Another Homecoming Read online

  “Second thoughts,” he echoed, his mind racing.

  “I have been rather demanding at times, I’m afraid.” Abigail sighed dramatically. “And this loss of her father has been most difficult for her.”

  Randolf knew he was expected to respond, but he could not. The words would not come. His one chance to wrest full control of Rothmore Insurance was suddenly slipping through his fingers. And yet he could not fathom why. He studied the woman seated across from him, searching for the purpose behind her actions.

  “I’ve been wondering if we should not push her so,” Abigail continued. “Perhaps Kyle should be given more time to grow up.”

  Randolf resisted the urge to scream, to tear his hair, to leap to his feet and rage from the room. But what about our plans? he wanted to shout. What about all my ambitions?

  He took a breath. Another. Only when a semblance of calm was restored did he say, “But I thought you were concerned that she might . . .” He was uncertain whether he should even mention out loud what had never before been spoken. But with all his dreams going up in smoke, he had no choice. He pressed forward with, “I thought you wanted to be certain that she had no opportunity to . . . to select a husband of her own choosing.”

  A small smile flickered around the corners of her mouth, though she tried hard to disguise it. “That is not so pressing now. With her father gone . . .”

  “Ah.” The word was a release of both pent-up tension and hope. It was clear to him now. Bitterness tainted his voice as he demanded, “So you are severing me from any relationship with your daughter?”

  “Oh, my dear Randolf.” She leaned back in the big desk chair. Her small figure looked dwarfed by its size, yet a new sense of authority gave the impression that she was quite at home there. “Quite the opposite. I would be perfectly thrilled if Kyle were to choose you. But I also feel that we can now allow her a bit more freedom. After all, she is little more than a child.”

  “That scarcely concerned you before,” Randolf pointed out acidly. It no longer mattered, though. Nothing would change Abigail’s mind. He knew that for certain. She was going to run the company. She would make her own rules.

  Abigail studied him carefully for a moment before replying coldly, “Think what you might, Randolf, but the fact is that all I have done for Kyle has been done with her best interests in mind. She is such a child. She thinks the world is made up of sugarplum fairies and doting fathers. I have had to take a firm hand because no one else would.”

  Randolf hesitated. She sounded so sincere. Perhaps she cared more for the girl than he had realized. “But I care for your daughter as well, Abigail,” he ventured. “She is attractive and intelligent, a rare combination. And her sweet sense of innocence is most refreshing. Business was far from my only motive, I hope—”

  “Of course I knew that.” She waved a dismissive hand. “I would not for one moment have encouraged you if the business had been your only motive.” Abigail’s gaze held a new quality, a sense of realized power. “Your qualities are well known to me, Randolf. I will continue to require them, both as an ally within the company as well as a suitable gentleman for my daughter.”

  His shoulders slumped with sudden relief. All was not lost. Not entirely. Just postponed. Perhaps. “You mean—”

  “I meant just exactly what I said.” She held him with this new, powerful gaze of hers. “I intend to take a firm hand within the company, and I expect another firm hand to take over when I depart. I know full well how quickly fortunes can rise and fall. My grandfather had wealth, as you full know. My father managed to lose almost all of it, not because he was not intelligent, but because he was weak. I cannot permit either this family or this business to fall into weak hands.”

  Randolf pushed himself to his feet. He felt drained. Trapped. Abigail was so incredibly in control. “So I should still continue to see her.”

  “Of course, my dear Randolf.” She looked directly into his eyes. “But there is no need to press. Not for the moment, at least.”

  He nodded mutely and turned to go. He knew the words were his dismissal.

  Kyle had begun the habit of rising with the sun. She found it gave her a much-needed respite from her mother, as well as time for quiet reflection. She would dress and walk through the garden, occasionally stopping for a chat with old Jim, but usually preferring solitude. Those winter walks became her refuge, when frost covered the grass with diamond shards and all the world seemed to hold its breath.

  Dawn came late and slowly on those mornings, and the sun’s arrival formed stark etchings in the frozen yard. Everything was either bathed in frigid shadow or sparkling with a myriad of tiny rainbows. Each of her footsteps whispered through the thawing grass, marking her passage with dark imprints. She carried bread with her, feeding crumbs to every bird she saw. By early December, the birds had come to expect her and would flutter about with quietly drumming wings as she sprinkled the glittering lawn with food.

  Afterward, Kyle went into the kitchen and had her breakfast with Bertrand and Maggie. They sat down together, said grace, and ate as they discussed plans for the day. Then Bertrand left to do his morning rounds of the house, and Maggie took out her Bible and read quietly. Several times she offered to read out loud, but Kyle shook her head. She was happy to just sit there and feel the peace as Maggie read to herself.

  Kyle avoided the house’s big rooms as much as possible. They echoed with her father’s absence. There was nothing left to keep the cold, precise emptiness of her mother’s style and personality at bay. Whenever Kyle walked through the great hall or the formal chamber or the dining room, with their beautiful paintings and sparkling chandeliers and waxed floors and polished silverware, she felt as though she had wandered into a strange and empty museum.

  That first Saturday in December, when Maggie rose to begin her chores, Kyle donned an apron and worked alongside her. Maggie protested, “Child, you’ve got a score of other more important things to do than work here beside me.”

  “I don’t, really,” Kyle said, holding to her matter-of-fact tone. “Emily Crawley and some of her friends are coming over for tennis, but not until eleven.” Several of the wealthy families had built communal courts, one indoors and another outdoors, at the bottom of their garden. “Besides, I didn’t invite them. Mother did.”

  “Speaking of which,” Maggie continued, “if your mother found you in here working she would not be pleased.”

  Kyle’s hands stayed busy washing the greenhouse strawberries Bertrand would serve with morning coffee for their guests. “Don’t send me away, please, Maggie. I don’t have anywhere else to go.”

  The older woman’s tone softened as she asked, “What on earth are you saying?”

  Kyle kept her hands busy. It helped her hold to the calm tone. “I don’t belong here. I’ll never be the proper lady Mother wants me to be.”

  “Oh, honey, my dear sweet Kyle.” Maggie walked over and settled one arm around Kyle’s waist. “You are the most wonderful young lady I have ever set eyes on, and that is the truth.”

  “Not according to Mother,” she replied. The sunlight streaming through the back window became a lancing blade, and Kyle had to stop to wipe at her eyes with the back of one hand. “She’s been at me nonstop since Daddy . . . since the funeral. Nothing I do is good enough. And she’s right.”

  “No she isn’t,” Maggie said, her voice quiet yet firm.

  “Yes she is.”

  “Look at me, dear.”

  Kyle let the berries drop into the plastic strainer and turned to face her friend. The sunlight was revealing as it rested upon the old woman’s features. Yet a lifetime of hard work had not dimmed the clarity of those wide-set gray eyes. They regarded her now, the gaze clear and direct and loving. “My dearest child, I love you like you were my own daughter, you know that.”

  “I know,” Kyle whispered.

  “Then believe me when I tell you, life will always try to bring you down. If it were not your mother, it would
be something else. Do you know why?”

  Kyle found herself unable to answer, so she made do with a little shake of her head.

  “Because your heart is too big for this world. You hold too much love, too much tenderness. It is clear to anyone with eyes open to the truth.” A cloud began tracing its way across the sky overhead, cutting out all the light except for the single ray falling upon Maggie’s face. It transformed her gray hair into a shimmering silver crown and made the light in her eyes so strong that they seemed to hold the sun itself. “A heart like yours needs protection, my beloved child. It needs the shield of prayer to keep it from seeking out the shelter of cynicism and hardness. Do you understand what I am saying?”

  “I’m not sure,” Kyle murmured. She wanted to run away, and she wanted to stay. She wanted Maggie to stop saying these words that left her feeling so vulnerable and shaken, and yet she wanted her to keep talking for all her life long.

  “You need to ask the Lord into your life, my beloved little one. You need to have His presence guiding you, showing you the path your feet should be walking.” Maggie inspected her with a gaze so penetrating that Kyle felt as though it reached deep into her confused heart.

  “I’m not—” Her response was cut off by the sound of the front doorbell. “Who is that?”

  Maggie stepped back a pace, bringing her face into the shadows, and once more she became a gray-headed old woman. “I have no idea who that might be. Deliveries always come to the back door.”

  Kyle listened but did not hear Bertrand’s measured tread. “I suppose I’d better go see who it is.”

  As she turned away, Maggie settled a hand upon her arm. “Here, let me take your apron.” After removing it, Kyle handed it over, and the woman said, “Will you think about what I have told you, child?”

  “Of course.” Yet as she walked through the kitchen door and entered the grand foyer, Kyle felt the words slip from her. Like a cloak left behind after a hard summer shower, she cast them aside. She had no choice. Here in the harsh reality of her beautiful home, as her heels clicked across the polished marble tile, Kyle felt as though the words had no place. Nor the sentiment. She could not survive with an open heart. Not here, not around her mother and her mother’s friends. They would grind her down and devour her, unless she somehow could learn to be as hard and as cold as they were.

  Kyle stopped in front of the oval mirror and checked her reflection as her mother had trained her to do before answering the door. But she caught herself looking into a pair of sad, hopeless eyes. And she had a fleeting glimpse of a thought: What if Maggie is right, and they are wrong?

  The doorbell sounded again, bringing her from her reverie. She straightened, turned, and opened the door.

  Old Mr. Crawley, Randolf and Emily’s father, stood in the entrance. “Hello, Kyle.”

  “Good morning, sir. Won’t you come in?” she invited warmly, remembering this man’s years with her beloved father. “Was Mother expecting you?”

  “Not exactly. We are planning the reading of your father’s will, as you know.”

  “Of course.” It was circled in red in her mother’s social calendar and had been for over a month. Abigail’s secretary had typed letters to each of the family, inviting them all, as though it was some important social event. Every time Abigail spoke of it, she did so with a spark of barely repressed excitement. It left Kyle reeling to see her father’s memory reduced to such crassness. But as always, Kyle had remained silent. And safe. “But isn’t that on Monday?”

  “It is indeed.” For some reason, the old gentleman seemed nervous. “There’s a certain matter . . . well, I thought it best to speak with you two in private.”

  Bertrand appeared, apologetic at having been caught away from his post. “Miss Kyle, excuse me, I was out back making arrangements with the caterer for Monday’s reception, and didn’t hear—”

  “It’s quite all right. See if you can find Mother, won’t you?”

  “Of course, miss. Right away.” He gave Mr. Crawley a stiff bow and turned away.

  “Perhaps we’d be more comfortable in the library, Mr. Crawley.” She held none of the negative feelings for the older gentleman that she had for his offspring. Mr. Crawley had married late and was a good twenty-five years older than his wife. He possessed the stiff bearing and formal manners of another generation. But he had always treated her with reserved courtesy. There was nothing false about him, nor any of the cold deceit she felt from Randolf Junior. “Can I offer you a cup of tea?”

  “No, thank you.” He entered the library, took the offered seat, set the bulky briefcase beside his chair, and waited in some inner tension. When steps announced Abigail’s passage across the marble foyer, he almost leapt to his feet to greet her.

  “Why, Randolf, what an unexpected treat,” Abigail said, entering with her hand outstretched. The formal smile said that in truth his arrival was anything but a pleasure. “If you are looking for your son, I’m afraid he’s already come and gone.”

  A fleeting expression of alarm passed over the old man’s features. “You’re sure he’s gone?”

  “Yes, of course, I saw him off myself.” She allowed herself an instant’s curiosity over his attitude, but clearly there were more pressing matters on her mind. “I’m so sorry I can’t invite you to join us for lunch, but I really must—”

  “I’m not here for a meal,” the older gentleman said grimly. “And I know how busy you are. But we really must talk.”

  Abigail lifted her chin a fraction, so as to give the impression of looking down at the taller man. “Really, what on earth can’t wait until our meeting Monday?”

  “I have asked myself the same thing, and wondered if I am not breaking your husband’s instructions by being here,” he responded crisply. “But as you have refused to listen to my entreaties for the first reading of the will to be held in private, I feel I have no choice.”

  Abigail showed an instant of uncertainty. She gathered herself with an effort and said, “Won’t you sit down?”

  “Thank you.” Stiffly he resumed his seat.

  “As I have already told you,” Abigail went on, “I can see no reason for agreeing to this odd request of yours. Lawrence has no doubt shown his relatives the same generosity that he has always demonstrated.”

  “My suggestion had nothing whatsoever to do with how Lawrence has treated the others. What you may not be aware of, Abigail, is that your husband retained me to take care of some very private matters.”

  This time, the woman’s surprise could not be masked. “I beg your pardon?”

  “Matters so private,” Mr. Crawley persisted, “that not even my son was to know of them. By Lawrence’s own instructions I was ordered not to divulge them, not even to you, Abigail, until the reading of the will. But because of your persistence in making this a public event, I felt it necessary to speak to you personally in advance.”

  There was the sudden focusing of energy so potent that time seemed to slow. Kyle felt as much as saw her mother’s tension. Abigail began turning toward her, but the movement seemed to go on forever, and all around them rose the invisible swirling cyclone. “Wait outside, please, Kyle.”

  “As a matter of fact,” Mr. Crawley interjected, “this very much pertains to your daughter.”

  “I said wait outside.” Her mother’s voice was so flat it sounded metallic.

  “Abigail—”

  “You may have affected some secret relationship with my late husband,” the agitated woman snapped, the cords in her throat standing out. “But I am still mistress of this house, am I not?”

  Mr. Crawley observed her as he would a witness on the stand, then turned away with a brief harrumph and began shuffling papers brought from his briefcase. Kyle rose and left the room in silence. Quietly she closed the tall double doors behind her, glad to be away from the gathering storm.

  But she had scarcely made it halfway across the foyer when Abigail shrieked at the top of her voice, “WHAT?”


  Kyle stopped in her tracks. The kitchen door popped open, and she was joined by Maggie and Bertrand. Together they stood and gaped at the library’s closed doors.

  There was the low murmur of Mr. Crawley’s voice, then a long silence, followed by Abigail’s shout, “You cannot be serious!”

  A further low murmur was cut off by Abigail shrieking, “I will not stand for this!” But the murmur persisted, rising slightly, yet remaining too low for them to make out the words. Kyle was not sure whether she was sorry or glad to be unable to understand what the old gentleman was saying.

  Suddenly the library doors were flung back with such force they banged upon the side wall, knocking down one of the portraits. Abigail stalked out, her face drawn and white, her lips a thin line. She shot a single furious glance at Kyle, then fled in a staccato beat of her high heels.

  Mr. Crawley emerged, wiping his forehead with a white handkerchief. He gave Kyle a look of pure sympathy. Yet all he said was, “I can see myself out.”

  10

  THERE WERE MANY THINGS that Joel found disconcerting about the Miller household. But they were not why he felt so nervous as he walked up the path and climbed their front steps that Sunday morning. He paused on the porch to adjust his tie and slick down his hair. Before he could raise his hand to knock, Ruthie had already opened the door.

  “Hello, Choel,” she welcomed in her softly accented brogue. Little Ruthie was what she was called around the house because she had the same name as her mother, but Ruthie was not small. Just an inch shy of Joel’s own height, she had the look of a healthy, hearty farm girl. Her height and strength only added to her pleasant attractiveness. As always, she wore the same homespun blouse and long skirt as her mother, but the kerchief in her hair was of a brighter color. She stood straight and tall, her face full of her sweet nature. Ruthie held the screen open for him. “I wish you good Lord’s day, Choel,” she added formally.