Legacy of Love. Christine Johnson
“Any gifts or tokens would be exchanged privately on Christmas Day. Sunday is for family.”
“I’m not part of your family,” Brandon pointed out.
“We’re all part of God’s family. You too.” Gabe grabbed the door handle. “We’d love to have you. Two o’clock.”
The man would not relent, but Brandon could be just as stubborn. Work came first, regardless of the day of the week or year. “I’ll be busy getting this shop ready. It has to open early in January, the sooner the better. You said you knew someone who could do some carpentry. Perhaps a youth who’s good with his hands?”
Gabe mused for a moment. “I think I know the perfect person. Come to dinner on Sunday, and I’ll introduce you.”
Brandon had been outmaneuvered. If he wanted help, he had to endure Sunday dinner. “Very well.”
“Wonderful. We’ll have a real celebration then.” After a parting grin, Pastor Gabe took off down the sidewalk whistling “Blest Be the Tie That Binds.”
Brandon shut the door on the hymn and the wily minister. He had no intention of celebrating on Christmas or ever. He didn’t deserve to be happy, not when his men had died.
* * *
Unfortunately, the main house had fared little better than the carriage house. First thing the next morning, Anna stood alone at the entrance to the imposing parlor and surveyed the massive task ahead of her. The brass and silver had tarnished to such an extent that she doubted she could bring back the shine even if she polished for a month. Dust coated everything. Dampness had seeped into the very fibers of the wool carpets, leaving the place with the moldy smell of a cellar.
“It’s impossible,” she murmured.
“What’s impossible?” Brandon’s question made her jump. He stood in the hallway leading toward the back of the house, impeccably dressed in a dark gray suit, overcoat already on and cane in hand.
She backed into the doorway. The solid plaster walls gave her a sense of protection. “I’m sorry. I thought you’d left for the day. I didn’t see your car.” At least he hadn’t mentioned the fact that she didn’t make him breakfast this morning. The car had been gone by the time she’d dressed.
“I returned to fetch a book.” He withdrew a slim volume from his coat pocket to prove the point. “Which reminds me, I promised to lend you Davis’s book. Follow me.”
Clearly he was accustomed to commanding people. As she hurried after him, she recalled Ma’s speculation about where he suffered his injury. “Were you an officer in the war?”
He stopped in his tracks. “My past is no concern of yours.”
His glare sent icy shivers down her back. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean anything by it. I was just curious.”
As quickly as it had come, his anger dissipated. “Apology accepted. However, I would appreciate it if in the future you could contain your curiosity about my personal life.”
Anna swallowed hard. What had she said to set him off? She’d only asked if he was an officer. Maybe Ma was right about the injury. Maybe that’s why he didn’t want to talk about it.
“I will,” she promised.
“Thank you. Now let’s fetch Mr. Davis’s report from the library.”
His house had a library? Anna’s pulse quickened. Libraries contained hidden passages and secret rooms. Everything interesting happened in libraries.
He strode down the hallway, his steps strong and confident with barely a hint of the limp. She followed, eager to see the room. The library. The word alone invited intrigue.
Brandon stopped at the third closed door on the right. “Wait here.”
He ducked inside, and she barely saw the floor-to-ceiling books before the door shut behind him. Seconds later, he reappeared.
“Here it is.” He handed her the slender volume. It had less than a hundred and fifty pages, and a lot of those were illustrations.
The Tombs of Harmhabi and Touatânkhamanou. She read the title, no doubt incorrectly pronouncing the unfamiliar words. “I thought this was about King Tutankhamun.”
“It is.” He pointed to the last word in the title. “Mr. Davis simply spelled it differently than the reporters do.”
“Oh.” Somehow the volume wasn’t as exciting as the newspaper stories. She flipped to the title page and noticed the date of publication. “1912? Mr. Davis found the tomb ten years ago?”
“Actually, that’s when the report was published. His work came earlier.”
She couldn’t hide her bewilderment. “Then why didn’t he take the treasure?”
“Read it,” Brandon urged.
He was deliberately holding back, and she could tell by the teasing smile on his lips that he had a surprise in store for her.
“We can discuss it when you’re finished,” he added. “We’ll set aside an evening when you and your mother can come to the house for supper.”
It sounded almost like a date, with Ma as chaperone.
She clutched the book tightly. “I’d like that. Maybe next week?”
His smile faded. “Perhaps. If the store’s ready. Speaking of which, I’d best get back so you can work.” Without further comment, he nodded farewell and departed into the wintry day.
Disappointed, she fingered the book. What had she said? One moment he wanted to talk over supper. The next he couldn’t make time.
She turned toward the desolate house and the hard work that awaited her. Only then did the realization hit. He only saw her as a housekeeper. The offer to talk was meant to appease her and nothing more.
Anger flushed through her. He didn’t care what she thought about the Egyptian excavations. If she wanted to gain his respect, she needed to make something of herself.
Tomorrow she’d take the train to Belvidere and apply at the cannery.
Chapter Five
Anna never took the train to Belvidere. Ma insisted they decorate the apartment for Christmas instead. Since her mother could barely walk, that left the work to Anna. She gathered pinecones and evergreen boughs, while Ma strung corn she’d popped over the fire. Branches of money plant added pearly white disks to the display. She stuck cloves into apples and hung them from old ribbons. Considering the decorations cost so little, Anna thought it looked pretty good.
“It’s not as nice as home, though,” she mused.
Ma looked up from her needlework. “This is home now.”
“Are you sure no one will mind that I cut off some pine branches?” No one of course referred to Brandon, on whose property they’d gathered the boughs and cones and dried flowers.
“Mr. Brandon gave his permission. He even unlocked the garage doors so you could get a saw.”
No matter how many times Ma reassured her, Anna still felt like a thief. They might live here, but only as guests.
Just walking into the garage portion of the carriage house had felt like an invasion of his privacy. As a child she’d often wondered what lay inside the thick stone walls. How disappointing to discover it contained the same things as every other outbuilding. In former days carriages must have been parked where he now kept his automobile. Along one wall stood a tool bench with dozens of old tools hanging from nails that had been pounded into a board attached to the plastered stone wall.
The plaster had been a surprise. It was to be expected in the apartment, but why would anyone plaster a garage? Yet someone in the past had done just that. Judging