lips with a napkin. “Delicious tea, Miss Bell. Goes well with the cookies.”

  “It does.” Lucinda spoke the truth. The lemon drops melted on her tongue with buttery sweetness.

  “What was I saying? Oh yes.” Hope took another cookie. “I do approve of raising money for worthy causes, but we prefer our cause to be voting rights for women.”

  “Wait, Sister.” Hester held up her hand. “First, Miss Bell, so we don’t frighten you off, we want to know why you’re here instead of in Virginia.”

  “To answer my calling to practice law.” Silence had fallen in the next room, and her voice sounded too loud to her ears. She swallowed and began again. “My father is a lawyer, as was his father before him, and way back. I used to help him in his practice. I liked it so much I went to law school. But the court won’t let women practice in Virginia unless the Virginia Bar says we can, and right now they say we can’t because we’re too delicate.” She curled her lip on the last word.

  The twins went off into peals of laughter.

  A board clattered in the adjacent room. Good, he was working, not listening.

  “But Massachusetts isn’t so narrow-minded, so my father contacted a friend in Boston, who suggested Loveland. It’s—well, I prefer a smaller town to the big city, to be honest.”

  “Ah, yes, Mr. Paterson.” Hester nodded, orange bow bobbing. “His son was most welcome here to counter Roger Stagpole’s work, since we all know he and the judge golf together with the mayor and things run as they like, not always as they ought. But the boy married some society girl from Boston and joined her father’s practice there. You won’t do anything like that, will you?”

  “Of course she won’t. She is obviously a lady of principles to move all this way to follow the Lord’s calling on her life.” Hope narrowed her eyes. “That is what you mean, isn’t it, dear? You will be coming to church?”

  “Most definitely.” Lucinda smiled. “Contrary to what many people think, many lawyers have a deep faith in the Lord.”

  Not even when she’d been staggering with fatigue from studying or writing during law school had she missed finding her way to a church. The singing, the prayer, the sermons never failed to wash away her fatigue and send her back to her books with renewed purpose to bring justice to the world.

  “And I was told I’m needed here,” she managed to say.

  “Of course you are, which is why we’re here.” Hope reached out her hand as though to draw Lucinda close. “We need our wills made.”

  “Both of you?” Lucinda glanced from one smiling, gently lined face to the other. They had to be seventy if they were a day, despite the black hair, which was probably dyed to be absent of gray. “You haven’t had wills made before?”

  “We have,” Hester admitted, “when Mr. Paterson began here, but we have changed our minds about one or two bequests.”

  “We have a different ladies’ suffrage movement to support.”

  “I want nothing to go to that charity of Charity’s.”

  “And we’d like to endow a scholarship for females at our alma mater.”

  Lucinda’s eyes widened. The ladies looked well off enough. The quality of their wool jackets and skirts spoke to that, but how well off they must be to endow scholarships!

  “You can do that, can you not?”

  The hammer recommenced at that moment, drowning Lucinda’s voice. She simply nodded and raised her teacup to her lips. Instead of the rich aroma of strong orange pekoe, she caught a whiff of wood stain. Ah, that was why he’d been quiet, not because he’d been eavesdropping. Shame on her for thinking so. The hammering ceased. “I can do whatever you like, though I’d prefer to meet with you individually.” Did they do anything individually?

  They nodded in unison. “Of course. We may disagree on a few bequests, and it’s best not to argue in front of you.” Hester finished her tea and rose. “Here is our direction. Send someone around with a message when you’re ready to take appointments.” She laid a cream-colored card with gold lettering on the table. “Now we’re off to rescue cats.”

  “Rescue cats?” On her feet also, Lucinda couldn’t help but stare at them.

  The ladies trilled out their identical laughs. “Don’t look so surprised, my dear,” Hope said. “Someone must protect the poor things from being drowned or otherwise done away with. We find homes for them instead. Would you like one?”

  “I don’t think—” Lucinda began.

  “That’s a splendid idea.” Hester nodded toward the window. “It can watch the birds from that window all day. Nothing makes a cat happier than a window. We’ll have you out to the house so you can see what we have.”

  Lucinda struggled for appropriate words as she slipped past the ladies to open the door. The instant she did so, the reek of varnish smacked her in the face. She gasped and fanned her hand before her face, as though that would do any good. Then she saw Matthew Templin and gasped again.

  As though it weighed no more than one of the Floyd ladies’ hats, he lifted a five-foot-long shelf into place with one hand. Muscles in his arm bulged beneath the sleeve of his shirt. His other hand held an apple from which several bites had been taken.

  “He is a handsome thing, isn’t he?” Hester asked in a stage whisper. “He’d be a fine catch if he weren’t—”

  “Hush, Sister, that’s gossip. He’ll hear you.”

  He already had. At least the fingers gripping the apple tightened enough to bruise it, and the shelf slammed onto its brackets instead of sliding into place.

  If he weren’t what? Just a carpenter? Or something truly awful enough to be titillating gossip? She could scarcely ask. Gossip was wrong. And it would come to her, regardless. Word always did in a small town.

  Thanking the ladies for their call, Lucinda strolled back inside to admire the work accomplished already. “You work quickly.”

  “So do the Floyd sisters. Let me guess—lemon drop cookies.” He flashed her his grin, a grown man grin, and a little dangerous to a girl’s heart for it.

  “Yes,” Lucinda affirmed when her breathing was normal again. “They’re delicious.” She headed back to her room and more tea.

  More hot tea, while he worked in the cold of the open doors and windows to keep the fume smells down, partly for her sake, not just his own.

  She paused in the doorway. “Do you want a cup of hot tea?”

  “No, thank you. I don’t do well with those dainty cups of yours.” He didn’t look at her, and the back of his neck grew a bit ruddy.

  Of course the English china wouldn’t do well for him. He wouldn’t be the sort to sip tea, and the cups were smaller than his hand. And maybe he didn’t even like tea. He’d drunk coffee at Gertie’s.

  “A cup of coffee?” she offered, and wondered why she tried. She’d never offered refreshment to people working on her father’s house. “I have something less froufrou you can drink out of.”

  He continued to work on the shelf without looking at her. “Thank you. You don’t need to bother yourself.”

  “Of course I don’t,” Lucinda snapped. “I have fifteen people in line waiting to see me and six rooms to clean. Now, do you want a cup of coffee or not?”

  “Well, if you put it that way.” He set down the rag with which he’d been rubbing the shelf and faced her, eyes twinkling, grin in place. “Thank you. It’s a bit chilly in here.”

  “It’s as cold as the Arctic in here. You closed the radiator.”

  “Not good with the varnish.”

  “Then come into my sitting room in a few minutes.”

  “Your carpet. I’m covered in sawdust.”

  “Brush off the worst of it.” She left him to return to his work.

  In her room, she
exchanged the teakettle for a coffeepot and the Wedgwood for two thick mugs she preferred for coffee or hot cocoa, when she indulged in that treat. They kept the drink warmer longer. The Floyd twins had brought her at least four dozen cookies. She set the whole plate on the table. Only when she went to the door to tell Mr. Templin the coffee was ready did she wonder about the propriety of having him in her room, alone. But surely no one would think anything of it. The curtains were open, and surely many ladies in town allowed him in their homes when they were alone and he was working on something. Besides, eventually she would have male clients she would see alone—she hoped.

  She opened the door. “It’s ready.”

  He nodded then brushed off his trousers and shoes. The back of his shirt looked as if he had stood beneath a shower of wood dust. She reached out as though she would have the nerve to sweep it away. Perhaps if he had worn a jacket she might have, but a shirt only?

  Her face warm, she tucked her hands behind her and retreated to the table, beginning to talk before he entered. “You seem to know the Floyd ladies well. They’re charming ladies. Does the town consider them eccentric?”

  “Yes, yes, and yes.” Footsteps lagging, he entered her room and perched on the edge of a chair. “No milk, thank you. Black and strong is the only way to drink coffee.”

  “That’s what my father says.” Lucinda poured milk into her own coffee. “I figure it’s like chocolate—you don’t drink it without milk.”

  “I don’t drink it at all.” He picked up his cup, sipped, and twisted it between his hands, staring into the dark liquid as though it were a crystal ball. “Miss Bell, may I ask you a question?”

  “I. . .think so.” Her hands suddenly cold at the seriousness of his face and tone, Lucinda wrapped her fingers around her mug of hot coffee. “I suppose you can always ask and I can refuse to answer.”