Unwrapping Hope Read online

  Spence recalled the relief on the man’s face. He had done a good deed.

  Maura Crain said so.

  Chapter Four

  “No, Teddy, dear. Legato. Listen carefully.” For the third time in the past ten minutes Phoebe repeated the chord for her pupil. “Play the notes in a smooth manner with no silence, no hesitation in between.”

  The upright piano, though somewhat battered and purchased secondhand, was an extravagant item, considering the rest of her possessions, but one she would never sell, as she had done with her jewelry and all but one of her evening dresses. Without the instrument, she had no livelihood.

  Even so, if she wanted to continue to pay the rent, she must enroll more students. The tuition of those she taught now barely covered the monthly expenses. Hopefully, she would be blessed with a few more pupils who possessed a musical competence.

  Phoebe winced at the sour piano note that pierced her ears. With gentleness and tact, she had told Mrs. Barrett to save her money on lessons because Teddy had no interest in playing the piano. She’d left off saying he had six thumbs. Perhaps she should have added that opinion, because the woman didn’t believe her son possessed no talent or inclination to develop it.

  While Teddy was a sweet boy, any more like him and she might switch to cleaning chimneys for a living...or resort to performing for the wealthy’s social gatherings again.

  No, those days ended six years ago. She would prefer cleaning chimneys to being in the same place with men who reminded her of Maura’s father.

  The boy sneezed and wiped his nose on his sleeve.

  “Phoebe”—her mother trotted into the sitting room—“have you seen Maura?”

  With the urgency in her voice, Phoebe’s insides bounced like Teddy’s fingers on the keys. She jumped from the chair alongside the piano stool. “You sent her out back to play.”

  “I checked on her, and she wasn’t there.”

  “Have you looked in the bedroom?”

  “I’ve looked throughout the house.”

  “And out front?”

  “Front and back. Down the street.” Her mother’s voice rose with panic as she twisted her knotted hands. “Where could she have gone?”

  “We’ll find her.” Phoebe would find her. “Mrs. Barrett should be here shortly. Why don’t you stay with Teddy while I look for Maura.”

  She slipped into her coat and fumbled with the buttons. Her scrabbling fingers exposed her anxiety. She flung open the front door and almost ran into the person on the other side. Him again?

  “I’m afraid I don’t have time to talk to you, Mr. Newland.”

  “Nor I you, Mrs. Crain.”

  When a small face peeked from behind him, Phoebe’s heart thudded with relief. “Maura.” She crouched and reached her arms out. Her child fell into them. “We were worried.”

  “I’m sorry, Mama. This man found me.” Maura peered up at her companion as if the palm of his hand held the moon.

  Years ago Phoebe had seen a similar look in the mirror. If she could go back in time, she would shatter the glass.

  She rose and pressed her daughter to her side. “I’m grateful, Mr. Newland. Where was she?”

  He smiled down at Maura. “At the train station.”

  She should have guessed. “Maura, I’ve told you to never go there by yourself.”

  The child hung her head. “He didn’t come, Mama.”

  “I’m sorry, sweetheart.” Phoebe spoke around a lump the size of a caboose.

  Her mother said, “I’ll take Maura and Teddy to the kitchen.”

  “But I want to stay with Mr. Newland. He’s nice. He gave a man a dollar so he could buy medicine for his sick wife.” Maura slapped her hand over her mouth and mumbled something about a secret.

  The hint of a flush colored Mr. Newland’s cheeks. He had done something kind and wanted to keep it secret? Why?

  “Go with Grandma.”

  “Goodbye, Miss Maura.”

  The three of them left the room, and hushed moments passed between Phoebe and the man who had seen to Maura’s safe return. She was grateful to him. Truly. Anything could have happened to her daughter while alone at the train station.

  “Thank you for seeing Maura home.” The simple statement seemed too insignificant, too matter of fact for the courtesy he had done her family. But why couldn’t someone else have returned her? Why must he be the object of Phoebe’s gratitude?

  “She’s a friendly child.”

  “Very.”

  This was her chance to make amends for last night. “If you’ll wait a moment.” She retrieved the box and returned to the door. Her grip on it tensed before she summoned the resolve to place it in his hands. “You were right. This belongs to you. I apologize for my behavior. It was wrong of me to...to use it as I did.”

  He took the box, and in his steady regard, he seemed to peer into her mind, looking for the answer to her change of heart. He’d find nothing but guilt and, perhaps, a hint of fear over the compulsion to answer his smile with one of her own.

  “Thank you.”

  Now that he had met Maura and liked her, might he be more willing to build her a dollhouse? “Mr. Newland...”

  The question froze on Phoebe’s tongue. What was she doing? She’d had a momentary bout of insanity last night. No use in repeating it and being shamed again. Besides, if he did agree, it meant more contact with him. Given her history, that was akin to placing herself in the path of a rampaging bull.

  “Yes?”

  Rather than a dollhouse, Maura would receive socks for Christmas again this year. “Never mind.”

  “Then I’ll leave you to continue your lesson. Good day.” He twisted away, faltered, then turned back again. “It’s none of my business, but Maura told me she was waiting for her father at the railroad station.”

  If only Phoebe could find a hole to crawl into. “I’m aware of Maura’s purpose for being there, but she knows her father died before she was born.”

  “I see.”

  No, he didn’t see, but thankfully, didn’t ask for details.

  Once Teddy left, she would sit Maura down and explain that men didn’t arrive on trains with the aim of becoming fathers.

  Somehow, she would find a way to buy Maura the dollhouse in the window of Newland’s.

  WALLACE LET PHOEBE inside the Pittman home, his face as red as a ripe tomato. “Before you say anything, Mrs. Crain, I apologize for what happened at the store the other day. It was my fault for confusing you and Mrs. Lark.”

  Mrs. Lark? The Third had meant the cigar box for a woman after all? Strange.

  “Don’t worry, Wallace. It’s over.”

  His bearing relaxed, and he led her down the hall to the comfortable sitting room made even more cozy when all eight ladies attended the Widow’s Might meetings. “Mrs. Jensen is the only other one to arrive.”

  Months ago, Verbenia Jensen had invited her to join the group of Riverport widows who referred to themselves as Widow’s Might. As their elder mentor, Verbenia was the durable thread that kept the emotions of each member of the circle from unraveling.

  Phoebe enjoyed her time with the ladies and the worthwhile projects they undertook, but she dreaded the day when they realized she was a fraud.

  “Go on in, Mrs. Crain,” Wallace said. “I’ll help Claire with the refreshments.”

  Phoebe sneezed.

  “The Lord bless you.”

  Phoebe dabbed a handkerchief against her nose. With a nasal voice, she said, “I don’t know what’s come over me. This is the third time I’ve sneezed today.”

  “I hope you’re not coming down with anything.”

  “It’s probably something in the air.” Or a result of Teddy Barrett’s runny nose.

  Verbenia patted the sofa seat, urging Phoebe to join her. “How is everything?”

  The question carried more weight than the type of casual comment most people threw out simply to fill a silent moment. The woman tended to draw honesty and confession
even from Phoebe. “Christmas will be here soon, and I’m not sure I’ll have a gift for Maura, not what she wants.”

  “And what is that?”

  “A dollhouse.” And a father. “She’ll get socks again.”

  “There’s nothing wrong with a gift of practicality.”

  Phoebe breathed a soft snort. “Maura has never received a gift that wasn’t practical. She’s too little to understand financial matters, so I dread disappointing her another year.”

  “It doesn’t take extravagance to make a child happy, dear. She might mope for a while, but she knows how much you love her and will get over any disappointment.” Verbenia clasped Phoebe’s forearm and gave it a little squeeze. “Perhaps there’s another way to provide what she wants.”

  “Another way?”

  “My daughter tells me there’s a store in Cincinnati that has hired a quartet to provide music for customers during the holiday season. You could suggest it to one of the Newlands.”

  Phoebe had suggested enough to Spence Newland lately. She doubted he would be receptive to any additional ideas she put forward.

  She inhaled the mild and pleasant citrus scent of the verbena toilet water her friend adored. “You’re an employee of the store. That sounds like something that should come from you.”

  “I don’t play the piano, and you do.”

  The door buzzer sounded, and Verbenia stood. “That must be the others.”

  Laughter and the clatter of multiple pairs of shoes sounded in the hall. A moment later Claire led the rest of the ladies into the sitting room. The tall and reserved Edythe Westin brought up the rear. As usual, the widow and mother of three was dressed in the height of fashion. Despite her wealth, Edythe was one of the sweetest people Phoebe had ever met. It seemed her bias only focused on the males of Edythe’s social status.

  As she smiled and greeted her friends, Phoebe reconsidered Verbenia’s idea. Her first thought had been a resounding no. She no longer played for an audience of strangers and told herself she had no desire to return to that life.

  But didn’t her daughter deserve a happy Christmas?

  Chapter Five

  When his housekeeper announced the visit by Mrs. Crain and Mrs. Jensen, Spence almost wrenched his neck to eye the entrance hall for a glimpse of the young widow.

  “Show them to the drawing room, please, Mrs. Rosenbach. I’ll be in shortly.” He set aside the note he’d been writing to ship with the cigar box, unrolled his shirtsleeves, and shrugged into the suit coat draped across the back of the desk chair.

  What did the ladies want with him at his home on this late Sunday afternoon? On any afternoon for that matter? Maybe Mrs. Crain thought she’d try once more to press him into making her daughter a dollhouse. Then again, with the presence of Mrs. Jensen, it might mean they were collecting for a charity.

  Since the return of the cigar box, he’d found it hard to think of much more than the woman and her charming little girl. What had changed Phoebe Crain’s mind? Gratitude?

  He crossed the hall and found his guests poised on the edge of the drawing room’s striped davenport. Mrs. Crain sat with her back straight and her profile set in stone. Frankly, even stony, it was a nice profile.

  “Good afternoon, ladies.”

  Both women stood at his entrance. Mrs. Jensen smiled. “Good afternoon, Mr. Newland. What a lovely home.”

  “Thank you.” Given Mrs. Crain’s animosity toward him, there wasn’t much point in chitchat. “What brings you two to see me?”

  Mrs. Jensen gave her companion an encouraging nod, and Mrs. Crain inhaled, as if she needed courage. She sneezed.

  With his childhood propensity for taking ill, he affected a smile but kept his distance from her. He wouldn’t put it past her to come here to share a cold with him.

  “Excuse me.” She pressed a handkerchief to her pink nose, then balled it in her hand. “Mr. Newland, are you aware that a Cincinnati store has hired a quartet to provide music during the holidays?” The words rushed out as though, if she didn’t hurry, she would keep her purpose for coming bottled inside.

  Spence didn’t admit to being ignorant of her news. If she knew something like that, why didn’t he? “Please have a seat.”

  She retook her spot on the davenport, and the flowers in her dress clashed with the material surrounding her. He settled in the armchair a few feet away and waited.

  “I-I think you should consider such a thing for your store. Besides providing entertainment, I believe it will relax your customers and encourage them to spend more money.” She voiced the latter part of her statement with a hint of humor, just enough to keep him from considering it impertinent. “Music often has the power to soothe people.”

  “You think it’s a good business idea to hire someone to play for our customers?” He restrained his amusement over the sly attempt to steer him into offering her employment.

  “I see the merit in it.”

  “What about you, Mrs. Jensen? As an employee, you know our customers. Do you believe their time in the store will be enhanced by background music?”

  A twinkle lit the woman’s blue eyes. “I do, sir.”

  Now he understood why Verbenia Jensen sat in his drawing room. Not only was she a chaperone, she was Mrs. Crain’s champion.

  He turned to Phoebe. “You play the piano, Mrs. Crain, so I assume you think Newland’s would do well to hire you.”

  She raised her chin with confidence. “I do.”

  “Where did you learn to play?”

  “My mother was housekeeper to a concert pianist who saw potential in me at an early age. He insisted I learn. He was an amazing man.” She cleared her voice of its wistfulness and added, “My benefactor didn’t want people to connect me with my mother, so I performed in music halls under the name Phoebe Langford.”

  The name was familiar.

  “You’re Phoebe Langford?” Verbenia Jensen’s mouth opened with awe. “My son and his wife saw you perform in Chicago. They said you were magnificent. Oh, my dear, I never knew. Why didn’t you tell us?”

  Before the conversation got away from its intent, Spence said, “You must have started young.”

  Phoebe squeezed the handkerchief. “I began at sixteen and performed throughout the Midwest. While doing so, I learned the finer points of circulating in society—how to talk, walk, act, dress. I won’t be an embarrassment to S. F. Newland’s and Company.”

  Spence didn’t doubt it, but he still frowned. With a background like that, why had she quit the concert stage? For marriage? “Do you miss performing before audiences?”

  She shifted her attention to her hands. “No.”

  Which of them was she trying to convince?

  He pointed to the grand piano near the window, amazed he was considering her suggestion. “I’d like to hear you play.”

  Mrs. Crain took a seat on the bench. “Is there anything in particular you would like to hear?”

  “I’ll leave it up to you.”

  The familiar piece began calm and unhurried. Soon Spence’s vision worked to keep up with her fingers as they danced over the keys. Finally, he followed Mrs. Jensen’s example and shut his eyes, letting his ears do the work. Phoebe Langford—or Crain, if she preferred—had chosen one of the hardest compositions known.

  After the last note faded, he said, “‘Étude No. 6.’”

  “You know Listz?”

  “I’ve attempted to play that piece on occasion. Unlike you, I failed.”

  She rose from the piano stool, her face flushed from the exertion. “You found it satisfactory?”

  Highly. “Yes. It was satisfactory.”

  The optimism expressed in Mrs. Crain’s shining and fervent gaze dimmed at his halfhearted response. Mrs. Jensen studied him. Her arched brow said she found his comment astonishing.

  Why hadn’t he said what he really thought? Phoebe Crain was a brilliant musician. Had he restrained his praise because her stiff upper lip unsettled him? Because it irritated him to t
hink the change from her normally cool attitude stemmed from her desire for employment? He hoped he wasn’t that petty but feared it was true.

  She sneezed again and apologized.

  Hire her.

  He quenched the inner command and guided the ladies to the hall, making sure to stay away from Maura’s mother. He had no time to be bedridden and had spent too many days over the years as an invalid to desire a return to that state. “Thank you for coming, Mrs. Crain. I’ll let you know my decision.”

  Mrs. Jensen said goodbye and waited on the porch.

  Mrs. Crain paused by the door. She opened her mouth and shut it again. Her head bobbed. “Good day, Mr. Newland.”

  Spence peered through the side panel next to the door as she walked down the sidewalk to the street. Her bearing was erect, as though signaling that his lack of enthusiasm would not affect her.

  She conducted herself in a well-bred and well-educated fashion. Her gentle mannerisms and cultured speech reflected that of a lady accustomed to mixing in society. She possessed a talent he envied, yet she struggled to provide for her family. Why?

  Spence often saw her as a snarling guard dog. On occasion, she reminded him of a vulnerable stray—one whose mistrust said she suspected him of a nefarious intent. For the life of him, he couldn’t understand what he’d done to give her that idea.

  Maybe that was why he hadn’t obeyed the urge to hire her on the spot.

  Phoebe Crain was a mystery that begged to be solved.

  PHOEBE LIFTED THE COVERS on her bed. She might be better to try to lift the butcher’s draft horse. With the attempt to sit up, her head swam, and she sank back into the mattress, issuing a low groan that was like slicing the inside of her throat with a knife.

  Her mother opened the bedroom door and peeked into the room. “Phoebe, it’s eight o’clock. Why are you still in bed?”

  “B-Because...” Phoebe coughed and pressed her fingertips against each side of her throbbing head.

  Mama crossed the room and felt her forehead. “You have a fever.” She settled the covers around Phoebe’s shoulders and neck.