Janet Dean – An Inconvenient Match (страница 9)

By the time Abigail finished the explanation, Rachel’s eyes were the size of silver dollars. “What did your mother say about working for a Cummings?”

“She doesn’t know.” Abigail tightened her grip on her parasol. “I may be fired before noon. No point in telling my family until I see if I’m keeping the job.”

“How can you work for George Cummings after what he did to your father?”

If only she had another way. “I want to help Joe and Lois. The auction should supply the lumber, maybe even the building materials, but nothing else. Right now, neither of them can work.”

“You’re brave to do this. Everyone in town stands in awe of Mr. Cummings.” She gave Abigail’s arm a squeeze. “I’ll pray for you.”

“Thank you. Something tells me I’ll need it.”

“Stop at my house on the way home. I want to hear all about your day.”

As they exchanged a quick hug, Abigail promised she would. Rachel turned toward the parsonage while Abigail moved toward she knew not what. But she had the intelligence and backbone to handle whatever guff George Cummings threw at her.

Outside the Cummings gate, wrought of iron, tall and imposing and all but shouting Keep Out, Abigail gulped, lifting her eyes to the three-story structure looming over her. Brick exterior, wood cornices and brackets supported the eaves. A boxy cupola with windows rose above the roof, a watchtower of sorts.

Abigail had never been inside the mansion, for surely no other word described this commanding house. Yet nothing about the structure was pretentious. The house reflected George Cummings, a man with the money to build a solid house that never let down its guard. Never let others near.

She unlatched the gate that swung open on well-oiled hinges, then refastened it and marched up the lane circling the front of the house. At the top of the porch steps, she ran a gloved hand along the iron rail. The letter C had been carved into the lower panel of the solid oak door. Above the entrance, the transom’s stained glass sparkled in the morning sun.

Everything was in perfect condition. Unlike the apartment they rented from the man. Obviously the Cummings put their money where they would benefit.

To build and maintain this grand house required a great deal of money. Some of that money had come at her family’s expense. How did the man sleep at night?

Since moving to town as a child, Abigail had attended the same church as George Cummings, walked the same streets, yet she’d never exchanged more than two words with the financier.

Now she would be his paid companion.

If not so appalling, the idea would be laughable.

Yet the money she’d earn would help her sister’s family furnish their home and purchase clothing. No laughing matter. Perhaps even help pay some of the gambling debts crippling them.

Lord, I need this job. Give me courage.

She’d handled bullies before, at least of the school-age variety. She hoped George Cummings was up to her presence.

Pulling in a deep breath, she lifted the lion’s-head knocker and dropped it against the metal plate.

The door opened, putting her opposite of Wade. At the sight of him, her heart scampered then tumbled. In a tailored black suit with vest, a tie matching his indigo eyes, he looked leaner, taller and more broad shouldered than the day before.

From his attire, Abigail assumed Wade was on his way out, probably headed to the bank. Nothing could please her more. The less time she spent around the rogue the better.

So why was a bevy of butterflies dancing low in her belly?

His dark gaze swept over her hat, gloves, the simple skirt and frilly high-necked blouse she wore in the classroom. The intensity of his regard rippled through her. Her attire wouldn’t compare to the fancy garb of the female students at Harvard.

Not that she cared.

He stood staring at her, as if transfixed. “Good morning, Abby,” he said finally.

Abby was what he’d called her during the days she’d hung on his every word, memorized his every gesture. She couldn’t abide hearing the pet name on his lips. “I prefer Abigail.”

He opened his mouth but then clamped it shut and stepped aside to let her enter. “Right this way, Abigail.”

She hadn’t missed his displeasure, but gave no sign of noticing.

With a no-nonsense nod, she stepped into a marble entry and a world like no other. More reception hall than foyer, a huge marble fireplace dominated the room. A thick wool rug, silent and soft underfoot, covered gleaming parquet floors bordered with a braided design in darker wood. Imagine the craftsmanship needed to produce the intricate inlay. And the cost.

In the apartment over the bank, planks sagged and squeaked. Gaps between boards collected dust. Over the years Ma had braided scraps of fabric and sewn them together into colorful rugs. She’d quilted coverings for the beds, knitted an afghan for the sofa—done what she could to make the rooms cozier. Last summer Abigail had put a fresh coat of paint on all the walls.

Their apartment wasn’t stylish, but not all that different from Rachel’s home.

But this…

At her sides, Abigail’s hands trembled. Her family had lost everything. The Cummingses lived like kings.

A crystal chandelier glittered overhead, lit even on this sunny morning. Sconces added to the ambience, throwing patterns of light on the walls. At home, kerosene lamps enabled them to read the newspaper or stitch a hem but would never illuminate this enormous space. Nor leave a ceiling free of traces of soot.

Lace curtains covered the large curved window on the landing of a grand staircase. Suddenly aware Wade was watching her, her face heated. She’d been standing there, mouth gaping like a kid at a candy counter.

The money used to furnish this house could’ve helped those in need. Those who’d lost everything in the fire. When had George Cummings given a dime to help anyone?

As she followed Wade to the stairs and climbed, they passed bucolic landscapes painted in oils, prints of ships sailing the high seas, watercolors of botanicals—all in gilt frames hanging from the picture rail by dainty chains.

Few pictures adorned their apartment walls—an image of their family taken by a traveling photographer mere months before Papa died, a sampler Grandma Wilson stitched as a young woman, a Currier & Ives print of a steam-driven paddleboat.

This house made Abigail feel small, out of her depth, flailing for footing in a world so unlike her own.

No wonder Wade had broken off their relationship. He’d understood what she hadn’t…until now.

She didn’t fit in his world.

Well, she might not have much in material things but she had a good mind and an education enabling her to provide for her family at no one’s expense.

Lord, I’ve never cared that much about material things. Yet this grandeur hurts. Forgive me for my anger and jealousy.

Aware that Wade waited for her, she hurried up the stairs. Even on the second floor, pictures and furnishings lined the walls. An elegant mahogany highboy, rose damask loveseat with tufted back, tiger maple sideboard flanked by carved armchairs. Why, more furniture graced this wide corridor than they had in their entire apartment.

She followed Wade to the far end of the hall. Wade knocked then opened the door into an enormous paneled bedroom. She looked in on the man himself as he sat in a wheelchair in front of the window, his back to them.

No drapes graced the windows. The dark walls were void of artwork and knickknacks, and heavy furniture, grand in scale, made the room intimidating.

“Dad, Miss Abigail is here.”

George Cummings said nothing, not even acknowledging his son’s presence. Yet she knew he’d heard, could feel his intensity, see it in his rigid posture. She clenched her trembling hands in front of her and threw back her shoulders.

A hound lay stretched in a patch of sunshine, emitting a loud yawn that ended on a squawk, either too tired or too indifferent to investigate a newcomer.

“Well, I’m off to the bank.” Wade turned to her, his eyes remote. As their gazes held, she saw something else, an apology, perhaps. Or some hurt that never went away.

Abigail thought of her family. They might not have a grand house but laughter and chatter filled their rooms. Yes, an occasional disagreement too, but she’d never experienced the stilted impasse that she felt between Wade and his father. What had happened to put that wall of animosity between them?

“The kitchen is stocked with whatever you might need to prepare lunch and dinner for you and Dad.”

That Cora had quit and Wade’s sister Regina refused to oversee her father’s recuperation didn’t bode well for Abigail’s day.

“Don’t hesitate to summon Doc Simmons if my father’s breathing alarms you.”

“I’m sure we’ll be fine.”

“Ah, she speaks” came from the chair, as it whirled on casters and she faced the man who had destroyed her father.

Handsome, with a full head of snow-white hair and a commanding bearing, George Cummings watched her as if seeing her for the first time. The fire in his eyes, eyes the exact color of his son’s, promised trouble. She had an urge to look away, yet held his gaze. Never show a bully you’re intimidated.