At Love's Bidding (31 page)

Three sharp raps rang out. Miranda spun to the stage and there was Grandfather with the gavel, gripping the podium and calling the sale into order, and in his hand . . . a wrinkled, dried up apple doll.

“Good morning, gentlemen. It's time to open the bidding on our offerings today. Our first item for sale is this one-of-a-kind, handmade statuette from a gifted artist in the Ozarks.”

Heads spun. Puzzlement turned to amusement as people found their seats. Miranda squeezed the rolled up catalog in her hands until it collapsed upon itself. It was happening again. Would she take the coward's way out, or would she try to save Grandfather's dignity?

“You'll notice the fine stitching on the gown that delineates this work from other less established artists. . . .”

She couldn't let this go on. Her heart pounded, her stomach floated, but her feet carried her out of the shadows and onto the stage.

“So what do I hear for this fine piece? We'll start the bidding at five dollars. Five dollars just to get us started.”

Miranda reached his side. Moving slowly as to not startle him, she stretched a hand to the podium and pulled herself next to him.

“Grandfather, let's wait a bit before starting the sale. Let's wait for Father.”

He shook his head. “Miranda,” he whispered, “I'm busy. You're causing a scene.”

She might not have caused it, but she was a part of it, and that was bad enough.

“Here comes Father. Let's talk to him.”

“Five dollars!” Grandfather cried. “Will no one give me five dollars?”

The vibration beneath her feet told her that her father had stepped onto the wooden platform. Grandfather's cry was weaker this time. “Will no one give me five dollars?”

“Twenty, right here.”

Miranda's head jerked, but she knew the voice even before she located the tall man in the crowd.

“I'll give you twenty dollars for that beautiful doll, Mr. Wimplegate.” Wyatt weaved his way through the crowd toward the front. “I've never seen anything finer.”

Was he mocking them? Miranda turned pale.

Grandfather snorted. “You might be able to buy pigs and goats, Wyatt, but you can't afford pieces like this.”

The room went deathly silent. Her father groaned. After all they'd done to pacify the LeBlancs, Grandfather was insulting them again. Just think how the buyers would repeat this story.

“Mr. LeBlanc.” Her faithful customer Mr. Wakefield stepped forward. “Mr. Wimplegate hasn't been himself recently. He doesn't mean any offense.”

Wyatt shook the man's hand. “Mr. Wimplegate and I are old friends. No offense taken.”

“Grandfather,” she whispered. “He doesn't want the doll. Let's go get a drink of water and—”

“I do want it.” Wyatt had reached the stage. “Twenty-five dollars. Twenty-five dollars for the doll as long as it is delivered to my house . . . with a rhubarb pie.”

Miranda had to clutch the podium to keep from swaying. The excited comments blurred into a roar, and every eye was on her.

“You don't have to humor him—”

“Wyatt is my employee,” Grandfather belted. “He feeds the pigs and cows. He needs to get back to work and stop interrupting this sale.”

Wyatt kept calm amid the horrified gasps. “No truer words were ever spoken. And I do have to say that you have a right nice sale barn here. Maybe not as clean as my own—”

“Clean?” Grandfather snorted and turned to her father. “You should see his place. It smells worse than the fish market.”

“I can't wait to hear about it.” Father took his arm and motioned Cornelius over. “You haven't had a chance to tell Cornelius about your trip, either. . . .” As the two men led him away, Miranda snatched the gavel from his hand and picked up the doll from the stand. Now would be a good time to direct the buyers to the refreshments, if she hadn't given them all away. She wanted to look up but she couldn't without seeing the handsome man waiting at the foot of the stage. She drew a shaky breath and then announced, “Forgive us the interruption. The sale will begin shortly.”

But no one moved. She hugged the apple doll over her sapphire bosom and turned to exit at the back, but before she could make it to the curtain, Wyatt was there.

“Thirty dollars,” he said. “Thirty dollars for the doll and the pie as long as it's delivered by you.”

She hurried out of the salon and into the warehouse area. “Are you mocking me?”

With quick steps, he followed. “Not at all. But you haven't accepted my bid. Aren't you supposed to bang on the stand and say something? Going . . . going . . . gone?”

“This isn't funny,” she whispered.

“Miranda . . .”

A warm thrill ran up her spine at the sound of her name on his lips. The squares of marble spun beneath her feet. Every snub she'd made in Missouri, every insult played back to her. How she'd put on airs, and now Wyatt was in Boston and could see for himself what her true condition was. Just another working girl dependent on the upperclass for her wages.

“I apologize for Grandfather. If you want a more formal apology . . .”

“Your dress looks nice.”

Slowly she lowered the apple doll. She'd decided to stop hiding, after all. “Since I've been back, I've tried to wear colors besides brown,” she said. “And maybe I've had more courage for other things, too.”

Although how she could talk to him standing there in a perfectly tailored suit, looking every bit of the dashing catch the
Herald
proclaimed him to be, she couldn't fathom. Then the dread returned. “How are you finding Boston?”

“It ain't like home,” he chuckled. “I got chewed out something fierce by the driver for giving the newspaper boys rides in the buggy.”

Miranda blurted out a laugh. “You did?”

“It was raining. I had empty seats.”

Despite her nervousness, she couldn't stop the smile from breaking out. She'd rather hear about that than the fine parties he was attending. And just maybe this was one wealthy man who would understand the barriers the poor boys faced.

“You do have a lot of treasures,” he said. “Almost as many as Mrs. Rinehart.”

“But none from Montgomery Wards.” She found herself gazing up at him as a warm contentment covered her. They hadn't changed him. Even if she didn't see him again, there was satisfaction in knowing that he was every bit the man she'd thought he was.

Miranda walked Wyatt through the warehouse and back toward the front entry. Along the way, they strolled between the tall rows of shelves. Clocks, lamps, candlesticks, paintings—the treasure from one hundred homes, and she could only think of the man at her side.

“You don't mind if I keep this catalog, do you?” He slowed before a Boucher of a couple embracing on the banks of a creek. “When I read it, I'll hear your voice.”

Why did he need something to remember her by? Was this a farewell? “Take it,” she said. Then on impulse she shoved the doll toward him. “And this, too. It's something to remind you of home.” And then, just in case he thought she was being sentimental, “We have crates of them.”

Gently he took the doll out of her hand. He turned it over, as if inspecting the work. “Seeing you here, I realize how dumb I was to think . . .” He rubbed his thumb against the wrinkled apple face.

To think? To think . . . what? Miranda searched his face, but with his tailored clothes and clean-shaven jaw, he once again felt unfamiliar.

“I should go. Corinne is taking me to dinner . . . I mean lunch . . . But before I go, I wanted to apologize to you.” He lifted his eyes to hers. “I shouldn't have accused you of stealing the painting from me. I had no reason to think you'd do that.”

“You had plenty of reasons to suspect me. But I accept your apology.” She heard Father take the stage and knock the gavel against the podium. The sale was recommencing.

“I have an apology to make, too,” Miranda said. “I was so focused on the consequences to my family that I didn't consider how that painting could change your life. If I'd understood, I wouldn't have expected you to hand it over.”

“Thank you,” Wyatt said. “I didn't want to leave any misunderstanding between us. It's nice to have that settled.”

But nothing was settled, least of all her heart.

She understood why he had to have the painting, but did she understand why he needed her? Wyatt wasn't sure. She hadn't agreed to marry him in Pine Gap, and now that she was home with her family—and that uptight doctor, Cornelius—she might never take him seriously.

Wyatt spotted the door he'd entered and followed the long corridor of furniture to the front. Seeing her again, the first familiar face in this strange land, was too much for him. If he wasn't careful, he'd blurt out another proposal here in the storeroom.

A man didn't go begging a woman. If she turned him down flat, he ought not bring it up again, but she'd asked for time. How long was enough? Besides, there were a million reasons Miranda would turn down a poor sale-barn manager in Missouri. He only hoped the reasons that mattered didn't apply to a millionaire in Boston.

But he wouldn't waste his only chance here and now. Wait until one of them fancy dance parties they kept promising him. That would be a good place. Ladies were supposed to get all sentimental about such events.

They came to the end of the warehouse portion of the building, and who should be waiting for them but Cornelius. You could roast a duck over the steam coming off his ears.

“You're leaving?” he asked.

“I'll call on you soon, Miranda.” Wyatt wasn't going to ask for permission, especially in front of that tonic-swiggling fool.

“I'll walk you out,” she said.

“That's hardly necessary,” Cornelius said.

“But extremely pleasant,” Wyatt answered, then leaned toward Cornelius and whispered, “By the way, I did my own examination of her skull and found her to be remarkable in every way.”

Then before he could respond, they scuttled past and into the salon. Directly into the path of a strangely agitated Mr. Stuyvesant.

Compulsively wiping his hands on his suitcoat, Mr. Stuyvesant's cheeks glowed an angry red.

“You should be ashamed of yourself.”

Wyatt shot a glance at Miranda, but she looked as puzzled as he felt.

“Mr. Stuyvesant,” Wyatt said. “How can I help you?”

“You can board the next train out of Boston and never return. To think my own precious daughter entertained a charlatan like you. I hope the LeBlancs prosecute you to the full extent of the law.” His voice had gathered strength until it echoed off the high ceiling in the salon.

“I don't know what you're talking about,” but he understood it to be an insult. “You'd better have a good reason for your accusations or be ready to eat your words with a fist-fork.”

“Wyatt,” Miranda pled, “I'm sure Mr. Stuyvesant doesn't mean to cause an incident on our premises. Once his meaning is clear—”

“My meaning is this,” Mr. Stuyvesant said. “The hearing has concluded, and the LeBlancs have prevailed. The judge has decided that this man has no evidence to support his claim. We don't know who he is, but he is not a LeBlanc.”

The sight of the furious man blurred before Wyatt's eyes. It couldn't be right. Hadn't Frederic recognized him immediately? Hadn't Corinne found his parents' marriage certificate? Suddenly his new collar felt like it was strangling him. His stiff new shirt chafed his skin.

Who do you think you are? Who do you think
you are?

Those words had haunted him his entire life. In his stronger moments he could combat the uncertainty, but not now. Not in this room full of rich men, raising their monocles to inspect him, murmuring behind their sales catalogs, shaking their heads in disapproval.

Ignoring Miranda's pleas, Wyatt marched out of the building.

He didn't know who he was, but evidently he wasn't the man for her.

“Wyatt, where are you going?” Miranda trotted two steps before Cornelius grabbed her by the arm.

“Didn't you hear? He's an imposter. You knew they'd find out soon enough.”

“Let go,” Miranda said as Cornelius dragged her back into the warehouse and away from prying eyes. “He needs me.”

Cornelius spun her around and grasped her shoulders. “What he needs is a stern lecture about the impertinence of impersonating a gentleman. And I won't have you making a fool of yourself chasing after him. . . .”

Pulling backwards, Miranda earned a foot of space between
them before lunging forward and using all her momentum to crash her thick, submissive skull right into Cornelius's nose.

“Oww!” He released her and shielded his nose, which was spouting blood profusely. “You broke my nose.”

“With my lump of cautiousness,” she called over her shoulder as she raced through the crowd of startled bidders.

She hit the doors at full steam, nearly plowing over a rotund man who'd been in the unfortunate position of opening one of them. Bounding to the street, she stopped and looked both ways but didn't see Wyatt anywhere.

Frantically she waved Connor and Ralphie over to her. They dodged carriages as they scurried across the busy road.

“Did you see a man leave just now?” she asked. “A tall man with blond hair?”

Connor adjusted his cap. “Large man, walks like an admiral?”

How long would he keep his swagger? Gulping, she nodded. “That's him.”

“We know him,” Ralphie said. “He gives us rides sometimes. He jumped in his buggy and took off. You can't catch him now.”

Again, she looked down the crowded street, but the traffic was rolling too quickly. She couldn't get ahead of him, even if she knew where he was going.

But another buggy pulled up to the front of the auction house. The jet black buggy, the horses, the swaying velvet curtain could only be one family's. Expecting to see the elegant woman who'd commissioned the purchase of the LeBlancs' painting, Miranda had to do a second look when the man disembarked.

“I know you.” Miranda narrowed her eyes and followed his path back to the carriage. It'd been a few months, but she remembered. “You were the one who bought the LeBlanc painting for that lady, weren't you?”

He dipped his head in shy acknowledgment. “William Sears, also known as the horse buyer from Arkansas who came to observe the two of you, but I'm afraid my efforts were in vain.”

“The Calhouns' friend?” Miranda gasped. “And the man in the barn? You look so different here.”

William shrugged. “You didn't look beyond my ragged clothes to see the person.”

Evidently Miranda made that mistake more than she'd care to admit. “Where's Wyatt?” she asked.

“I had hopes that you would know.”

“He was here, but someone ran in and said something about a hearing, then he left.”

William frowned. “I wanted to reach him with the news first. Frederic should've never let King take it before his hand-picked judge. We believe Wyatt's claim is true, but a court needs hard evidence—evidence we didn't have. The judge threw his case out.”

They didn't believe him? As much as she'd ridiculed Wyatt, she was surprised to realize that she had every confidence in his story now. “So what happens? What will become of him?”

“His prospects aren't promising. Mr. King is allowing him enough money for a train ticket to his home and, ironically, the judge ruled that the painting was his, as it was given to him by a member of the family.”

“After all the hullaballoo, the court decided the painting was his after all?” Miranda's eyes stung. “But acknowledgement from the family was really what he was after. This aunt of his, she'll be able to help, won't she?”

“I'm afraid not. Her funds are limited to her allowance, which after this fiasco will be curtailed by the financial manager.”

“Monty King?” Miranda asked.

“Yes, ma'am.”

Again her eyes traveled the street. He was going back to Missouri? At least while he was being courted by Boston society, she knew he was being looked after. What about now? Would Isaac welcome him back after he'd given up his place at the sale barn? Did he even have a home any longer?

The giant oak door thudded closed behind him. Wyatt shifted the awkward gilt frame into his left arm and pulled his hat on. Stupid bowler. He shouldn't have let them get rid of his slouch hat in the first place. He was who he was—a LeBlanc who had the benefit of growing up a Ballentine. Because of that he knew how to take care of himself—something poor Uncle Frederic had never learned.

Uncle Frederic hadn't realized that Monty could manipulate the law just as he manipulated those account books. Now, seeing no end in sight for his mismanagement and the exploitation of his weakness, Frederic was nearly having an apoplectic fit.

Two ladies decked out like parade horses slowed as they passed him still standing on the LeBlancs' steps. Out of habit he tipped his hat. They giggled and hurried on past, throwing a second glance over their shoulders. They hadn't heard. By morning it'd be in those papers his young friends on auction house corner were hawking.

The auction.

Miranda.

What was he going to do? He was a stranger in a strange land. His train fare would buy him a few weeks of lodging, maybe meals to last half that long if he didn't go home . . . and he wasn't going.

He didn't have the foggiest notion of where to stay, but he knew this neighborhood wouldn't shelter him. Instinctively he headed north toward the rougher areas he'd passed through. He didn't know why God had led him to Boston, but he'd said good-bye to Missouri. It was the past. His future was here.

He strode down the sidewalk, drawing amused looks. How could he forget the painting tucked beneath his arm? Yes, he probably did look crazy, but Grandpère LeBlanc was staying with him. He'd keep him until he had his own home where he could hang him proudly.

Tilting the frame so he could get a look at the man, he muttered, “It's just you and me now. But you're a good reminder that if anyone can make something of themselves here, I can. Just wait and see.”

I didn't come here penniless. You have
some catching up to do.

“Well I'm not wearing silky short pants, either, and that's one factor in my favor.”