The New England: ROMANCE Collection

by Susan Page Davis, Darlene Franklin, Pamela Griffin, Lisa Harris

  A faint smile tugged at his mouth. “What if I said the house is no longer for sale?”

  Chapter 7

  After all the meetings, all Clara’s hopes and dreams, did Captain Daniel Tuttle intend to crush her like a bothersome black fly? Good humor fled, replaced by a black veil even darker than her skirt. The nerve of the man.

  “You should have informed me that the place was not for sale before our business together commenced.” She could hear her own voice, stilted, high pitched—vinegar and not honey. She swallowed once, then again. Her mouth felt dryer than the mill pond during a drought. “I have no wish to waste your time any further.” She stood and tucked her reticule under her arm, seeking escape before she fell into a thousand pieces.

  “Miss Farley—Clara—please sit back down.” He came around the desk before she could blink. “I’m sorry I startled you. Let me get you a drink.”

  He stayed gone long enough for Clara to breathe deeply and regain some degree of composure. Perhaps he was still willing to sell the house. After all, he had only asked “what if?”

  He returned with a pitcher of water and two glasses. He poured them each a glass and gestured for her to imbibe while he polished off his own with a long swallow. She surreptitiously swished the first few sips around her mouth, moistening the parched places.

  “Let me explain myself better. After further thought, I’m not ready to let my grandparents’ home pass out of the Tuttle family.”

  She took another sip of water, determined not to let her agitation show.

  “But I do agree with Simeon that the house needs to be used for something more than a bachelor’s residence. So, what would you think of leasing the property instead?”

  Leasing. Her mind raced with the idea. “We would need to agree upon the length of the lease. I won’t set up school and then have you change your mind two months later.”

  “Of course. I don’t anticipate needing it … any time soon.” An indefinable something crossed his face.

  “I planned to make changes so that it would be more suitable as a school.”

  He leaned back. “I want to approve any changes.”

  Did he plan on watching over her shoulder, ready to take over the reins at the smallest sign of weakness? She looked deep into his eyes and decided no, he didn’t. Something else was at work here.

  Daniel found himself wishing Clara needed a hundred changes made. Then he would have almost endless excuses for spending time with her. But he sensed she might resent his interference. “I’ll ask Simeon to draw up the terms of the lease.”

  Clara frowned.

  “Is that a problem?”

  She straightened her back further, if that were possible. “An independent party should draw up the contract. I know of a lawyer in St. Albans. We can consult him. I will need to discuss financial details as well. Will you handle that, or will your brother?”

  I will. The words tripped on the tip of Daniel’s tongue, but he knew he shouldn’t do it alone. “I’ll tell Simeon what I’ve decided, and we’ll plan on meeting with him in two days’ time.”

  “Good. I will bring some preliminary requests for changes to the house at that time.” She cast her glance at Grandfather’s desk, and Daniel wondered if she imagined herself in the massive chair, dealing with recalcitrant students.

  No, he doubted she would spend much time confined behind a desk. She would be among her students, encouraging, instructing, ordering when the need arose. He found himself smiling. “I look forward to seeing what you have in mind.”

  “I mustn’t take any more of your time.” She stood. “Are you making any progress is finding the robbers? Is there any chance they are those Confederates who robbed the bank at St. Albans?”

  Considering the fact she was the one who had first raised the possibility of local involvement, her question surprised him. “From all accounts, no. Those gentlemen hightailed it back to Canada, and the authorities up there won’t turn them over. You’d think we were still at war with Britain.” He shook himself. “Unfortunately, no one is acting suspiciously.”

  “Suddenly rich? Spending money like there is no tomorrow?”

  They arrived at the front door, and he trapped one side of her cloak between his elbow and chest while helping her drape the other side over her shoulder. Awkward. He couldn’t even help a lady into her coat without twice as many steps as a normal man. “I’m a little surprised. It suggests a degree of self-control I wouldn’t have expected of these ruffians.”

  “Consider this.” She swirled, her cloak settling in soft folds around her feminine form. “The raid on St. Albans presented the opportunity. But they might have been planning the robbery for a long time.”

  For a moment, Daniel lost himself in the depths of her charcoal-rimmed, gray eyes. He saw intelligence and humor and a liveliness she kept far too hidden. He was drawn to her, as helpless against the tug as metal drawn to a magnet, and he wanted to see more and more of her. “You have made some excellent observations about the robbery.”

  A pleased surprise lit her face, and he continued. “I would appreciate hearing your insight into this crime. Your feminine intellect”—her eyes flared at his turn of phrase—”approaches the problem from a different angle.”

  The glare softened.

  He plunged ahead. “Are you willing to meet with me from time to time to discuss my progress in the investigation?”

  She studied him, one gloved finger on her pursed lips, as if judging the genuineness of his request. The hand lowered and covered her heart. “I believe you mean it, Captain Tuttle.”

  He held back a smile and nodded.

  She shook her head. “Few men of my acquaintance would ask a woman for advice on a criminal matter.” She held out her hand. “It would be my honor, sir.”

  Honor. The word rang hollow in a heart wanting … what, he couldn’t bring himself to put into words. He took her hand. “To our joint endeavor. May we find quick success.”

  Clara wanted to skip around the town green as she left the Bailey Mansion. Daniel’s decision to lease the house and not sell it surprised her, but the advantages revealed themselves after a little thought. A lease involved no permanent commitment for either party. She would give her all into setting up the finest girls’ school Vermont had ever seen. If it succeeded, she would press the Tuttles for a sale later. If it failed, she would determine what steps to take if and when that happened. Miss Featherton had told her she would always have a spot on the faculty at Middlebury, but Clara desired to stay in Maple Notch. At least until Lewis was settled.

  If he is ever settled, a rebellious voice in her head insisted.

  But no thoughts of schoolrooms made her legs want to break their steady gait. Daniel Tuttle wanted her help in hunting down the robbers. He valued her intelligence. He said so. And in a society that placed more importance on a woman’s looks and command of the wifely arts than on the quality of her mind, she found his invitation refreshing—compelling, even.

  Clara couldn’t face going straight home to household chores. The coins in her purse would pay for a cup of coffee and one of Fannie’s famous cinnamon rolls while Clara sketched changes she’d like made to the Bailey Mansion. Passing the school where she had spent many happy hours as a child, she decided to take another detour. What alterations had been made since her student days? Maybe she could pick up some ideas for the renovation of Bailey Mansion.

  She opened the door to a loud clamor. Two boys—adolescents—threw spit wads at each other. About halfway down the aisle, a gaggle of girls giggled over the desks. At the front, the youngest children sat in a semicircle. One of them leaned back in his chair and looked straight at her.

  “That old spinster lady is here!” He shouted at the top of his lungs, and the room quieted in an instant. All eyes turned on her, including those of the pastor’s wife, Mrs. Beaton. Clara wanted to leave and slam the memories behind her, but a good school mistress always kept her chin up and moved forward.

&
nbsp; “Nicholas Whitson!” The usually serene Mrs. Beaton sounded a cat’s whisker away from chasing the boy out of the schoolroom with a broom. “Go stand in the corner.”

  Then she glanced at the clock, and her shoulders sagged. “Children, go ahead and take your lunch break.”

  Pandemonium broke out again as they all scrambled for their lunch buckets and dashed out the door. Mrs. Beaton rubbed the back of her neck as she walked down the center aisle toward Clara.

  “Where is Miss Stone?” Clara asked. The same teacher who had shepherded her through her last few years in Maple Notch still taught the local school, becoming the town’s institutional old maid. Apparently I’ve been elected to join their ranks. The blush she had suppressed earlier spread across her cheeks at the thought. At least Daniel saw something of worth in her. She raised her chin.

  “She suffered a terrible cough in the night. The Sexton children arrived with the news this morning and begged me to take over school for the day. But as you can see …” Mrs. Beaton sighed. “My calling is not to the classroom.”

  “Let me teach this afternoon, then. Tomorrow, too, if Miss Stone is still sick.” Clara’s heart pounded. She was still sniffling, but she felt well enough for school. Teaching usually increased her energy.

  “Oh, would you?”

  Clara put a hand to her mouth to cover the laugh that bubbled up at the relieved expression on Mrs. Beaton’s face. “I’d love to.”

  “But—” Mrs. Beaton glanced at the corner where Nicholas had his nose plastered against the wall, his fingers tracing patterns on the planks. In a lowered voice, she said, “I’m mortified by what that young scamp said.”

  Clara waved it away. “I’ve dealt with worse. Go ahead and leave. I’ll take over. And I’ll plan on coming back in the morning.”

  “If you insist.” Mrs. Beaton grabbed her satchel like a drowning man finding a piece of floating wood. “I’ll bring you a sandwich, so you have some lunch.” She scurried out the door.

  Clara spared a thought for Lewis as she took a step in Nicholas’s direction. Her brother could fix his own lunch if he came home, she decided. She stopped a foot away from the boy. He squirmed and sneaked a glance over his shoulder, dread masking his face.

  “Do you have something you wish to say?” She spoke to his back.

  “I’m sorry for calling you a spinster, Miss Farley.”

  “Apology accepted.” She didn’t blame him for repeating something he heard at home.

  “I will expect you to treat me with respect this afternoon. Can you do that?” Back still to her, he nodded.

  “Then go outside with the others to eat your lunch. Play in the sunshine. I’ll give you some extra time.”

  He dashed for the door, then paused, smiling at her with a grin missing two front teeth. “Thank you, Miss Farley!” When Mrs. Beaton returned with a sandwich, Clara asked about the morning’s lessons. As she suspected, they hadn’t accomplished much. After a brief discussion to establish each group’s assignments, Mrs. Beaton fled in the direction of the church.

  Clara perused the history book the older students had been assigned to read. It could have been the same volume she used as a student, every bit as boring: a list of battles and dates and names of people now dead instead of the living, breathing story of people like the children, who had once laughed and loved. All, or almost all, children in the school had at least one ancestor who had fought in one of America’s wars.

  She knew at least one family that sent soldiers to every war back to the French and Indian War before Maple Notch was founded. The Tuttles. An idea formed in her mind. This afternoon, after she left the classroom, she would stop by the jail. Daniel Tuttle was the perfect person to teach in her classroom.

  Daniel’s weary horse needed no encouragement to head home as dark descended. Another fruitless day spent establishing alibis. All the wives said their husbands had gone out to the fields, but would they know if the men had sneaked away for an hour or two? They might not know, but he doubted the married would run the risk.

  Stopping by the jail, he was surprised to find Clara Farley waiting for him. A frisson of pleasure removed the weariness that had settled on his shoulders.

  “Constable! I’m so glad to see you.” Clara looked up from the note she was writing.

  “Miss Farley.” He nodded at her and removed his hat. “How may I help you this evening? Have you uncovered the culprits on your own today?”

  A confused look sped across her face. “I’m afraid not. I’m here about another matter.” She gestured with the paper in her hands. “I’m filling in for Miss Stone at the school, and I’d like your help.”

  School? The change of subject threw him off balance. “I’m at your service.”

  “The Tuttle family is one of the founding families of Maple Notch. You told me about your grandparents the other day. Who better to tell the pupils about the history of the United States than someone whose family has seen it from the beginning?”

  He still didn’t follow. “I don’t understand. What do you want me to do?”

  She blinked. “Why, tell your family’s story, of course. Especially about the wars. I believe a personal touch would bring our history alive to the children.”

  His insides clenched. He didn’t want to talk about his war, ever, and certainly not to children.

  She swept on, heedless of his reaction. “Textbooks are full of dates and names and statistics. I want the children to know why we’re fighting. And you can do that better than most. I’ve also asked young Nicholas Whitson to bring in his father.”

  Daniel snorted. “Whitson?”

  “A peace offering of sorts.” Her cheeks glowed, but not from cold. The possibility enthused her, transforming her into as lively a lass as any in Maple Notch.

  He could no more say no than a fly could escape a spider’s web. “When do you need me there?”

  “When is it convenient for you?” she countered. “I thought we might breakfast together at Fannie’s Café.” Her cheeks glowed brighter than before. “To discuss my ideas about the investigations, and a few changes I would like to have made to the house.” She spoke so fast her words blurred together. “That way, you could come straight to the school and still be on your way early.”

  “Is seven too early?” he asked.

  The sky had darkened to a deep purple before Clara made it home that evening. She found Lewis in the kitchen, holding canned green beans in one hand and a jar of applesauce in the other. Egg whites coated the counter, and she could smell burnt food from the door.

  “Where have you been?” he growled.

  “I’ll tell you over supper. Go sit down. I’ll fix something for us to eat.”

  Since she still had chicken stock left from Monday’s dinner, she could fix a quick vegetable soup and cornbread.

  She set the stock to simmering on the stove and added a variety of vegetables as well as a dash of salt and pepper and parsley. After she whipped up the cornbread, she cleaned the counter and scraped the eggs Lewis had burned into the slop bucket. She went to the pantry for a few chunks of ham to drop into the soup. Lewis hadn’t taken anything for his lunch. Where had he eaten, then? It didn’t matter. He was home tonight, not out drinking again.

  Within an hour, she brought food to the table, but Lewis didn’t come when called. When she sought him in the parlor, he had closed his eyes and splayed his limbs across the overstuffed chair. She knocked on the door, and he awoke, a startled doe expression in his eyes. Then he sniffed appreciatively. “Smells good.”

  “Wash your hands before you come sit down.” She knew he hated the reminder, but like most men, he was no better than a little boy when it came to table manners. He joined her at the dining table a few minutes later, dressed in his Sunday-go-to-meeting clothes, spiffy, if a bit wrinkled.

  “Do you want to return thanks this evening?” She always asked. He always deferred to her.

  “I believe I will.”

  He bowed his head and
began so quickly that he had said “Lord God Almighty” before she had closed her mouth.

  “I thank Thee for Thy bounteous blessings to us who are so unworthy. For this food, and for the hands that prepared it. And I thank Thee for providing a job. Amen.”

  Before Clara could process or transition, Lewis said, “I’m famished. Let me have some of that soup.”

  She brought the tureen to him and ladled out a full bowl. “You have a job?” She kept her hand steady against the expectation of surprise.

  “Guess who’s the new bank guard?” He pointed to his chest. “Me!” He struck a somber pose but couldn’t keep it, his mouth twitching with a smile. “They had me start right away, and they want me back tomorrow.”

  “Permanent?” Clara’s breath caught in her throat. She took the tureen to her own bowl and ladled out a smaller amount.

  “At least until Whitson is better.” Lewis shrugged. “If I do a good job, Mr. Tuttle said he’ll find another job for me at the bank. Maybe as a teller.”

  Clara blinked at that. “That’s wonderful.”

  “This is delicious!” Lewis almost slurped the soup down in his excitement. She hugged his enthusiasm close to her heart. He hadn’t acted this happy since Christmas when he was five years old. The last year their mother was alive. Soon his spoon hit the bottom of the bowl.

  “Have some more.” She had hardly started hers, but she pushed the tureen in his direction. “Take as much as you like.”

  First he cleaned the bowl with a chunk of cornbread, and then he ladled more soup to the rim. “So, did you settle your plans with Mr. Daniel today?”

  Lewis never asked about her day. If landing a job changed him this much, she wished he had found one sooner.

  “He offered to lease me the house.”

  “I thought you wanted to buy it.”

  “I did. But this may work just as well.”

  Lewis took his time with his second bowl of soup. Before his next spoonful, he asked, “You’re excited about this. Tell me about it.”