Laura arched her brows. “I hope that doesn’t mean you think women can’t so much as deduce the obvious.”
“Of course not. I give credit where credit is due. You’re more intelligent than many of the men with whom I conduct business.”
His tone was flattering, but she doubted Winston’s words were entirely genuine. Few men thought women their equal when it came to business. Still, she was pleased by his compliment.
The skies continued to darken. Changing winds labored through the densely wooded hillsides, and leaves scattered to the ground in a profusion of autumn-colored confetti.
Winston’s face tightened as a bolt of lightning split the sky. “We’ll talk more when we get back to the house.” He flicked the reins. “Come on, boys. Let’s get the lady home before the rain begins.”
She wondered if he hoped to convince her mother the sale was in their best interest. Would her mother agree with Winston? In any event, Laura was determined to make certain Winston understood her position. “I do hope you’ll remember that the brickyard has been an important part of my life.”
Winston pulled back on the reins as they came to a halt in front of the Woodfields’ grand brick mansion. “I do understand, Laura, but your mother believes it’s time to move forward, and I agree. This sale will give you both the freedom to do so.” A groomsman scurried from the carriage house and held the reins while Winston circled the buggy to assist Laura. He tilted his head to the side and met her gaze. “I hope you don’t think me unsympathetic, but I believe your mother will know what’s best in this circumstance.”
“We’ll see. I do hope you don’t plan to use all of your courtroom skills in an attempt to convince her to sell.” Laura extended her gloved hand and stepped down. “There are very few things I believe are worth an argument, but the brickyard is one of them. I would be extremely unhappy if the brickyard sold for less than its value.”
“I think you might want to give further consideration to the burden the brickyard places on your mother and consider bowing to her wishes.” Together they continued up the front steps. “The final decision belongs to your mother, so I hope you won’t hold it against me when I advise her to sell to these men.” Winston gave her a sideways glance. “After all, there have been no other offers.”
Laura stepped into the foyer and met his gaze. “True enough, but Mother values my opinion, and I hope that after you plead your case, she’ll take my advice.”
Chapter 2
Lightning cracked open the sky, and sheets of rain spilled forth as Winston paced back and forth in front of the library fireplace. He stopped periodically and glanced in Laura’s direction. His pleading looks wouldn’t be enough to change her mind, but she didn’t interrupt as he set forth the terms of Mr. Crothers’s offer to her mother.
When he completed his final line of reasoning, he heaved a sigh and sat down opposite Laura’s mother. “I hope you’ll consider dropping your price somewhat to meet the expectations of these men, Mrs. Woodfield. I feel certain we’ll not receive a full-price offer.”
“You must forgive me if I don’t immediately agree.” Laura’s mother refreshed her cup of tea and added a spoonful of sugar. “During our marriage, Isaiah and I made all of our important decisions together. Now that I no longer have his counsel, I feel the need to be cautious—especially with such a major decision. I’m sure Laura concurs; don’t you, dear?”
“Indeed I do, Mother.” From all appearances, her mother wasn’t ready to sell the business. Winston had waged a good argument, but her mother wasn’t going to be rushed into a hasty decision.
Winston leaned forward and rested his arms across his thighs. “I understand that your husband’s death has forced you into an undesired position of responsibility. That’s why I had hoped to ease your burden and handle this matter for you.”
“That’s most kind, Winston, but I’d prefer to spend some time in prayer and see what the Lord would have me do. I’m sure if these men are the ones who should own the business, the decision will become clear to all of us.”
An hour later, Laura escorted Winston down the hallway to the massive front door hewn from black walnut trees on their own land. He’d waited for the rain to abate before taking his leave and had used a good portion of the time to urge her mother to move forward with the sale, but her mother had remained steadfast in her decision. However, when Laura returned to the library, she was surprised to see her mother pacing the same length of carpet Winston had tread only a short time earlier.
“Between you and Winston, we may need to purchase a new floor covering before year’s end.”
“W-what?” Her mother blinked and looked down at the black-and-gold floral-patterned carpet before lifting her gaze.
“You appear worried. Are you having second thoughts now that you’ve asked for additional time to make a decision?” Laura grasped her mother’s hand and gently walked her to one of the leather-covered chairs her father had chosen for his library.
“Though I hate to admit it, I suppose I am. Winston did make some valid points.” She lowered herself into the chair and scooted back until her feet barely touched the floor. “I never have liked these chairs. They’re far too big.”
“We could replace them,” Laura offered. “If we removed them and repositioned the desk, we could place a settee near the window. You’d have a lovely view of the foothills and wonderful light to sit in here and read on winter days.”
“You may be right. I’ll think about it. We could purchase something that would match the new carpet you think we may need.” Her mother grinned. “What did you think of Mr. Crothers and Mr. McKay? If I’d gone along with you to the brickyard, perhaps it would have been easier for me to make a decision. I wouldn’t mind selling for a little less than the worth of the business if they are honest men and will provide jobs for our workers who were fortunate enough to return from the war.”
“I wasn’t particularly drawn to Mr. Crothers. He appears to be far more interested in excessive profits than in helping others. His nephew seemed to have a kinder bearing, but I believe Mr. Crothers holds the purse strings, so I think he will be the one who decides whether they will buy.” Laura patted her mother’s hand. “Mr. Crothers has high expectations. I don’t believe he’ll find any brickyard that will meet his ambitious dreams.”
Her mother downed the remains of her tea and wrinkled her nose. “The tea is cold.”
“Shall I ask Catherine to brew a fresh pot?” Laura reached for a bell to summon the maid.
“No. I believe I’ve had—” A loud knock at the front door interrupted her mother’s response. “Who could that be? Do you suppose Winston forgot something and has returned?”
“I don’t know what he could have forgotten. I’ll go to the door. Catherine is downstairs, so I doubt she heard the knock.” Laura hurried down the hallway. As she pulled open the heavy door, her breath caught and she took a backward step.
“Good afternoon, Miss Woodfield. Sure I am that you weren’t expecting to see me again today.”
Laura bobbed her head. “That would be a correct assumption, Mr. McKay. What brings you to Woodfield Manor?” She made an attempt to see beyond Ewan McKay’s broad shoulders.
“I’m alone, if that’s what you’re trying to discover, miss.” He chuckled and stood to one side. “I hope you do not think me overly forward in making such a visit by myself, but I hoped to speak with you and your mother in private.” He hesitated a moment. “Without your lawyer or my uncle present. Would that be possible, miss?”
“I believe it would, Mr. McKay. Why don’t you step into the parlor, and I’ll invite my mother to join us.”
Laura hurried back to the library with a muddle of questions suddenly racing through her mind. Why would Mr. McKay return without his uncle? And why did he want to speak to them without Winston present? Did he hope to strike some farfetched bargain and impress his uncle? If that was the case, he might as well head back to the hotel in Bartlett. She’d not be b
amboozled by those twinkling eyes or that broad smile of his.
Mr. McKay was standing looking out the east windows when Laura and her mother stepped into the parlor. He turned and offered a slight bow as Laura introduced her mother. “’Tis a true pleasure, Mrs. Woodfield. I hope you’ll forgive me for arriving without a proper invitation.”
The older woman glanced at her daughter. “We don’t stand on a great deal of ceremony here at Woodfield Manor, Mr. McKay. My husband always preferred to have me run a more informal household.” She glanced toward one of the chairs. “Do be seated. Would you like a cup of tea? Or coffee, perhaps?”
“No thank you, ma’am. This is surely a lovely home you have here. I counted at least five chimneys as I came up the path. I’m guessing the brick used to build this house was fired in your own brickyard . . . am I right?”
“Yes. My husband was involved in every step of the construction, but we chose the site and decided upon the plans together.”
“And a better site you could not have chosen. What a lovely view you have of the valley and foothills. The green of this valley reminds me of home.”
Mrs. Woodfield nodded, and Laura could see the distant look in her eyes. They’d lived in a nearby smaller frame house for many years—until her mother had conceded to Mr. Woodfield’s desire to build her a fine brick home. “It isn’t good business for the owner of a brickyard to live in a frame house.” That had been the argument that finally won her mother’s agreement. Once she’d agreed, hired men set to work clearing the hilltop and digging the basement. Each day Laura and her mother had gone to the site and watched the house steadily rise up and take shape.
“From where in Ireland do you hail, Mr. McKay?” Mother settled on the divan and motioned Laura to join her.
“I’m from Ulster, a province in northern Ireland. Some folks in this country refer to us as Scots-Irish or Ulster-Irish. Perhaps you’ve heard the expression?”
“I’ve heard the term Scots-Irish. There are many who are known as Scots-Irish in this area, Mr. McKay.” Laura settled on the divan beside her mother. “I’ve never understood if they were Scottish or Irish.”
“I suppose it depends on who’s doing the explaining.” Ewan’s lips curved in a generous smile. “We’re descendants of the Scotsmen who were sent to Ireland when King James I took the English throne back in 1603. The good king planned to bring the Irish under his control, so he decided to colonize northern Ireland with immigrants of the Protestant faith, mostly from Scotland, but some from England and even a few from Germany and France. The king’s idea did not turn out as he planned. Instead, there has been nothing but turmoil and fighting between the north and the south.” He cleared his throat. “I suppose you could liken the bloodshed of good men there to what you’ve suffered here in America.”
Mrs. Woodfield reached for her knitting in a basket beside the divan. “The bloodshed would be the same, but our causes were different, Mr. McKay.”
“Aye, ’tis true, but I fear the outcomes will prove much the same. Wounds remain open, and hatred exists for far too many years after the sword is laid aside.” He inhaled a slow breath. “But that is not what I’ve come to discuss with you.”
Mrs. Woodfield wrapped a strand of dark-blue yarn around her knitting needle. “I am sure it’s the brickyard that brings you back, is it not?”
“It is. And I’m hoping I can trust you ladies to keep this matter in confidence. There would be no pacifying my uncle’s anger should he discover what I’m about to say, but I consider it my duty as a man and as a Christian to speak with you.”
In spite of the afternoon’s warmth, Laura’s skin prickled. She didn’t want him to pass along clandestine comments that might anger Mr. Crothers. “So long as what you tell us will not bring trouble to our doorstep, Mr. McKay.”
“I would not do such a thing, miss. I came here to tell you that my uncle is a man who looks out for himself above all else. He knows that you have a fine brickyard and that you’re offering to sell at a fair price. We’ve looked at yards from New York to Virginia and back again. It’s your brickyard and this valley that impress him. Do not be deceived by his blustering. He’ll pay what you’re asking if you hold your ground.”
“And why have you told us this, Mr. McKay?” Mrs. Woodfield’s knitting needles clicked in a steady rhythm while she spoke.
“Because I was taught to follow the teachings of the Bible. My own mother was particularly fond of sharing the passages that state we should look after widows and orphans and be honest in our dealings with others.” He swiped several strands of chestnut-brown hair off his forehead. “I think because she’d been unfairly treated by our landlord after my da died.”
“And has she come to West Virginia with you?” When Ewan didn’t immediately answer, Mrs. Woodfield looked up from her knitting. “Your mother—is she at the hotel in Bartlett?”
“Nay. She died a year after my da. I have Da to thank for my training in the brickyards. I’ve never met another with such skill.” Ewan cleared his throat. “My mum’s been gone for five years and my da for six. We were told it was consumption that took the both of them. My sisters are still in Ireland with some distant relatives, but I hope to bring them here once my uncle makes his decision about the brickyard. My oldest sister, Rose, and I have been caring for the twins since our mum passed. The four of us had never been separated until I sailed. I miss them very much.”
“And how old are your sisters, Mr. McKay?” Once again the older woman’s knitting needles clacked their familiar beat.
Mr. McKay straightened and smiled. “Rose is sixteen, soon to turn seventeen. She’s a real beauty, with dark hair and blue eyes. Ainslee and Adaira are twins. They’ll soon be twelve. Rose has her hands full trying to keep them out of mischief.” He chuckled. “Good little lasses they are, but they do enjoy their pranks as much as any lad I’ve ever known.”
Laura smiled and glanced at her mother. “I think my mother will agree that girls can engage in as much mischief as boys. Isn’t that right, Mother?”
“Indeed, it was true of you, my dear. Keeping you out of the woods and away from the brickyard proved a fruitless endeavor.” She hesitated a moment. “I’m sure you look forward to being rejoined with your family as soon as possible, Mr. McKay. Is Mr. Crothers eager to bring other family members to America, as well?”
“If you’re meaning will he hurry to make a deal on the brickyard because of his family back home, the answer would be no. There are two things that concern Uncle Hugh. One is holding on to his money, and the other is keeping his wife content. Aunt Margaret tends to be a wee bit demanding at times.” He grinned. “I’ll say no more on that matter.”
“Then let us hope that Mrs. Crothers convinces her husband they should remain here in West Virginia.”
Mr. McKay stood. “I should be on my way. I said I was going for a ride, but I’m thinking my uncle will expect me to return soon. I’ll do my best to convince him, but mind what I’ve told you, ladies. Hold to your price. Don’t let the lawyer rush you, either. My uncle will come around.”
After escorting Mr. McKay to the door, Laura returned to the parlor. “What do you think, Mother?”
The older woman continued her knitting. “I think he is a very handsome man with a good heart. I believe the Lord sent him to reveal what we should do, and I plan to heed Mr. McKay’s advice.”
Laura arched her brows. “But I thought you were going to pray before arriving at a final decision.”
Her mother stood and grasped Laura’s hand. “One need not be on her knees to seek the Lord, my dear. I was silently praying the entire time Mr. McKay was here with us.”
Hoping to release the tension that clutched her midsection, Laura expelled a deep sigh. Isn’t this what she wanted? A short time ago, she’d told her mother the same thing. But now fear assailed her. Could they believe anything Mr. McKay had told them? Should they trust the Irishman and his promises, or heed the advice of Winston Hawkins, a highly respected
lawyer and pillar of the community? She wasn’t sure, but it seemed her mother had no doubt.
And her mother would make the final decision.
Chapter 3
Ewan slid his foot into the stirrup and mounted the gray gelding, one of the riding horses his uncle had purchased in Pennsylvania when they began their search for a brickyard. Because Ewan was the only one who ever rode the horse, he’d come to consider the animal his own, though his uncle would reject such a notion. After all, the bill of sale was made out to Hugh Crothers, not Ewan McKay. And unlike Ewan’s father, Clive, Hugh held fast to his belongings.
Many a night Ewan had grieved for both of his parents. Uncle Hugh and Aunt Margaret were no substitute for his loving mum and da. Over the years, Ewan had often wondered how his da and uncle could have been raised by the same parents. Though the brothers bore a strong physical appearance, the resemblance stopped there. Ewan’s father had been an honest, upright man—admired by those who knew him. The opposite could be said of Uncle Hugh.
That knowledge had weighed heavily upon Ewan while wrestling with his decision to sail with his relatives. However, tales of opportunities awaiting immigrants in America had eventually tipped the scales in favor of the voyage. He wanted a better life for his sisters, and coming to America seemed the path to achieving that goal. Although he’d be tied to Uncle Hugh and Aunt Margaret for a few years, the end result would be worth the sacrifice. At least that was his prayer.
The horse’s hooves sucked at the mud created by the earlier cloudburst and slowed their pace. The seldom-used path leading from the road to Woodfield Manor could use a bit of attention. If it belonged to him, he’d use lammies, the bricks distorted from too much heat in the kiln, to pave the area leading from the front of the house to the road. No doubt Aunt Maggie would insist upon first-grade bricks to pave the driveway once she was settled in the manor.
He glanced over his shoulder. From a distance, the chimneys looked like sentinels perched atop the roof of Woodfield Manor. Would that fine home soon be known as Crothers Manor, or would Aunt Maggie decide upon a name reminiscent of her Irish heritage? Perhaps she’d christen it Margaret’s Mansion. He chuckled. Unless someone convinced her the idea was in poor taste, naming the house after herself was certainly a possibility.
The Brickmaker's Bride Page 2
