Legacy of Love

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After changing into clothes that were better than most people’s Sunday best, the man helped her clean the kitchen. He was worse than useless, but then Anna had to remind herself that she’d been a lousy housekeeper when she’d first started cleaning for Mariah at the orphanage. Still, when she told Brandon to scrub the table, he’d worked and worked at it until she thought he’d rub right through the varnish.

Before scrubbing he’d eaten the bits of her demolished plum pudding. At first she’d taken it as a compliment, but then she realized the poor man was hungry. She’d stuck his beef cutlet in the warming oven and forgot about it. By now it must be as dry as shoe leather. To his credit, he’d never once asked what had happened to his meal. Her boiling temper died to a simmer and then cooled.

She pulled the cutlet from the warming oven and set it on the table. “I’m afraid I ruined it.”

“Nonsense.” He sat down with knife and fork and attempted to hack off a bite.

“I’ll make something else.” She reached for a match, but he hopped to his feet and stilled her hand.

“I’ll cook something later.”

“You know how to use a stove?” She could not imagine Brandon cooking. Ever.

“I’m a bachelor. I have to do many things for myself.”

She doubted he had ever cooked or cleaned. Men of his social class hired housekeepers or ate at a club or restaurant. They did not cook.

Still, she kept her doubts to herself. It was pleasant working beside him. She kept glancing over to make sure he wasn’t making a bigger mess, and occasionally she found him looking at her. Their glances didn’t meet for more than a second, but each time it sent an unexpected thrill through her.

When he worked near her, she could smell that sagelike scent that was all his. She closed her eyes to drink it in, and jumped when he touched her.

“Are you all right?” He looked concerned.

Oh, yes, she was more than all right, though if she had to admit it, his nearness both excited and terrified her. And when she stuck her hand in her apron pocket and felt his handkerchief with his monogrammed initials, she ran her fingers over the embroidery and imagined what it would be like to be Mrs. B.L.

“Can we make another duff?”

Anna shook her head. “The fruit and nuts have to sit for a week.”

“A week? Why would you make such a difficult dish?”

“For Christmas. It’s like plum pudding.”

His gray eyes twinkled in the electric lights. “Like in Dickens’s Christmas Carol?”

She nodded.

“I’m sorry. Perhaps there’s something else you can make.” He stood and mopped his forehead.

She noticed he’d stopped using his cane a while ago, and though he balanced against the table when moving about, he could stand perfectly well without the aid of his cane.

“What happened to your leg?” she blurted out, and then, when she saw his expression tighten, instantly regretted the question. “I’m sorry.”

“No, no. It’s an honest question. It happened in the war.” He offered no further explanation.

“It’s not much, hardly noticeable.”

If anything, his scowl deepened.

Anna tried again. “The cane is so distinguished. Don’t all rich men carry them?”

His eyebrows lifted. “You think I’m rich?”

The way he said it sent shivers down her spine, as if she’d just accused him of the worst thing possible. “W-w-well, you have a nice house, one of the biggest on the hill.”

At last his expression eased, though it didn’t return to the pleasant conviviality of moments before. “I suppose it would seem big to you.”

The words cut deeply. Yes, she was poor, and he was rich, but he didn’t need to be rude about it.

“It was meant as a compliment. I counted seven bedrooms, two parlors, a formal dining room, this large kitchen and two washrooms. You even have running water.”

After a moment, he apologized. “I appreciate your powers of observation and your curiosity.” He took a deep breath. “I’m afraid I’m not accustomed to personal questions.”

“I won’t do it again,” she said, fingering the handkerchief.

His mouth quirked up at one corner, making him look younger and even a bit mischievous. “Don’t make promises you can’t keep.”

Anna fought an answering grin. “I’ll try not to pry.”

His laughter rumbled with surprising warmth. “Stay curious. If not for curiosity, Mr. Carter would never have found King Tutankhamun’s tomb.”

A thrill ran through her. Brandon had just compared her to Howard Carter. Maybe he would help her follow in the man’s footsteps.

“I want to do that, to find a lost tomb like he did,” she gushed, the words coming out so quickly that they jumbled together.

He smiled, and a dimple appeared in his chin. “Maybe someday you will.”

Anna caught her breath. He’d practically promised to help her.

Chapter Six

Brandon got out of his automobile and peered at the unimposing two-story house that served as a parsonage. The place looked strangely quiet, considering Sunday dinner was about to take place. The pastor had indicated the entire extended family would be attending. True, Hendrick Simmons’s automobile was still parked at the carriage house, but Brandon expected to see one or two other cars here.

Not so.

Brandon hesitated at the foot of the steps, wondering if Pastor Gabe had taken ill or was called away on emergency.

“There you are,” called out the youthful minister from the front door. “Come on in.”

Despite the icy December day, Pastor Gabe dressed in shirtsleeves, rolled up to the elbow, much more informal than Brandon expected for Sunday dinner.

He mounted the steps with care, using the handrail to ensure he didn’t lose his balance. “I expected to see a car or two in front of the house.”

Gabe held the door open for him. “You’re the first to arrive.”

“I am? It’s almost two o’clock.”

“The others will be here soon.”

Brandon stepped over the threshold and into a Christmas fantasy. Every wall, shelf and table was decorated with greenery, ribbons and bows. The parlor contained some of the finest mahogany furniture that money could buy. A large tree graced the far corner, covered with garlands and crystal ornaments that looked like they’d come from Tiffany. The overpowering scent of cloves must be coming from the apple-shaped golden pomanders. The room reflected high society on a small scale. That certainly did not fit the minister’s casual dress and manner. The church must be doing very well indeed.

“Mr. Landers.” An elegantly dressed, willowy woman approached with a radiant smile. “It’s such a pleasure to finally meet you. Gabe has told me so much—all good. May I take your coat?”

“Pardon my manners,” said the pastor. “Brandon Landers, this is my wife, Felicity, the joy of my life.”

The man’s tender smile made Brandon’s heart ache. His mother and father had once shared that tenderness, before Father let business consume his life.

A baby’s wail sent Felicity upstairs with an apology. “Little Genie—that’s our daughter, Eugenia Louise—must be hungry.”

That left Brandon alone with the minister and a lad of perhaps ten or eleven who watched solemnly from the sofa, a storybook on his lap. He was dressed in the finest boy’s suit New York could offer.

“This is my son, Luke,” Gabe said. “Luke, meet Mr. Landers. He’s opening a bookstore in town.”

The boy closed his book, carefully set it on the end table and stood to shake his hand. “Pleased to meet you, sir.”

Brandon was charmed by Luke’s manners. Too many parents these days let their children run wild, without the slightest attempt to teach discipline and good behavior.

The boy had his father’s dark curls but otherwise didn’t resemble either parent. The dark skin couldn’t have come from that porcelain-complexioned wife. And Pastor Gabe looked to be in his late twenties. His wife was even younger, too young to be the boy’s mother.