The shouts and clatter of children split the stillness of the upper floors as a dozen students raced up the stairs. Their feet pounded like a herd of cattle as they stormed into the classroom and scrambled to find their desks and chairs for the last lesson of the day, somehow not noticing that Mariah was sitting in the middle of the floor and that he resembled a drowned rat.
She jutted a brow into the air, as if daring him to come after her now that she was surrounded by a pack of pixie-size guard dogs.
Knowing he was beaten—for now—and not having the slightest clue what he’d done wrong, he sucked in a deep, steadying breath. Then he shook his arms to fling away as much dirty water as he could.
“Don’t worry, Mariah. I won’t marry you off to the first man who offers,” he promised as he sauntered toward the door, as casually as a man could with dirty water squishing between his toes. “But definitely the second.”
CHAPTER NINE
Dusk was falling by the time Mariah arrived home. She smiled weakly at the butler as he opened the door for her. She was cold and wet, covered with dirt, and thoroughly exhausted. At that moment, nothing in the world sounded better than sinking into a hot bath, then falling into bed.
“Shall I send Alice to your room, miss?” Bentley asked, taking her coat and hat.
“Please.” She smiled gratefully, then hesitated before asking, “Is my family home?”
“Miss Evelyn is upstairs, and Mr. Winslow is in his study.”
Her chest fell. She’d been hoping to have the house to herself so she could wallow in her misery in peace. And try to sort through the confusion that had gripped her since the moment Robert Carlisle walked into her life.
“Thank you. Tell Alice I’ll be up in a moment, and take this down to Cook, will you?” She held up the cloth-covered basket she’d carried in from the carriage. “Mrs. Smith sent a pie for Papa.” She lowered her voice with a conspiratorial smile. “And I put in a second pie for you and the servants, too.”
“You’re a kind one, miss.” He gave her an affectionate wink as he accepted the basket, then he snapped back into his role as a dignified butler and bowed his head formally. He retreated toward the rear stairs.
With a long sigh, she moved slowly down the hall toward Papa’s study. Soon, the footmen would light the lamp in the foyer and the sconces along the hallways, but for now, the house was still dark and quiet, and she was glad for it. A headache had threatened to engulf her since the moment she said her good-byes at Gatewell.
No. The headache had arrived well before that, since the moment Robert Carlisle destroyed a perfectly wonderful moment by calling her the kind of woman on whom a man could get burned.
“I’m not a flatiron, for heaven’s sake,” she muttered, letting her anger push down any lingering hurt at the accusation. Because it had hurt. A great deal. And just when she was beginning to think that she could trust him, that he might finally understand her.
Apparently, he didn’t understand her at all.
The study door stood open, and Mariah stopped to lean against the doorframe and gaze in at her father.
Whenever she imagined Papa in his study, she pictured him like this, sitting right there behind his large desk, busy at work. A Chippendale piece made of mahogany with black leather inlay across the top, complete with carved lion’s paws for feet, the desk was Papa’s most treasured belonging next to his wedding ring and the place where he felt most at home in the world. How many hours had she played on the rug in front of the fire while he pored over the company’s books at that desk? How many plans and hopes for the future had he shared with her during those quiet afternoons? Her love for the company had come as naturally as loving her father, which wasn’t surprising because the two were inseparable. During all the years spent shadowing her father, even before Mama passed away, she’d loved simply being in the same room with him, dreaming of ships and faraway places.
Her chest squeezed. When had their relationship gone so wrong? When had Papa stopped being the man she admired and become an adversary?
Her shoulders sagged. She was so very tired of fighting him, of struggling to earn his attention. It hadn’t always been that way. When she was a child, she was his joy, and he would take her with him wherever he went, whether for a stroll through the park or to meet with his captains and warehouse managers. Until she turned thirteen, when he sent her away to Miss Pettigrew’s. When she returned, nothing was the same. She was a grown woman, and Papa couldn’t fathom why she wanted to spend time at the offices or wharves when she could have been out shopping or attending parties. Just as she simply couldn’t fathom any other life for herself but working at his side.
Perhaps Robert was right. Perhaps it was time she stopped trying to bring back those old days.
But how did one give up a dream held for so very long and survive?
As if sensing her presence, her father glanced up from the papers he was reading and smiled at her. “So you’re home,” he announced.
“And you’re working,” she commented in a gentle chastisement. “As always.”
“Because there is always work to be done,” he answered with a tired but happy sigh, his smile growing.
Her heart panged and reminded her that they weren’t always at each other’s throats, that they often shared quiet moments like this. Unfortunately, those moments seemed preciously few these days and never managed to last long.
She shook her head. “Then don’t let me interrupt. I just wanted to let you know that I’d returned.”
“Nonsense.” He set the papers down and leaned back in his chair. “Seeing my daughter is never an interruption.”
At that, she disbelievingly arched a brow, yet she pushed away from the doorframe and came forward into the room.
“Well, a very welcome interruption at any rate,” he conceded as he rose from the desk and crossed to the liquor cabinet. “You were at Gatewell?”
“Yes. And thank you for sending the bags of flour and the sugar.”
He paused in the middle of pouring bourbon into two crystal tumblers and threw her a pointed glance. “And?”
A knowing smile spread across her face. “And Mrs. Smith sent along a quince pie to you in gratitude.”
“Ah!” he replied happily, holding out the second glass to her. “Mrs. Smith has a kind soul.”
She accepted the drink with a twitch of her lips. “And knows exactly how to target the soft spot in yours.”
He laughed, a warm and carefree sound that reminded her of the man he was before her mother’s death, when he laughed more and worried less. “Never underestimate the value of finding a man’s soft spot, my dear.” He tapped his glass against hers, more to emphasize his point than to toast. “It makes for more favorable business deals and a much happier marriage.”
She gave a small laugh and took a sip of the golden liquid, savoring its sweet warmth, then gestured toward the desk. “How’s business?”
“The usual. Too many goods coming in, too few going out.” He slumped down heavily in his chair, leaning back and folding his hands across his stomach, with his glass perched on his waistcoat buttons. “The bane of a trader’s life.”
“Will we be able to purchase a new ship this spring?” Her question was disguised as casual interest, but she was checking up on the company as she always did whenever she had the chance. She couldn’t help herself. She loved Winslow Shipping and always would. Despite the torture he was putting her through this season, she still loved her father, too. Every misguided bit of him.
He glanced down at the stack of papers and grimaced. “Not this spring, I’m afraid. I need to free up monies for another project I’m considering.”
Curiosity pricked at her. “Would that be the real estate project in St Katharine’s?”
He glanced up, frowning. “What do you know about that?”
“Not much.” She shrugged her shoulders and took another sip of bourbon. “Carlisle said you had him investigating properties, and he asked if I had any insights I might be able to share.”
He studied her closely. “Did you?”
“Nothing that was helpful, I’m afraid.” She sent him a rueful smile. “I’d be better at stocking stores than buying them.”