An Inconvenient Match

Chapter Three

In the bedroom she now shared with her mother, Abigail stood before the mirror, putting the finishing touches on her hair, then opened a bureau drawer in search of a handkerchief.

A scrap of pink caught her eye. Without her consent her hand sought the silky band, transporting her back through the years.

To the day Wade had given her the ribbon, a token, he’d said, of affection for his princess.

To the gentle grip of his hand on hers.

To the time when she’d been a frivolous young girl who’d believed in Prince Charming.

As if the satin seared her hand, she dropped it then slammed the drawer shut. On memories that brought a lump to her throat.

Swallowing hard, she pasted a smile on her face and strolled toward the kitchen. Hoping to eat breakfast and leave with no one questioning her plans. She wouldn’t tell her family about her job. Not yet. Not when she didn’t know if George Cummings would see her fired.

Painted a cheerful robin’s-egg blue and bedecked with little-boy drawings partially disguising dingy floorboards, cracked ceilings and chipped sink, the kitchen hummed with activity.

“Good morning,” she said, careful to let none of her misgivings about her day creep into her tone.

A chorus of “Morning” drifted back to her.

From the open shelves, Abigail grabbed a bowl, squeezed by her mother at the stove to help herself to the oatmeal, and then opened the icebox. The jug of milk was all but empty. She’d do without.

At the table she sat beside her oldest nephew, Peter, his dark-haired head bowed over his food, his spoon scraping the bowl as he shoveled oatmeal into his mouth.

Ma, her lean frame sheathed in a faded floor-length cotton wrapper, thick braid hanging midway down her back, poured coffee from the enamel pot, then handed a cup to Abigail. “You’re dressed early.”

Abigail thanked her then took a sip, avoiding her mother’s perceptive gaze. “Mmm, coffee’s good.”

Across the table, his broken leg elevated on a crate, the cast on his arm cradled in a makeshift sling, Joe hunched over his Bible. His flaxen hair still tousled from sleep, his boyish good looks belied his courage. Some would say his audacity that on the night of the fire, he’d dropped his family at the apartment, then had gone back to their burning house to save what he could. Instead he’d tumbled down the stairs, breaking bones.

Joe looked up and shot her a smile. “From the way you’re dressed, if I didn’t know better, Ab, I’d think school was in session.”

“Gracious, I must look a sight most summer mornings.”

Grinning, he shook his head. “I’m privileged to be surrounded by three of the prettiest females in New Harmony.” But he only had eyes for Lois sitting at his side, holding two-week-old Billy in the crook of her arm.

Fair skin rosy with the compliment, Lois gave her husband a teasing grin. “Me? Wearing this frayed robe, my hair a mass of tangles and puffed up with baby weight? You must need spectacles, Joseph Lessman.”

Joe leaned close and kissed Lois square on the lips. “You’ve never looked more beautiful, wife.”

The love between Joe and Lois didn’t mean Abigail had forgotten the years her sister’s marriage had kept Abigail awake at night. “He’s right, you know,” she said to Lois. “You look wonderful.”

Survivors of his gambling addiction and of the fire, Lois and Joe had learned what was important. God had given them a new start. She prayed nothing would happen to bring them harm.

Her mother glanced at Abigail’s bowl. “Are we out of milk?”

“The boys need it.”

Lois tucked the blanket around baby Billy’s exposed toes. “They’ve eaten. Help yourself, sis.”

“Nursing the baby, you need milk more than I do.”

Abigail said a silent prayer then dug into the bowl. When she’d finished, she poured the last of the milk in a glass and took it to Lois. Trailing an index finger down the sleeping baby’s velvety cheek, Abigail relived the night when the panic of the fire sent Lois into labor. With Doc tied up caring for the injured, Ma and Abigail delivered this precious baby. An incredible moment Abigail would never forget. “I only heard Billy cry twice last night.”

Lois kissed the newborn’s forehead. “He’s a good baby. At this rate, in a few weeks, he’ll be sleeping through the night.”

Abigail had barely slept herself, trying to think of a way to help Lois’s family and handle the expense of feeding eight mouths that didn’t involve working for a Cummings.

But no idea had come.

Huddled close to his mother, four-year-old Donnie sucked his thumb. Something he’d reverted to since the fire. Or perhaps his new baby brother was to blame. Abigail kissed the top of Donnie’s fair head. “Love you.”

Donnie popped out his thumb. “Luv you, Auntie Abby,” he said then stuck his wrinkled thumb between sweet rosebud lips.

She knelt beside six-year-old twins Gary and Sam stretched out on the floor wearing their rumpled nightshirts, playing with metal farm animals. Survivors of Abigail and Lois’s childhood, their paint was chipped and worn. “How’s the livestock this morning?”

Sam’s soft brown eyes twinkled. “Dogs got into the chicken house.”

“Oh, no. Did you lose many?”

Though he tried not to smile, a dimple appeared in his cheek. “Six.”

“So sorry.”

“I’m feeding the cows,” Gary said.

“And they appreciate it.”

“The chickens didn’t die, Aunt Abby,” Gary whispered. “Sam made that up.”

“Did not!”

“Did so.”

She tousled both blond heads. “Making things up is part of the fun, Gary,” she said, then carried her bowl toward the sink.

“If you boys are going to be farmers, you’ll need to build secure chicken coops so dogs and foxes can’t get at them,” Joe said.

“When they grow up, I hope they’ll further their education, prepare themselves for another line of work.”

“Nothing wrong with farming,” Joe said in a sharp tone.

“Of course there isn’t,” Abigail hurried to say. “But we’ve seen that land can disappear.”

Joe harrumphed. “Can’t live life expecting the worst.”

She hadn’t meant to offend her brother-in-law, but when they’d lost the farm, Joe’d lost his job too. His gambling started not long afterward.

At the sink, Ma poured hot water from the teakettle then worked up some suds. “I’ve been thinking about asking Martha Manning for a job clerking at the Mercantile.”

Her mother didn’t have the energy to handle a job and oversee her grandchildren. “Lois needs your help with the boys. I’m going to spend the day checking possibilities.”

Not exactly the truth, but not a lie either. If she was fired, she’d look for something else.

“I talked to Agnes about waitressing in the café,” Lois said. “She doesn’t need more help.”

“You’ve no business working with a two-week-old baby,” Joe said, his brow furrowed. “I thought I’d ask the Moore brothers if I could clean their house.”

Lois shook her head. “How would you handle the work with a broken leg and arm?”

“I’d be slow, sure, but I’d manage.”

“To sweep and mop floors? Burn the trash? Wash windows? Doc said to stay off that leg so it can heal.”

Eyes bleak, back rigid, Joe closed the Bible then glared at the crutch propped in the corner. “I can’t sit idle while bills pile up.”

Lois patted her husband’s arm. “God will take care of us.”

“I know He will.”

Abigail wouldn’t wait on God to provide. She plopped her straw hat in place, then jabbed the crown with a hatpin.

Peter wrinkled his nose, lightly sprinkled with freckles from time in the sun. “A pile of bills is a bad thing.”

The boy had seen that early on.

“Don’t worry, son. God created us with an amazing ability to heal. Why, I’m better already. Won’t be long till I can race you down the stairs,” Joe said.

“I’ll beat you, Pa!”

A tingle of gratitude ran through Abigail. Thank You, God, for healing Joe’s broken bones.

Her breath caught. With that power to heal, how long before George Cummings would no longer need her assistance and she’d lose that income? Even if Joe could work, the Lessmans’ needs exceeded his potential earnings.

On the floor Sam and Gary mooed, clucked and baaed at the top of their lungs.

Lois raised a finger to her lips. “We can’t hear ourselves think.”

“Animals don’t know to be quiet, Ma,” Gary said.

“In that case, why don’t you take them outside?”

“Yes, ma’am.” Their smiles revealing missing teeth, the twins scooped up their flocks and herds and plopped them in the box.

“Play on the back steps,” Lois reminded them.

Donnie popped his thumb out of his mouth. “I wanna go. Can I, Mama? Can I go too?”

“Sweet lamb, you can’t go outside without an adult.”

Donnie let out a shriek of protest.

Joe waggled a finger at him. “That’s enough, Donald William.”

“I want my yard,” Donnie wailed, tears welling in his crystal-blue eyes.

With her free arm, Lois scooped her son close. “Shh, you’ll make Billy cry,” she said, though the baby continued to sleep peacefully. Lois’s eyes glistened. “We’ll get our yard back, Donnie. House too. In time.”

Abigail heard the wobble in her sister’s voice. Joe patted Lois’s arm. She looked pale, wrung out, no doubt exhausted and concerned about their future. The fire had left them all shaken.

She hoped nothing happened to tempt Joe to return to the poker tables.

God, I don’t understand why things have only gotten worse for Joe after turning away from gambling and claiming You Lord of his life.

“I’ve meant to ask, Ab.” Lois’s gaze met hers. “Why did Wade Cummings bid on your box lunch yesterday?”

Ethel whirled toward Abigail. “You shared a meal with a Cummings?”

“He won the bid, Ma. I had no choice.”

“Isn’t that just like that family, using their money to force others to bend to their will.”

Joe frowned. “Didn’t Leon bid?”

“He went as high as eleven dollars before he stopped.” Abigail cleared the table and carried dirty dishes to the sink. “He was probably afraid of losing his job at the bank.”

Face flushed, Ma scrubbed the oatmeal pot, sending suds flying. “I wouldn’t put it past a Cummings to fire someone for crossing them. Nothing that family does would surprise me.”

“Wade jumped the bid to twenty-five dollars,” Lois said. “No one else in this town has that kind of money.”

“Stay away from that man, Abigail. Like father, like son. Wade Cummings will bring you nothing but trouble. Most likely would enjoy it too.” Ma took the dishtowel from Abigail’s hands. “You’ll ruin your nice clothes.”

“Not sure God approves of this feud,” Joe said, voice low, almost as if he was talking to himself. Since Joe found God and turned his life around, his perspective on everything had changed.

Ethel’s wounded expression conveyed her displeasure. “I can’t believe you’d take a Cummings’s side, after what they did to Frank.”

Joe dropped his gaze. “You know whose side I’m on, Ma.”

Changing the subject, Abigail said, “Peter, don’t forget to practice your reading. You too, Gary and Sam.”

“I’ll see that they do.” Lois turned to Abigail. “I’ll pray you find a job, sis.”

Her conscience pinching like ill-fitting shoes, Abigail thanked her sister. “Ma, I may visit Rachel so don’t worry if I miss dinner.”

No point in telling her family about working for the Cummingses and getting them riled up, when most likely she’d be fired before the day ended.

A shiver slid through her. What had she let herself in for?

Wade rapped on the bedroom door, steeling himself for the confrontation sure to come once his father knew he’d hired a Wilson for his companion.

A cough, then “Who is it?”

“Wade.” He waited but heard nothing, then opened the door and entered the bedroom. Spotless, organized with nothing frivolous, nothing personal, not a picture, trinket or toiletry in sight. The decor was stark, shades of brown and black, dismal.

Like the man.

The one exception to the barren room—the ancient hound sprawled at the foot of his father’s bed. Lazy, sad-eyed, long ears drooping, attached to his father with a steadfast loyalty Wade admired. With a welcoming wag of his tail, Blue raised his head for the expected scratch behind his ears.

George Cummings, face etched with pain, sat propped up in bed, his white hair blending with the pillowcase, his bandaged hands resting palms up on the sheet.

Wade’s gaze settled on those motionless hands. Those hands normally darted and swooped, punctuating his father’s words.

“How was your night?”

His father shrugged.

“You know Doctor Simmons left a bottle of laudanum to help you sleep.”

“And end up addicted? No thanks.”

At forty-nine, his father was lean, muscular, a man with energy that came from vibrant health. That is until the fire left him with a cough and short of breath. Doc said in time his lungs would heal. How long?

Like every able-bodied man in town, Wade and his father had fought the fire. He hadn’t seen George enter a burning house. Not surprising with the thick smoke and the extent of the blaze. With herculean effort they’d been able to save the next block from destruction, not much comfort for those less fortunate.

“Before I leave for the bank, would you like to sit near the window?”

“I can manage.” His claim ended on a wheeze. “Question is—can you manage things at the bank?” his father said, his lack of confidence in Wade grating on every nerve.

“I’m taking care of things.”

“My son, the craftsman, happiest surrounded by wood shavings and sawdust.”

Wade didn’t answer, merely held his father’s gaze, refusing to rise to the bait. George delighted in starting an argument, as if only then did he feel alive. Yet the knowledge his father held him in disdain bored into Wade’s confidence like an oversize auger. He blurted, “A craftsman for a son must grate against the family image you take such pride in.”

“I couldn’t care less about impressing anyone. Enjoy your little hobby—as long as you have time to handle the Cummings holdings.”

Once his father’s body healed, Wade would reveal his plan to craft one-of-a-kind furnishings, to turn a pastime into a dream. George would despise the decision. Not that Wade needed approval.

He bit back a sigh. Whether he wanted to admit it or not, underneath he wanted his father’s support. Support he’d never give.

George glanced at the clock. “Shouldn’t you get going?”

Where was Abigail? “I’ve hired someone to keep you company. Fetch what you need. Prepare your meals.”

“A man would think his daughter could handle that job, but at the first excuse Regina skedaddled. Your sister is cut from the same cloth as her mother.”

Wade’s stomach twisted. What did it say about a man that his daughter fled his sickroom in tears and refused to return?

What did it say about a man that his wife left him for the stage years before?

His heart stuttered in his chest. What did it say about a woman that she hadn’t taken her children with her?

“Please tell me you didn’t hire one of the Moore brothers.”

“What?” Wade forced his thoughts back to the present as his father’s words penetrated his mind. “I didn’t.”

“Thank you for sparing me that.” His father rolled his eyes toward the ceiling. “Nothing could be worse than spending my days listening to their countrified homilies.”

The Moore brothers might be rough around the edges, but they were good men who cared about everyone in the community, even someone on the fringe.

Would Abby suit his father’s persnickety taste in caregivers?

George studied Wade’s face. “What’s wrong? You look like you’re heading to your own hanging.”

Perhaps he was.

How would he manage having Abby in and out of the house day after day? When he’d seen her foil that fight, she’d seemed like the perfect choice, but now—

Now he wondered if her presence would bring more trouble than it solved.

“For Pete’s sake, spit it out. Who’d you hire?”

“Abigail Wilson.”

“If that’s your idea of a joke, I’m not laughing.”

Wade met his father’s gaze. Their eyes locked. George’s filled with comprehension. “You’re not kidding.”

“No, sir, I’m not. You’ve already chased off the only nurse in town. Most of the staff has found employment elsewhere. No one is eager for the job—”

“Except someone desperate, someone with a family member up to his eyeballs in debt, and no doubt, like all the Wilsons, blaming me.” He chuckled. “Well, well, Frank Wilson’s daughter is going to wait on me. That should make life a lot more interesting.” He snorted. “She won’t last a day.”

Wade knew what his father didn’t. Abigail Wilson was made of stronger stuff than that.

A coughing fit seized him. As George struggled to catch his breath, Blue scrambled to his feet and waddled to his master’s side, then plopped down, draping his head over George’s chest.

Wade gave his father a sip of water, then grabbed a towel to mop up dribble that ran down his chin.

“Frank condemned me for calling his loan, yet he signed the papers,” George said as soon as he could speak. “Knew what he’d signed too. Trouble with people like Frank Wilson—they don’t own up to their responsibility. Lay the blame on others for their own failure.”

“No point sullying the name of a dead man.”

“He didn’t hesitate to besmirch my name. Instead of finding a job to earn money that would’ve taken care of his family, Wilson did nothing except bad-mouth me, turning public opinion against us, the big, bad Cummingses gobbling up the Wilsons’ eighty acres. The Panic of 1893 would’ve ruined the bank had I not called the Wilson loan and others like it. Everything was legal and within my rights.”

“Legal, but was it ethical? You bought the Wilson farm then made a huge profit from selling a part of their land a few months later to the Illinois Central Railroad.”

His father glanced at his bandaged hands. “The railroad’s interest in the land had nothing to do with calling that loan. Time you understood that this family wouldn’t be where we are today if I hadn’t paid attention to earnings. If I’d extended charity to those who couldn’t pay, I’d have gone down in the same sinking ship.”

Countless times his father had drummed into Wade the importance of making tough choices to ensure a profit, emphasizing that the debits and credits on a balance sheet determined if a man lost everything or emerged a winner.

Wade wondered what his father had won.

That fortune he prided himself on accumulating hadn’t given him happiness. His father’s bad temper kept others at arm’s length, even his own family. Valuing money more than human beings made a man hard. So hard that a son couldn’t get close.

He hoped Abby fared better.

Chapter Four

Abigail shot up her parasol, angling it against the morning sun then strode up the block, her skirts swishing at her ankles.

The Cummingses’ mansion wasn’t far in distance, but as far from her life as she could get here in New Harmony. She wouldn’t be welcome there.

“Abby! Wait up.” Holding on to her hat with one hand, Rachel bustled across the street to Abigail’s side. “I’m on my way to look after the Logan children. Elizabeth wants to divvy up the money from yesterday’s auction in peace. But, quick, tell me about your lunch with Wade.”

“There’s nothing to tell, really.”

Rachel’s eyes glittered with excitement. “Of course there is! Why did he buy your box lunch when you two barely speak?”

“I’ll tell if you promise not to try to change my mind.”

Rachel lifted her right hand as if taking an oath on the witness stand. “I promise.”

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.