A Path Toward Love (10 page)

She lifted her chin. “Papa, if you wish to please me, then convince Mama to let me do something constructive over the summer.”

Mr. Wainwright sent her a mild frown as he settled into a sofa. “I meant that I'd gladly
buy
you anything. But I can't allow you to start any sort of business, even for a worthy cause. You know that, Katherine. It'd be unseemly.”

She shrugged, apparently undeterred. “Then I suppose I'll have to persuade Mama myself.” She gave a mischievous laugh, but Andrew knew she was seriously considering the idea.

Andrew widened his eyes, but held his tongue. How amazing that a slip of a girl could speak to the great William Wainwright in such a tone and receive a smile instead of a rebuke. Such impertinence in the office would land a man on the streets.

Mr. Wainwright groaned. “Surely you can find something more appropriate to occupy your time.”

Katherine smiled as she rose. “Mama will find all kinds of tedious activities if I let her—which I won't.” She planted a kiss on her father's high forehead. “Papa, please don't get upset.

Truly, it was only a passing thought. Please excuse me. I must get ready for luncheon.”

When she disappeared down the passageway, Mr. Wainwright lifted a brow at Andrew. “Discourage her, if you can. I'll not have my daughter making hats while she should be enjoying herself. Doesn't she understand I work from dawn to dusk so she won't have to?”

Andrew nodded and mumbled, “I see your point, sir. But turning a hobby into a modest summer job might give her great satisfaction.” He paused and swallowed the discomfort clogging his throat. “In fact, I suggested she make hats.” He held his breath.

Mr. Wainwright's eyes narrowed. “That wasn't a good idea, Andrew.” Then his gaze shifted toward the curved ceiling. “My father laid track before the War. As a young man he rose from a fisherman in Maine to the owner of one of the largest railroads in these United States. By golly, I won't allow my family to slip backward. We fought too hard to get where we are for Katherine to throw it all away on a silly whim.”

Andrew gathered every shred of his courage. “Mr. Wainwright, Katherine also needs to feel useful. She—”

His employer raised his palm to silence him. “Her mother will make sure she feels useful. But this isn't the proper way to go about it. Do speak to Katherine about dropping her idea. You'll do that, won't you?”

“Of course, sir,” Andrew reluctantly agreed.

As the train chugged northward, Katherine grew more and more apprehensive. With little to do but read and glance at scenery flying by, her mind replayed her father's disapproval of the millinery project she proposed yesterday. If he objected to creating hats for society ladies, then he'd certainly continue to discourage her from returning to her citrus groves at the end of summer.

The train swayed gently as it clattered down the track. Rain splashed against the wide windows, splitting into rivulets as it dripped down the glass. She sipped her afternoon cup of tea across the dining room table from Andrew. He devoured a rich Sacher torte with whipped cream on the side and strong black coffee as the day's dreariness seeped through the window and dampened her spirits.

Katherine placed her fork on the china plate next to the untouched chocolate cake. “Andrew, do you think I'm making a mistake going home? I keep fighting the urge to leave the train and head back to Buena Vista. I know I need to get away from the memories of Charles and Harriet, but what if they haunt me wherever I am? Maybe I should've stayed in Florida and faced them head-on.”

Last night she'd dreamed of discovering Charles embracing his mistress in the parlor of Buena Vista. When they finally noticed her standing in the archway, they'd lunged toward her, demanding she give him a divorce. She'd cried and tried to flee, but her feet stuck to the floor. Charles raised his arm as if to strike her. Or push her. And then she'd awakened in a sweat, her heartbeat thundering in her ears.

“It'll take time to recover, but you will. I think Camp Birchwood is a perfect place to heal your hurts and begin to discover what might be next for you.”

She shrugged, unconvinced. “I do hope so, yet I'm not sure. Maybe I'm just uneasy about mixing with society again.”

“Or perhaps you're already restless and bored, being stuck in a railcar. You're used to your long walks among the groves.” He finished the last crumb of his torte and pushed his plate to the side. A steward refilled his cup with fresh, piping hot coffee.

“No, it's more than boredom. I'm concerned about my company.”

Hands folded, he leaned across the table. “What's there to worry about? Stuart will give his best to the groves, hoping they'll one day be his, right? And your father gave you the funds to harvest your crop.”

She dragged out a sigh. “Yes, but unfortunately, Charles mortgaged Osborne Citrus Groves so he'd have working capital. At least, that's what he told the bank.”

“Oh, I see. But that wasn't the truth?”

She shook her head. “Partially. We did need capital, but after Charles's death, my attorney discovered the money wasn't put into the business.” She bit down on her lower lip. “He said Charles spent it gambling . . . but now I think that he might have used some of the funds to support his . . . other family.” Her voice cracked as she glanced out the wide window and struggled to rein in her emotions.

“I assume you're meeting payments on that loan,” Andrew said gently.

Katherine paused before she nodded. “Well, I'm trying, but it's difficult. No matter how hard I work, I never have quite enough to repay Charles's loan and run the business. It's a constant battle to balance both.” There was more to the story, yet she couldn't bring herself to explain the deeper problem, at least not now.

“I see why you're concerned. Have you told your father about this other issue?”

She shook her head and her brow lowered in fear. “No, and I do hope you won't tell him either. I know you owe Papa loyalty, but that doesn't mean you should repeat what I tell you in confidence.”

“Calm down, Katherine. I promise I won't say a word. This is between you and your father. But I urge you to mention it to him.” Andrew rubbed his chin. “Your father can offer better advice than I can about managing a business. Why didn't you ask him for a bit more money so that you have enough to meet that loan's payments this summer too? It's a legitimate business loan. At least it was meant to be.”

Katherine shook her head. “But it's
become
more of a personal loan. I won't ask Papa to repay money owed by a man he despised.”

“I understand, but he might do it. For you.”

“No. That wouldn't be right. The thought of him covering a loan that went to support my husband's . . .” Her words faded and she appeared pale.

“So the loan from your father only solves part of your problem this summer.”

She nodded. “I'm afraid so. It'll pay for repairing some equipment and harvesting my fall crop. The profit will enable me to repay Papa. But I still have Charles's loan to negotiate.” She smiled faintly and tilted her head. “Are you sure you can't recommend something? You used to advise me all the time.”

Compassion and reticence collided in his heart as he stammered over his reply. As her father's employee, Andrew wasn't allowed to give an opinion that differed from his. And now, he was just as beholden to her father—and in turn, her mother—as she was.

He'd always prided himself for rising above the scramble toward power and riches. But had he, too, sold his soul for a chance at advancement?

Chapter Six

S
everal days later the
Isabelle
pulled into the small depot by the edge of Raquette Lake, New York, without Katherine's maid. She'd left with a profuse apology, a big grin, and a new hat on her head.

With her father's assistance, Katherine stepped from the Raquette Lake steamer onto the Birchwood pier, parasol and reticule gripped in her hands. After the long journey from central Florida, every nerve in her body tingled with anticipation and anxiety.

She gulped a deep breath of fresh mountain air and glanced up at Birchwood Lodge, her family's summer retreat designed in the style of a Swiss chalet. Tucked into the Adirondacks, the chalet and all its cabins and outbuildings overlooked the shores of the crystal-blue Raquette Lake. Purple and yellow petunias— her mother's favorite colors—still sprang from window boxes painted cranberry to match the trim of the paned windows.

Her home of countless childhood memories had often echoed through her mind these last several years, and now it was as if she couldn't quite believe she was really back.

At long last she was home. It was time to reunite with her mother. Would Mama welcome her with as much love and enthusiasm as her letters always suggested? Or, as Katherine suspected, would she dwell on the hurts caused by her rebellious elopement? Well, she wouldn't know her mother's reaction until she faced it. Expelling a pent-up breath from deep within her lungs, Katherine waved good-bye to the captain and her fellow passengers, all neighbors heading to their lakeshore camps.

A trio of footmen waiting on the Wainwrights' dock retrieved the mountain of steamer trunks and bowed slightly. The older one, apparently in charge, greeted them. “Good afternoon, Mrs. Osborne, Mr. Wainwright, Mr. Townsend. Welcome home.”

Katherine smiled. “Good day. It's grand to be home again.” She followed the men across the lawn and to the back porch where the footmen placed her trunks near an empty rocking chair. Her luggage contained all the private mementos of her entire married life—pitifully little for six years of marriage and two more of widowhood. If all went well, she'd take her belongings back to Florida in a few months, but probably leave photographs of Charles at Camp Birchwood.
Or I might burn them,
she thought with a shiver of fury. The trunks, suitcases, and valises belonging to Andrew and her father were carried through the back door of the lodge.

As Katherine climbed the shallow porch stairs, her mother whipped around the corner of the chalet, watering can in hand. Mama's mouth tipped upward in a broad smile that stretched across her pale, square-jawed face. She stripped off her gardener's gloves, set her watering can upon the rough planked decking, and rushed forward with arms open wide. Mama smothered her in a hug so tight Katherine could scarcely breathe. But she melted into the warmth of Mama's small, wiry body pressed against her own and inhaled the faint but familiar smell of potting soil mixed with the scent of Mama's lily of the valley perfume.

“Welcome home, Katherine,” Mama whispered, her voice choked. She stepped back, took a handkerchief from the pocket of her skirt, and dabbed at her light blue eyes. An embarrassed laugh bubbled up. “Pardon me, please. I'm just so happy to see you again.”

“And I you, Mama.” Her mother's enthusiastic welcome allayed her fears, at least for the time being. Katherine let her rigid shoulders relax.

Mama stuffed the lace-trimmed handkerchief back in her pocket and sniffed. “I've missed you so. It's been far too long.”

Mrs. Clarke, Mama's dearest friend from their school days— and Andrew's aunt—trudged several paces behind. Tall and large framed, she dwarfed Katherine's spry little mother but could never cast her into the shadows.