Over the Misty Mountains (16 page)

Patrick laughed aloud. “I admire your judgment,” he said. “You have fine taste in manly beauty.”

“Come in and sit down. What are you doing home so early?”

Patrick threw himself into one of the mahogany armchairs and stretched his long legs out in front of him. “I just couldn’t stand it anymore!” he said frankly. “Those four walls started closing in on me. I was afraid they were going to squeeze me to death!”

The line between Elizabeth’s brows suddenly appeared. Feeling agitated, she started to ask, “Don’t you like your work, Patrick?” but managed to bite the words off. She had been thankful she had married a man who was not a complainer. Most men would not have been content to live with his in-laws. Elizabeth knew that William and Anne Martin were not the easiest people in the world for a son-in-law to get along with—especially a son-in-law who came from a lower social position. From time to time, however, she had picked up from Patrick how he longed to do something other than work inside a warehouse.

She did not see any way that could ever happen, for the shipping business involved a fair deal of manual labor, and Patrick, she knew, could not get any other type of job. He was a hardworking man, but he was no businessman.

“Maybe we could take a vacation. Get out in the country somewhere,” she said tentatively.

“Do you think so?” Patrick brightened up. “And take the children with us? That would be fine, wouldn’t it? Get out and just breathe the air and run through the grass.”

There was a wistfulness in his tone that said more than words. He had a gentle, agreeable spirit, but even during such moments as this, Elizabeth was aware that he was unhappy. It grieved her to think that her mother had never approved her choice of a husband. Mrs. Anne Hardwick Martin had proud English roots, and her dream had been for her only daughter to marry someone well respected and high in society. When her hope had failed to happen, Anne Martin had accepted it, but not with a great deal of grace.

“How is Father today?”

Patrick shook his head. “Not well. I don’t think that doctor’s doing him any good, do you, Elizabeth?”

“We’ve changed doctors three times already. I think Dr. Brown is as good as any of the others.” She bit her lip and said quietly, “I’m worried about Father. He’s lost so much weight, and he doesn’t seem to have any strength these days.”

Patrick did not answer. He agreed, however, for it was obvious to him that William Martin was no longer the robust man he had been when Patrick had married Elizabeth.

“Maybe he’s the one who needs the trip. Maybe a sea voyage might pick him up.”

“He’d never agree to leave the business—and certainly not with Will’s marriage coming up.”

The two sat there for some time, talking about the affairs of life, when the door opened and Rebekah came in with a six-piece tea service on a large, ornately engraved silver tray.

“I thought you might like some tea,” she said shyly.

“Why, that was thoughtful of you, Rebekah,” Patrick said. He winked at his wife and said, “Now, if you could just get my wife to be as careful of my well-being as you are . . .”

Elizabeth slapped his hand. “You get treated well enough, I expect!” She smiled at the girl and said, “Thank you so much, Rebekah. I can’t tell you how good it is to have you here to take care of all of us.”

“Thank you very much, Mrs. MacNeal.”

The two were drinking tea when they heard voices outside the library again. “Busy here today,” Elizabeth remarked with surprise. She looked up and smiled when a young woman came into the room. “Why, Charlotte,” she said, “please come in. You’re just in time to join us for tea.”

“Oh, that would be nice.” Charlotte Van Dorn was the fiancée of William Martin, Jr., Elizabeth’s brother. Her long pale blond hair was immaculate, and she had beautiful violet eyes. She was one of those women who was blessed with clear clean-cut features and a figure that was neither too slender nor too full. Charlotte was the daughter of Henry Van Dorn, a wealthy businessman from New York. His wife and Elizabeth’s mother were distant cousins, which had led to the engagement between Charlotte and William, Jr. Both mothers had spent a considerable amount of effort on arranging the match, and Will had finally agreed.

“Is Will home yet?”

“He said he’d be along soon,” Patrick said. He drank the rest of his tea and said, “I’ll let you two women take up the conversation while I go get cleaned up.”

Elizabeth wanted to tell him about Sarah pushing Andrew into the mud, but not with Charlotte present. Still, it seemed to her to be important. When Patrick was out of the room, she jumped up and said, “Oh, I forgot to tell Patrick something. Excuse me a moment, Charlotte.” Running outside, she caught Patrick by the arm and quickly recounted the event. “I wish you’d go up and talk to her. She listens to you more than she does to me.”

Humor twinkled in Patrick’s eyes. “It’s usually the other way around, isn’t it? Big brother pushing the young sister into the mud. I’ll have a talk with her.”

“Good. She’ll listen to you.” Elizabeth turned and went back into the room, sat down, and said, “That’s a new dress, isn’t it?”

“This old thing? Why, I’ve had it for ages.” This meant, in the language of the Van Dorns, Charlotte had probably had the dress for two months and had worn it twice. She looked over at the accounting books that were on the desk and asked idly, “Have you been working on those old books again?”

“Yes, a little bit.”

“It would bore me to tears.”

“I rather like it, Charlotte. It’s odd. I like poetry, and I like adding up figures. They don’t seem to go together, do they?”

“Keeping books always seemed to me a man’s job.” Charlotte touched her hair into place, an action not at all needed. She said, in what seemed to be an idle tone, “I wish Will could take over that part of the business. He isn’t catching on to it too well, is he?”

“I think he’s trying hard,” Elizabeth said in defense of her brother.

“Oh yes. I know that. Still, one of these days he will be the head of the firm. I think he needs to take better hold of his responsibilities. I’ve been having a few talks with him about this.”

I’ll just bet you have!
Elizabeth thought grimly. She did not know what there was about Charlotte Van Dorn that bothered her, but something about the young socialite disturbed her greatly. She could not fault the woman’s manners, and yet there was some element in Charlotte’s character that grated on her nerves. Charlotte had a tendency to bully Will, which irritated Elizabeth, but she supposed many fiancées did that. She even bullied Patrick from time to time, but there was a difference in it. The two sat there talking for some time, until again the door opened and William Martin, Jr., came in. He was just under six feet, with dark brown eyes and hair. He came over at once and said rather diffidently, “I hoped I might find you here, Charlotte. Hello, Elizabeth.”

“Sit down, Will.” Elizabeth smiled. “Tell us what you’ve been doing.”

Will sat down and took a cup of tea. There was a nervousness—an insecurity about him—that was rather unusual for a man with his advantages. He had been born after his mother had suffered two miscarriages, and this had perhaps led to his mother’s devoting too much care to her one son. More than once Elizabeth had thought,
Will would be better off if Mother kept her hands off him. She’s pampered him too much. Father knows it, but he can’t seem to do much about it
. Aloud she said, “There must not be much going on at the firm. Patrick came home early, and now you.”

“Well, it’s busy enough, I suppose,” Will said listlessly. He tinkered with the cup, sipped some tea, and then looked over at Charlotte, asking, “Is that a new dress, dear?”

“Oh no! You’ll see my new one at dinner tonight. How are things at the firm?”

“Oh, just fine. Father’s not feeling well. I wish he’d stay home more. I’ve tried to get him to do that, but you know how stubborn he can be.”

“You should be more firm with him, Will. You’re going to take over when he—” Charlotte broke off suddenly, and a slight tinge of red came into her cheeks. Both of her listeners knew she had intended to say, “take over when he dies. . . .” but even Charlotte had enough tact not to say that. “You’ll take over,” she continued, “and you’ll have to know all the ins and outs. Look at Elizabeth. There she is doing the bookwork. Shouldn’t you be doing that?”

“Oh, I don’t mind,” Elizabeth said.

“I’m sure you don’t, but Will needs to be an expert in every aspect of the business. Show us what you’re doing. I’d like to see some of this myself.”

Reluctantly, Elizabeth began to go over the accounts. It was not interesting at all, and once she asked Will, “You see these figures here?”

“Yes,” Will said. “What about them?”

“Well.” The line appeared between Elizabeth’s eyebrows. She said, “I can’t figure it out. The books show that some money is missing—that fewer goods had been delivered to a customer in Virginia than the books reported.”

“Oh, I’m sure it’s just a mistake.”

“Who made the entries?” Charlotte asked instantly.

“Why, I think Patrick did.”

Charlotte’s eyebrows rose, and she laughed with a false note. “Maybe Patrick ran off with the rest of the money.”

Will started and stared at his fiancée, then laughed. “That would be a joke, wouldn’t it?”

However, Elizabeth sensed something more than a joke in Charlotte’s words. “It’s bound to be just a mistake. I’ll ask Father about it when he comes home.”

“Come along, Will. I want us to talk about the new furniture. After all, we only have a month to get it all picked out before the wedding.”

With a groan Will rose. “I’ll leave you with the books, Elizabeth,” he said.

“All right. You two run along.” Elizabeth sat there after they left. The line between her eyebrows grew deeper as she looked down at the entry, and she thought about the tone in Charlotte’s voice. She knew full well that Charlotte Van Dorn did not like her husband, that she looked down on him for his lowly origins, and the thought angered her. Almost viciously she slammed the book shut and muttered, “Will, you’re making a mistake marrying that woman!” However, she knew that there was nothing she could do about it, so she rose and left the room, trying to put the incident from her mind.

Chapter Ten

Patrick MacNeal

“Did you have a good talk with Sarah, Patrick?”

Patrick was struggling to get his collar fastened, a skill that always seemed to elude him. He stood before the ornate oval mirror, carved in gold leaf, his thick fingers fumbling with the cravat. “I can’t tie this thing!” he finally exclaimed, turning to Elizabeth.

“Here, let me do it for you.”

Elizabeth had already finished dressing. She was wearing a light blue dress of embroidered silk. The neckline was square and the bodice tight with fine tucks in the front, accented with dark blue ribbon and white lace. The funnel-shaped sleeves were done with three layers of lace. A dark blue ribbon outlined the full skirt, and the underskirt was quilted of the same material. She smiled as she expertly tied Patrick’s tie. “You can fix any kind of machinery on the place, but you can’t tie your own tie. I never could understand it.” She patted it, then rephrased her question. “What did Sarah say?”

“She said she pushed Andrew in the mud!”

“I
know
she did that, but did she say why she did it?”

Patrick picked up the silver comb-and-brush set that Elizabeth had given him for a wedding gift. He ran the brush through his thick red hair, which curled rebelliously, and he murmured, “I think she just wanted to.”

“Well, you talked to her! What did you say?”

“I told her not to push Andrew in the mud again.” He turned, grinned, and said, “Isn’t that what you wanted me to say?”

“She’s
your
daughter!”

“She’s always my daughter when she does something wrong!”

“She’s more like you than like me. Isn’t that odd?” she said.

“What’s odd about it?”

“Well, you’d think a boy would take after his father, and a girl would be like her mother, but Andrew’s a lot like me, isn’t he?”

“He’s not as pretty as you.” Patrick came over and put his arms around Elizabeth and gave her a squeeze. “You’re right about Sarah, though,” he said, lifting his eyebrows. “She does seem to have a willful streak in her—like me.”

“You’re not willful!”

“That’s all you know! I just haven’t let it creep out. I wanted to marry you so much, I guess I would have agreed to wear purple suits if that’s what you’d wanted.”

Elizabeth liked it when he talked like this. She reached up and patted his cheek, murmuring, “You
do
have your moments, Patrick MacNeal! Well, I suppose no harm is done.”

“Are you ready to go down?” Patrick said, glad to be finished with the discussion. He had a soft spot in his heart for Sarah, knowing that at times she did display the same streak of stubbornness that ran in his Scotch-Irish blood. He was afraid it would get her into trouble one day, and he was happy that it did not seem to be appearing quite so prominently in Andrew.

“I suppose so.” Elizabeth picked up a shawl, and as he put it around her shoulders, she said, “Oh, I forgot to tell you. There was a discrepancy in the ledger for the shipment that went to the McMillan Company in Williamsburg.”

“I remember that shipment,” Patrick said. A puzzled look crossed his face. “Everything went as smoothly as it could. I checked it twice. The right goods were delivered.”

“Well, I suppose it will all be smoothed out. As much merchandise as we ship, it’s a wonder there aren’t more mistakes.” She saw Patrick bite his lip as he stood in the middle of the floor. There was a strength in the man that belied his wiry stature, and not just physical strength. Elizabeth had seen a firmness and depth of integrity in him that most men lacked, qualities she had grown to appreciate and lean on through their marriage.

He turned to her and said suddenly, “We’ll have to get it straightened out. Your mother doesn’t need another reason not to trust me.”

Elizabeth gave him a quick look. She knew he was right about her mother’s suspicions, but she did not like to admit it. Quickly she changed the subject. “I’m worried about Father,” she said. “He’s got to slow down.”