To Love and Cherish (3 page)

Still waving at Alfred, Evan trotted toward the rumbling wagon and shouted, “Come on, Alfred. The Mifflins are going to miss their train if they don't get over to Biscayne!”

Alfred gave the reins a halfhearted slap across the horses' rumps. In spite of the listless direction, the horses picked up their pace. When the horses finally came to a halt in front of the Mifflins' cottage, Evan scolded Alfred for his tardiness. “Now get in there and help carry the trunks out here before Mrs. Mifflin reports you to Mr. O'Sullivan and you lose your job.”

Evan doubted the young man cared if he got fired, for his father took the boy's pay each week. Still, Alfred had a responsibility to perform his work as expected. The boy pushed a hank of dirty blond hair off his forehead. He looked as though he hadn't had a bath for some time, and he smelled that way, too.

“If you do a good job, you might even get a tip that you can hide from your father.” Evan winked and hoped that bit of news would encourage the young fellow. And if Mrs. Mifflin didn't give him an extra coin, Evan would.

In all the scurrying about to load the wagon and transport the Mifflins and Melinda in the carriage, there wasn't time for the two of them to talk until they were at the dock. Evan stood beside Melinda while the trunks were being loaded onto the
Bessie II
, the launch that would deliver them across the river to the Georgia mainland, where they would board a train headed north.

Evan reached for Melinda's hand. “I know you're unhappy to be leaving, but I'm just as unhappy to see you go. I love you, Melinda. Promise me you'll write as soon as possible.”

One side of her mouth twisted up into a little smile. “You love me? Really, Evan?”

“Of course, you silly goose. Why don't you believe me? Last week I pledged my love to you and you said you loved me, as well. Why do you question me now?”

“I suppose because it seems you are happily sending me away.”

He shook his head and touched her cheek. “I never said I was happy about your leaving, but we both know we have little to say in the matter. We are both dependent upon the direction of others.” As if to stress this point, Mrs. Mifflin approached.

“Come along, Melinda. There isn't time to dillydally.” She grasped Melinda's arm in a possessive manner.

Melinda leaned close to Evan, straining to whisper in his ear. “We'd have had plenty of say if you had asked me to stay.” That said, she turned and hurried to the boat.

Evan wanted to run after her and jump aboard the launch. He wanted to have a little more time to grasp what she'd been thinking and try to understand her abrupt comment. He wanted to assure her that at no time had he thought she'd expected, or even wanted, him to ask her to remain on Bridal Veil. During the past months, there had been no mention of Melinda remaining—not by either of them. How could she stay? There were no lodgings, no jobs for women. The very idea made no sense. Perhaps she thought he had some special sway with the management.

He watched the boat gain speed as it steamed across the water toward the mainland. In a final effort to show his commitment, Evan yanked his hat from his head and waved it high in the air. If Melinda saw him, she didn't acknowledge the gesture. He lowered his arm and continued to stare after the boat, his hat loosely dangling between his fingers.

“That lady didn't give me no money.” Alfred Toomie stood beside him with his dirty hand turned palm side up. “I hauled all them trunks like you told me, but that woman just turned the other way like she never saw me afore.”

Evan reached into his pocket and withdrew a coin. He hadn't truly expected Mrs. Mifflin to tip the boy. Service was expected on the island—good service—without any gratuity. “You need to do good work all of the time, Alfred. You were hired to do a job, and it's your responsibility to do it as well as you can.” He placed the coin in Alfred's hand. “The Bible tells us that we should do our work as if it's an offering to the Lord. Do you know what that means?”

Alfred bobbed his head, and a strand of his unwashed hair dropped across his forehead. “Means that when I do somethin', I should do it as good as I can so's to make God happy.” He flashed a wide grin. “Is that right, Evan?”

“Yes, that's right. Will you promise me that you'll start doing that?”

“I promise, but is it okay if I keep a tip if it's offered?”

Evan chuckled. “Yes, Alfred. Now get on back to the stables with that wagon before Mr. O'Sullivan thinks you've gotten lost along the way.”

While Alfred returned to the wagon, Evan glanced over his shoulder for one final look at the
Bessie II.
In the distance, he could still make out the launch, but he could no longer distinguish the passengers. With a sense of urgency nipping at his heels, he mounted his horse and headed for the hunting lodge.

The lodge wasn't huge, not when compared to the guests' cottages or the accommodations offered in the clubhouse, but it did provide adequate living quarters for Harland Fields and Evan, and it had a large parlor that was used by guests as a place to gather prior to leaving on their hunts. With only an hour before he would lead the next hunt, Evan hoped there would be time to write a letter to Melinda.

If he could send a letter that would go to the mainland in the morning, perhaps it would arrive in Cleveland and be waiting when she arrived home. There seemed to be no other way he could assure her of his love.

“Evan!”

The pen dropped from Evan's hand the moment he heard Harland call for him. Quickly sealing the envelope, he shoved it into his pocket. He'd been so intent on his letter writing that he hadn't heard the voices of the guests now gathered in the parlor down below.

He grabbed his hat and rushed down the narrow steps. “Sorry, Harland, I got distracted.”

The older man's brow creased and he shook his head. “No time for excuses. You've got a big group waiting to get out there and try to shoot at something. Make sure it ain't one another—or you.”

The two men had begun to share that admonition a number of years ago—after one of the guests had accidentally discharged a rifle and missed Harland by only inches.

“I'll do my best to keep us all safe and show them a good time.” Although it was late in the morning to begin a hunt, the men sometimes preferred a leisurely breakfast rather than an early start. Most claimed it was their wives who caused the morning delays, but Evan knew better. Many of these men enjoyed a slow start to the day here on Bridal Veil.

Today he gathered the group of “come-latelys,” as he and Harland referred to the late arrivals, and led them toward the barn. With any luck, Garrison would have the horses saddled and Evan could provide the group with a good time—even if they didn't bag any animals.

It mattered little to Evan what time of day they rode out so long as they enjoyed the adventure. Only when guests complained about their lack of success on a hunt did Evan become annoyed. And some of them did complain. Only last week he'd heard one of the men say, “Maybe we need a gamekeeper who can do his job and stock the island with animals to hunt. Isn't that why we keep him here year-round?”

He'd mentioned the incident to Harland, but the older man assured Evan there was no reason for worry. “They need an excuse when they return home empty-handed. You know they won't take the blame themselves. Don't worry yourself, Evan. Your job is secure, and the men who make the decisions on Bridal Veil all like you. They know you're good at what you do.”

Evan liked to think he was good at his position, for he'd always taken pride in a job well done. Whether helping muck the barn when they were short of help or hunting wild boar to eradicate them from the island, he always tried to do his very best. Today, however, his thoughts weren't on the hunt. Instead of keeping a sharp eye out for any birds or animals that a guest might want to bring down, his thoughts wandered to Melinda.

He'd been praying his letter would help soothe the anger that had flashed in her eyes when she'd wheeled away from him on the dock.

Melinda followed Mrs. Mifflin to the glass-enclosed cabin of the launch and settled beside the older woman. Mrs. Mifflin had insisted upon leaving the boat railing once they left the dock, saying the breeze would ruin her hair. But the matron's curls were tightly pinned and a large hat was perched atop her head, leaving little chance any curl could go astray. From the glass windows that lined the seating area in the cabin, Melinda had seen Evan standing on the dock waving his hat, but she hadn't acknowledged him. Mrs. Mifflin would have considered such forward conduct a breach of proper behavior. She hoped her actions hadn't hurt him. She was still chiding herself for her final comment to him. Evan loved her, and she had acted like a spoiled child.

But I wanted so much for him to propose
, she thought. In fact, she had been convinced he would ride up at the last minute—just like a knight in stories of old. He would appear upon his fine horse, sweep her into his arms, and ride away with her. She smiled sadly. “But that is not what happened.”

“What did you say?” Mrs. Mifflin questioned.

Melinda shook her head. “Nothing of consequence.”

The older woman's worrisome nature took hold before they stepped off the boat in Biscayne, and she didn't give Melinda a minute's peace when they boarded the train. “We have so much to accomplish before Ida's visit. I simply don't know how we'll complete everything before she arrives.” Mrs. Mifflin leaned close and lowered her voice. “Until I give you permission, make certain you don't say anything to the other servants. I don't want word of Ida's visit leaked through idle gossip.” On and on, her nervous mantra continued. Mr. Mifflin did his best to calm his wife, but when all his efforts failed, he retreated to the gentlemen's car and left Melinda to deal with the woman.

The journey wasn't giving Melinda much time to think about Evan. Instead of writing him the letter he'd requested, her time was devoted to making lists and copious notes of the many tasks to be completed the moment they arrived home.

“I purchased stationery in Biscayne, and I think you should write out invitations to the tea I'm going to host during Ida's visit.” Mrs. Mifflin withdrew a sheaf of writing paper from a brown bag and shoved it in Melinda's direction. “First, let's decide upon the exact wording for the invitation, and then you may begin to write them out while I finalize the list.”

At each stop along the way, Mrs. Mifflin talked at length about all that must be done—until she fell ill at their stop in Baltimore. Melinda hated herself for feeling relief that they would be delayed. She truly didn't want the older woman to suffer sickness, but the farther they traveled, the more hopeless Melinda felt. She needed time to think things through.

Mr. Mifflin fetched a doctor, who came to the hotel room and decided Mrs. Mifflin likely was suffering from a mild case of food poisoning—the doctor blamed the oysters she'd eaten the night before. He chided her for not having more sense than to partake of such a dish in a month without an
r
, prescribed a very watered down dose of laudanum, and suggested rest. Mr. Mifflin privately explained away the illness as a case of nerves. Either way, the delay did nothing to ease Melinda's worries. And Mrs. Mifflin, in her sickbed, was more demanding than ever.

By the time they finally arrived in Cleveland, Melinda's nerves were frayed, but the invitations had been written, and there were more lists than she cared to think about. Thankfully, Mr. Mifflin had wired ahead to inform Sally and Matthew, two of the servants, of their return.

Mrs. Mifflin waved Sally aside as she strode toward the stairway. “I do hope you've been tending to the necessary cleaning, Sally. We have an important guest arriving, and if I find any dust or dirt in this house, you can expect to see a decrease in your wages.” Without waiting for a response, she ordered Matthew to fetch her trunks. “And see that those invitations are delivered, Melinda.”

Sally looked at Melinda and clucked her tongue. A sprite of a woman, the maid had been with the Mifflins for more than ten years. “Doesn't appear that her time of rest on the island has helped Mrs. Mifflin's disposition any, has it?”

Melinda shook her head. “Nor mine.”

The maid chuckled. “No wonder those sons of theirs never come home to visit. I wouldn't be here, either, if I didn't need the money.”

Melinda ignored the remark. Sally loved to gossip, especially about her employers. There was no denying the Mifflins' sons, Cyrus, and his brother, Malcolm, seldom visited their parents, but both had attended boarding schools from an early age. Currently, both were enrolled at Oxford University, and visits home were expected to be rare. Still, it gave Sally something to chatter about when there was little other gossip.

On several occasions Melinda had taken Sally aside and gently spoken of the damage gossip could inflict upon others. When her early attempts failed, Melinda had pointed out Scriptures against the practice. Sally had patiently listened, but Melinda knew her words had fallen on deaf ears. It seemed nothing would bridle the maid's tongue.

“So who's this important guest the missus mentioned, and what kind of invitations were she speaking of?” Sally stepped closer and lowered her voice. “Ever since that telegram arrived from the mister, I've been wondering myself silly what could be so important that the missus would hurry home two weeks ahead of schedule. I know she likes to mix with those other rich folks on that island.”

Sally's questions could lead Melinda down a path she didn't care to tread. If word of Mrs. McKinley's arrival became common knowledge among the servants of Cleveland society before their mistresses knew, Mrs. Mifflin would claim complete and utter embarrassment. And Melinda would be the one held responsible for the social gaffe.

“A dear friend of Mrs. Mifflin—one with whom she attended school many years ago—is going to be in the city. They haven't seen each other for a number of years.”

The excitement in Sally's eyes faded and her lips drooped. “Oh, is that all? And here I was expecting to learn a good piece of . . .” She stopped before actually saying she had hoped for a bit of gossip to pass along to her friends. Not that Sally needed to make such an admission. Long ago, Melinda had learned Sally couldn't be trusted to keep a secret. The woman might be an excellent housekeeper, but she failed miserably at maintaining a confidence.