Follow the Heart (33 page)

“We’ve had a letter from John. He has sold his mercantile and is coming home.”

The news of her brother broke through Nora’s distraction. “Coming home? But in all of his letters, he went on about how much he loves California. Did he say why?”

“Apparently, someone offered him more money to buy it from him than he could turn down. Combined with the profits he has already made, your brother is coming home a very wealthy man.”

A couple of months ago, Nora would have heard such news with blinding envy. Now, however . . . “I am happy for him. He deserves his success, after all of his hard work.”

A frown pinched Mama’s thin eyebrows together. “And what of your father’s hard work? Or your sister’s or your other brother’s? Why should John be the only one rewarded for toiling away?”

Nora rubbed her hand across the back of her mother’s, then lifted it and kissed each rough, cracked knuckle. For years, Mama had taken in washing to make extra money to augment Father’s reduced wages at the mill after his hand was injured and he became a bookkeeper—quite a step down from his former position as mill foreman. “I am not saying that none of the rest of us deserves success. But at least someone in our family managed to find it.” She clasped Mama’s hand in both of hers, leaning halfway across the table to do so. “And since it
is
John, you know that he will love nothing better than to come home and do whatever he can to make you and Father comfortable, perhaps even allow Father to stop working such long hours just to put food on the table and oil in the lamps.”

Mama’s frown eased, and she reached up to caress Nora’s cheek. “You have grown up, girl. Last time you were home, when John was packing to leave, you railed against the injustice of John’s going and leaving you behind.”

Heat climbed into Nora’s cheeks. She straightened, pulling her hands back and settling them in her lap. “That is because . . . Mama, there is something—”

Nora jumped at a knock on the front door. “I’ll get it.” She leapt up from the table and hurried from the kitchen and down the central hall, smoothing her hair, loose from the band of ribbon at her crown, back over her shoulders.

The door swung open at Nora’s yank. Two large hands cupped her face, and Christopher Dearing leaned down and kissed her. Nora lost all sensation in her body except for the exquisite pressure of Christopher’s lips on hers, and the heat flaring in her chest. She clung to the doorknob with one hand and to Christopher’s lapel with the other to keep from crumpling to the floor.

Christopher ended the kiss and gathered Nora up in his arms, lifting her so her toes barely touched the wood planks. She wrapped her arms around his neck, one hand buried in his sandy-brown hair.

“Oh, I have missed you.” His breath against her ear made her whole neck tingle.

“And I have missed you. But Christopher, the neighbors . . .”

He stepped into the hall, keeping her in his arms, and closed the door behind them. She let the embrace continue a moment longer—until she heard a chair scrape against the floor in the kitchen.

“Put me down. Put me down,” she whispered. She barely had time to straighten her lace collar before her mother appeared in the hallway.

“Nora, who was at the door?” Mama stopped short when she saw Christopher standing beside Nora.

“Mama, this is Mr. Christopher Dearing, nephew of Sir Anthony. Mr. Dearing is a lawyer for the London and North Western Railway and works from their offices here in Manchester. I”—Nora glanced up at him—“wired him yesterday before leaving London and invited him to come for tea this afternoon.”

“Mrs. Woodriff.” Christopher extended his right hand toward Mama. “It is a great honor to meet you. Nor—your daughter has spoken of you quite often.”

Mama looked at his hand a moment before shaking it. “I wish I could say the same, lad, but this is the first I’ve heard of you.”

“Won’t you please come into the sitting room, Mr. Dearing?” Nora’s voice came out high pitched, her words faster than normal. “I am certain Father will be along shortly.”

“I heard the whistle from the mill as I rounded the corner.” Christopher ducked to keep from hitting his head on the low lintel of the door into the small front room.

“You sound American, Mr. Dearing.” Mama motioned him to take Father’s favorite chair, nearest the fireplace.

“Yes, ma’am. From Philadelphia, Pennsylvania.”

Nora took Christopher’s hat and coat. “I shall go and finish preparing the tea tray, Mama, while you and Mr. Dearing become better acquainted.” She escaped to the kitchen, where she draped Christopher’s coat across the back of a chair and set his hat in the seat. She held on to the chair and focused on calming her breathing.

He was here. In her house. About to . . . about to ask . . .

The clatter of the front door brought her to her senses, and she took the kettle off the fire, added fresh tea leaves to the teapot, and poured the water in. She set it on the large tray with four matching ceramic cups, of the set she and her sister had scrimped and saved for two years to buy for their mother for Christmas several years ago, and carried it into the sitting room.

Father and Christopher were shaking hands when she entered. “Father, you have met Mr. Dearing?”

A burly man with bushy gray sidewhiskers to make up for the lack of hair on top of his head, her father turned to greet her, his brown eyes twinkling. “Aye, Daughter. I met your beau. But I’ll not be taking kindly to his having my chair.” He winked at Nora and stepped forward to take the tray from her. “No food?”

Nora laughed and kissed her father’s cheek. “It’s on another tray. I shall go get it.” Joy swelled through her and made her want to sing and skip and spin as she returned to the kitchen for the tray of sandwiches and biscuits.

Back in the sitting room, her father had indeed ousted the usurper from his chair, and Christopher sat alone on the small settee, with Mama in the adjacent armchair. Leaving only the spot on the settee beside Christopher vacant.

The nerves under her skin waltzing to the rhythm of her heart, Nora poured tea—adding sugar and no milk to Christopher’s, just the way he liked it—and handed everyone a plate with a cucumber-and-watercress sandwich and two biscuits.

Christopher looked up at her when she moved beside him to sit, and Nora almost swooned from the surge of affection—dare she call it love?—that overwhelmed her. She sat beside him, sipped her tea, and picked at her food while Christopher answered her parents’ questions about his background and family and new job.

Her father finally set his empty teacup and plate back onto the table and braced his fists against his knees, leaning forward. “What are your intentions toward my daughter, Mr. Dearing?”

Nora could have screamed with vexation. Her father enjoyed making people uncomfortable, and she’d hoped he would refrain from trying it with Christopher.

Rather than appearing intimidated, though, Christopher grinned and also set his plate and cup and saucer on the table. “Sir, I assure you my intentions are quite honorable. You see, I came here to ask your blessing and for your daughter’s hand in marriage.”

Nora bit her bottom lip, trying to keep her heart from leaping up into her throat. She exchanged a glance with her mother—and both broke into wide smiles.

Father rubbed the gray stubble on his chin, making a rasping sound that grated on Nora’s already frayed patience. “And this job of yours—it pays enough for you to support a wife?”

Nora closed her eyes and shook her head at her father’s persistent interrogation.

“Yes, sir—and because I am brilliant and can ingratiate myself to anyone, I am certain that I will rise quickly in the firm and not only be able to support Nora and our family, but to do so in a handsome manner.” The lilt in Christopher’s deep voice made it sound as if he would break out in laughter at any moment.

Father stopped rubbing his chin. The corners of his lips twitched, but he squinted at Christopher. “So you intend to stay in England and not abscond with my daughter back to America?”

Nora took a breath and opened her mouth to insist her father stop with his falderal, but Christopher took hold of her hand and squeezed.

“Mr. Woodriff, I am committed to staying with the London and North Western for the next four years. After that time, if I do end up returning to America, I will make sure that Nora returns home to visit at least as often as she has been able to for the past twelve years.” Christopher’s brown eyes held a challenge for her father. Nora knew Christopher resented the fact that she’d been sent away from home at age fourteen to find work to help support her family, but she’d hoped he would not make an issue of it. After all, it was something that was not only unchangeable now, but a blessing in disguise, as it had put her in the Buchanans’ home so she could meet him.

Father looked stunned for a moment at Christopher’s brash words—then threw his head back and laughed. “I like him, Nora. Of course you have my permission to marry her.”

Christopher squeezed her hand again. “Excellent. Thank you, sir. But there is one more thing I need to ask you.”

Nora squeezed his hand back and started praying harder than she ever had in her life.

Kate marveled at the structure of the Crystal Palace—and the number of people gathered along the roads bordering Hyde Park this afternoon to look at it and to watch as scores of workmen unloaded wagons of some of the largest crates Kate had ever seen. Other wagons drove directly into the building to be unloaded.

Florie looked at the paper in her hand. “Cousin Christopher said that the gardens are there”—she pointed to her left and the long side of the building facing southeast—“along with the terraces, the Grand Center Walk, and the cascades and fountains.”

All of which was hidden by trees. Kate sighed. She’d have to wait the few weeks until the Exhibition officially opened to be able to see them.

“Then . . . the model of the cottage for the working classes is not far from the gardens.” Florie waved her hand again and kept walking.

Kate paused at a yank on her elbow. Dorcas—who had held on to Kate’s arm ever since they climbed out of the carriage and entered the crowd to try to get a closer look—had stopped, but her attention was not on the building. “Is that—why it is!” She dropped her hand from Kate’s elbow and dropped into an abbreviated curtsy. “Good day, Lord Thynne.”

He inclined his head. “Good day, Miss Dorcas, Miss Florence.” He finally looked at Kate. “Miss Dearing.”

Kate’s stomach lurched, but not in the exciting way it did when she saw Andrew. She’d grown to dread seeing Stephen—not because of anything he had done, other than propose marriage to her, but because the more she thought about actually marrying him, the worse she felt about her decision to say yes.

“Have you come to see the Crystal Palace?” Florie asked. “Can you get us into the park to see it?”

Stephen smiled at her with his eyes. “No, Miss Florence. Even my influence as a peer of the realm cannot convince them to let us pass through the gate.”

“Mr. Lawton could probably get us in.” Dorcas sighed after her softly spoken statement.

A wave of chills rushed down Kate’s arms at the mention of Andrew’s name. For all she knew, he could be inside that enormous greenhouse at this very moment. So near, yet impossibly distant.

“If you ladies have not yet had tea—and if you are not expected home soon—might I ask you to join me at Thornbury Lodge Inn? It is a bit of a drive from here, but because of that it should not be too crowded.”

Kate wanted to deny his request, to escape his presence, but how could she without raising questions in his and her cousins’ minds? “I am willing if my cousins are.”

Both Dorcas and Florie nodded their heads.

“Very good.” Stephen offered his arm to Kate. “I shall walk you back to your carriage and give the driver the directions.”

Whispering and giggling, Florie and Dorcas hooked arms together and fell in step behind Kate and Stephen. Kate tried resting her hand as lightly as possible in the crook of Stephen’s elbow, tried to stay far enough away that her skirt barely brushed his leg, but the press of the crowd did not allow her to keep that much distance between them.

After handing Kate and her cousins up into the open barouche, Stephen told the driver how to find the inn.

“Will you not ride with us?” Florie asked him.

“My curricle is not far from here. I shall meet you there. I fear leaving it for too long. Although the newspapers report that there has been less crime in the city in the past weeks since the influx of visitors began, I still do not want to take the chance of leaving my horse and carriage longer than necessary.” Stephen touched the brim of his tall top hat, his eyes crinkled in his smileless smile.

Florie, who sat in the backward-facing seat with Kate, wrapped her arm through Kate’s and sighed. “He may not be young, and other men might be more handsome, but he is such a
nice
man. You are so fortunate, Cousin Kate, to be marrying such a man.”

Kate laughed in spite of herself. “Would you say so if he were not a wealthy viscount?”

Her cousin gave the question serious thought before answering, chewing her bottom lip. “Yes. I think I would say so—because I like him. But it is better that he is a wealthy viscount.”