Lucinda made herself meet the eyes of every female she could reach. She smiled. She willed herself not to blush. She willed herself not to turn and run. If she could conquer this bevy of females, a judge would be nothing to worry about in comparison. But who made the first move to break the stalemate of stillness?
Behind her, the church doors burst open on a wave of chilly air. “There you are,” the Floyd sisters chorused. “We were afraid you were too busy to come, after all. Ladies, this is our attorney, Lucinda Bell.”
For another full measure of beats, no one moved. Then a young woman, perhaps a year or two older than Lucinda, wove her way through the crowd on a cloud of pink taffeta that went well with her rich, auburn hair and sparkling green eyes. She held out her hand. “Miss Bell, Samantha Howard. I have so been wanting to meet you.”
Samantha, the young woman who had smiled at Lucinda the day she saw all the ladies going into the tea shop. Lucinda wanted to hug her. She shook the gloved hand instead.
“Pleased to meet you.”
She was ecstatic to meet a female her age.
“Perfect.” Hope Floyd clasped her hands together and looked about to bounce up and down on her high-buttoned shoes. “I just know you two will be fast friends. Miss Bell, Samantha’s father is the best doctor in the commonwealth of Massachusetts.”
Samantha laughed. “He’d be honored to hear you say that, Miss Hope, but he’ll settle for the best one in the county.”
Or three counties like Matthew Templin’s carpentry?
Ridiculous thought to pop into her head now.
“And Miss Bell can tell which of us is which,” Hester Floyd put in. “Smartest lady in at least this county, and probably more.”
“No, no.” Lucinda ducked her head.
Miss Howard laughed. “Come along.” Still gripping Lucinda’s hand, she drew her to the corridor. “I’ll introduce you to everyone so Miss Hope and Miss Hester can get their wraps off. And you, too. Here, let me have your cape.”
Lucinda barely managed to unclasp the silver clip at her neck before Miss Howard whisked the wrap away and carried it to a rack of other garments. Several ladies approached Lucinda and introduced themselves, elderly and middle-aged ladies, some with wedding rings, most without. One thing they bore in common—they all said the Floyds had been talking about Lucinda.
“I’m going to come talk to you about my will tomorrow,” one lady whispered.
Three more ladies of the Floyd sisters’ ilk murmured something similar throughout the afternoon. Lucinda’s heart lightened with each confidential pronouncement. Gradually, the milling crowd migrated to the parlor to collect eggshell-thin cups of tea, which didn’t look weak in the least, and an abundant supply of cakes, sandwiches, and hothouse strawberries.
“Take lots of food,” Samantha advised. “Once Mrs. Wood-cocks starts talking, you’ll need to eat to stay awake.”
Lucinda laughed. “I haven’t yet met the mayor’s wife.”
A not-so-subtle hint.
“I know.” Samantha’s rosebud mouth pursed, and her eyes shifted to one side of Lucinda’s face. “I’m not certain you will. She and her cronies don’t approve of you.” She leaned forward so that her lips practically grazed Lucinda’s pearl earring. “She didn’t want you to come to the tea, but the Floyds are too rich for her to deny them anything.”
Lucinda laughed, then sobered and responded, “Will it hurt you to talk to me?”
“No, my mother is too rich, too.”
They both laughed, earning censorious glances from several ladies. Lucinda didn’t care. She hadn’t laughed with another female her age since leaving law school.
“We’ll talk more later,” Samantha whispered. “Come to my house for lunch. I’ll send the buggy.”
The rest of the tea passed with little conversation but many talks and reports from the charity, messages to assure the women they were not wasting their money. By the time she returned to her office home, Lucinda knew she hadn’t. She had three appointments for Monday and lunch with Samantha the next day.
Which dawned bright and cold. Lucinda dressed in wool, shivering, but happy to note that the boiler had been turned on for more than hot water. Her radiators clanged and banged and produced glorious warmth to counteract the frost riming the windowpanes. She hoped Samantha’s buggy would be closed and would have a hot brick.
It did. When the coachman, an older man in a black coat and trousers, handed her into the buggy, she found the top up and the interior delightfully warm. The ride proved short, just to the other end of town, where the houses grew larger and the lawns sweeping, tree lined, even walled. Telephone lines ran to a few houses, and a longing started in her heart. How wonderful if she could have a telephone in her office. It would save so much time for clients and the lawyer. Of course, with the operator able to listen in, confidentiality would be a problem. Still, even to make an appointment would be helpful. . . .
The buggy turned between open iron gates and tooled up a long driveway. The house rose three stories with gingerbread trim dripping from the eaves, and ancient oak trees standing sentinel on either side. Although nothing like her father’s hundred-year-old house, a stronger longing than telephone lines to her office ached through Lucinda’s heart.
She wanted a house, a home, something with tall windows and lots of light, carved paneling and photographs of family on the walls. She wanted to be married, have a family, a husband to love her. But she wanted a career, too, wanted to practice law, was called to practice law. Pensive, she dis-embarked from the buggy with the aid of the driver and headed up a path paved with flagstones, to the front door. It opened before she reached it, and Samantha appeared, pretty and feminine in pink ruffles.
“Do come in. Mama is dying to meet you. We’ve never met a lady lawyer before, you understand, and now we’re wondering why I didn’t go to school.”
“So the ladies of the town will all speak to you?” Lucinda suggested.
Samantha laughed. “No, so I could marry and produce lots of grandchildren. And here I am, twenty-four, and still a spinster.” Samantha led the way across a marble-floored foyer, which rose all three stories, and into a small sitting room in the rear of the house.
Sunshine streamed through windows overlooking a manicured lawn edged in maple trees with scarlet leaves. Framed in one long glass pane stood a gazebo at the back of the yard, where the woods nearly encroached save for the chest-high wall. The other window illuminated a woman, a faded version of Samantha, elegant and fragile, in a wheelchair.
“I told Samantha to bring you today even if we had to kidnap you.” Mrs. Howard’s smile put the warmth of the sun to shame. “You must be the most interesting female to move to Loveland since the Floyd sisters settled here. We need more like you.”
“Thank you.” Lucinda took the proffered hand, afraid it would break if she did more than touch the slender fingers. “I like the Misses Floyd.”
“And they like you,” Mrs. Howard said.
“They’ll want you to join their women’s suffrage move-ment,” Samantha added. “Do sit down.”
Lucinda smiled. “I think I’ll wait. As much as I’d like to have a say, I prefer to keep quiet about politics so as not to offend my clients.”
“I understand obtaining clients is why you moved here.” Mrs. Howard lifted a silver bell from the table beside her chair and rang it. “Virginia won’t let you practice law?”
“No.” Lucinda bit her lip against a stab of pain.
Before she could say more, a maid arrived. “Lunch is ready, yes, ma’am.”
Samantha pushed her mother’s chair across the hall to a dining room as beautifully sunlit as the sitting room. Three places had been set at one end of a long table and dishes placed on a sideboard. Unlike the day before, this was a full meal with three courses. Aromas of spicy soup, roasted chicken, and saffron rice permeated the room.
Lucinda’s stomach growled. “I–I’m so sorry.”
The Howard ladies
laughed. “I was going to ask you a million questions,” Mrs. Howard said, “but I’ll let you eat first.”
In the end, they compromised. After a bowl of soup and some bread, Lucinda offered to answer questions. But apparently her admission of hunger had set the ladies on a different mission.
“Are you really living in your office?” Mrs. Howard asked. “How can you possibly eat well?”
“I can’t cook.” Face warm from more than sunlight and soup, Lucinda dropped her gaze to the bread roll she had just crumbled on her plate. “I hope to be able to get a little house or flat soon, though.”
“Sooner than later.” Samantha patted a stomach that was flat from either tight lacings or nature. “I’d die without hot food every meal, especially in the winter. We’ll see what we can do to help.”
Send her paying clients.
“Thank you. Eventually. . .” Lucinda shrugged. These ladies didn’t understand living on little in order to save money.
“Right now,” she said firmly, “I need to purchase furniture for my office.”
“Do you?” Samantha’s eyes glowed like sunlight behind green glass. “I know where you can find the nicest things without going to Boston. We can look—”
“The Floyd ladies will be happy to take you.” Mrs. Howard’s voice rose enough to drown her daughter’s voice.
“But Momma—” Samantha suddenly paled.
Mrs. Howard set her spoon on her plate, a chime of silver against china. “We will not discuss your tendre for Matthew Templin in front of a guest.”
“I don’t have a tendre for him,” Samantha protested. “That was over many years ago.”
“Of course it was,” her mother snapped. “Associating with him would have made you unacceptable.”
Lucinda ducked her head so she didn’t have to stare at her hostess. She needed the good graces of women like Mrs. Howard, women with money to pay an attorney, but the snobbery destroyed Lucinda’s appetite. Matthew Templin seemed like a fine man and certainly didn’t deserve such treatment because of a parentage he couldn’t help. She would like to know him better.
Except, associating with him might destroy her chances of success.
six
The crunch of wheels on the gravel drive drew Matt out of his workshop and into the Saturday afternoon drizzle. He couldn’t imagine who would come to see him on a day better spent beside a warm fire. But there it was, the heavy and ancient barouche belonging to the Floyd twins.
A smile tugged at his lips and he waved to the driver, indicating he would assist the ladies down. “I should think,” he said, opening the door, “you ladies have more than enough furniture for your—”
Sight of the third passenger in the carriage robbed him of speech.
“Surprised you, didn’t we, dear boy?” Miss Hope held out her shaky hand to him.
He clasped it and helped her to the ground. “Yes, ma’am, you did.”
They’d surprised him enough for his heart to perform somersaults, like an acrobat exuberant about his next performance. He should know better after their last encounter, but there it was—an unwelcome joy in seeing Lucinda Bell again, and at his house.
“Did you bring her here for furniture?” he managed to ask, his tone cool as the damp afternoon.
“They did.” She held out her hand for his assistance to the ground. “You should have told me you made furniture.”
“Why?” He held her gaze and her hand for a moment longer than polite.
She didn’t break the contact. “I’d have come sooner.”
“We didn’t know she wanted chairs for the outer office,” Miss Hope Floyd said, as she, too, stepped to the ground with Matt’s assistance. “We thought she would take everyone into that lovely little back room of hers and serve them coffee or tea, but I suppose she can’t do that with male clients.”
“Which I’m unlikely to have,” Lucinda said.
Unless he hired her.
“I’d best get you ladies out of the damp so you can see what I have.” Matt strode off to the workshop, an outbuilding nearly the size of his house. Smoke swirled from the chimney, sharp with the tang of burning pine. “It’ll be humid inside. I have the steam box going.”
“Steam box?” Lucinda caught up with him, her skirt swishing as though she wore a taffeta petticoat, her face shiny in the moisture. “What’s that?”
“I put the wood in there when I need to make it curve for a back or seat.”
“Oh, I thought wood was carved that way.”
Matt laughed. “Were I that skilled. This makes it smoother, fewer marks from the tools.” He pushed open the door.
Aromas of steam and damp wood billowed out, perfume to his nose. He glanced at Lucinda to see her reaction. Of course she would wrinkle that pert appendage, turn up its tip at the wood shavings on the floor, the odors of varnish and paint.
But she didn’t. She glanced around with eyes wide and lips parted, as though she intended to ask a question at any moment. He braced himself for something rude.
“It’s cozy in here.” She strode forward and ran her hand over the curved back of a rocking chair. “There’s a chair like this at home. My great-grandmother brought it with her from England. May I?” She moved to sit.
“Of course.”
The sight of her settled in one of his creations shouldn’t please him so much, but his chest felt as though his heart had dropped into the steam box. The chair’s dark cherrywood framed her pale hair and face in perfect portraiture. He wanted to see her there often, daily, seated beside his fire with Purrcilla on her knees, or maybe—
He drew his thoughts up straight. “I have a chair that might work for a visitor’s chair in the office. You’ll want to get a seamstress to make you cushions.”
“But she looks so comfortable in that one.” The Floyd sisters burst through the doorway, and Matt realized he hadn’t noticed their absence. Moisture dripped from their felt hats, and they grinned as they glanced from him to Lucinda and back again. They’d left him alone with the lady lawyer on purpose.
With ears hot beneath hair that needed to be cut, he spun on his heel and stalked to the far side of his workshop. The oak chair was heavy, but he lifted it with one hand and lugged it to set before her royal highness, who couldn’t be bothered to stand. Or maybe she was just tired. Dark circles made her eyes look huge and shadowed, probably stemming from fatigue. More trouble she wasn’t sharing? He wanted to ask her.
“I only have the one, but can make you a second one,” he said instead.
She leaned forward, her face intent, her lips pursed in concentration. She ran a hand over the wood, stroking it like a pet. She stood and examined every joint and seam, touching, peering, treating it like a hundred-dollar horse she intended to buy, rather than a five-dollar chair. His heart began to thud. Surely she would find it too imperfect, flawed, a joint loose, the turned legs uneven.
She faced him. “Mr. Templin,” she said in a hushed tone, “you’re not an artisan; you’re an artist.”
Her words were a gift; he wished he could hold them, put them carefully away, take them out for later inspection and warmth on cold, lonely nights.
He ducked his head. “Thank you. I enjoy it.”
“That’s obvious.” She glanced at the Floyds, quiet for once, and watching them. “Why has no one ever mentioned that Mr. Templin does such beautiful work? He should have a shop in town, a room to show these things off.”
“We agree,” Hester said. “But some people—”
“Are ignorant,” Hope finished. “How soon can you have a second chair for her, Matthew? I know a woman who can make cushions.”
“I’m afraid it will be too expensive for me,” Lucinda interjected. “These are too beautiful for my budget. I can order something from a catalog.”
“Nonsense. Matthew doesn’t charge nearly enough for his work.” Hope wavered forward. “Matthew, how much?”
“I can let you have the one for five dollars or both for eight
, if you pay in advance.”
Her eyes widened again, lips parting. Shock over the price from a simple village carpenter? Or had she expected to pay more? She didn’t indicate either impression by words, simply drew out her purse and extracted several bills. “You’ll deliver them?”
“Of course.” He took the money and tucked it into his pocket, as though his profit wouldn’t go a long way toward finding a lawyer.
A lawyer, but not her. He needed a real lawyer, one with experience.
“I’ll get to work on the second chair straightaway,” he concluded.
“Not too soon, dear boy.” Hester joined her sister beside him. “We’d love a cup of coffee or tea, whichever you have, before we go back into this damp. I need fortification before the ride home in this drizzle.”
“But the sun will shine tomorrow.” Hope winked. “A good day to ride through the country and enjoy the colored leaves before they all turn brown and fall.”
If he owned a horse and buggy, he’d offer to take Lucinda with him. So good thing he didn’t. No lady went driving with a carpenter from whom she had just ordered simple office chairs. Samantha’s mother had taught him that.
“I do miss going for long walks.” Miss Lucinda sighed. “I used to walk all the time in Virginia, but it’s too cold here now, like it was in Michigan.”
“Nonsense. It’s not too cold for a brisk walk if the good company keeps you warm.” Hester frowned at Matt. “Well, that tea?”
“I have coffee.” His gaze remained on Lucinda. “But there’s just the kitchen fire going, and the animals are in there. Miss Bell might not like animals.”
“I’m a country girl, born and raised, Mr. Templin. I like animals.” She flashed him a smile. “As long as it’s a cat or dog in the kitchen, and not a pig.”
Matt laughed. “After you, ladies.” He closed the workshop and strode up the gravel drive to the back door of the house. He wished he had flagstones like the finer houses. He wished he had a fire going in his parlor. He wished he had reason to use that parlor for guests on Sunday afternoons, or a wife. . .
True to form, the Floyd sisters opened his back door and trotted into the kitchen. Growler emitted his throaty rumble, while his body wagged from shoulders to stubby tail. Purrcilla strode to the doorway and stared up at Miss Lucinda Bell.
Carpenter's Inheritance Page 5
