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…
At her sides, Abigail’s hands trembled. Her family had lost everything. The Cummingses lived like kings.
A crystal chandelier glittered overhead, lit even on this sunny morning. Sconces added to the ambience, throwing patterns of light on the walls. At home, kerosene lamps enabled them to read the newspaper or stitch a hem but would never illuminate this enormous space. Nor leave a ceiling free of traces of soot.
Lace curtains covered the large curved window on the landing of a grand staircase. Suddenly aware Wade was watching her, her face heated. She’d been standing there, mouth gaping like a kid at a candy counter.
The money used to furnish this house could’ve helped those in need. Those who’d lost everything in the fire. When had George Cummings given a dime to help anyone?
As she followed Wade to the stairs and climbed, they passed bucolic landscapes painted in oils, prints of ships sailing the high seas, watercolors of botanicals—all in gilt frames hanging from the picture rail by dainty chains.
Few pictures adorned their apartment walls—an image of their family taken by a traveling photographer mere months before Papa died, a sampler Grandma Wilson stitched as a young woman, a Currier & Ives print of a steam-driven paddleboat.
This house made Abigail feel small, out of her depth, flailing for footing in a world so unlike her own.
No wonder Wade had broken off their relationship. He’d understood what she hadn’t…until now.
She didn’t fit in his world.
Well, she might not have much in material things but she had a good mind and an education enabling her to provide for her family at no one’s expense.
Lord, I’ve never cared that much about material things. Yet this grandeur hurts. Forgive me for my anger and jealousy.
Aware that Wade waited for her, she hurried up the stairs. Even on the second floor, pictures and furnishings lined the walls. An elegant mahogany highboy, rose damask loveseat with tufted back, tiger maple sideboard flanked by carved armchairs. Why, more furniture graced this wide corridor than they had in their entire apartment.
She followed Wade to the far end of the hall. Wade knocked then opened the door into an enormous paneled bedroom. She looked in on the man himself as he sat in a wheelchair in front of the window, his back to them.
No drapes graced the windows. The dark walls were void of artwork and knickknacks, and heavy furniture, grand in scale, made the room intimidating.
“Dad, Miss Abigail is here.”
George Cummings said nothing, not even acknowledging his son’s presence. Yet she knew he’d heard, could feel his intensity, see it in his rigid posture. She clenched her trembling hands in front of her and threw back her shoulders.
A hound lay stretched in a patch of sunshine, emitting a loud yawn that ended on a squawk, either too tired or too indifferent to investigate a newcomer.
“Well, I’m off to the bank.” Wade turned to her, his eyes remote. As their gazes held, she saw something else, an apology, perhaps. Or some hurt that never went away.
Abigail thought of her family. They might not have a grand house but laughter and chatter filled their rooms. Yes, an occasional disagreement too, but she’d never experienced the stilted impasse that she felt between Wade and his father. What had happened to put that wall of animosity between them?
“The kitchen is stocked with whatever you might need to prepare lunch and dinner for you and Dad.”
That Cora had quit and Wade’s sister Regina refused to oversee her father’s recuperation didn’t bode well for Abigail’s day.
“Don’t hesitate to summon Doc Simmons if my father’s breathing alarms you.”
“I’m sure we’ll be fine.”
“Ah, she speaks” came from the chair, as it whirled on casters and she faced the man who had destroyed her father.
Handsome, with a full head of snow-white hair and a commanding bearing, George Cummings watched her as if seeing her for the first time. The fire in his eyes, eyes the exact color of his son’s, promised trouble. She had an urge to look away, yet held his gaze. Never show a bully you’re intimidated.
Closer inspection revealed lines of pain etched in his face. A prickle of sympathy ran through her. A man who’d run a bank and a host of businesses must be frustrated at finding himself an invalid. Frustration he took out on others. Her stomach lurched. And no doubt would on her.
Wade glanced at his father. “I’ll check on you at lunch.”
“Don’t bother. You’ve done quite enough.”
Nothing in Wade’s father’s derisive tone held affection. Abigail had been raised on the importance of family. How could he speak that way to his son, especially in front of a Wilson?
Her hand found the chain at her neck as images flitted through her mind—her father bouncing her on his knee, giving her piggyback rides, playfully tugging on her braids. The father she’d adored. He’d called her his baby girl. Before he’d faded away, becoming a shadow of his former self, a man who’d barely functioned.
This
