Читать книгу Family of Her Dreams - Keli Gwyn - Страница 15

Chapter Six

“Absolutely not.” Spencer couldn’t believe what Tess had suggested. She’d been here all of two weeks, and yet she had the audacity to barge into his office and stick that aristocratic nose of hers where it didn’t belong. He’d come to value her opinions, but she’d gone too far this time.

“If you would allow me to explain...”

He stood behind his desk. She faced him, unflinching. Because of the high heels on her boots, the thick brown braid wound around her crown and that monstrosity of a hat, she had several inches on him. It was too bad he couldn’t wear his top hat indoors.

Although he had no intention of changing his mind, he would hear her out. “Kindly take a seat, and we can discuss this.”

She sat tall and proud. Spencer remained standing and tapped the toe of his boot. The sooner she got to the point, the sooner he could get back to work.

The forthright woman wasted no time stating her case. “I don’t want to leave the children with Polly any longer than necessary, so I’ll be direct. Parting with a loved one’s possessions can be difficult, but it’s a necessary step in the grieving process. I can’t begin to imagine how difficult it must be for you to see your late wife’s things every time you open your clothes cupboard.”

“I’m fine.”

“I felt sure you’d say that, but there’s another factor to take into consideration—Luke’s feelings.”

Feelings? Why did women put so much stock in them? He had no desire to discuss his or his son’s. “Leave him out of this.”

She forged ahead as though she hadn’t heard him. “I believe much of his misbehavior stems from the fact that he’s grieving the loss of his mother. If you were to allow him to help me pack up her things and face his loss head on, I feel certain you’d see a change.”

“I’ll have a talk with him and tell him he must regain control of himself.”

Tess had the audacity to laugh in his face, a musical sound he usually enjoyed. But not today. “This is Luke we’re taking about. A mere boy. He’s too young to master his emotions.” She sobered at his frown. “Oh, dear. I’ve angered you.”

“You presume to know my feelings now?” She had no idea what he was dealing with. How waking each morning alone in the room he and Trudy had shared brought back the stabbing pain that had pierced his heart when she’d drawn her last breath. How dragging himself to the railway station day after day required Herculean effort.

She persisted. “You’re clenching your hands.”

He unfurled the fists he hadn’t realized he’d formed. “I’m not angry. I’m...frustrated. You waltz in here with no warning, interrupt my work and expect me to make a decision on the spot.” He placed his palms on his desktop and leaned forward. “Let me make myself clear. I want things left as they are. I know what’s best for my family, and you will abide by my wishes.”

“I would if I could, but I can’t keep quiet, not when one of your children is hurting. Luke let it slip that he misses his mother. Please give me permission. If not for your sake, for his.” She lifted pleading eyes to him. Warm cocoa-brown eyes with the longest lashes he’d ever seen.

“He told you he’s missing her? He hasn’t said anything to me.”

“Boys don’t like to admit weakness—even sadness—to their fathers.”

She was right. He would never think of telling his father how much he missed his mother. “Fine. You’ve made your point. You may remove all her things.”

“What would you like me to do with them? Store them in the attic? Donate them to the missionary barrels? Or...?”

He spread the next day’s train schedules on his desk. “Do whatever you’d like. I don’t care. Just don’t bring this up again. Please.” He had a job to do and didn’t have time to think about such matters.

Tess stood. Her every word was clothed with compassion. “I’m sorry this is such a difficult time for you. I wish I could do more to help.”

“Do your job. That’s all I ask.”

Sadness filled her eyes. She quickly blinked it away, sent him a polite smile and left, giving him the impression he’d disappointed her.

So be it. He didn’t need her sympathy. All he wanted was to be left alone.

* * *

Red. Every one of Trudy Abbott’s tiny dresses boasted a different shade. A petite woman, such as she’d been, could wear the vibrant color and look stunning. Tess preferred her understated blues. People made enough fuss about her height as it was without drawing more attention by looking like a red-hot poker.

The massive wardrobe in Spencer’s room held few of his items but brimmed with his late wife’s clothing. Tess pulled out a gown and laid the stunning creation on the four-poster bed. Luke sat cross-legged in the middle. He grabbed the dress and plunged his face into the folds. Was the dear boy crying?

He lowered the glossy fabric, his lips downturned in a pronounced pout. “I can’t smell her anymore. She used to smell like roses.”

“She must have worn rosewater. I do sometimes, but the scent doesn’t last long.”

He shoved the dress aside, scooted up to the headboard and leaned against it, his arms folded. He narrowed his eyes and shot daggers at Tess. “I don’t wanna help.”

“Hush now. I don’t want you to wake your sister. You can just watch, but I would like your help with one thing. I don’t know which of these dresses were your mama’s favorites. Do you?”

He shook his head, but the telltale twitch around his mouth was a clear indication he wasn’t being truthful. She held up the crimson silk, a gown so exquisite she wondered where the woman would have worn it. “Do you remember her wearing this one?”

Luke’s expression didn’t change, so Tess set the dress aside. She worked her way through a burgundy brocade, a scarlet satin and a vermillion velvet. Not one of the ornately trimmed garments—none of which showed wear—evoked a response. She reached for a calico the color of cherries generously kissed by the sun that had obviously seen a season or two, and Luke jerked his head. Three more calicos, two lawns and a red-and-white checked gingham elicited similar responses. Tess added the dresses to the growing pile.

Trudy Abbott had owned far more clothing than a small-town housewife needed. If Tess were to venture a guess, she’d say the woman had come from a family of means. If that was the case, how had she ended up married to Spencer and living in a remote community like Shingle Springs? Someone of her tastes generally gravitated to Sacramento City or San Francisco.

Luke inched forward, casting surreptitious glances at Tess. She averted her gaze but kept him in her peripheral vision. When he reached the pile of his mother’s everyday dresses, he leaned over and sniffed one as he’d done earlier. He beamed. “I can smell her!”

Tess didn’t have the heart to tell the dear boy she’d dabbed herself with rosewater before leaving her room at the boardinghouse and that some of the scent must have come off on the clothing. “How nice.”

He clamored off the bed and darted out of the room, making little sound in his stocking-clad state, for which Tess was grateful. Moments later he returned clutching his crib-size quilt. He rubbed a corner of it against his mother’s dress, put the fabric to his nose and drew in a deep breath. Seemingly satisfied, he lay on his side, silent but watchful. And still.

By the time Tess had folded the dresses and stowed them in some crates she’d found in the barn, Luke had fallen asleep with the quilt pressed to his cheek. She’d never seen him as relaxed, even in slumber. She leaned over and pressed a kiss to his brow.

An idea struck her. She located the bottle of rosewater that had belonged to Luke’s mother and flicked several drops of the floral-scented liquid on Luke’s quilt. The fragrance, although strong now, would fade quickly, but perhaps smelling it again would help lock the scent in his memory.

Now to make good use of the unexpected hour while both children slept. She could spare them the pain of witnessing the removal of their mother’s things from the house.

Working quickly, Tess stowed the items from the dressing table in a crate. She opened the bureau drawers Spencer’s wife had used and removed an impressive selection of nightwear and unmentionables, including several pair of expensive silk stockings.

She picked up a stack of corsets, and a bundle of letters tied with a red ribbon fell at her feet. Letters exchanged between Mr. Spencer Abbott in California and Miss Trudy Endicott of Houston, Texas. Love letters most likely.

Unsure what to do, Tess added them to the crate. Spencer had said he didn’t want to talk about his late wife’s things, but she had no choice. Surely he’d want to save something so special. He might not be up to reading the letters now, but in time they could serve to bring him comforting reminders of his courtship.

Letters were important. Those she’d taken to writing to her someday fiancé on her birthday each year brought her solace in the midst of her loneliness. She used her real name, Faith, when she penned them. Somehow it seemed fitting that the man she hoped to marry would be the only person to know the name—along with the sensitive side of her that she kept hidden. She certainly wouldn’t want to lose those letters.

She carted the crates downstairs and added Trudy’s hats and cloak from the foyer, her aprons from the kitchen and her sewing basket from the parlor. Tess didn’t have the heart to remove anything more than the most obvious personal items. She stowed the crates in the attic, where they would available should Spencer or the children want to see Trudy’s things again someday.

Her task complete, she moved from room to room. Although the changes were subtle, the removal of the ever-present reminders of his late wife might lessen Spencer’s pain. Would he notice the difference?