The Bride Next Door. Winnie Griggs

glass, then set it back down. “But, as I’ve told her any number of times, it’s better if I go to Boston than if she comes here. Unfortunately, she doesn’t see it that way.”

      “But if it’s that important to her, perhaps you could allow her to come here just one time. You know, to satisfy her curiosity.”

      His exasperated look told her she’d overstepped her bounds. “For her to come here,” he said, “there are significant arrangements that would need to be made—things such as finding a traveling companion and making certain she doesn’t fall behind in any of her classes. Besides, Turnabout is no place for a girl like Abigail. And there aren’t an abundance of activities to entertain and enlighten her here.”

      He broke off a piece of bread with more vigor than was absolutely necessary. “No, it’s much better if I visit her.”

      A girl like Abigail? What did that mean? Was his sister one of those spoiled, pampered debutantes like the ones who’d graced her grandmother’s parlor? Girls who never got their hands dirty or even knew what a callus looked like? But that wasn’t a question she’d ask out loud. “Do you plan to do that? Go visit her, I mean.”

      “Of course. I traveled to Boston to see her over the Christmas holidays and will make another visit sometime this summer. She and I spend our time going to the theater, visiting museums, attending the opera and whatever else she cares to do.”

      Those were the kind of things they enjoyed doing together? “Don’t you two ever go on picnics or take buggy rides through the countryside or just take long walks together?”

      “Since my time with Abigail is limited, I always strive to make it count for something.” His demeanor had stiffened, and his accent was more pronounced. “My sister is being raised as a proper lady, not a hoyden. Those activities add to both her education and her social polish. Their entertainment value is merely an added bonus.”

      Daisy straightened. She supposed she’d been put in her place. And she’d also gotten the distinct impression that Miss Abigail Fulton might be every bit as stuffy as her brother.

      Ah, well, there wasn’t much danger that they would cross paths anytime soon—not if big brother had his way.

      * * *

      Everett was glad when Daisy finally let the silence settle between them. He didn’t care for all this prying into his personal life. Didn’t she understand there were lines one just did not cross? Someone should sit her down and explain the rules of polite society. Not that he thought it would do any good.

      Perhaps she would learn from their interaction.

      His thoughts drifted to that prayer she’d voiced earlier. It had surprised him, in both its simplicity and sincerity. He hadn’t heard anyone pray like that outside of church before. It seemed that her faith was a deeply personal one. But then again, he was beginning to see that she approached nearly everything in her life with everything she had.

      If she was going to make it on her own, and try to establish a business, she’d have to learn to be more objective and circumspect in her approach.

      Perhaps that was something else he could teach her.

      Chapter Six

      Daisy blew the hair off her forehead as she dried the last of the dishes. There was plenty of stew left over, and it would keep fine on the stove’s warming plate until Mr. Fulton was ready for his evening meal.

      She hung the dishrag over the basin, then looked around to check if anything else needed her attention before she headed home. Kip would be ready to go for a walk, and she was eager to get back to work fixing up her new home. But she wouldn’t leave until she’d made certain she met her obligations here.

      Mr. Fulton was fastidiously neat, and she was determined to leave the place as orderly as it had been when she arrived, if not more so. And she’d start by arranging his cupboards in a more logical manner. Logical from a cook’s perspective, at any rate.

      A freestanding cupboard on the far wall seemed to be the ideal place to store items that were seldom used. She crossed over to it and opened the doors, then smiled when she found it held only a few mismatched cups. She could certainly put it to better use than that. Satisfied, she closed the doors, then paused.

      Was that a crack in the wall behind the cupboard? It was mostly in shadow, but as she looked closer, she noticed the crack was perfectly straight.

      Then her eyes widened. It was a door, painted over to match the surrounding wall. What with that and the fact that it was mostly hidden by the cupboard, it was easy to overlook.

      Why had the door been so cunningly hidden? And what was behind it? It didn’t appear to have been opened in quite some time. Did Everett even know it was here?

      The doorknob was behind the cupboard, making it impossible for her to even try to open it. She studied it, hands on her hips, her curiosity growing. After all, who could resist the allure of a hidden door?

      Removing her apron, Daisy headed downstairs.

      * * *

      Everett finished cleaning his printing equipment and arched his back, trying to ease the kink in his muscles. After ten months of trial and error, he finally considered himself proficient with the various aspects of the printing process, though there were some tasks he still didn’t particularly enjoy. Back in Philadelphia, he’d been a respected reporter with a major paper. His job had been to write the stories—getting those stories to print had been someone else’s job, and he’d rarely given it a second thought. But here he was responsible for every aspect of getting the paper out.

      Which was another reason he was doing everything in his power to find another position as a reporter for a large newspaper once more.

      He wiped his hands on a cloth as that squeaky stair announced Daisy was on her way down. “All done?” he asked, moving toward his desk to get her payment.

      “I am.” She glanced at one of his trays of print type. “How come all your letters look backward?”

      “That’s the way type is set for printing.” He saw her puzzled look and explained further. “Think of it as looking at a reflection. The type is the mirror image of what the printed page will be.”

      Her expression cleared. “Imagine that. So you have to set all those letters into backward words so the print comes out frontward on the paper.”

      “Not the most eloquent way of explaining it, but yes.”

      She shook her head. “That sounds like it would be difficult to keep straight in your head. I know it would make me go all cross-eyed.”

      She did have a colorful way of speaking. “It is a tedious job. I will admit, even after several months at it, I find myself having to focus totally on what I’m doing or I’ll get it wrong.” It had given him a whole new appreciation for professional typesetters. He just hoped he didn’t have to be one much longer.

      But enough of this chitchat—he had work to do. “Here are your wages,” he said, handing them over.

      She accepted them with a thank-you, but didn’t head for the door as he’d expected.

      “Was there anything else?”

      “I was wondering if you knew about the door in the wall behind your cupboard?”

      What was she talking about? “A door? Are you certain?”

      That got her back up. “I know a door when I see one.”

      Everett moved toward the stairs. “Show me.”

      She marched up ahead of him, then wordlessly waved him toward the far wall.

      Everett drew closer to the cupboard, studying the wall behind it. Sure enough, there was the obvious outline of a door. How had he missed spotting it in all the time he’d lived here?

      “I take