A Most Unsuitable Match (2 page)

Hannah’s gently insistent voice brought Fannie back to the moment. “Let’s get you home so I can clean your skirt.” She grimaced as she bent to inspect the smudges where Fannie’s knees had met the earth. Then, bucket in hand, she gave Fannie a one-armed hug.

Dear Hannah. What would she do without her? Her hair might be gray, but her golden brown skin was smooth as glass, her back straight, her figure still the envy of anyone who noticed. Only Hannah’s hands showed the years. And the stiff knees that kept her from gliding up and down stairs the way she used to. And now Fannie had made more work for her. “I’m sorry,” she said as she bent to swipe at the smudges. “Maybe I can clean it.”

Hannah caught her hand. “Let it dry on the walk home. It’ll be easier to get off then.” She arched one eyebrow. “I’ve slowed down, but I’m perfectly capable of getting a couple of smudges off a silk skirt.” Apparently energized by her indignation, Hannah led the way toward the cemetery gate. “You listen to what I say, little miss. Your mother loved you. She wasn’t much for talking about it, but that woman
loved
.”

Fannie paused at the gate to look back toward the grave. Maybe if she’d been a better daughter . . . she blinked back fresh tears and, looping her arm through Hannah’s, headed home. If she’d learned anything in these past few weeks, it was that shedding tears didn’t yield answers. In fact, crying tended to set her back on the emotional spiral that made thinking harder and decisions more confusing than ever. God said that faith was the evidence of things not seen. She needed to believe more and doubt less. Besides, she didn’t have time for any more tears. There was too much to do.

“First thing in the morning, let’s head to Haversham’s and see what he has in the way of rosebushes.” She gave Hannah one of her best smiles. “We can plant them together. Surely no one would gossip about a girl
decorating
her parents’ graves, especially if I make you carry the shovel like a proper servant.”

Hannah tried to look stern, but Fannie knew that look. The beautiful old woman just couldn’t keep her mouth from curving up at the edges.

Bleak skies and a steady drizzle on Monday morning dampened Fannie’s interest in rosebushes and gardens. When the sun finally came out after lunch, she and Hannah picked their way around walkway puddles to Haversham’s. When Fannie tried to charge her two yellow rosebushes, the boy at the counter seemed to have a problem finding her account. Once he’d located it, he hesitated to add to it until Mr. Haversham himself authorized the purchase.

“Perhaps you’ll want to speak to Mr. Vandekamp,” Mr. Haversham suggested as he looked down his long nose at Fannie. “It has been some time since your account was reconciled.”

Grabbing the tops of the two cotton bags holding the roses, Fannie mumbled something she hoped sounded like agreement and hurried out of the store. “Speak to Mr. Vandekamp?!” Fannie groused as Hannah took the bushes from her hands. “Why doesn’t Mr.
Haversham
speak to Mr. Vandekamp if there’s a problem with my account?”

“Now, now,” Hannah soothed as they walked home. “He’s got to make ends meet, too, don’t he? He didn’t mean anything by it. You go see Mr. Vandekamp. He’ll explain everything. After all, understanding how to run a household is part of growing up.”

“Maybe so,” Fannie protested, “but it’s not a part Mother let me learn. She said we’d always have Mr. Vandekamp and it wasn’t ladylike to know too much about such things.”

When they arrived back home, Hannah hesitated at the yard gate before saying, “I’m sure your mama meant well when she said that about you not needing to understand about money. She just didn’t realize you’d face what you’re facing. The good Lord blessed you with a good mind, little miss, and that’s exactly what you need to make your way through the life he’s allowed. You’ll be all right. You’ll see.” She headed up the brick path toward the back of the house.

Pulling the gate closed behind her, Fannie ambled after Hannah, noticing for the first time that the white trim on the windowsill just beneath the portico was beginning to peel. She paused to look up.
All
the trim looked weathered. The once-shining black shutters on the windows had lost their luster. Weeds threatened to overtake the low hedge along the front of the house. When had all that happened?

Hannah dragged a bucket out of the carriage house and settled the two rosebushes in it near the well pump at the base of the back porch steps. As Hannah pumped water, Fannie looked over the yard, the carriage house, the kitchen garden. She pointed at the weeds. “Things are looking a little . . . run-down in the yard.” She nodded up at the portico. “And we—
I
—need to have the trim painted.” She frowned. “Have I been sleepwalking?”

Hannah shook her head. “You’ve been grieving, child. Feels like sleepwalking sometimes.”

Was this how Mother had felt after Papa died? Fannie had just assumed she didn’t care all that much. But that didn’t fit with Mother continuing to dress in deep mourning, did it?
Maybe the stone angel was more about grief and less about showing St. Charles how much money we have.
Once again, the things Fannie didn’t understand about Mother pressed to the forefront. Hannah’s voice brought her back to the moment.

“Walker’s been feeling poorly of late. I believe I mentioned it to you last week.” She paused. “I told him to keep up with the grounds as best he could.” Hannah put her hands on her hips and gazed up at the house. “But you’re right. He’s let things go. This won’t do. Miz Rousseau would have
both
our heads if she could see what’s happened.” She looked toward the garden. “I expect Walker’ll show up directly. Should I tell him you need to talk to him?”

Fannie took a step back and put a palm to her heart. “Me?” She shook her head. “Can’t
you
talk to him?”

“That’s not my place. Walker wouldn’t appreciate my putting on airs that way.” Hannah reached out to pat Fannie’s arm. “It’s time you took the place over, child. The fact that you noticed those weeds and things is a good sign. You’re growing into handling the changes around here.” She smiled. “Old Walker dotes on you. Offer to hire him some help. He’ll see it as a kindness, not a scolding.” She paused. “Once you’ve spoken to him, you can walk up to that bank and schedule a meeting with Mr. Vandekamp and talk to him about the Haversham account and such.”

Fannie glanced around the lawn. Weeds threatened wherever she looked. The lower leaves of Mother’s roses sported black spots. She walked toward the garden. Reaching for the tallest weed, she grabbed it and pulled. When it didn’t give way, she grimaced, grasped the stalk with both hands, pulled again, and was rewarded with the distinct sound of something ripping. When she let go and inspected her palms, she realized she’d torn a hole in her black gloves.

“I’m going inside now,” Hannah groused. “Hand me the gloves. Just what I need, filet crochet mending.” Fannie peeled the gloves off. She could hear Hannah’s knees creak as the old woman turned to leave. “Make a spectacle of yourself to the neighborhood if you must, but I’ll not be watching.” Grunting with the effort, Hannah mounted the stairs to the back porch. The kitchen door slammed behind her, punctuating her mood.

Making a spectacle of herself? By trying to pull one stubborn weed? As she looked around, Fannie realized how truly shabby things looked. The second-story windows were filthy, and one of the shutters was hanging by only one hinge. Was that a seedling
tree
sprouting out of that loose gutter? She knew she’d been in something of a fog since Mother died, but this was ridiculous. All of this couldn’t have happened in only a few weeks—could it?

Of course it hadn’t happened in a few weeks. Mother hadn’t been herself since the buggy accident last fall. But Mother had assured Fannie that Mr. Vandekamp was taking care of everything.
But
if he were taking care of things, the account at Haversham’s would be current.
Clearly, Mother had been wrong.

Fannie headed inside, her sense of dismay tinged with outrage. Mr. Hubert Vandekamp was paid very well to take care of Papa’s affairs. Fannie was certain of that. After all, Papa was a generous man. It was unseemly for someone they’d trusted to take advantage. Mr. Vandekamp needed to be reminded,
encouraged
, to do his job. Still, the idea of facing up to him made her heart lurch. He would bring up the topic of suitors again. And Percy Harvey.

Dear Lord, help. Please. I don’t know what to do.

Stepping inside, she untied her black bonnet ribbons. Hannah sat at the kitchen table, crochet hook in hand, squinting down at Fannie’s torn gloves. She didn’t even look up as she said, “You might as well give me that skirt, too.”

“I will,” Fannie said, “but I have to do something down here before I change.”

Bonnet in hand, she headed through the kitchen, up the hall, and into the sumptuously furnished room Papa had always used for an office. Little had changed here since his death. Mother had looked completely out of place sitting at Papa’s massive burled wood desk sorting papers. Had she even
read
the business mail? Maybe all she’d done was open it and take the stack to Mr. Vandekamp.
Maybe she was in a fog like the one you’ve been in.

The enormity of facing life alone washed over her. If she trembled at the prospect of scolding Walker about the weeds outside, how would she ever face Mr. Vandekamp? To fight off a wave of near panic, she crossed the room and raised the window shades. Sunlight filtered in.
These things aren’t Papa’s anymore. They’re mine.
She put her hand on the back of the desk chair and pulled it out. Mother couldn’t tell her to get out of her father’s chair now. Nor could she remind Fannie that “a lady doesn’t concern herself with business.”

Fannie perched on the edge of Papa’s chair, her back straight. Placing both palms atop the desk, she closed her eyes.
Are you there, Papa? Do you see me? I’m all alone now.
I can stitch the finest sampler in the state, and Jamison Riggs says I dance more gracefully than any of the other girls in St. Charles. I finally learned to play that étude by Mr. Chopin. I played it for Mother before she . . . left. She smiled and said I did a lovely job, and you know that Mother was very hard to please when it came to Monsieur Chopin.

Fannie opened her eyes. Mother had been hard to please when it came to just about everything. Let Fannie show an interest in anything remotely . . .
challenging
to her intelligence and Mother got that look on her face as she said, “And how, exactly, would it help a young lady to know about
investments
? There isn’t a single acceptable suitor in St. Charles who would find such an interest anything but appalling.”

Fannie reached for the top envelope on the waiting pile of mail. She supposed Mother was right—for the most part—about what eligible men expected from eligible ladies. Be that as it may, she couldn’t let it stop her from doing what must be done. She was the sole heir of something. It was time she discovered exactly
what.

Fannie perused the contents of the first envelope. She might speak French, but clearly she did not speak Business
. Tonnage . . . cargo . . . capstan engine . . . administrator’s sale.
The only thing she really understood were the words
urgent
and
projected loss.
The dollar amount next to that last phrase was impossible. Wasn’t it? If that number was accurate, her problems with Mr. Vandekamp were much worse than weeds and peeling paint.

Fannie made her way through the remaining pile of mail, but with each unpaid bill, her spirits lagged. Finally, as the aroma of boiled beef wafted in from the kitchen, memories of Hannah Pike’s creaking knees and the gardener’s woes combined with the words in Papa’s mail to send a frisson of true fear up her spine.

A friend loveth at all times, and a brother is born for adversity.