Courting Miss Adelaide

“I’ll have you know my hat is in vogue,” she said, the hint of a tease in her voice. “What you need is someone to teach you and your readers style.”

He smirked. “I can’t see farmers reading it.”

“Well, no. But farmers’ wives spend money in town—”

“On birds for their heads,” he said.

She raised her chin. “Are you poking fun at me, Mr. Graves?”

His gaze sobered, something deep and mysterious replaced the mirth and sent a quiver through Adelaide. “Not at all, Miss Crum. Not at all.”

She glanced away from that look and the unspoken words it contained. “Good because I’d like to write a fashion column for the paper.” She covered her mouth with her hand, but the half-baked idea she’d been considering had already escaped. Being around this man scrambled her orderly mind.

Considering her proposal, Mr. Graves tapped a finger on his chin, very near the cleft. “I couldn’t pay much—”

“One free ad per column will do.”

“You’re a shrewd businesswoman. A fashion column isn’t a bad idea. Could you give me a sample? Say, by Monday?”

She beamed, barely able to keep from hugging him for this opportunity. A column would give her shop publicity. Perhaps increase sales, something she needed badly. An article would also give her a voice—granted one about style, but still a published voice. “It’ll be exciting to see my name in print.”

“You and I seem to be kindred spirits.”

He cleared his throat, pivoted to his desk and grabbed a piece of paper. “I have your ad right here. Have a seat.”

Adelaide glanced at the chair across from his desk, pleased to see it cleared of books and crumbs. She shot him a grin. “It appears you’ve made a few changes.”

“Nothing of consequence.” His mouth twisted as if he tried not to smile. “It merely made sense to have one chair fit for subscribers.”

She cocked her head at him. “That’s very astute of you.”

“Under that proper demeanor, you have a feisty side, Miss Crum, a side that keeps a man on his toes.”

Adelaide lifted her chin and reached for the ad. “Stay on your toes if you like, but I prefer to be seated.”

His laugh told Adelaide the editor had gotten her attempt at humor. How long had it been since she’d made a joke? Felt this alive?

She tamped down her unbusinesslike feelings. After putting on her spectacles, she read the ad, and with an approving nod, returned it to him. “This is perfect.”

Mr. Graves sat on the edge of his desk. He leaned toward her, a wide grin spreading across his face.

Something about this man made her feel content, like she did in church, but had never experienced in her home growing up. She hardly knew him, so the thought made no sense. And Adelaide prided herself on being a sensible woman.

“I’ll run this in the next edition,” Mr. Graves said.

“And I’ll deliver my column personally. On Monday. If you print it, the column should take care of the bill.”

He nodded. “Are you always this efficient?”

“I take my work seriously.”

“Ah, a woman after my own heart.”

He’d called them kindred spirits, declared her to be a woman after his own heart. The words ricocheted through her and left a hitch in her breathing and a huge knot in her stomach. Dare she hope for something too important to consider?

On Monday Adelaide once again sat across from the editor, this time with her fashion column clutched in her palm. When she handed it over to Mr. Graves, her heart tripped in her chest. Why had this column become so important?

“Neat, bold strokes, a woman not afraid to share her mind.” He grinned, settling behind his desk to read.

Across from him, Adelaide fidgeted like a student waiting outside the principal’s office while Mr. Graves bent his head to read. After he finished, he smiled. “Your assessment of women’s fashions is written with the wit and flair I’d only expect from a professional journalist. I’ll run it in the next edition.”

“I loved writing it.”

“If you want another article, let me know.”

“I’d hoped you’d want a monthly column.”

Mr. Graves ran his fingers through his hair. “Well, perhaps. Let’s see how this article is received first.”

“Fair enough.”

“I’m guessing we’ll get positive feedback from the ladies. Who knows? Maybe the men, too.” He tapped the paper. “You have a gift for words.”

Slowly a smile took over his face. “Would you be my dinner guest Saturday evening?”

Adelaide blinked. Had he asked her to dinner? She gulped. “Dinner? Saturday?”

“If that isn’t a good night…”

He must think I’m an idiot. “Saturday will be fine.”

A strange tightness seized her throat. How long since she’d shared a meal with a man? Years. And never with a man this attractive, this intelligent. A man, who had only to smile in her direction to set her heart hammering.

Evidently from his calm, easy demeanor, Mr. Graves often asked a woman to share a meal. Something she’d best remember, lest she make too much of the invitation.

“I’ll call for you at seven,” he said.

“Seven,” she repeated.

“I thought we might go to the Becker House.”

She nodded, recovering her wits and her manners. “The Becker House would be lovely.”

“When I arrived in town, I stayed there, so I speak from experience. The food is great.”

The door rattled shut. A rotund gentleman dropped the briefcase he carried, then shoved his hat back on his head and mopped his forehead with a handkerchief. “Whoo-ee, it sure is hot for April. Never thought I’d complain about the heat after the winter we had, but this day is an oven, and I’m the hog roasting inside.”

Charles crossed to the stranger. “May I help you, sir?”

“You can indeed. I’m looking for Mr. Charles Graves.”

“You’ve found him.”

“Excellent! Saves me a trip back into the sun.” He stuck out a palm. “I’m Spencer Evans, your father’s attorney. My condolences for your loss.”

Adam Graves had died? Adelaide’s gaze darted to the editor. Mr. Graves gave a curt nod. She hadn’t seen anything about it in the paper. Nor did his son act grieved, but from her limited experience, she realized men didn’t carry their feelings on their sleeves.

“I’m sorry about your father, Mr. Graves.” Rising, Adelaide tucked her spectacles into her bag. “I’d best be going.”

“I’ll see you Saturday evening, Miss Crum.”

“Did you say Miss Crum?” Mr. Evans turned toward her. “Could you be Adelaide Crum?” When she nodded, the lawyer slapped his hands together. “It’s a piece of luck finding you here. A sure piece of luck.”

“I’m afraid I don’t understand—”

“Of course you don’t. I apologize for being obtuse. This unseasonable heat must be muddling my brain, what there is of it.” He chuckled. “As I said, I’m Adam Graves’s attorney. If I locate all the heirs before I melt, I’d like to read his will at one o’clock this afternoon. If you both are available, that is.”

Adelaide looked at Mr. Graves, then back to Mr. Evans. “There must be some mistake. I didn’t know Adam Graves.”

The editor frowned. “Are you certain of your facts, Mr. Evans?”

“I make it a point to be certain of my facts.” Mr. Evans gave a nod toward the stack of newsprint. “I’m sure in your business, you do the same. Adelaide Crum is one of Adam Graves’s heirs, as is one Mary Graves. Do you know where I can find her?”

Mr. Graves nodded. “Mary lives on South Sixth Street between Maple and Conner. If you’d like, I can take you to her place right now.”

Filled with unspoken questions, the editor’s gaze locked with Adelaide’s. Baffled by the turn of events, she looked away.

“I’d appreciate it.” The lawyer turned to her. “We’ll meet in the private dining room of the Becker House this afternoon at one o’clock, Miss Crum. That way I can take the morning train back to Cincinnati tomorrow.” He shoved his hat back in place.

Adelaide looked at the clock on the wall. “In less than an hour, Mary will be coming to my shop to quilt.”

“Wonderful. That’ll give me time to speak to her before she leaves. Whoo-ee, it is indeed my lucky day!” Mr. Evans turned toward Adelaide. “And yours, too, Miss Crum.” He gave her a jaunty wave. “See you this afternoon.”

Then he and Mr. Graves were gone, leaving Adelaide with an uncomfortable feeling that this was not her lucky day. Not her lucky day at all.

Adelaide laid out scissors and thread, and then prepared a sandwich for lunch. While thinking about the odd meeting with the lawyer, she layered ham and cheese on two slices of bread. With so much on her mind, she had no interest in food or quilting. But company might take her mind off the one o’clock appointment.

At exactly ten o’clock, the “Snip and Sew” quilting group, carrying lunch pails and sewing baskets, pushed through the shop door, the four women clumped together as if they’d been stitched at the hips. They chattered and laughed, except for Mary, who gave Adelaide an encouraging smile.

Tension eased from between Adelaide’s shoulder blades. At least, Mary didn’t appear disturbed that she’d be at the reading of Adam Graves’s will.

Bringing up the rear came a fifth woman, the one person Adelaide had least expected to be interested in quilting.

Fannie Whitehall.

Sally pulled Fannie forward. “Fannie’s joining our group. She’s not a quilter, but she can stitch a fine hem.”

“How nice of you to help, Fannie,” Laura said.

The others greeted Fannie, friendly as birds on a branch.

The news thudded to the bottom of Adelaide’s stomach. From seeing Fannie at The Ledger, Adelaide knew the girl hankered to play husband archery, and Mr. Graves was the target. Still, money raised from the sale of the quilt would buy supplies for the Sunday school. Only a selfish woman would resent another pair of helping hands. She swallowed her reservations and offered a smile. “Welcome, Fannie.”

“Well, shall we get started?” Laura said.

Adelaide led the ladies to where she’d assembled her frame and had attached the Dresden Plate quilt. The pastel petals and yellow centers looked pretty enough to attract bees.

Adelaide grabbed a chair for Fannie, then she and Mary put away the ladies’ lunches.

“Charles brought Mr. Evans by,” Mary said in a low voice. “He told me you’re one of the heirs.”

“I can’t imagine why.”

“We’ll find out soon enough.”

Adelaide’s stomach knotted. Whatever happened at the reading of the will, there’d be consequences.

By the time Mary and Adelaide took their places around the frame and threaded their needles, the chatter had ebbed and all heads bent over their work.

Fannie sewed beside Adelaide, taking each stitch with care, surprising Adelaide, who’d expected the girl’s workmanship to be shoddy. At the thought, Adelaide’s needle pierced the layers of fabric, pricking both her finger and her conscience.

Pausing in the middle of a stitch, Fannie looked at Mary with big, innocent eyes. “I’m hoping you can help me, Mary.”

Mary tied a knot in her thread. “You’re doing a fine job.”

“I don’t mean help with quilting.” Fannie sighed. “I mean help with men. Well, not all men, only one. Charles Graves.”

Adelaide missed the eye of the needle with her thread.

Mary shrugged. “I can’t be much help. My brother-in-law is a mystery, even to me.”

“Adelaide, you were talking to Mr. Graves.” Fannie whisked her gaze over Adelaide either sizing her up as the competition—or fitting her for a very tight seam. “You—” Fannie hesitated “—don’t have designs on him, do you?”

Adelaide’s pulse skipped a beat. “Designs?”

Every hand hovered over the quilt, all eyes riveted on her and Fannie. Adelaide shook her head.

“I didn’t think you did. I told Mama, ‘Adelaide Crum is too levelheaded for a man like Mr. Graves.’ I can’t imagine you two courting.” Fannie’s eyes narrowed. “So you were at the paper on business. Nothing else?”

Heat filled Adelaide’s veins. “Yes, business for the shop.”

Fannie beamed. “Oh, I’m glad. I’m mad about Mr. Graves. Mama says he’d be quite the catch.”

With her teeth, Sally broke off a length of thread. “Are you doing a little fishing, Fannie? Over at The Ledger?”

The women chuckled.

Fannie sighed. “I’m not sure you noticed, Adelaide, but Mr. Graves didn’t seem all that eager to try my b-biscuits.” Her voice quavered. “I don’t understand what I’m doing wrong.”

As much as Adelaide didn’t want to, a thread of sympathy tugged between her heart and Fannie’s. The girl meant well, even if she didn’t see the consequences of her words or actions.

“Maybe your reputation as a cook is scaring him off,” Laura said, one brow arched.

“Well, it’s hard to get the temperature right in that huge cookstove of Mama’s. But how would Mr. Graves know that?”

“You told him,” Adelaide reminded her.

“I did?” Fannie thought a second. “Oh, I did!” Her green eyes filled with tears. “I’ve ruined my chances with him, exactly like I ruin my biscuits.”

Adelaide laid down her needle. “That’s no reason to cry.”

“I’m sorry.” Fannie dashed away the tears slipping down her cheeks. “It’s just that I’m getting…well, desperate.”

Martha harrumphed. “Desperate? How?”

“In three months, I’ll be twenty. I’ve always planned to be engaged by my twentieth birthday. I’m getting old!” she wailed.

Fast losing sympathy for the girl, and with her own birthday looming, Adelaide bit back a retort.

Laura shook her head. “Fannie, dear, I’m sure you don’t intend to, but you have a way of making me feel ancient.”

Fannie gasped. “Oh, chicken feathers, Laura. I’m sorry.”

“Why are you in such a rush anyway?” Martha asked, smoothing her dress over her bulging belly. “If you ask me, men are like flies. You trap yourself one, only to learn he can be a pest.”

“Appears to me, yours has been pestering you plenty,” Sally said and the room once again filled with laughter.

Fannie took up her needle again. “I’ll lose my looks soon.”

Sally waved a dismissive hand. “Phooey! You’re pretty. I look like a possum and I still managed to get a husband.”

Adelaide gasped. “You do not look like a possum!”

“I do,” Sally said, stitching along a rose-sprigged petal. “Small beady eyes, long nose, gray hair. Why, with my sons toting guns everywhere, I rarely venture out after dark.”

Chuckles bounced off the high ceiling. “You’re making fun, but I’m serious,” Fannie moaned. “What am I doing wrong?”

Laura rose and stepped around the frame, then tilted Fannie’s face to hers. “You’re too eager. Let the man take the lead.”

“I’m only being friendly,” she said dismissing the comment. “What I need is a new hat, maybe a new way to style my hair. You always look fashionable, Adelaide. Will you help me?”

Adelaide thought of telling Fannie to leave the editor alone, but that wasn’t her place. Nor did she care who he courted, though she had questions about the man. Even more about Adam Graves’s will.

Sally gave Fannie a wink. “Play possum more, Fannie.”

“Play possum?”

Sally nodded. “When you chase the men like a hound dog after a fox, why, you take all the fun out of it. Pretend you don’t care. Pretend you wouldn’t feed them a biscuit if they were the last to arrive for the fishes and loaves.”

Fannie turned to Adelaide. “You’re the best possum I know. Would you help me become more…?”

“Demure,” Laura provided.

“Demure?” Fannie smiled wide. “I like the sound of that.”

Had Fannie compared her to a wild animal that hung from a tree by its tail? Adelaide worked up a smile before she injured Fannie with her needle. As much as Fannie grated on her nerves, if she refused, the ladies might decide she had an interest in Mr. Graves. “It would be my pleasure.”

“With your help, Adelaide, Charles Graves will fall in love with me, and I’ll soon be a married lady.”

As Adelaide listened to Fannie chatter on about his virtues, she realized her help meant trying to get Fannie a husband and children. She had to wonder—

What kind of bargain had she struck? And what would it cost her in the end?

Charles paced the private dining room at the Becker House. His sister-in-law, wearing her best finery, sat watching him, her expression wistful. Could she be thinking Sam should be sitting beside her, instead of lying in Crownland Cemetery?

He’d wanted to rip into Mr. Evans’s briefcase to look at the terms of his father’s will. When it came to legalities, the gregarious attorney kept a tight rein on his mouth and skillfully sidestepped every question Charles had slung at him, giving no hint why Adam had mentioned the milliner in his will.

At exactly one o’clock Mr. Evans ushered Miss Crum, looking as perplexed as he felt, into the room. She glanced at him, her eyes filling with sympathy, probably for his loss. She couldn’t know grief was the last emotion his father’s death elicited.

She still wore the bird nest hat. On her, the silly hat looked good. Every hair in place, her clothing spotless, Miss Crum appeared serene. Only a heightened color in her cheeks suggested either the heat or an inner turmoil bothered her.

Well, she wasn’t the only one stirred up by the chain of events. His father was no philanthropist. He’d never cared about the financial problems a woman might have either running a business or raising two children alone. He’d never cared about anyone.

Mr. Evans stepped forward. “Miss Crum, I believe you said that you and Mary Graves quilt together.”

Miss Crum smiled. “Yes, and we attend the same church. Mary’s father is my doctor.”

“This is indeed a small town.” Mr. Evans grinned, motioning to the table. “Well, since we’re all here, let’s take seats and get down to business before we roast and find ourselves on the hotel bill of fare.” He chuckled, but no one else laughed.

Miss Crum took a chair across from Mary. Charles strode to the other side of the table and sat beside his brother’s widow.

After sitting at the head of the table, Mr. Evans unlocked his briefcase and took out a sheaf of papers. “I have here Adam Graves’s last will and testament.”

Charles shifted in his seat.

“‘I, Adam Graves, being of sound mind, do hereby bequeath to my son, Charles Andrew Graves, and to Mary Lynn Graves, my son Samuel Eugene Graves’s widow, my house in Cincinnati and its contents.’”

Apparently his father had kept his boyhood home. Nothing could ever make him step inside that place.

Mr. Evans glanced at him and Mary. “If neither of you want to move in…”

Both Mary and Charles shook their heads.

“Then I suggest the house and belongings be sold at auction. My assistant can ship personal items you might want.”

“Sell them all,” Charles said, his tone filled with bitterness.

“If Mary agrees, I can do that, except for this.” He took a silky pouch from his briefcase and removed a gold pocket watch, the fob hanging from a thin chain. “When Adam made out his will, he asked me to give this watch to you personally.”

Taking the watch, Charles felt the weight of it in his palm and took in the intricate engraving on the lid. His gaze dropped to the fob. He pictured Grandpa Graves, a large man with a hearty laugh, dangling the fob from callused hands, coaxing Charles and Sam onto his lap. His grandparents’ rare visits were peaceful times. He tucked the watch in his pocket.

“‘I bequeath Charles Graves the sum of two thousand dollars,’” Mr. Evan continued, “‘and fifty percent ownership of The Noblesville Ledger.’”

Charles’s jaw tightened. Leaving half ownership of the paper to him and half to Mary wasn’t good business, but at least Charles knew his sister-in-law wouldn’t interfere at the paper.

Mr. Evans handed over the bank draft. “In a moment, I’ll go over the ownership papers.” Evans turned to the will. “I hereby bequeath to Mary Graves the sum of five thousand dollars.”

Charles squeezed Mary’s hand, pleased his father had realized she needed money more than he. The money would come in handy in the years ahead, raising Sam’s boys. And would give Mary the security she lacked since his brother had died. Weeping silent tears, she took the bank draft with trembling fingers.

Mr. Evans focused on the page in front of him. Charles’s pulse kicked up a notch.

“‘I hereby bequeath to Adelaide Crum, daughter of Constance Gunder Crum, fifty-percent ownership of The Noblesville Ledger.’”

Constance Gunder? Air whooshed out of Charles’s mouth and his gaze settled on the woman across from him.

“Me? Why? I don’t understand any of this,” Miss Crum said. “Why mention my mother?”

Constance Gunder, the name Charles’s mother had hurled in his father’s face after Adam had accused his wife of flirting in church. Charles had never forgotten the name—or his father’s reaction. Adam had backhanded his mother, knocking her to the floor, and then stood over her, shouting she wasn’t worthy to wipe Constance Gunder’s shoes and if she ever spoke that name again, he’d kill her. Charles had known then that somehow this woman had been at the root of Adam’s anger, anger he expelled through his fists.

Constance Gunder, the woman Charles learned to despise—could she really be Miss Crum’s mother?

How could his father do this? Was this one last ha-ha from the grave?

“Furthermore—” Mr. Evans began.

Charles jumped to his feet. Mary laid a hand on his wrist, but he jerked away from her touch. “What’s going on here?” His voice sounded gruff and he cleared his throat. If only he could clear this nightmare his father had concocted as easily.

“It’s quite simple,” Mr. Evans said, nonplussed by Charles’s reaction. “You and Miss Crum are half owners of The Noblesville Ledger.”

“That’s ridiculous!”

Mr. Evans’s gaze returned to the will. “There’s more.”

“More?” Unable to sit, Charles strode to the fireplace, putting him across from Miss Crum, the woman who’d made a crack in his frozen heart. What a joke on him.

Miss Crum’s eyes were wide, probably seeing dollar signs. Yet, even as he thought it, he knew the accusation wasn’t true. Still, the idea clung to his mind like a burr under a saddle.

Mr. Evans bent over the paperwork. “‘The equal shares of The Noblesville Ledger are not to be sold by either Charles Graves or Adelaide Crum for a period of two months. If either heir goes against my wishes, and sells his or her half of The Noblesville Ledger before the end of a two-month waiting period, the equipment and building are to be sold, all proceeds going to charity.’”

Charles stalked back to the table. Mary met his gaze with a worried frown. “He promised the paper to me! Why did he leave a perfect stranger half of my paper? Then force us to keep this ludicrous arrangement for months?”

Mr. Evans tipped his head between Charles and Miss Crum. “Perhaps she isn’t a stranger, at least not to your father.”

Color climbed Miss Crum’s neck. “I’m not sure what you’re suggesting—”

“My father returned to Noblesville only once—four years ago, when he bought The Ledger.” Charles turned to Miss Crum. “Did you two arrange this then?”

Miss Crum gasped. “I’ve never even met your father.”

“Adam didn’t share his motives with me, but rest assured, knowing your father, he had his reasons. Where there’s a will, there’s always a reason.” Mr. Evans chuckled to himself.

Charles scowled. “Have you considered joining a minstrel show, Mr. Evans?”

The attorney sobered. “I apologize.” He handed Mary and Miss Crum a copy of the will, then laid the third copy where Charles had been sitting. “This lawyering can get dry as dust. I can see this is no laughing matter.”

“Surely we can make this partnership work for two months,” Miss Crum said, as if her ownership was of no consequence. “I won’t be underfoot at The Ledger. I have my own business to run.”

“Charles, sit down,” Mary said, tears brimming in her eyes.