To Mend a Dream (2 page)

She spotted the mercantile ahead and, once closer, saw Mr. Mulholland, the proprietor, standing just inside the doorway. Aware to the penny of how much she owed on her account, she thought of the bill she'd received last week reminding her of the outstanding balance, and a stab of guilt pierced her when she averted her gaze as she passed.

The man had been so kind to extend her credit. And though she
had no idea how she would manage it, she intended to repay every penny. Someday.

Out of breath, she raced down an alleyway, her mind turning again to Andrew's visit with the doctor. Determined not to borrow trouble until trouble left her no choice, she hurried inside the back entrance of Miss Hattie's Dress and Drapery Shop, then down the hallway, hoping to get to her sewing station before anyone realized she was—

She ran headlong into a red-faced Miss Hildegard.

Savannah reached out to steady the older woman, then quickly realized it wasn't Miss Hildegard who was about to go sprawling. Hand against the wall, Savannah managed to steady herself, only too aware of the veins bulging in her employer's neck.

“Pardon me, Miss Hildegard! I didn't—”

“
Finally
, Miss Darby, you see fit to grace us with your presence!”

Savannah's face went hot. “My apologies for being tardy, Miss Hildegard.” She knew better than to try to offer an excuse. Nothing short of sudden death would satisfy this woman. And even then, Miss Bertha Hildegard would demand forenotice.

The woman huffed. “We are
all
in a state, Miss Darby! Betsy Anderson has taken ill and only now sent word, the slothful girl! So
you
must take her appointment this morning.”

Not yet trusting she'd escaped with so minor a scolding, Savannah nodded quickly. “Of course, ma'am. I'll leave straightaway, right after I finish hemming the draperies for Mrs. Garrison's—”

“Mrs. Garrison can wait! This appointment is for redecorating an entire house, Miss Darby. Draperies, bedcovers, duvets, pillows, window shades . . . everything. The patron also mentioned furniture, for which we'll work with Franklin's.” An odd look crossed the older woman's face. “The newly arrived owner, a Mr. Aidan Bedford, and
his fiancée, Miss Sinclair, are expecting you. Or rather, are expecting Miss Anderson. But you'll have to do.”

Accustomed to the woman's disparaging comments, Savannah found them easier to endure when remembering that the former owner, Miss Hattie, had held her work in the highest regard. Miss Hattie's was the finest dress and drapery shop in town, and Savannah needed this job.

Miss Hildegard started down the hallway and gestured for her to follow. “The soon-to-be Mrs. Bedford visited the shop day before last and perused fabric samples. Our most
expensive
samples.” If it were possible for a woman to salivate over the sale of fabric, Miss Hildegard was doing just that. “The couple has moved from Boston, and Miss Sinclair—such a cultured, lovely young woman—made it quite clear they're eager to make this house their home.”

Savannah was already making a mental list of what to include in her sewing satchel. At the same time she found herself assessing the earnings a job like this could bring. Andrew not only needed new leg braces, but she'd also read recently about a physician up north who had developed boots made especially for people born with clubfeet. The boots were expensive, as were the leg braces. But what a difference they'd make for her brother. Plus, both of her siblings had grown several inches since last summer, and though she could sew anything, fabric didn't come cheaply.

She hated that Betsy's illness—and therefore her coworker's loss of this extra commission—meant personal gain for herself. But if Betsy couldn't do the job, somebody else would. And it might as well be her.

“I'll gather what's needed, Miss Hildegard, and leave straightaway. What's the address?”

Miss Hildegard's dark eyebrows drew together. “Let me make
myself clear, Miss Darby. I will
not
have you ruining this opportunity
or
making Mr. Bedford and his fiancée uncomfortable. The couple has every right to make that house their home.”

Savannah frowned. “Why would I ruin such an opportunity, ma'am? And as for the couple, I've not met either of them, so—”

“The house you'll be redecorating . . . where they're living? It's Darby Farm.”

CHAPTER TWO

S
AVANNAH FROZE, THE FRENZIED PACE OF HER WORLD SUDDENLY
slamming to a halt. She felt certain she'd heard the woman correctly, and Miss Hildegard's cautionary expression confirmed it. Yet somehow, she still worked to grasp the request.

Over a year had passed since her family home had been auctioned and sold. How many nights had she lain awake wishing she could get back into that house? Just that morning she'd reread the letter her father had written to her mother, even though she knew it by heart. She had hoped for this very thing.

But who was the new owner? A
Yankee
.

She knew better than to be surprised. Still, she'd prayed the family farm might remain in the Southern lineage instead of falling prey to one of those money-grubbing carpetbaggers who'd descended from the North like vultures, intent on making money and taking advantage of someone else's misfortune.

“Will this be a problem for you, Miss Darby?”

Grateful the woman couldn't hear the tone of her thoughts, Savannah shook her head. “No, ma'am. No problem at all, Miss Hildegard. I assure you.”

The woman eyed her as though unconvinced.

Savannah began gathering the needed supplies from the shelves.
“If you'll show me which fabrics piqued Miss Sinclair's interest, I'll pack my satchel and be on my way.”

And she was. In ten minutes flat. She hurried back across town, dodging wagons and carriages, oblivious to the blur of faces and storefronts she passed.

A legitimate reason to be inside her family home again. A chance to search for what her father had hidden in the house before he died in the war—something she would never have known about if not for the letter she'd found a few months ago following her mother's passing.

Yet as determined as she was to make the most of the opportunity, she had an inkling that once she stepped inside the house, her deeply rooted sense of propriety would do its best to thwart her determination. Which meant only one thing . . .

She would have to keep propriety in its place—outside on the porch.

And considering the unfortunate fact that a Yankee now owned Darby Farm only emboldened that resolve. In fact, this newly acquired truth made her intended action seem almost noble. Like just retribution! She would succeed. She had to.

Because a chance like this wouldn't come a second time.

She hastened her stride down the familiar dirt road, consumed by one thought: she would find what her father had hidden inside that house, or she would tear it apart trying.

Everything about living at Darby Farm was exactly as Aidan Bedford imagined it would be. Or at least it had been—until four days ago.

“Do you agree with me or not, Aidan? It's important to me that you do. Surely you know that.”

The insistence in Priscilla's voice all but drowned out the call of the lush green meadows and hills lying just beyond the open windows of the study. The meadows and hills he'd ridden every morning since arriving here a month ago, save the last four days since she'd arrived.

“What I know, Priscilla, is that whether I agree with the changes you'd like to make to the house is ultimately of little importance to you. Of that I'm certain.” Smiling, he turned, fully expecting the arched curve of her dark eyebrow. “And while I never had a sister, nor did my late mother gain pleasure from decorating a home, I realize the activity is generally one of immense pleasure for the female gender. So . . . alter a few things to your liking. Make the house your home.”

One . . . two . . . three . . .
He silently counted, waiting. And there it was.

Her lower lip pudged. “But I want you involved in the changes too, dearest. This is our home. Yours and mine. Or it soon will be. And I want it to be a reflection of our combined tastes.”

He laughed, knowing better. “If that were truly the case, then half of everything in this home would stay precisely as it is.”

Her expression went from one of gentility to that of someone smelling something putrid. “But the furnishings are all so . . . quaint. And . . . Southern.”

“I find them full of character and warmth. And they're called antiques, Priscilla. Surely you've heard of them.”

She scoffed. “Antiques are works of art, Aidan. Think of timeless pieces from the Elizabethan era, or William and Mary. Or Louis the Sixteenth.” Her sigh hinted at infatuation. “Admittedly, there are a few good pieces in the house. But the rest of the furniture”—she grimaced at the massive oak desk separating them, then at the matching
breakfront bookcases across the room that shouldered a small but impressive library, including the leather-bound works of Shakespeare—“I'd categorize more eighteenth-century pioneer than heirloom.”

Accustomed to the woman's expensive taste, Aidan overlooked her pretension and impatience and reminded himself of her finer qualities. Priscilla Sinclair was cultured, intelligent, beautiful, from one of the finest families in Boston, and their pending marriage—while not one planned since infancy—had most definitely been the object of both sets of their late parents' wishes for as long as they could remember. And with good reason. He and Priscilla were well suited to each other. The perfect Bostonian couple. Only . . .

They weren't in Boston anymore. And things about her that had only niggled at him over the past three years now gnawed.

Likely the last fleeting thoughts of a man too long a bachelor. Or at least that's what he hoped.

He ran a hand over the top of the desk, the object of her momentary disdain, and found the workmanship exemplary, just as he had the first time he'd stepped foot into this house. When business had brought him to Nashville a year ago, he'd seen this land, this house, and he'd known he would purchase it. Same as he'd known, somewhere deep inside, that he would live in Nashville. Someday. He simply hadn't thought it would be so soon.

How a conversation with a complete stranger six years ago had so altered the course of his life, he couldn't explain. A most unlikely exchange on a field in North Carolina during the lull of war. With a Johnny Reb, no less. It was a conversation—and battle—he would never forget.

He'd never told Priscilla about what happened that day. He'd never told anyone. But for sure Priscilla Sinclair, daughter to one of the finest families in Massachusetts, wouldn't understand.

Since finally closing the door to the most prestigious law firm in Boston nearly two months ago, he'd not once looked back.

But she did.

Even now, as she studied the draperies framing the windows, the table and chair to the side, he sensed her longing for home, her thoughts undoubtedly returning to the handsome redbrick brownstone he still owned in Beacon Hill. He'd thought about selling the home in recent months but had held back, wanting to make certain he enjoyed living here as much as he thought he would.