An Inconvenient Match. Janet Dean

“He didn’t hesitate to besmirch my name. Instead of finding a job to earn money that would’ve taken care of his family, Wilson did nothing except bad-mouth me, turning public opinion against us, the big, bad Cummingses gobbling up the Wilsons’ eighty acres. The Panic of 1893 would’ve ruined the bank had I not called the Wilson loan and others like it. Everything was legal and within my rights.”

       “Legal, but was it ethical? You bought the Wilson farm then made a huge profit from selling a part of their land a few months later to the Illinois Central Railroad.”

       His father glanced at his bandaged hands. “The railroad’s interest in the land had nothing to do with calling that loan. Time you understood that this family wouldn’t be where we are today if I hadn’t paid attention to earnings. If I’d extended charity to those who couldn’t pay, I’d have gone down in the same sinking ship.”

       Countless times his father had drummed into Wade the importance of making tough choices to ensure a profit, emphasizing that the debits and credits on a balance sheet determined if a man lost everything or emerged a winner.

       Wade wondered what his father had won.

       That fortune he prided himself on accumulating hadn’t given him happiness. His father’s bad temper kept others at arm’s length, even his own family. Valuing money more than human beings made a man hard. So hard that a son couldn’t get close.

       He hoped Abby fared better.

      Chapter Four

      Abigail shot up her parasol, angling it against the morning sun then strode up the block, her skirts swishing at her ankles.

       The Cummingses’ mansion wasn’t far in distance, but as far from her life as she could get here in New Harmony. She wouldn’t be welcome there.

       “Abby! Wait up.” Holding on to her hat with one hand, Rachel bustled across the street to Abigail’s side. “I’m on my way to look after the Logan children. Elizabeth wants to divvy up the money from yesterday’s auction in peace. But, quick, tell me about your lunch with Wade.”

       “There’s nothing to tell, really.”

       Rachel’s eyes glittered with excitement. “Of course there is! Why did he buy your box lunch when you two barely speak?”

       “I’ll tell if you promise not to try to change my mind.”

       Rachel lifted her right hand as if taking an oath on the witness stand. “I promise.”

       By the time Abigail finished the explanation, Rachel’s eyes were the size of silver dollars. “What did your mother say about working for a Cummings?”

       “She doesn’t know.” Abigail tightened her grip on her parasol. “I may be fired before noon. No point in telling my family until I see if I’m keeping the job.”

       “How can you work for George Cummings after what he did to your father?”

       If only she had another way. “I want to help Joe and Lois. The auction should supply the lumber, maybe even the building materials, but nothing else. Right now, neither of them can work.”

       “You’re brave to do this. Everyone in town stands in awe of Mr. Cummings.” She gave Abigail’s arm a squeeze. “I’ll pray for you.”

       “Thank you. Something tells me I’ll need it.”

       “Stop at my house on the way home. I want to hear all about your day.”

       As they exchanged a quick hug, Abigail promised she would. Rachel turned toward the parsonage while Abigail moved toward she knew not what. But she had the intelligence and backbone to handle whatever guff George Cummings threw at her.

       Outside the Cummings gate, wrought of iron, tall and imposing and all but shouting Keep Out, Abigail gulped, lifting her eyes to the three-story structure looming over her. Brick exterior, wood cornices and brackets supported the eaves. A boxy cupola with windows rose above the roof, a watchtower of sorts.

       Abigail had never been inside the mansion, for surely no other word described this commanding house. Yet nothing about the structure was pretentious. The house reflected George Cummings, a man with the money to build a solid house that never let down its guard. Never let others near.

       She unlatched the gate that swung open on well-oiled hinges, then refastened it and marched up the lane circling the front of the house. At the top of the porch steps, she ran a gloved hand along the iron rail. The letter C had been carved into the lower panel of the solid oak door. Above the entrance, the transom’s stained glass sparkled in the morning sun.

       Everything was in perfect condition. Unlike the apartment they rented from the man. Obviously the Cummings put their money where they would benefit.

       To build and maintain this grand house required a great deal of money. Some of that money had come at her family’s expense. How did the man sleep at night?

       Since moving to town as a child, Abigail had attended the same church as George Cummings, walked the same streets, yet she’d never exchanged more than two words with the financier.

       Now she would be his paid companion.

       If not so appalling, the idea would be laughable.

       Yet the money she’d earn would help her sister’s family furnish their home and purchase clothing. No laughing matter. Perhaps even help pay some of the gambling debts crippling them.

      Lord, I need this job. Give me courage.

       She’d handled bullies before, at least of the school-age variety. She hoped George Cummings was up to her presence.

       Pulling in a deep breath, she lifted the lion’s-head knocker and dropped it against the metal plate.

       The door opened, putting her opposite of Wade. At the sight of him, her heart scampered then tumbled. In a tailored black suit with vest, a tie matching his indigo eyes, he looked leaner, taller and more broad shouldered than the day before.

       From his attire, Abigail assumed Wade was on his way out, probably headed to the bank. Nothing could please her more. The less time she spent around the rogue the better.

       So why was a bevy of butterflies dancing low in her belly?

       His dark gaze swept over her hat, gloves, the simple skirt and frilly high-necked blouse she wore in the classroom. The intensity of his regard rippled through her. Her attire wouldn’t compare to the fancy garb of the female students at Harvard.

       Not that she cared.

       He stood staring at her, as if transfixed. “Good morning, Abby,” he said finally.

       Abby was what he’d called her during the days she’d hung on his every word, memorized his every gesture. She couldn’t abide hearing the pet name on his lips. “I prefer Abigail.”

       He opened his mouth but then clamped it shut and stepped aside to let her enter. “Right this way, Abigail.”

       She hadn’t missed his displeasure, but gave no sign of noticing.

       With a no-nonsense nod, she stepped into a marble entry and a world like no other. More reception hall than foyer, a huge marble fireplace dominated the room. A thick wool rug, silent and soft underfoot, covered gleaming parquet floors bordered with a braided design in darker wood. Imagine the craftsmanship needed to produce the intricate inlay. And the cost.

       In the apartment over the bank, planks sagged and squeaked. Gaps between boards collected dust. Over the years Ma had braided scraps of fabric and sewn them together into colorful rugs. She’d quilted coverings for the beds, knitted an afghan for the sofa—done what she could to make the rooms cozier. Last summer Abigail had put a fresh coat of paint on all the walls.

       Their apartment wasn’t stylish, but not all that different from Rachel’s home.

       But this…