Verity and the Villain Page 15

  Verity stared at the prepared table, her skin crawling. “Are you sure you should eat that?” she asked, wondering if somehow the display of food could be an etiquette test or trick. “She must plan on returning momentarily.”

  Trent popped the roll into his mouth and headed through the swinging door that led to the kitchen. Verity watched him disappear and stood in the middle of the dining room. She could see the sitting room with its expanse of wood floors, the tall pianoforte, and the elaborately carved fireplace mantle. Windows looked out over the valley and in the distance stood Mount Rainier. She swallowed hard. Tilly had told her Trent’s grandparents had been Seattle’s royal couple, but she hadn’t told Verity that they were so wealthy.

  Verity fingered the fabric of her modest dress. Tilly had made it, had sewn the dozens of shell buttons down the back. Tears had come to Verity’s eyes when Tilly had given it to her. She had found the soft poplin beautiful, the hand tatted lace at the bodice and sleeves charming, but looking around at the opulent ranch house, Verity felt tacky, gauche and misplaced.

  Seconds later Trent came back through the door. “Even the cook is gone,” he said, scratching his head.

  Dorrie’s gaze darted around the room and her fingers plucked at her dress.

  “It was a long drive,” Verity said, laying her hand on Dorrie’s arm.

  Trent took the hint. “Would you like to rest?”

  Verity shook her head. “I’m fine, but how about you, Dorrie?”

  Dorrie sniffed and admitted she’d like to lie down. Trent led them to a library where floor to ceiling shelves of books lined the walls. After a moment of hesitation, Dorrie curled into a ball on a slipper chair and closed her eyes, but Verity slowly circled the room eyeing the books. How long would it take to read them all? A fireplace for chilly winter nights, a bay window with a cushioned nook for summer afternoons, a card table for friends and games.

  “This is like heaven,” she whispered, awed by the possibilities. “Why would anyone ever want to leave?”

  Trent watched her with an unfathomable look in his eyes. “Come on,” he said, with a husky voice. “Let’s go find Gram.”

  He held out his hand and she slipped hers into his even though she thought she’d changed her mind and would rather stay in the library with Dorrie. She looked over her shoulder at the girl, whose eyes remained closed.

  Verity dragged her feet as Trent pulled her through the kitchen. She stared at the black and gleaming chrome cook stove, the massive oak table dusted with flour. Verity hadn’t often thought about baking since arriving in Seattle, but suddenly, in the most elaborate kitchen she’d ever seen, her heart twisted in homesickness for the days she’d spent making pies with her mother.

  Trent cast her a look as he led her out the back Dutch door and through a vegetable garden. “It’s just a house,” he said, as if he sensed her unease.

  “It’s a really beautiful house,” Verity said, stumbling after him. “You must have loved growing up here.”

  She couldn’t see his face, but she saw his shoulders shrug. “I didn’t appreciate it as much as I should have.” He pulled open the picket gate that separated the garden from the dirt path that led to the barn. “I wanted to go home. I missed New York.”

  She stopped in front of him. “Could you have stayed? In New York, I mean.”

  Trent shook his head, looking down at her. “When my parents died, I’d wanted to stay with my Aunt Arlene. I actually tried to run away a couple of times.” He laughed and pointed to the north. “Once I made it as far as the next farm. Spent the night in the Jensons’ barn. Spence Jenson found me the next day in his hay. I had a raging head cold for a week.” He pulled her toward the barn. “I was only seven.”

  Verity imagined Trent at seven, gold curly hair, light green eyes, a smattering of freckles, a city cherub thrown into the gritty world of horse breeding. She hung back. “If you had relatives in New York, couldn’t you have stayed with them?”

  Trent cleared his throat. “Should I trot out all the family skeletons to a girl who won’t introduce me to any of her own?”

  “I don’t have secrets,” Verity said, and then she immediately blushed over her lie. “Well, not many.”

  They stopped beneath an apple tree. A small wind picked up and tossed the white blossoms scattered over the grass. Trent rubbed his thumb across Verity’s cheek. “Uncle Aidan was a drunk. When I was young, I thought he was fun, witty, always ready to play elaborate games. I loved him, and I didn’t understand why Chloe and I couldn’t stay with his family. Luckily, Grandmother understood. And, now, so do I.”

  Verity swallowed. “I’m sorry about your parents. It must have been shocking to lose them suddenly.”

  “You know something of that,” Trent said.

  Verity shrugged. “My mother died in childbirth when I was eight. My father had warned me her pregnancy would be difficult. I expect they didn’t know exactly how difficult.”

  Trent drew her closer to him. “If any of us knew how painful life could be—”

  “It doesn’t have to be painful.”

  In the nearby stable, Verity heard horses nickering. Birds chirruped in the forest just beyond the pasture. Somewhere close a squirrel chattered. She could smell the apple blossoms, the garden’s fresh turned soil, and the hay in the barn, but all she could see was Trent’s face leaning toward her and when he kissed her, she lost all her senses.

  His lips on hers, her fingers touching his chest, tentative at first. As the kiss deepened, her arms went around his neck, her hands touched his hair.

  And then a loud voice called out, “And what new filly is this?”

  Trent straightened and brushed the hair back from his face. “Grandmother,” he said after clearing his throat. “This is Verity Faye. She’s the girl I told you about, the one helping me look for Gracey.”

  Hester’s eyes swept over Verity and Verity fought the temptation to adjust her twisted bodice. She flushed with embarrassment. This was not how she wanted to meet Trent’s grandmother. Not that she’d particularly wanted to meet her, but if she had to choose the right setting, the right time, the right circumstances, this would not be it.

  Hester used the back of her hand to push back her straw hat and that’s when Verity noticed the blood. Hester’s hands were covered in it and so was the front of her dress. Verity looked for a knife, because Hester looked like she’d been butchering pigs.

  “Looks to me like you’re helping yourself,” Hester said.

  Trent stood a little straighter and his lips twitched. “I don’t need help.”

  “Heaven only knows how badly you need Verity’s help,” Hester said, chuckling. Then her eyes turned serious and she fixed Trent with an intense look. “I’m glad you’re here. We got a complicated birthing going on. I need your help and so does Betsy.”

  Trent lost his studied nonchalance and grew alert. “Where?”

  Hester nodded at Mount Rainier. “The back pasture. I just came in for the healing broth.”

  Trent nodded. “I’ll get it.”

  Hester bobbed her head and sent Verity an apologetic glance. “I’m sorry to spoil your first visit.”

  Verity held up her hand. “No, please, go.” She looked nervously at Hester’s blood-stained hands. “Would you like my help?”

  Trent shook his head.

  “Right. I’d be in the way.”

  “Cook’s already laid a mid-day meal,” Hester said, over her shoulder. Already turning away, heading toward the filly in need, she added, “Please, help yourself.”

  Trent led her back into the kitchen. She stood in the center of the room and watched as he reached into the cupboard and pulled out a brown jug.

  “And that’s—?”

  “Healing broth. Gram’s cure for everything,” Trent said, straightening, and wiping the dust off a large brown jug.

  “Even horses?”

  “Especially horses.”

  “But, why does she keep it in the kitchen? W
hy not keep it in the stable?”

  “Because, unfortunately, it’s an all-purpose healer.” Trent held up the bottle and looked at it with a grimace. “Are you sure you’ll be all right here on your own?”

  Verity nodded, thinking of the all the lovely books in the library. “Of course. Go help your grandmother and Betsy.”

  #

  Although Dorrie looked like a napping fairy, she snored like a drunken sailor. Verity, not wanting to wake her, had silently slipped the first book she came to off the shelves, but when Dorrie started, Verity quickly left the room. In the hall, she frowned when she saw she’d chosen a book on philosophy.

  Flipping open to a random page she read, “Is determinism true? Does free will exist? Determinism is roughly defined as the view that all current and future events are causally necessitated by past events combined with the laws of nature. Compatibilism, also called soft determinism, is the view that the assumption of free will and the existence of a concept of determinism are compatible with each other; this is opposed to incompatibilism which is the view that there is no way to reconcile—”

  She stood in the hall, the book dangling from her fingers. We are agents unto ourselves, she reminded herself of Pastor Klum’s sermon, free to chose, free to act.

  What would an etiquette book say about her situation? Surely, bringing a prostitute to meet a young man’s grandmother had to be a unique social situation. Besides, Trent couldn’t be classified as “her” young man, could he? Did the kisses define their relationship? Because, if so, she’d love to have a dictionary spell it out for her.

  She wandered over to the dining room and trailed her finger along the table. The food looked delicious but didn’t tempt her. The table had been set for four, but eighteen chairs stood at the ready and four more lined the walls. Twenty-two could fit at the table. Verity turned away thinking of the tiny board in New York that she’d shared with her parents. After their deaths, how many nights had she sat alone? She went to the window overlooking the meadow. Could all this land be theirs? The stretch of green that melded into distant trees, the cerulean sky dotted with cotton clouds, the innumerable buttercups—it all seemed overwhelming compared to the solitary and simple life she’d known.

  She hadn’t gone to school. She’d been educated by her parents. The numbers had been taught and then applied in the kitchen where she’d stood by her parents baking bread, pastries, and sweet meats. Three cups of flour per loaf of bread, three eggs per cake, one cup of lard for biscuits.

  Verity’s gaze returned to the food. Sliced ham, braised carrots, mashed potatoes, rolls…no dessert. With a cautious glance around to make sure she was alone, she walked into the kitchen. It was as lovely as she remembered.

  She leaned against the doorjamb and indulged in memories of fragrant pies, golden crusts, the feel of dough stiffening beneath her fingers. A clock tick-tocked on the wall. Outside, the cottony clouds turned translucent as the sun sank into the foothills. She wouldn’t need to snoop. The flour and sugar bins stood beneath the counter. The rolling pin hung on a rack on the wall along with a host of other cooking utensils. Even from the doorway she knew the oven was still warm because she could feel its radiating heat.

  No.

  We are free to act, to choose our course.

  Women—strong, territorial women such as Hester appeared to be—didn’t appreciate other women trespassing in their kitchens, but what kind of first impression could she have made on Trent’s grandmother? All Mrs. Michaels could possibly know from their short meeting was that Trent enjoyed kissing her. That was certainly not the impression Verity wanted to give. First impressions are the most important, but could Verity alter that? She turned back to the dining room and considered the meal on the table.

  Double checked. No dessert.

  She reminded herself of all the hearts she’d won over through baking. Would Mrs. Michaels be any different? Was she as susceptible to a gooey dessert as Verity’s past customers?

  Verity’s mouth began to water. I’m being silly, she scolded herself. She could eat, but she couldn’t sit and eat at that big table by herself. She could take a plate and eat at the little table in the sunny kitchen, but that also felt wrong.

  Her gaze landed on a row of bottles of homemade cider, each clearly labeled. Slowly, she walked to the pantry. Looking wasn’t cooking. She pushed open the door. Jars of dried apple slices. Cinnamon sticks. Nuggets of nutmeg. Honey.

  She had everything she needed.

  CHAPTER 14

  When making this type of pie crust, chill the fat and liquids before beginning. Chilling prevents the fat pieces from getting creamed into the flour.

  From The Recipes of Verity Faye

  The next evening, as promised, a wagon pulled into the back alley behind the shop. Even though it was barely seven, the sun burned hot and a furnace-like wind blew back Verity’s hair as she helped Trent.

  “I’ll get this,” he said, lugging a sack of flour as she tried to help. She watched him cart in the fifth bag; he hadn’t let her help him carry one. Sweat rolled down his face. He brushed past her in the doorway and she saw his shirt had grown sticky and clung to his back.

  She followed him to the wagon where Mugs stood holding the reins of a large gentle creature, unlike the stallion Trent typically rode. A few crates holding bottles of dried fruit and cider still remained in the wagon.

  When Verity moved toward them, Trent said, “Let me.”

  Verity crossed her arms. “You haven’t let me do anything.”

  Trent stopped, his lips twitching. “You’ll have plenty to do.”

  Tilly stood in the middle of the back kitchen, plucking at her skirts. Her gaze flicked between Verity and Trent, trying to read their expressions. When Trent deposited the last crate, he stood, brushed his hands on his pants and gave Tilly a sheepish smile.

  Verity wondered if her aunt hadn’t been here if he would kiss her goodbye. She didn’t know when she’d see him again. All she knew was that his grandmother needed him at the ranch for the birthing season. Since Dorrie had seemed certain that a girl of Gracey’s description wasn’t at the brothel, Mrs. Michaels thought Trent should leave town and help at the ranch. Or so she said. Did she want Trent at the ranch because Verity was in town and was best to be avoided? Mrs. Michaels had seemed friendly enough, and she’d obviously enjoyed Verity’s pie, but Verity felt unsure.

  Trent pushed his hair off his moist forehead. “Take care,” he said. “I’ll call when I come back into town.”

  Tilly looked ready to cry when the kitchen door banged closed. Verity turned her attention to her new wares.

  “But, why?” Tilly asked while Verity stacked the pantry.

  “Why, what?” Verity asked without turning away from the shelves.

  “Why all these…groceries?”

  Verity had forgotten, or rather, put aside, her love of baking, but last night, watching Mrs. Michaels, Dorrie and Trent bite into her pie, she’d felt that surge of pleasure return. The transported look on their faces carried her back to her mother’s kitchen.

  “It’s a gift,” Verity said, turning and wiping her hands on her apron.

  “But what are we supposed to do with this… gift?” Tilly asked with a curled lip. She sat down at the table covered with bolts of material, pins, needles and buttons. Tilly relied on Lee to do the cooking and he produced a standard fare of boiled vegetables, rice, and fried meat. Two times a day. Breakfast was tea and bread bought from the baker down the street.

  Verity wished the baker lived and worked a little further away, because she feared the plan she and Mrs. Michaels had cooked up would displease him.

  #

  The word and aroma got out, and within a few days, a line of men, women and children snaked the boardwalk outside the shop. After a couple of weeks, the boardwalk had become a circus. People laughed and talked while a one-man-band played a bawdy tune on the corner. A young boy hawked his newspapers and fashion sheets and Young Lee entertained the cr
owd with magic tricks. The perpetual line formed in the morning and disbanded in the early evening.

  “Well, I never,” Tilly sputtered, looking out the window and twisting her hands. “How in heavens…”

  Verity came up beside her and put an arm around her aunt’s ample waist. For a woman of Tilly’s stature, she seemed remarkably immune to the pleasures of Verity’s pies.

  “People like pie.” Verity knew something bothered her aunt. Perhaps she’d been hoping Verity would return from the ranch with something other than a cart full of food. Perhaps she’d expected a ring. Perhaps Trent’s prolonged absence concerned her…almost as much as it bothered Verity.

  “Yes, but where did you find all these girls to help you?” Tilly asked, motioning to the two girls standing at the counter, smiling while one wrapped up pies in white butcher paper and the other manned the till. Three more girls were in the kitchen baking pies.

  Verity kept her face open and honest. “They’re friends of Georgina. You know her from church.”

  Tilly turned back to the window to watch the boardwalk’s mayhem. She blinked hard when Young Lee made a chicken disappear into a puff of smoke. “Goodness,” she muttered. “But what will we do when we run out of supplies?”

  Verity shrugged. “I don’t see that happening very soon. Mrs. Michaels promised to keep us well stocked.”

  “But—?” Tilly turned back to the counter. A breeze blew in from the open door, but even so the room was toasty warm from all the people and the continuously burning oven in the back. The room smelled of cinnamon and spices. “We’re a dry goods store…we’re very busy sewing and selling shirts.”

  Verity leaned her head against her aunt’s shoulder. “But this is good, right? These girls need work and obviously these people want pie.”

  Tilly patted Verity’s arm, but still looked concerned.

  Misunderstanding, Verity asked, “Would you like some of the girls to help you sew? I’m sure they’d be happy to if we asked.”