At Love's Bidding (3 page)

“I'll have Patrick prepare my bags.” Bless Grandfather and his ability to ignore Cornelius. Leaving his sword and scabbard on the table of items for the next sale, Grandfather strode away.

“If he's determined to go,” Cornelius said, “then I suppose Miranda and I will do what we can from here to smooth things over.” He trailed his fingers along her arm. “Maybe this unfortunate mistake will finally convince you how much you stand to gain.”

The brooch skittered out of her fingers. “I'm going, too.” She shoved her chair backwards and pinched her skirt narrow to fit around Cornelius and reach her father. Her words spilled out in desperate eloquence. “Grandfather hasn't been himself. Under normal circumstances he could out-bargain and out-deal anyone, but recently his thinking has been impaired.” She searched Father's face, looking for any sign that her words were hitting their mark. “I could check on the details—timetables, tickets—and make sure he remembers to take his meals.”

After a searing look toward Cornelius, her father nodded like the sage he was.

“Not a bad idea. Your mother and I think you spend too much time at the auction house. Maybe a little travel would bolster your confidence.”

“I think she's perfect in every way,” Cornelius said. Miranda could only guess that confidence was one attribute he thought she could do without. “And what if things don't go as planned? She could come back even more fearful. Don't forget, I've done a complete phrenological examination of Miranda, and from the way her skull is shaped, she has an overlarge capacity for caution and a cavity in the self-esteem area. We're proceeding against nature to try to cultivate—”

“Poppycock.” Charles Wimplegate pinched his daughter's chin. “We all know she is smart and capable, but maybe she needs to prove it to herself. Four weeks, Miranda. You and Grandfather will have a grand adventure and return with the LeBlancs' troublesome portrait. Then we'll put these rumors of our incompetency to rest. You can do this.”

Probably not. More than likely Cornelius was right, but it was her fault the painting hadn't been saved. If she couldn't recover it this way, then Cornelius's suggestion might be the only solution.

A train ride. No public performances, no uncomfortable confrontations. Merely making sure Grandfather's cravat was clean and he didn't eat too much rich food. She'd behave herself, bite her tongue, and come home with the painting. What could go wrong? With Miranda's morbid imagination, she could think of thousands of horrifying outcomes, but she should have stopped Grandfather from selling the portrait in the first place. She had to do this. Her family needed her.

Pine Gap, Missouri

Pine Gap. That was the name of the town, but all Miranda could picture were President Washington's ill-fitting wooden dentures. Keeping her eyes glued to the window, she waited for the endless trees to thin and reveal their destination. According to the conductor they should arrive soon, but how could a town of any size exist in such an isolated area? Naked rocks jutted out on both sides of the train, where the railroad had blasted through the mountains—menacing, sharp overhangs that hadn't healed from their recent injury. Had Mother known about the miles of wilderness they would cross, she never would've let Miranda go.

Miranda had barely been able to pry herself out of Mother's arms as it was. On second thought, she was giving herself too much credit. Father was the one who'd ultimately separated the two. Without his firm insistence, she would've climbed back into the hired hack and sulked home to where she'd feel safe and sound—until Cousin Cornelius called again.

“I wonder if our auction house is close to the depot.” Grandfather rested both hands atop his cane. Since they'd left Boston,
he'd been a fidgety bundle of excitement. Striking up conversations at random, exploring the shabby depots, anxiously rocking, as if his efforts could speed the train along the tracks. “Our first priority is to recover the LeBlanc portrait, but I don't deny that I'm excited to see what other treasures our purchase has netted us.”

Miranda studied the seams on her gloves. Once her father had located the auction house owner, her grandfather had taken over the correspondence. Thinking it not prudent to ask outright about the portrait, he merely expressed interest in the auction house itself, and before her father could stop him, he'd purchased the entire business—lock, stock, and barrel, as they said. Their weekly receipts weren't much, but the number of items for sale and the number of bidders was impressive, leaving Miranda to suspect, and her grandfather convinced, that they'd stumbled upon a goldmine. Here was a place where antiques, furnishings, and jewelry went for pennies on the dollar. All they needed to do was to box up the inventory, ship it home, and they'd not only have the LeBlanc picture, but a tidy profit besides.

“You're certain the owner hasn't sold anything?” Miranda asked.

“He gave me his word. As of the twenty-eighth of May, he hasn't sold a thing, but waits for us to arrive. That painting should be safe in his warehouse.”

“I hope so,” Miranda said. “I hate to think of being away from home any longer. Grandmother always fretted if you weren't home for dinner. I can only imagine what she'd think of this adventure.”

He fidgeted before answering. “Your grandmother was a dear woman but a bit of a worrywart.”

“How could she help it, with your antics to trouble her?” Miranda tucked her hand beneath her grandfather's arm. His eyes dimmed with memory. Grandmother's passing had changed him. He used to be so open, so approachable, to even the lowliest laborer. Now he used a blustery whirlwind of activity to chase people away and perhaps to dispel thoughts of his own mortality.

The steam whistle blew. The wheels screeched. Still nothing but trees outside the window. Miranda checked her fob watch, a souvenir her father had purchased from the first sale she'd cataloged. Just past noon. They should arrive . . .

A log building appeared. A stubby rock chimney, a short platform, and a massive pile of firewood met her eye. Confused, Miranda scanned the railcar. Unlike other stops, no one seemed to notice that the train had halted. No gathering packages, no adjusting hats and buttoning overcoats. Was this their stop?

Her grandfather's mouth tightened. Standing, he flagged down the porter. “Excuse me. Is this Pine Gap?”

“Yes, sir. They'll unload your bags to the platform. Good luck to ya.”

Grandfather widened his stance. The unlucky porter was blocked in. “But I don't see the town,” Grandfather said. “We're in the middle of a wilderness.”

“The town is just around the hill, or so they say. Follow the wagon path, and you can't miss it.”

Grandfather's white eyebrows lowered. Miranda snatched her shawl, her parasol, and her handbag from the seat beside her and waited for Grandfather to clear the way, but he remained immovable. The porter cleared his throat. Embarrassed, he turned to Miranda. “Does he need further assistance, or . . .”

Or do I need to physically remove your grandfather
from my path?
Unfortunately she was becoming more and more used to
his strange episodes. Miranda tugged on his sleeve. “Come on, Grandfather. This is our stop.”

His whiskers twitched, and with a last look at the forest, he propelled himself forward and out of the passenger car. Their bags emerged from the baggage car at the end of the train. The porter hopped back on board and saluted them as he rolled away, chipper now that the onerous responsibility of Elmer Wimplegate was no longer his to bear.

The countryside was beautiful. Hills folded and tucked into each other, covered by trees and the fresh colors of spring. The area didn't look to be inhabited at all, but perhaps it was a resort area where the rich and mighty brought their families to escape the pollution of the city. No limit to the number of mansions that could be hidden away in the valley. Or that's what Miranda was going to believe until she had proof otherwise.

High overhead an eagle circled. Or was it a vulture? Miranda took a step closer to Grandfather. Either way, they needed to find accommodations. Although Grandfather burned bright all day, by evening Miranda could spot the signs of fatigue. The travel was taking its toll on the elderly man.

From the log depot stepped a man with his dusty coat swinging open, and the laces of his high boots untied. He grunted a greeting and then turned to lock the door behind him.

“Excuse me, young man.” Grandfather strode with his cane flashing. “We've just arrived from Boston and were wondering if you've received any luggage or packages from there recently?”

His face bristled in annoyance as he took quick measure of them. “Are you missing something?”

“Yes, we are. I'm afraid we had a package sent ahead of us, but it was misaddressed. If anything arrives from Boston, could
you please notify us? I'm not sure where we'll be staying or how we'll get to town—”

“You won't be hard to track down, but I ain't seen nothing from Boston.” He whistled, and a dog with lanky legs and a scarred coat jogged out of the woods.

Grandfather cleared his throat, although his voice already trumpeted strong. “But we need assistance. We must have accommodations for the night.”

“I reckon everyone does, but be careful who you share a roof with. There's them in these hills that don't cotton to strangers. The town is just over the hill yonder. Head up that road there . . .”

At the pointing end of his gesture, they spotted a wagon rolling toward them. Miranda sighed. Not a carriage, just a bundle of boards nailed together over some wheels. The driver of the wagon had his sleeves rolled up and his striped shirttails tucked in . . . a stylistic choice not all Missouri men favored, Miranda had noticed. When the stationmaster waved, the driver swung his team of mules to the platform.

“Isaac, lad,” the stationmaster called. “You think you could give these folks a ride to town?”

Ride with a stranger? They hadn't been introduced. Miranda wished Grandfather was as wide as the columns on the portico in the back of the auction house, but since she couldn't hide behind him, she was forced to face Isaac-Lad. He was older than she'd first thought, with sad, dark eyes that seemed filled with uncertainty like her own. He pulled the brake and climbed down the wheel spokes with an unexpected grace. “If I can be of assistance.”

“Awfully kind of you.” Grandfather aimed his cane at the bags, as if this man's sole purpose in life was to do his bidding. “Those are our only cases.”

The stationmaster had already melted into the forest, leaving the three of them alone. So adept at hiding was Miranda, that only then did the man from the wagon really see her. At first he merely smiled politely, but then his head snapped to do that horrible second glance she so hated. She could never decide what was more insulting—that she'd initially been dismissed so easily or that the looker found something that required further inspection.

“Beg your pardon, ma'am. Isaac Ballentine, at your service.” He swung his hat off and bowed deeply.

Miranda's cheeks warmed at the attention. “Nice to meet you,” she mumbled and lifted her bag.

“Allow me.” Mr. Ballentine took the handle of her satchel. Quickly she released her grip and hid her hand behind her. He wasn't a railroad employee, so she wasn't sure where he fit into the social hierarchy that was so clearly defined in Boston. He hopped off the platform and then turned to help Grandfather descend. When it was Miranda's turn, she gingerly took his hand. Even through her gloves she noticed that Mr. Ballentine didn't have the work-roughened hands she'd expected. His hands were as pale and delicate as a poet's. With ease, he swung the bags behind the seat. Miranda looked away as he lifted her trunk, not sure how to treat the man. They were in his debt—an unusual circumstance.

“Do you think you'll be comfortable on the bench, Miranda?” Grandfather pointed at the front of the wagon. “It will seat three, or I'll ride in the back if it'll muss your dress.”

The thought of Grandfather riding into town in the back of a wagon nearly choked her. She started to answer, cleared her throat, and started again. “We'll fit.”

“It's big enough,” Isaac-Lad, er, Mr. Ballentine said. “I wouldn't want to embarrass you'uns on your first day here.”

“We appreciate you interrupting your plans on our behalf,” Grandfather answered.

“No bother. I'm tickled I can help.” The mules rattled their harnesses restlessly. Mr. Ballentine turned just as pounding hooves were heard through the trees. The wagon shifted with the animals' nervous movement. Miranda shaded her eyes to see into the shadows.

A lone rider broke into the clearing, leaning over his horse's neck as he raced forward. Clouds of dirt burst into the air with every stride. His bearded face was hard, while his body bristled with energy. His well-worn cotton shirt stretched across his shoulders and arms, defining muscles that even Titian had never put on a canvas. The man's eyes narrowed as he spotted them standing below the platform. This time Miranda really did hide behind Grandfather, but Isaac Ballentine didn't flinch. Instead, he climbed into the wagon and sat stubbornly waiting for the newcomer.

Sweat-dampened hair clung to the young man's neck. “Are you going to get out of that wagon, or do I have to pull you down myself?”

Aghast, Miranda silently pleaded with Isaac to give the man what he wanted, but from the obstinate set of his shoulders he seemed determined to refuse. Isaac turned so she could appreciate the full force of his defiance. “I'm not afraid of you, Wyatt.”

Maybe Gentleman Isaac was brave, but he certainly wasn't very intelligent.

“I was hoping you'd say that,” this Wyatt growled. He swung off his horse and made a rush for the wagon.

“Can't you do anything?” Miranda clawed at her grandfather's elbow.

Although he didn't cower, Grandfather shook his head. “Maybe years ago, my dear, but not now. Our friend is on his own.”

With one boot in the spokes of the wheel, the attacker hoisted himself up, grabbed Isaac by the collar, and pulled him to the ground. Landing on his feet, Isaac attempted to shove out of his grasp, but he was no match for the brute. Miranda covered her mouth. This was no boy to be frightened away by a woman, even if she did have a silver tray. She couldn't get involved, but how could she just watch?

Grandfather clamped her arm in a death grip. “Don't you dare,” he said. “You're too much like your grandmother.”