by Lisa Plumley
Brave enough to show herself. Brave enough to love him.
When he said, “Here is a seat for you,” he meant I love you. When he said, “I’ll fetch us refreshments,” he meant I love you. When he said, “Don’t become engaged to any of the dozens of men who propose while I’m gone,” he meant I love you.
He also meant you’re mine...and longed for it to be true. Because Olivia did receive ludicrously frequent marriage proposals. As Miss Milky White, she’d firmly established her desirability. Griffin did sometimes fear that she’d accept another man’s offer of matrimony and be done with dillydallying.
He feared that she’d come to her senses, realize she’d been gallivanting about town with The Boston Beast and scamper into the arms of the first stultifyingly dull rancher who asked.
He couldn’t let that happen. But more important, he couldn’t allow Olivia to go on the way she had been...denying her true nature, stifling her curiosity and berating herself for her cleverness and wit and overall uniqueness. To him, she was inimitable. She was priceless. She deserved to be completely happy. For that to happen, she needed to first be herself.
Olivia believed they were there that evening—at the town musicale—to further her notions of making Griffin more sociable and less prone to shutting himself off with closed curtains and too much whiskey. But he knew better. He knew he’d quit drinking days ago. He knew he’d mastered his tendency to brood, with her help. He also knew they were really there to begin making Olivia behave more honestly...with herself, with her friends and with her neighbors. To that end, Griffin watched her closely.
Excitedly, limned by the hall’s lamplight, she nudged him. “Look! The musicians are already tuning their instruments.”
“So they are.” He followed her eager pointing gesture to the dais. “What kind of music do you like best?”
“Oh...” Airily, she waved. “A symphony is always nice.”
“Mmm.” It seemed unlikely to Griffin that a symphony was in the offing, given the musicians and their number. They fit better with the town hall’s homemade decor—rafters strung with crepe streamers and walls decorated with cut paper flowers—than they did with the works of Schubert or Brahms. “What else?”
“I’m...not entirely familiar with all musical works,” Olivia confessed. “Unlike you, we can’t avail ourselves of orchestras.”
“I’m sure the musicians here are talented, all the same.” Griffin was delighted to notice Olivia tapping her toes. Her vivaciousness was already showing. “Will there be dancing?”
She appeared astonished. Also, tempted. “No! That would hardly be the done thing, would it? That’s not sophisticated.”
Griffin stifled a grin, knowing that Morrow Creek was not known for its “sophisticated” diversions. According to Daniel McCabe, there had recently been busty dance-hall girls added to the entertainment roster at Jack Murphy’s saloon. During Griffin’s indoctrination into the Morrow Creek Men’s Club—for they’d insisted he join, even if temporarily—he’d further learned of the annual faro tournament the town hosted, luring in notorious gamblers from around the world, and of the gaudy, outlandish medicine shows that drew crowds when they visited.
Olivia might pretend to want sophistication, but her tapping toes suggested she wanted rowdy fun, first and last.
“Well,” he said, lightly covering her hand with his as the crowd quieted, “if you feel like dancing, I’ll join you.”
Tellingly, her eyes brightened. Then she scoffed, “Don’t be ridiculous.” She patted her upswept hair. “I’ll behave myself.”
“Perhaps,” Griffin suggested as he leaned nearer, close enough to touch her cheek with his own, “I don’t want you to.”
Olivia’s cheeks turned pink. She opened her mouth, doubtless to object. But then the music began...and so did the fun. Griffin couldn’t wait for the moment when Olivia cut loose.
* * *
If only she could gain authority over her traitorous toes, Olivia knew she could present a positive, encouraging example to Griffin of the wholesome activities a person could enjoy if they liberated themselves from their hotel suite on occasion.
Instead, while listening to the raucous fiddles and solitary banjo played by the musicale’s musicians, she found herself tapping her toes. Time and again, her feet attempted to dance their way out of the town hall while her body remained staunchly, sedately, effortfully in her seat beside Griffin.
He appeared to recognize her dilemma, too. A time or two, while Olivia was battling her own unladylike propensity for jigging to the music, she caught him grinning at her.
“Remember,” he said, “I will dance with you, if you like.”
“No!” she cried in an undertone, glancing around in the hope that no one else had glimpsed her undignified behavior. Her father wasn’t there, but that didn’t mean she could abandon all decorum. If she misbehaved, Henry Mouton—everyone—would know. “There is no dancing at the musicale! Not even to the fiddles!”
She dearly loved the fiddles. As a girl, there’d been nothing she’d enjoyed more than listening to a bow dancing across the strings—except dancing to the resulting tunes. She’d even taken up the instrument herself once, tutored by a long since departed saloonkeeper, only to abandon it for the more appropriate practice of learning to play an upright piano.
Just then, Olivia regretted every instant of scales she’d played on a keyboard. Fiddle music was just so much more...fun.
“Look.” Griffin nudged her shoulder. “They’re dancing.”
She did look, down the aisle. “They’re dance-hall girls!”
“So? No one is likely to confuse you for a dancing girl.”
But Olivia wasn’t convinced. “I’ve worked very hard to become a woman my father can be proud of,” she said. “As far as I know, Henry Mouton never wished he’d sired a painted lady.”
Griffin shrugged. “You never know until you try.”
“I know.” Heavens. Now her fingers were tapping along to the tune, too! Determinedly shoving them under her skirts—where they could keep good company with her similarly shrouded tapping toes, Olivia redirected her attention to the dais. “I won’t try.”
She could have sworn that Griffin appeared disappointed.
But that was simply too bad, Olivia decided. She had a reputation to uphold. She couldn’t do that by giving in to every untoward desire she ever had. She couldn’t do that by dancing...no matter how enjoyable and memorable it would have been.
* * *
In a sense, Olivia’s fortitude was rewarded in the end. Because after the musicale was finished, when she and Griffin were jovially chatting in the town hall with her friends and neighbors, something unexpected happened. All at once, amid the glowing lamplight and the hearty laughter, Griffin went still.
Olivia noticed him glance to one corner of the hall, but she didn’t think much of it at first. Partly because she was in midconversation with Annie. Partly because Griffin had been occasionally examining the town hall all night. She’d originally—and dispiritedly—thought he was becoming bored by Morrow Creek’s rusticated entertainments. Then she’d looked into his solemn eyes and rapt expression and realized the truth.
He was doing it. Just like her, he was savoring. He was storing up the experience of being at the musicale with her. In that moment. While it was still happening. Before it slipped away.
Not that Griffin was rude about it. Olivia doubted anyone else noticed his gaze moving, from time to time, to the hand-lettered signs and the chattering townspeople and the humble decorations overhead. But she noticed. She noticed, and it made her feel sad. Why could she not help Griffin feel secure?
The notion should have made her laugh. On the face of it, a man like him did not need her help feeling secure. Griffin was successful, wealthy and admired by industry. He was, by all accounts
, a man to be respected for his accomplishments. But Olivia knew him for more than The Beast he was supposed to be.
She knew him. She cared for him. She might even love him.
Maybe that was why Annie’s next question caught Olivia off guard. Her longtime friend, having noticed Griffin’s inattentiveness, seized that moment to waylay Olivia.
“So,” Annie said, darting a furtive glance at Griffin, “do you think you’ll be able to change his mind? How close are you?”
“How close am I?” Tardily, Olivia realized that Annie must be referring to her plan to convince Griffin to relinquish control of The Lorndorff. She waved off her friend’s concern. “Honestly, I haven’t given it much thought lately.”
“Well, you must be making progress.” Annie stepped back as Griffin absently excused himself and then strode away, further enabling their gossipy conversation. “I heard,” she went on, “that Mr. Turner invited your father to manage the hotel again.”
“He asked him to.” Olivia had learned as much from her father. “My father refused. He doesn’t want to settle for ‘half measures.’ He thinks he can hold out. He thinks he can convince another investor to buy out Mr. Turner and solve the problem entirely.” She sighed. “I think that will simply introduce another troublesome element to an already unwieldy situation. Given a large enough stake in The Lorndorff, another investor would be equally likely to force out my father...and he’d be an unknown quantity, besides. I say it’s too risky overall.”
“Hmm?” Annie frowned. “What has gotten into you? All of a sudden, you talk like a book. A business book, to be precise.”
Olivia felt abashed. “Perhaps I’ve been spending too much time in Mr. Turner’s company.” Kissing him. And relishing a great deal of insightful conversation with him. Not that any of those opinions had been other than her own. “I’m sorry.” She sipped her punch, then smiled at Annie. “Is that a new dress?”
“It is!” Annie gushed, making a slight turn to display her fashionable bustle. “I’ve been working on it for ages. In fact, I was hoping to catch the eye of a certain gentleman tonight.”
“Hmm. Mr. Grant, perhaps?” Olivia suggested, much too innocently. She’d noticed Annie noticing Griffin’s associate.
“That citified know-it-all? No, not him!” Annie declared, much too vehemently. She stood on tiptoe, then gazed avidly across the town hall. “Why? Have you seen him here?”
Olivia suppressed a grin. “He was jigging with the dance-hall girls in the leftmost aisle a while ago. Since then—”
Annie gave her a playful swat. “He was not jigging!”
I almost was. “Well, it wouldn’t be wholly untoward...”
“Yes, it would!” Annie rolled her eyes. “Dance-hall girls?”
“Well, if it wasn’t a dance-hall girl who was dancing,” Olivia tried. “Then maybe...?” She was desperate to learn how Annie might react to a hypothetical scenario. Say, if she were to indulge her yen to dance in the aisle to toe-tapping fiddle music. But she never had a chance. Because in the next moment, Annie stared. “Is that Mr. Turner?” she asked, pointing.
At the same moment, the crowd parted obligingly. In the resulting gap, Griffin strode nearer, wearing his black clothes, black boots and black hat...and carrying a young boy in his arms.
The child looked three or four years of age. With his small face streaked with tears, the tousle-haired boy clung monkeylike to Griffin’s shoulders, clearly unwilling to be parted from him.
“Ladies.” As though there were nothing unusual about a famously hard-hearted beast of an industrialist cradling a child in his arms, Griffin nodded politely at Olivia and Annie. “I’m sorry to leave you so abruptly. I saw this tyke crying in the corner. Nobody else seemed to have noticed the little scamp.”
At Griffin’s attentiveness, Olivia couldn’t help remembering his nonchalant statement days ago. There’s something about growing up hand to mouth, in danger of getting beaten, that makes a man notice the details of things. Sometimes, she guessed, those details weren’t dire. But they were no less important to attend to. Especially when they involved a child.
Still, she couldn’t believe he’d voluntarily cradled a lost child. Most men held children about as expertly as they did brooms. But as with sweeping, Griffin seemed to come by this skill naturally. Beside her, Annie could do no more than stare, along with the townspeople standing by. Olivia merely looked at Griffin, saw him making a funny face while murmuring silly nonsense to comfort the child and felt her heart open wide.
Something about seeing this tender, protective side of Griffin made him irresistible. He was...downright nurturing.
“If he agreed to quit bawling,” Griffin announced, peering kindly into the boy’s little face, “I promised him a pony.”
“Griffin!” Olivia objected. “That’s far too lavish.”
“Mr. Turner!” Annie echoed in a similarly censorious tone. Then her gaze turned devious. “I like ponies. I mean, if you’re faced with an abundance of the critters and require volunteers...”
“Annie!” Olivia shook her head at her friend. “No.”
But Griffin was unperturbed by their wrangling. He only jostled the boy good-naturedly in his arms, then asked, “Will the two of you help me find his mother? He says his name is Jonas.”
“Will we earn a pony if we do?” Annie asked cagily.
Olivia frowned at her. “Of course we’ll help you,” she assured Griffin. “Let’s begin with the perimeter of the room.”
“Perimeter?” In frustration, Annie stopped with her hands on her hips. “Can you please speak normally? I didn’t read a million books when I was small,” she reminded Olivia with a nonplussed look, “so I can’t keep up with all your fancy talk.”
“I’m sorry.” Olivia gestured helpfully. “Let’s look in the aisles on the outsides of the room first. That’s all I mean.”
“Then why didn’t you say so?” Annie gave a disgruntled head shake as they trailed Griffin and his newly devoted friend, Jonas. “You’re still doing it, you know,” Annie complained. “Talking like a book. Like you used to talk, years ago.”
Feeling a glimmer of warning at that, Olivia shrugged.
“I guess lost children bring out my studious side,” she hedged, unwilling to admit that it wasn’t a single incident that was making her revert to her old rebellious and hoydenish ways. It was Griffin. Increasingly, she wanted the same freedom in the rest of her life as she found when she was with him. It was getting harder and harder to refrain from impropriety altogether—harder to remember why she’d ever wanted to behave herself in the first place. “Come on,” Olivia said to Annie, tugging her arm. “I see Mrs. McCabe, the schoolmarm. She knows everyone’s children, whether they’re of school age or not.”
As they picked up speed, still following Griffin and Jonas, Olivia cast that adorable duo a second, contemplative glance. Now the boy was whispering something to Griffin, elaborately cupping his ear in the dramatic fashion children had, and Griffin was laughing at the confidence they’d shared. In response, Jonas beamed. His childish chuckle sounded out.
Someday, Olivia couldn’t help thinking, that could be their child being held in Griffin’s arms. That could be her future, shared with a man who rescued lost children, understood philosophical theories and volunteered to dance scandalously in the aisles to fiddle music. In so many ways, it was ideal.
Unless...
Abruptly, Olivia stopped, peering at Griffin as Jonas’s mother caught up to the pair. She watched as the woman thanked Griffin effusively, then hugged Jonas to her while conversing animatedly with Griffin. Belatedly, Olivia recognized her as one of the most decorous, well-respected, God-fearing women in Morrow Creek. Undoubtedly, she’d never experienced a moment’s temptation to dance to the musicale’s boisterous fiddle music.
Possibly, it occurred to Ol
ivia, Griffin hadn’t, either.
Was he...testing her?
The idea suddenly seemed all too plausible. Certainly, Griffin appeared to enjoy the lengthy talks he and Olivia shared about egalitarianism, absolute idealism, naturalism and other philosophical theories, as well as about novels they’d read and places they’d like to visit. But those conversations occurred in private, in his hotel suite. What if Griffin, like most other men, was more concerned with what occurred in public?
What if he was concerned with having a wife who could behave herself in public?
If he was, the dreamy domestic scenario Olivia had just been imagining could not possibly come true. Marriageable women did not, as a rule, behave like dance-hall girls, Olivia knew. Neither did respectable women like Jonas’s mother. Once upon a time, Olivia would have been happy to omit herself from their numbers. Once upon a time, she’d been proud of her adolescent freethinking and unruly conduct. But now things were different.
The things she wanted from her life were different.
Griffin had seemed sincere when he’d urged Olivia to dance to the fiddle music earlier, she mused. He had recognized her love of it. He’d even seemed to share it. His toes had tapped a time or two, as well. But what if he didn’t approve as wholeheartedly as he seemed to? What if he’d been pushing to learn exactly how unconventional she really was?
What if Griffin was predicating his willingness to commit further on her willingness to comport herself appropriately?
Concerned, Olivia studied him a bit longer. Then, as Annie identified Mr. Grant on the other side of the room and beelined toward her—purportedly—least favorite Boston businessman, Olivia made her decision. If Griffin was testing her, she meant to pass with flying colors. She wanted Griffin to think well of her. She wanted him to think of her as more than a counterfeit chambermaid, an amenable tour guide to Morrow Creek and a sometime conversational partner. She wanted him to think of her as a woman. A desirable woman. A woman whose most attractive qualities were impossible to overlook...as he seemed to have done so far.
