Every Perfect Gift (9 page)

He took off his jacket and sat down on a fallen log. Already he regretted firing Caleb Stanhope. Caleb was a good worker and one of the best finish carpenters on the crew, but he was quick tempered and loose-tongued. Since Miss Caldwell’s editorial last month, the men had grown ever more restless and outspoken.

Last night Stanhope and a group of others had confronted the two new Chinese cooks with complaints about the food. Ethan happened upon the situation just in time to avert another melee. True, Stanhope didn’t start it. One of the Chinamen threw the first punch. But Ethan depended on the cooks to keep the crews fed. Stanhope, despite his skill, was not so irreplaceable. He had to go.

Ethan studied a delicate trillium growing beside the log and sighed. It was all Sophie Caldwell’s fault. How could such a willowy little thing stir up so much trouble? Still, he found himself devouring each edition of the
Gazette
and waiting impatiently for
the next one. Miss S. R. Caldwell was a gifted writer who could tackle any subject from wildflowers to national politics and make readers care about it. If only she would stick to those topics and forget about the problems at Blue Smoke.

He took out his leather notebook and flipped to the sketch he’d started last night when sleep eluded him. Horace had mentioned that one of his colleagues back in Baltimore planned to build a new house on the shore. Ethan wasn’t sure yet just how he could approach the man about designing his new home, but memories of growing up along the Chesapeake had fueled his ideas for a long, low building with plenty of windows opened to the water. A house on the shore had been his Aunt Eulalie’s dearest wish, but he’d been too young and too poor to fulfill it.

He balanced his notebook on his knee and watched a couple of blue jays darting through the trees. If it hadn’t been for Horace, maybe Ethan would still be knocking around Baltimore, aimless and angry at the tragedy that had befallen his family, picking up work on the crab boats or digging in the potato fields just up the road. He was grateful for the chance to escape his dead-end life, and he’d worked hard to justify Horace’s faith in him. If only the man wasn’t so stubborn when it came to getting his way about everything.

Just this morning they’d had another set-to about the long-delayed railway passenger car. Italian leather, Texas leather—what difference did it make? Their guests wouldn’t notice. But Horace had gotten his dander up about it all over again. And once again, Ethan had nearly lost his temper.

Shaking off the memory of Horace’s red-faced tantrum and his own less-than-temperate response, Ethan bent to his work, flipping the pages of his notebook as new ideas emerged. The quiet stream, the pure sunlight filtering through the stands of oak and hickory, calmed him and soon he found himself thinking of Sophie Caldwell again.

No doubt she’d get her dander up too when she found out he’d fired her informant, but that was how it had to be. Maybe she’d be over it by the time the reception for the press rolled around. He was eager to show her the resort once the last of the furnishings and the artwork was in place. Somehow it mattered to him that she respect and admire his accomplishments. Which made no sense at all. But the feeling lodged inside him, as immutable as the green mountains rising up behind him.

Leaving her rented horse and rig tethered near the riding stables, Sophie walked up the path toward the main entrance to Blue Smoke. Surely once she explained the situation to Mr. Heyward, he’d give Caleb Stanhope his job back. It was the only fair thing to do.

She passed through a shady stand of old oaks and stopped to watch a squirrel, tail flicking, jump from branch to branch. Something moved on the path and she peered through the thick undergrowth, her heart thudding. Wyatt had warned her about bears and the dangerous feral pigs that sometimes showed themselves in the area. The last thing she wanted was to surprise one of the ferocious critters.

Through the tangle of bushes and vines she saw another path leading upward and the gleam of metal. The roof of an old shack? Curious, she followed the narrow path farther into the forest. The path widened, and then she stepped into a clearing where a dozen windowless tin-roofed shacks stood cheek by jowl. The acrid smell of a recently doused campfire mixed with the stench of an open sewer, the smell so overpowering her eyes watered. A plaid shirt draped over a bush undulated in the spring breeze. Beneath the trees stood a stack of empty metal pails and a wooden water bucket.

She stood still, listening to the far-off sounds of hammers and
saws and the occasional shout. So this was where Mr. Heyward’s work crew lived.

She crossed the clearing, her shoes sinking into the spongy ground, and peered through an open doorway into a shack. Piles of blankets and clothes littered the dirt floor. Tools were stacked willy-nilly against the rough boarded walls. In one corner sat a banjo and a wooden chest; in another, a pile of dime novels and tattered magazines. A couple of candles in empty tin cans seemed to be the only source of light.

Sophie’s stomach clenched. No wonder the men were in a constant state of anger. Who wouldn’t be, living in such primitive conditions while spending their days building a palace that only the wealthiest people would ever see. The contrast was astonishing. And troubling. Why hadn’t Mr. Heyward’s partner provided better quarters for the men without whom his dream never could have materialized?

The sound of the supply-train whistle reverberated through the trees. She retraced her steps and hurried along the overgrown path. Something rustled in the bushes and she halted, the hairs on the back of her neck rising. A small child wearing only a filthy, sagging diaper darted into the path.

“Oh goodness.” Sophie knelt and opened her arms. “Where in the world did you come from, darling?”

The little girl sucked her thumb and stared unblinking at Sophie.

“Are you lost? What’s your name?” Sophie rose and pawed through her reticule, but she couldn’t come up with anything that would tempt or delight a small child.

“She ain’t lost.”

Sophie spun around to find a young woman in a ragged calico dress staring back at her. “You scared me.”

“Good. Maybe you’ll stop sniffing around up here and leave us be.”

Sophie took in the young woman’s haggard face and febrile eyes. The unmistakable smell of vomit came off her in waves.

“You’re sick.”

“Ain’t nothing wrong with me.” She picked up the toddler and settled the child on her hip.

“You need a doctor.” Sophie fumbled for her pen and notebook. She scribbled Gillie’s name, tore out the page, and pressed it into the woman’s hand. “This is my friend. She assists our town doctor, and she very much wants to help mothers and children. Will you go and see her?”

“Mind your own business.” The woman wadded the paper and tossed it into the bushes. The baby wailed.

“My name is Sophie. I own the newspaper in town. Please tell me your name and where you live, and I’ll send Miss Gilman to you. You must get well, or else who will look after your baby?”

The woman laughed, a harsh, bitter sound. “Do I look like I got money for a doctor?”

Sophie’s heart ached as she looked at the weeping child. Had her own mother, whoever she was, been this desperate too? Desperate enough eventually to give up her child forever?

“I’ll take care of the bill, I promise. Just go and see Miss Gilman. Or Doc Spencer.”

The woman shifted the child to her other hip. “I reckon you mean well, but you don’t know how things are up here. We don’t have much, it’s true. But my husband couldn’t hold his head up high if I was to take charity.”

“He’d rather you’d stay sick than admit he needs help?” Sophie clenched her fists. “How chivalrous of him.”

“I got to go. And you ought to git on off this mountain and mind your own business.”

Sophie frowned. How on earth did Gillie suppose people like this woman would come to an infirmary even if it was free?
Distance and lack of money seemed to be less an issue than pride. How could Gillie hope to overcome such thinking?

She watched the woman disappear along the trail, then turned and headed for the resort. She thought about Robbie’s belief that God had a purpose in bringing her back to Hickory Ridge. Maybe that was true, because from where she stood, a lot of things in this town needed fixing.

She reached the entrance to Blue Smoke and stopped to check her hat and brush the dirt from the hem of her dress. Ada would say it was poor manners to arrive unannounced, but it couldn’t be helped.

“Miss Caldwell?”

She looked up to see Mr. Heyward striding toward her. His hat was askew, his spectacles smudged, and his jacket sprigged with bits of foliage. Somehow his less than impeccable looks made him seem more approachable. Even though she was perturbed at him for firing Caleb and incensed at the deplorable conditions in the work camp, she couldn’t help returning his smile. “Mr. Heyward. I was hoping to find you in. May I have a word with you?”

“Certainly, if you don’t mind waiting while I make myself presentable to a lady.” He blushed. “I was walking in the woods, and I’m afraid I’m in no state to receive guests.”

She followed him through the antique door from Scotland, hiding a smile at the sight of his leather notebook protruding from the back pocket of his grass-stained trousers.

He showed her into his office and asked his red-haired secretary to bring tea. “I won’t be long.” Then he disappeared.

In a moment, Mr. O’Brien returned with a tea tray and filled her cup. “Anything else you need?”

“Maybe some information?” She lifted her cup.

O’Brien’s eyes widened. “Now, that’s the one thing I can’t supply, miss, seein’ as how anything I say is likely to wind up in that paper of yours.”

She picked up the tongs, plopped a sugar cube into her cup, and stirred the tea with a silver spoon. “I understand. I was just curious about the work camp. It’s so primitive, considering how long the men have worked here.”

He frowned. “How would you know about that?”

“Oh, I . . . never mind.” She sipped. “This is very good tea. No doubt it’s the finest available.”

The secretary relaxed and leaned against the door frame. “Of course it is. Mr. Blakely insists on the best of everything, but he wants it at a rock-bottom price. It’s surely a burden to Mr. Heyward, trying to satisfy Mr. Blakely and keep the men happy and bring the project in on budget.”

“I imagine so. What do you suppose Mr. Heyward will do once the resort is finished?”

“I really couldn’t say. He keeps to himself, doesn’t confide in me all that much. More tea?”

“The papers say he’s from a long line of Georgia planters, so perhaps he’ll return home when he’s through.”

She held out her cup for a refill. “Mr. Heyward seems to delight in building lovely things. Perhaps he’ll go back and build something as beautiful as Blue Smoke.”

“I don’t think so, miss. They say something terrible happened there when he was a boy, and he hasn’t been back there since. If the story is true, I wouldn’t blame him for never wanting to set foot in Georgia again.”

“What happened? Did someone—”

The door opened, and Mr. Heyward came in wearing fresh clothes, his shoes shined, his hair neatly combed. He nodded to his secretary. “I hope there’s still some tea.”

“Of course.” O’Brien poured a cup for his boss. “Will you be needing anything else, sir?”

“Not at the moment. Supply train brought the mail up.” Ethan
took up the sugar tongs and dropped a couple of cubes into his cup. “You might get it sorted for me. And update the guest list for the ball. Li Chung will want to order his supplies soon, and I want to be sure Mr. Pruitt has enough of everything.”

The secretary left, closing the door behind him. Mr. Heyward stirred his tea and took a long sip. “Now, Miss Caldwell, what brings you to Blue Smoke?”

“Caleb Stanhope needs his job back.” Sophie set down her cup and folded her hands in her lap. “He told me he’s supporting his mother and two younger brothers.”

Mr. Heyward nodded. “Mary Bell. I understand she ran the telegraph office before she married. The boy told me her husband died shortly thereafter.” He took a sip of tea. “Killed in a railway accident in Chicago. Tragic for all of them.”

“Then how can you deprive him of his livelihood when the welfare of others is at stake?”

He sat forward in his chair. “Believe me, Miss Caldwell, I hated to let him go. But he shouldn’t have discussed Blue Smoke with you.”