“And who is Mr. Kent?” She raised her chin.
“Your father’s heir,” he said, merely to test her mettle now that her pluck had returned.
It seemed she didn’t wish to be tested. She rose and put her cup and saucer down hard on the service tray so that the cup clinked with abandon as it settled.
He raised his finger. “Careful, that’s no longer yours.”
He almost ducked from the glare she threw him, thankful she hadn’t reached for a dish. Standing, he tugged his vest down. “If you’ve finished, I would like you to give me a tour.”
“Of what?”
“Everything.”
“Why?”
“Because it’s necessary for my report.”
“But we haven’t discussed why Mr. Kent is the heir.”
“I understand the mill is down the road. Why don’t I explain on the way over?”
Chapter 3
The sight of plowed fields and the earthy smell that surrounded them tugged on Amelia’s heart. She pointed them out as Moore drove the buggy past them. “This week we’re plowing and harrowing. If the weather holds, we’ll be planting next week.”
He glanced at the field and then at her. “Perhaps.”
“Perhaps? What does that mean?”
“It means Winston may not want them planted. Especially in sorghum.”
“Not plant sorghum?” The idea was ludicrous. She gestured to the mill. “How can you run a mill without its main product?” She stared at his profile, ready to pounce on whatever ignorant answer came out of his mouth.
A muscle twitched along his jawline as if he’d locked his tongue in place and it wanted to get out. “Very well. Winston Kent is your father’s stepson. He was ten years old when Henry Robertson abandoned him.”
“My father would never abandon his child.”
Moore shrugged. “And yet he did.”
Only a foolish man would accuse Henry Robertson of doing such a thing. “You are slandering my father’s name, sir. I’ll not have it.”
“It’s not slander when it’s the truth, Miss Cord. I can provide evidence if you wish, but wait to hear the whole truth before you start demanding justice.”
Despite the outrage that urged her to pummel him with her clenched hands, the conviction behind his words made her pause. The father she knew would never abandon his child, but the Bible portrayed dozens of people who changed over time, or due to a momentous event. What if her father had done the same? Was she being fair if she didn’t at least listen to his story?
“Tell me about my father, then. I don’t know anything about his life before he met my mother. Was he born in Chicago?”
“According to his marriage record, yes.”
She winced. It wasn’t what she wanted to hear, yet it could explain why they hadn’t found a record for her father marrying her mother.
He glanced at her and then looked away. “Winston’s mother married for love when she was very young, but her family didn’t approve of her choice and disinherited her. When no riches were forthcoming, her husband decided he loved the bottle and carousing more than her. Winston was barely two when his father died in a drunken brawl.”
“The poor woman.” He didn’t respond, and it struck her that while telling the story, his voice had an edge she hadn’t heard before. An idea began to form. “What happened to her?”
“She went back to her family and asked them to take Winston in because he shouldn’t pay for her sins. They forgave her and welcomed Winston into the family.”
Minutes passed as she waited for him to continue. When he didn’t, she voiced her suspicions. “Are you Winston?”
“Whoa!” He pulled back so hard the horse reared. The sun reflected in his eyes as he stared at her. “Am I Winston? Of course I’m not Winston. Do I act like a rich, spoiled dandy?”
“Well, no, but it seems possible. I have no idea if you’re rich. Yes, you act spoiled at times. As for being a dandy, you know how to dress well without being extravagant, so no, I wouldn’t say you’re a dandy.” She lifted one shoulder. “I merely wondered.”
He slapped the lines against the buggy and they moved forward once more. “When Winston was nine”—he threw her a look that said she should know better—“Winston, not me, when Winston was nine, his mother married Henry Robertson. The way Winston tells it his mother didn’t want to remarry, but her parents were worried about her in the event of their death and made arrangements with Robertson to provide his name and protection to her and her son. She went along with it because she wanted her son to have a father. In return, Robertson received funds for a business venture.”
Amelia’s heart thumped beneath her bodice. She placed her hand over it and tried to take deep even breaths to slow it down. Something important was about to be spilled, and she had an awful feeling it concerned her.
“What was the business venture?”
“A syrup mill in Minnesota.”
Her stomach twisted. “Oh.” She stared at the mill and waited for the rush of familiar pride that always struck when she looked at the large structure. She couldn’t feel anything except pain for Winston’s mother who sacrificed so much for her son. “Tell me the rest.”
Moore reined in the horse to a slow walk. “Henry Robertson married Winston’s mother and formally adopted Winston as his son. I can provide a copy of that as well. Ten months later, Robertson left for Minnesota to get the mill started. He never returned to Chicago.”
“Oh.” She placed her hand on his and he stopped the horse. “Winston never saw him again?”
“No. When Winston was twelve, his mother died. He never speaks of it, but the servants hint that she drank something and never woke up. His grandparents sent word to Robertson, but the man didn’t have the decency to show up for his wife’s funeral.”
Amelia swallowed the lump in her throat. “When was that?”
He shrugged as if it didn’t matter then added a date.
She sat in stunned silence, blinking her tears into submission. “Henry Robertson hadn’t returned to Chicago to bury his wife because he’d been tending his newborn daughter while the woman he loved died.”
His brown eyes searched hers as if trying to find the root of her lie. He blinked once, then twice, and looked away. “As I said, your father abandoned his legal heir.”
God in heaven, how does this happen?
And it all became clear. Winston was the rightful heir who felt the need to revenge his mother’s death by hurting someone his stepfather had loved. By virtue of default, Amelia was the target.
And she didn’t like it one bit.
Three days later, Jeremy rode his livery mount back to Robertson’s mill. He’d been up until the early morning hours finishing the report detailing all aspects of the sorghum cane operation yet wanted a final look at the books before sending his findings on to Winston. During the tour, Amelia and her men had showed him a near-perfect operation, but a bit of snooping around on his own might turn up something a new owner would want to know.
It was still early when he arrived at the mill and tied the chestnut to the rail. The last time he’d been here, workers had loaded barrels of syrup onto a wagon hooked to a four-hitch team of draft horses. This time the yard was devoid of anything that moved unless you counted the two-odd dozen empty barrels stacked along one wall.
He tried the door, found it unlocked, and walked into the large, warm interior, stopping for his eyes to grow accustomed to the low light level. The place needed more lights. Definitely an added expense for a buyer but not the huge problem he anticipated.
The mill foreman entered from a door on the right side of the large processing room. He nodded somberly to Jeremy. “Mr. Moore, I didn’t expect you today.”
Exactly what he wanted to hear. Jeremy offered his hand. “George Hanover, wasn’t it?”
As he moved closer, the foreman wiped his right hand with a rag he’d been holding. He stretched his hand out to shake Jeremy’s. “Yes, sir. Is
there something you needed?”
Jeremy’s gesture encompassed the whole mill. “Henry Robertson was a blessed man, George. Sometimes an operation falls into ruin when an owner dies—yet you’ve managed to keep his high standard as if he never left.”
“That’s Miss Amelia’s doing. She followed her father around, mimicking his movements and absorbing everything like a sponge. We were worried about her when Mr. Robertson passed, but she comes down every afternoon, hiding her pain and carrying on as usual.”
This isn’t what Jeremy expected—or wanted—to hear. He would have to be square with Hanover if he wanted to get to the truth. “Did Miss Amelia explain why I’m here, George?”
“You’re the attorney for Mr. Robertson’s estate.”
“That’s correct. And did she give any indication for the mill’s future?”
Hanover leaned back as if affronted by the question. “What do you mean? Miss Amelia would never sell the mill.”
Just as he suspected, Amelia hadn’t explained the situation to her staff. She wasn’t doing her workers any favors by withholding the information, because they could be out looking and lining up jobs instead of waiting until they were dismissed. But he wasn’t about to break the news until he had Winston’s final word.
He motioned to the office. “Can I see the books, George? I need more information before I can do the final figures on Mr. Robertson’s net worth.”
The foreman scratched his head above his ear. He looked at the main entrance as if expecting someone to walk in and take charge of the situation. When the door didn’t open, he moved aside. “I guess it would be all right. The sooner this is all settled, the sooner Miss Amelia will be happy again.”
It was becoming clear that the relationship between Miss Amelia and her employees touched on a level that brought affection as well as respect into the equation. He would have to watch his step when it became known that he was evicting her from the property. The bitter taste returned as it often did when he thought of his mission. He wanted the taste gone for good.
“You’re right, Hanover. Let’s get this done so everything is settled.”
As he followed the foreman into the office, he took out his pen. His loyalty lay with Winston, the true heir who’d had two fathers and lost them both. In Jeremy’s eyes, Henry Robertson had done the unpardonable by abandoning the boy he had adopted. If Robertson had landed in Jeremy’s court instead of God’s, Jeremy would have done everything he could to see he paid for his neglect because that was just and right according to the law.
Yet as he went over the figures, his own words distracted him. If man’s law was all that mattered, how would God judge him after he helped a vengeful man throw an innocent woman onto the street?
The next morning Jeremy sealed his completed report into an envelope addressed to Winston. His trip to the mill hadn’t yielded anything negative about the operation. On the contrary, it proved that Amelia’s new sorghum varieties had increased production without cultivating more land. If she were a man, any number of companies would hire her. As a woman, she had a steep uphill climb to be accepted in the same manner. Did she have the fortitude to do it? He believed she did, and that would ease his mind some when she was on her own.
He hadn’t quite figured out how and when to get her off the property, but it wouldn’t happen until Winston responded to the report.
Unlike Chicago’s big and busy post office, Glencoe’s was located in the mercantile where the postal worker gave each customer a dose of advice along with the mail. Jeremy didn’t mind the slower pace since he didn’t have anything to do except sit in his office and wait for Winston’s response. He advised potential clients on their rights and then sent them elsewhere for representation because he didn’t want to be involved with a court case here after the Robertson case had closed.
Since several people were ahead of him in line, he checked out the store while he waited.
As his roaming gaze settled on a new travel trunk, an idea formed that would aid Amelia’s plight while not being disloyal to Winston. After mailing off his report, he explored the trunk. It reeked of quality from its canvas cover to its iron bottom. Double-bound wide iron corners, leather-covered planked sides, and sliding handles with iron caps. Heavy and built to last. He opened the lid with its fine tumbler lock and found a bonnet box, a jewelry box, and an umbrella case. Everything a traveling lady would need.
Chapter 4
Later that afternoon with the new trunk in the back of a rented wagon, Jeremy drove past the empty Robertson fields. Regardless of who owned the estate, it was a crime to let fertile fields stand unseeded for a season. It was also a crime to leave special crops untended, such as Amelia’s research seedlings, which is why he had included them along with the conservatory holdings and seed inventory in his report. If Winston included them on a sales list, they might attract someone interested in botany. Or would Winston view the loss as another way to get back at Robertson?
Soon enough he brought his team to a stop at the base of Amelia’s veranda steps.
Someone must have seen him driving up because Amelia waited at the top. “Mr. Moore, I didn’t expect you today. Especially not at this late hour.”
Wisps of damp hair framed her forehead, proving he’d interrupted something strenuous.
“I won’t be long, Miss Cord. I brought you something.” He jumped from the wagon seat to the ground and circled around to the back where a canvas tarp provided added protection to the trunk’s own cover. With a great deal of aplomb, he whipped the tarp and then the cover off the trunk.
“What’s this?” Clasping her hands together, she held them waist high as if locking them into position so they wouldn’t touch anything.
Jeremy swallowed. What he had thought was a great plan didn’t look so good with the recipient and her butler eyeing him with the same sharp look he’d received from policemen as a young boy. Winston had saved him then. Jeremy would return the favor.
He signaled the butler, and together they carried the trunk up the stairs and set it near the hem of Amelia’s skirt.
“It’s for you.” He opened the lid to show her the compartments and cases hidden inside. “Everything you need in one trunk.”
Her brows furrowed. She glanced from him to the trunk and back to him. “Since I assume this is your way of telling me I need to pack, I’m finding it hard to thank you for your generosity.”
“No need. I quite understand.”
“I’m surprised you’re letting me take my clothes, Mr. Moore. Does Winston know?”
Her verbal dig caught him between the ribs where it hurt. It made what he had to say easier. “I don’t think you understand, Miss Cord. This is the only luggage you will leave here with. You can take anything you wish, your jewels, your gowns, even the crystal decanter and your silver tea service if you prefer. But anything you take must fit in this single trunk.”
“You can’t be serious.” Unclasping her hands, she forced her fists down her sides and gripped her skirt in what he was beginning to realize was an emotional reaction to something unpleasant. “Have you seen a woman’s gown, Mr. Moore?”
He raised his brow at the absurd statement. “Oh yes, I’ve had my fill of many a fine lady in a gown.”
A light rose color bloomed on her cheeks. She looked skyward for a moment as if asking for help. “One of my gowns would completely fill that trunk.”
“That’s your problem, Miss Cord, not mine. I’ve always believed that modern fashion wastes yards of material that could be used for better purposes elsewhere.” He marched down the steps before she decided to grab one of the cases in the trunk and throw it at him. “I’ll be back in five days. I expect you and your trunk to be waiting on the steps.”
“Five days? What about the seedlings? And the fields?”
“The estate is no longer your concern, Miss Cord. If you’re not waiting when I return, I’ll assume you’ve already moved on.”
Five days. What was he supposed to
do in this backwoods for the next five days?
The next morning Amelia saw her father’s watch lying on her bedside table. She reached for it, marveling that it felt as warm as if he had taken it out of his pocket only moments before. Holding it close to her cheek, she remembered the teasing he used to receive because of the florals etched on its cover instead of a hunting or fishing scene like so many other men depicted on theirs. But Father loved his plants no matter if they were in the garden, the conservatory, or out in the fields.
Her gaze strayed to the trunk. Without Father’s will, she had no recourse but to do as Moore wanted. Williams advised her to challenge the legality of Winston’s adoption, but she didn’t have the heart for holding up the planting season while the courts decided who owned what.
With Father’s watch in her hand, she opened the trunk and then the jewelry box that came with it. There was more than enough room for all her jewels, but she would stick with her plan and leave everything behind except for her mother’s jewelry box, brooch, and locket.
A lump formed in her throat as she rubbed her thumb across the floral etching of the watch. Even a vengeful stepson deserved his father’s watch.
The hallway shimmered as she moved toward Father’s room, determined to do what was right before she changed her mind. At the closed door to his room, she paused to wipe her tears.
Henry Robertson had given her life, been her father and mother, taught her to love and laugh and believe in God. She’d thought he was perfect. He hadn’t been and had left her in dire straits.
Using the skills he’d taught and the faith he’d instilled, she would survive whatever trials awaited. She laid his watch among his other personal effects and with a final goodbye, fled the room.
Later that morning, Amelia stood in the parlor looking over her assembled staff. Along with the five members of her household, the group included the groundskeeper, groomsman, and stable boy, as well as the estate manager and mill foreman, who would be responsible for relaying the information to their respective employees. Their faces conveyed a mix of concern, sadness, and questions.
The American Heiress Brides Collection Page 23
