Authors: Jacksons Way
“Good ones even more so, I'd guess,” he ventured, wondering why she'd decided not to take offense. “A man could probably get five dollars for one of those.”
She chuckled softly and nodded.
He saw in her softening an opening, and he seized it. “Lindsay, about yesterday afternoon,” he began.
She held up her gloved hand, her palm toward him. “Let's not talk about it. It had been a horrible day and neither one of us was at our best. Today's a new beginning and I propose that we not start it by looking back.”
“If that's the way you want it,” he acceded, feeling an odd mixture of disappointment and relief.
“Henry sent a message to the house this morning,” she said, her manner easy and light. “Agatha told him about Richard's collapse. He's planning to come by the office at ten to discuss with me the transfer of management. I sent a return note with the messenger, asking him and Edith to dinner this evening and suggesting that we discuss the matter then.”
Ten o'clock? Damnation.
“Think he'll hold off?”
“I rather doubt it.”
“Then we need to be somewhere else when he gets here,” Jackson announced, picking his hat up from the corner of the desk with one hand while closing the ledger with the other. “I'm not about to give him the advantage of picking either the time or the place for a showdown. Where would you like to go?”
“I have a social call to make. The junior bookkeeper, Jeb Rutherford, and his wife had their first child very late last night. Jeb sent word to the house this morning. I've made gifts for Lucy and the baby and want to deliver them in person.”
Baby.
Fragments of crushing memory stabbed at his awareness. Jackson resolutely blinked them away. Settling his hat on his head, he observed, “Seems it was a busy morning at your house, what with messengers bringing notes from Henry and Jeb, and Vanderhagen snooting around.”
“That's only half of it,” she said lightly, shaking her head—whether in amusement or utter resignation, Jackson couldn't tell. “Richard's cook, Emile, also arrived this morning, vowing that only he can adequately prepare food for him. When I left, he and Primrose were standing in the kitchen, back-to-back, holding rolling pins and preparing to count off paces.
“Then I passed Agatha on the front walk as I was leaving. She spent the night at Henry's and doesn't know if her calendar is free for dinner at home this evening or not. She has a dress fitting at two and an appointment with a jeweler at four.”
“A jeweler,” Jackson repeated quietly. “Where does Agatha think the money for jewelry is going to come from?”
Lindsay raised both hands in a gesture of surrender. “I have no idea and I didn't pause to ask. I simply wanted to come to the office.”
Suddenly he understood the way Lindsay was feeling about it all. You could either scream for nothing or you could stand back and see the utter ridiculousness of the whole thing. At least the latter course offered some degree
of entertainment in what was otherwise a very frustrating situation. Interesting that she'd come to him, though. Why? “So you're saying that you see me as a calm haven of sensibility and reason?”
“I don't think I'd put it quite that way, Mr. Stennett,” she countered, her smile tight. “Perhaps more along the lines of seeing you as being the lesser of all the present evils.”
And one of those evils was Henry, due to arrive at any moment. “Well, evil man that I am,” he rejoined, pulling a sheet of parchment from a desk drawer, “before we leave here, I want you to write a note to Agatha. Ben can see that it's delivered. Tell Agatha that she'll clear her calendar and be at dinner this evening or she'll come home to find the locks changed and her belongings on the street.”
“You can't do that!”
“Yes, I can. And I will. Evil does as evil pleases.” He hefted up the accounting book and started toward the door, saying as he passed her, “I'm taking the ledger to Ben. Get busy and write that note so we can get the hell out of here.”
He was back in seconds, returning through the doorway to the sight of Lindsay leaning over the desk and scribbling away. It was a wondrous combination of curves and draped fabric.
“There will be an ungodly scene at dinner, you know,” she advised him as she continued to write.
Jackson blinked and swallowed. “Which, in accordance with the MacPhaull code of conduct, I will ignore.”
And hopefully more effectively than I am your backside. Lord have mercy.
“I'll wager you ten dollars that you can't.”
What on earth were they talking about? Oh, yes, ignoring Agatha's scene. “You're on. Any other bets you want to make about tonight?”
She straightened, holding the note in one hand and gently wafting her other above it to dry the ink. “Another ten says that you contemplate killing Henry before dessert is served.”
“Collecting would require me to be honest,” he pointed
out. “I could lie and tell you it never crossed my mind and you couldn't prove otherwise. Not a very smart bet.”
“All right,” she countered confidently. “Then my second ten dollars says that you'll actually try to kill him before dessert. How's that?”
“It's your money,” he replied with a shrug. “I think I ought to tell you, though, that I don't exactly have a hair-trigger temper. It takes a lot to push me over the line.”
“Be that as it may, Mr. Stennett, I know my brother and sister and just what behavior they're capable of.” She folded the parchment in half. “I'm putting my faith and money on them.”
“Nudging them along isn't allowed,” he clarified as she handed him the note.
“I won't have to.”
She walked past him and the scent of roses drifted in her wake. It occurred to him that she was certainly less prickly today than she had been yesterday. He followed her, wishing he knew what had led to the slight change in her manner. Whatever it was, he hoped its effects were permanent. Passing sixty days in the company of a woman like this one wouldn't be all that hard to endure.
“The morning mail just arrived, sir.”
“Thank you, Ben.” He accepted the packet and then handed Lindsay's note to her bookkeeper. “Please see that this is delivered immediately to Miss Agatha at MacPhaull House. And if Mr. Henry MacPhaull should make an appearance here at the office, please extend our regrets at missing him, and tell him that we look forward to seeing him and his lovely wife at dinner this evening.”
Ben nodded in acknowledgment and Jackson led the way to the door. Lindsay murmured her thanks when he opened it and then proceeded him out onto the walkway. Her small black carriage sat waiting for them, her driver sitting in the box, reins in black-gloved hands. She paused, looked back over her shoulder, and called to Ben, “If there's an emergency, we'll be at Jeb and Lucy's.”
“I hope we haven't been too long, John,” she called up to her driver as she started toward the waiting vehicle. “It
seems that there is always some small detail that can't wait attention.”
He smiled down at her, opened his mouth to reply, but got no further than that.
“I distinctly recall having sent a message that I would arrive at the office this morning at ten.”
The voice was male and haughtily indignant. Jackson saw the driver look away, saw Lindsay stop in her tracks, grab a deep breath, and then slowly turn in the direction from which the voice had come.
A man only slightly taller and less rotund than Otis Vanderhagen stood a mere arm's length away from Lindsay. He wore a finely tailored suit, his graying temples accentuated by the blackness of his bowler hat and the silver threads of his embroidered vest. Fair skin marked him as a man who lived his life indoors, the thin red veins coloring his patrician nose as a man who liked strong spirits. His chin was lifted high so that he surveyed the world from what he obviously considered a position of superiority.
A message that he'd call?
Then this had to be Henry, Billy's eldest child and only son. Jackson gauged the distance between himself and Lindsay, between Lindsay and her brother.
“And you did so,” Lindsay said calmly, “on the presumption that I would be here and that a meeting was convenient to me. Unfortunately, by the time your note arrived at the house, I'd already sent one to my junior bookkeeper, Jeb, promising to call on his wife and newborn child this morning. I mentioned that in the note I sent back with your messenger. Did you not receive it?”
“I did,” Henry replied, cocking a brow reproachfully. “That's why I've come earlier than I'd originally planned. There are some matters we must discuss, Lindsay.”
She squared her shoulders and managed a tight smile. “Now is not the time, Henry. I'm sorry.”
Henry went on as though she hadn't said a word. “My architect is demanding payment for his design and for the purchase of building materials. I want a bank draft so the project can begin.”
Jackson watched Lindsay's jaw tighten, watched her
draw a long, deep breath. He glanced over at Henry, but the man seemed oblivious to his presence.
“I'm sorry, Henry,” Lindsay said again, more slowly and clearly than before, “but that's impossible. As I've explained before, recent business developments have—”
“I'm not Agatha,” Henry interrupted with a huff, “and I will not tolerate being put on an insultingly meager budget. I am the heir of MacPhaull Company and I won't be denied what is rightfully mine. Neither will I live in a home beneath the standards that accompany my social position.”
Jackson cocked a brow. Apparently the man had absolutely no understanding of reality; he didn't see that his social position was no more substantial than a wisp of smoke and that his financial resources were all but gone. How could a man go through life wearing blinders? Jackson wondered. It was going to be one helluva shock for ol' Henry when he learned that he wasn't the heir of all that he imagined to exist.
Lindsay's smile looked painfully taut as she said, “Standing on a public walkway is no place to discuss business or family matters, Henry. I've invited you and Edith—”
“Never mind,” Henry replied with a dismissive wave of his hand. “I'll take care of the matter myself next week. Agatha told me all about The Buzzard's collapse. It's long past due and welcome news.”
Lindsay's hands balled into fists at her sides and her blue eyes flashed with furious fire. Her lips compressed into a thin line, she glared at her brother and said nothing. Jackson stood planted where he was, torn between wanting to pound some sense and good manners into Henry and respecting Lindsay's right to deal with her brother in her own way.
“I want you to clear your belongings out of the office, Lindsay,” her brother went on blithely. “And give Ben his notice. I'll be taking charge two weeks from today. I'd do it sooner, but I have social plans that I don't want to cancel or miss.”
“There are circumstances,” Lindsay countered coolly, “of which you're unaware, Henry. But as I said before, now
is neither the time nor the place to properly discuss them. I think that—”
Henry snorted and rolled his eyes. “I'm the heir of the MacPhaull Company.
I don't have to care what you think.”
Lindsay sighed, nodded once, and then half-turned to gesture toward Jackson, saying as she did, “Henry, I'd like to intro—”
“All the brainless brawn in the world isn't going to keep me from taking control,” Henry said, his smile confident, his gaze raking Jackson from hat to boots and then looking away dismissively. “Two weeks, Lindsay. No, make it three; there's a boat race that slipped my mind. Three weeks and then you and your household of misfits and cripples will be the ones on a miserly allowance. What a delightful change that will be.”
With that pronouncement, he turned on his heel and swaggered away. Lindsay chewed on the inside of her lower lip as she watched him go.
Studying her, marveling at her grace and fortitude, Jackson quietly drawled, “I don't much care for your brother.”
Still watching Henry's progress down the walkway, she answered, “I suspect that very few people do.”
“And he doesn't have the slightest inkling about the company's finances.”
Lindsay turned her head to look at him. Arching a slim brow, she smiled ruefully. “I recall having mentioned that to you yesterday.”
“That you did,” Jack freely admitted, stepping to the carriage door and opening it. “Does he always speak to you like that?”
“I must say that it was a fairly typical exchange.” She accepted his hand and assistance into the vehicle. “My sin-cerest apologies for having subjected you to the unpleasantness of it all.”
“Seems to me that if anyone needs to apologize for anything,” he said, settling onto the seat opposite her, “it's your brother for his lack of manners. And me, for not shaking some into him.”
Her smile trembled and she looked away to take an-
other fortifying breath. Staring out the uncovered carriage window, she said blithely, “The air's a little heavy this morning. I think it may rain within the next day or so, don't you?”
Jackson nodded and sat back, knowing with absolute certainty that Lindsay MacPhaull had never had a champion of any sort, and that she didn't have the vaguest idea of what she was supposed to do with one.
He'd had a champion once; a brother, a friend, a fellow rowdy. They'd laughed together, cried together, and, from time to time, even pounded fists on each other. But no matter what, they'd always been there for each other when they were needed. His first and deepest lessons about loyalty and friendship had been learned at Daniel's side. And when Daniel died, the pain had been immeasurable, all consuming, and so deep that he'd wanted to die, too. He'd been truly orphaned that day. It still hurt to think about it. And so Jackson looked out the window and thought about the day that lay ahead.
Jesus. Damnation, he was a glutton for pain this morning. He was on his way to congratulate a man he didn't know on the birth of his first child. He was going to see Jeb's wife holding their child and remember how he'd once stood at a bedside and watched the shadow of death steal over his happiness. He'd remember the pain of loving and losing, of being utterly powerless to change the course of life and death, of how his pleas and offerings had been worthless in the eyes of God.