To Mend a Dream (8 page)

She barely reached the stairs, however, when she heard her name—or Miss Anderson's name. She paused, again feeling the nudge to tell him the truth about who she was. But the anonymity
was
alleviating some potentially awkward moments. And she couldn't risk anything taking her off of this assignment.

“Thank you,” he said, his voice gentle, “for the work you're doing here. Miss Sinclair is quite pleased thus far.”

Which is no small feat,
Savannah heard faintly in the subsequent silence. “Thank you, Mr. Bedford. And on behalf of Miss Hattie's shop, I'm most grateful to you for engaging our services.”

He smiled then, the ease of the gesture and warmth in his gray eyes telling her
this
smile was natural. The effect it had on her was heady. But when his gaze lowered from her eyes to her mouth, Savannah was certain the house shifted beneath her.

To say she knew a lot about men was like saying she knew next to nothing about sewing. She'd had a beau. Once. Before the war. But she'd scarcely been thirteen years old. And he'd died in battle along with all the other boys she'd known.

But Aidan Bedford was no boy. And she got the distinct feeling he wasn't looking at her as an employee anymore. Which sent a simultaneous shiver—and shudder—through her.

He broke their gaze a heartbeat before she did, and the seconds lengthened as they purposefully looked anywhere but at each other.

Finally, he cleared his throat. “So . . . the fabric for the draperies has been ordered.”

“Yes.” She nodded as though telling him something he didn't already know.

“And I believe you said the project should take six weeks?”

“Perhaps a little less, based on the number of seamstresses we have assigned to your order. And, of course, contingent upon any changes that might yet be made.”

“Of course.” His eyes briefly grazed hers. “And here I thought I was buying a house that was already homey and ready to move into.” He sighed, then smiled, or tried to. But the expression didn't hold. “Things
without all remedy,” he said quietly, finally looking at her again, “should be without regard.”

Savannah tried to follow his meaning, thinking she should be able to, yet fell shy. “I . . . beg your pardon, sir?”

He blinked then ducked his head, his manner suddenly elusive. “I beg
your
pardon, Miss Anderson. I'll leave you to your work. Thank you again for your service.”

CHAPTER EIGHT

T
HE KITCHEN AND STUDY
. T
WO ROOMS
S
AVANNAH HAD YET TO
search.

She'd been here over two weeks, yet every time she visited the kitchen, Mrs. Pruitt was there. The housekeeper, kind though she was, might as well just drag her bed down the hallway and set it up by the stove.

Savannah peered down the corridor to her right and, even now, heard the clang of pots and pans as the older woman sang softly to herself. Then she looked back toward the left to her father's study.

No,
Mr. Bedford's
study.

How was she supposed to legitimately search in there when he'd expressly requested that nothing be changed? But he wasn't home right now, and Miss Sinclair was in the central parlor with a fresh pot of tea perusing the latest issue of
La Mode Illustrée
, with several past issues of
Godey's
beside her on the settee.

Savannah checked the time on the grandfather clock and knew Mrs. Pruitt's schedule well enough to hope the woman would be occupied with dinner preparations for at least a little while. With the rush of a thrill up her spine, she sneaked inside the study, then turned
and pushed the door just shy of closed. She stood in the silence and breathed in the scent of old books and cigar smoke, the aroma of her father's favorite tobacco thicker in her memory than in the room. Still, amazing how the aroma lingered in the carpet and draperies after all these years, as though clinging to his memory just as she did.
Comforting
didn't come close to describing being in here again—the sun slanting through the windows, falling across the desk and the bookshelves, bathing the familiar room in a golden hue.

She gave herself a moment to drink it in, then hurriedly set about checking every nook and cranny, starting with the floor, then the bookshelves. But . . . nothing. Knowing anyone moving in to the house would've checked the drawers of her father's old desk, she didn't even bother looking.

She spotted a pipe on the desk and lifted it to her nose. The aroma bore a faint scent of vanilla and something else woodsy and sweet, and she wondered why the scent seemed so familiar to her, then realized she'd caught the scent on Mr. Bedford's clothes before. Something else familiar to her returned:
“Things without all remedy should be without regard.”

What he'd said days ago had stayed with her, and on a whim she crossed to the bookshelves and the familiar leather-bound copies, hoping her hunch was correct.

But now to find the right one.

Three volumes, four comedies, and two tragedies later, she happened upon the passage as she skimmed the pages. She wanted to throttle herself when she realized to which Shakespearean tragedy the phrase belonged.

She read the passage aloud softly, trying to give Lady Macbeth the Scottish accent the woman, however guilty, deserved. “ ‘How now, my lord, why do you keep alone, of sorriest fancies your companions
making.' ” Impatient, she skimmed. “ ‘Things without all remedy should be without regard: what's done is done.' ”

She lifted her gaze.
What's done is done.

She stared at the words again. She was familiar with Lady Macbeth's tenuous circumstances, but what had Aidan Bedford meant by quoting the literary character? Unless, of course, he'd murdered someone and was having trouble sleeping. She laughed to herself.

Then her smile faded. Not because she thought the man a murderer. Rather because she knew the meaning of the passage. It ref lected a heart of regret. One of frustration. And she wondered what he'd been regretting in that moment when he'd quoted it. Was it giving Miss Sinclair permission to redecorate, perhaps? Understanding all the money the woman had spent? Or . . . was it another kind of regret entirely? What if he'd been referring to something far more personal?

That possibility caused her to go still inside. What if he'd been referring to—

“Mrs. Pruitt!” Miss Sinclair called out, the sharp staccato of fashionable boots approaching.

Savannah hastily returned the leather tome to the shelf and raced to stand behind the door in case Miss Sinclair looked inside the room. But the footsteps continued on toward the kitchen, and Savannah leaned her head back against the wall and allowed herself to breathe again.

The last three or four days, Miss Sinclair had seemed bent on accomplishing everything she'd planned and more, and with good reason. She was set to return to Boston later that week.

At the woman's insistence, Savannah had brought her sewing machine last week and had set it up in the boys' old bedroom upstairs in order to sew decorative pillows to the woman's
precise
specifications. And Savannah had sewn a dozen so far, with another dozen cut
out and ready to be sewn. Where visitors were going to sit when they came calling, she didn't know.

But there was a new desperation to Miss Sinclair's efforts to make this house her home, and Savannah didn't have to wonder long as to why. Even she sensed the distancing between the couple. She wasn't privy to details about the pending nuptials, which was just as well. She got a sinking feeling in her gut every time she thought about it. Which she tried not to do.

Listening for footsteps and hearing none, Savannah opened the door as Mrs. Pruitt's voice carried toward her from the kitchen.

“Yes, Miss Sinclair. Last I saw Miss Anderson, she was upstairs sewing the pillows you requested, ma'am.”

Peering down the hallway and seeing the back of Miss Sinclair's dress, Savannah made a dash for the stairs and raced up, avoiding the risers with the worst creaks and half deciding that whatever box her father had hidden was gone. Or perhaps . . . Heart pounding, she slipped into the boys' bedroom and took her seat at the sewing machine. Perhaps it had already been found.

Miss Sinclair's steps sounded on the stairs, and Savannah picked up one of the partially sewn patterns, trying not to appear as guilty as she felt. It had been hard enough to be in Priscilla Sinclair's company before. But with what had happened with Mr. Bedford—

But what
had
really happened? After all was said and done? Nothing. He'd looked at her. That was all. And as she and Maggie and Mary—her closest friends—had said in younger years, “It doesn't take much to get a boy to look. It is getting him to look at the right things that matters.”

The same was true for men, she guessed. Even though she wanted to believe Aidan Bedford was different. But in the end, how much did she really know about the man? Other than that he'd purchased her
family's farm, he was searching for a haven, and he held an appreciation for Shakespeare.

As well as a tiny part of her heart.

“Miss Anderson?” Miss Sinclair peered through the doorway, breathless. “Quickly! I need to discuss something with you in the central parlor. Posthaste! It's about the furniture!”

CHAPTER NINE

“—
AND EVERY PIECE OF FURNITURE IN THIS ROOM MUST GO
. Surely you're in agreement, Miss Anderson.”

Aidan overheard Priscilla's voice as he opened the front door. His interest more than piqued, especially after the day he'd had, he paused in the foyer. The door to the central parlor on his right wasn't quite closed, and he spotted Miss Anderson, her back to him. But he couldn't see Priscilla.

“Do you know of an establishment in town that will take such pieces, Miss Anderson?
Passé
though they may be?”

Miss Anderson glanced about the room as though taking inventory of its contents, and Aidan sensed her hesitance.