A slow burn started in his gut. “As I recall, you were the one doing most of the asking.”
No. I’m sure you are wrong.
So that was how things stood. She couldn’t own up to her actions. She was embarrassed about being forward, and instead of admitting it or dealing with it, she was trying to put the blame firmly in his lap.
He glanced at Dorian, wishing the man would disappear so he could talk easier with Hannah. Now, that was a fantasy. He swallowed. “This is how you want it?”
She nodded, not quite meeting his gaze.
He took one last considering look. They both knew she was twisting the facts, but she’d made her choice. He should have been ready for it. People he cared about had been leavin’ him his entire life—first his mother, then his father, and then Rachel. This was just one more time.
“Have it your way, then.” Slow and deliberate, he turned and strode down the front steps. Behind him, he heard the door quietly click shut.
Five years later
“I’m sorry, miss. I’ll need payment up front for that.”
Hannah stared at the thin, pimply-faced boy behind the counter for a full ten seconds. He shifted from one foot to the other, looking at any corner of the Cigar Emporium rather than back at her. He was new and hopelessly awkward in his new position. “You must be mistaken,” she said, giving him the benefit of the doubt.
“No mistake. I’ll lose my job if I extend more credit.”
She stiffened, at the same time glancing over her shoulder to make sure no customers had heard. Across the room two men stood before a display of chewing tobacco and debated the merits of the three different brands. They appeared unaware of her situation, and she’d like to keep it that way. Only moments before she’d been thinking how she enjoyed the fragrance of the cherrywood tobacco that permeated the small shop as a respite from the brine-laden air outside. Now she could barely think through her embarrassment.
Forcing a calm demeanor, she asked, “Is this a new policy? If so, I’m sure it doesn’t pertain to my family.” She pushed the hand-carved ivory pipe across the counter. “Please. I’d like it wrapped.”
Still the boy hesitated, wiping his hands on his white apron.
“You do know who I am?”
He gulped audibly and fidgeted with the corners of the massive account book in front of him. “Yes, Miss Lansing. Your family has done business here for years.”
“And half of the items in this shop arrived here by way of my grandfather’s ships.” She softened her voice. “This pipe is for his birthday. You wouldn’t deny him his present, would you?”
“I...I... Your total has reached the limit.”
“My grandfather pays the bill monthly. There must be a mistake.” The ledger would prove her point. She reached for it to see for herself when a beefy hand splayed over the page, blocking her view.
“I’ll take it from here, Toby. Go see to the other customers.” The shop’s owner, Mr. O’Connell, a heavyset Irish man with a handlebar mustache, turned the book back toward himself as the new clerk scurried away with a look of relief on his young face. “Can’t have my other customers’ tabs becoming general knowledge, now, can I? I’m sure, given your family’s business, you understand, Miss Lansing.”
What he implied stung. She wasn’t one to manipulate such knowledge to her own advantage, though she knew those who would. She was only interested in the accounting of the Lansing total.
The two customers had stopped their discussion and listened intently now. Good gracious, but this was getting uncomfortable! Her cheeks heated. She never carried much money on her. According to Grandfather, it was unladylike. There had never been any problems in the past with putting items on a tab. Her gloved hands shook slightly as she loosened the blue ribbon cinching her purse and counted out enough money to cover a deposit on the pipe. “In the first place, I hadn’t planned to have my grandfather pay for his own present, but it quite takes me by surprise that you won’t extend credit to me. I shall return tomorrow with the rest. Good day, Mr. O’Connell.” She made a stiff-backed, dignified exit—a Lansing exit. Grandfather would be proud—she hoped.
Once outside she stopped and took a deep breath, allowing a moment for her cheeks to cool and to put up her umbrella against the light rain. Down the wet street, her carriage waited. She had planned to stop at the milliners to check the designs for a new spring bonnet, but now she was uncertain. Would she run into the same predicament there as she had at the tobacco shop? Perhaps it would be best to first speak with Grandfather.
“Please, take me home,” she instructed her driver when she arrived at the carriage. He jumped down from his seat and assisted her inside the conveyance. Only then, obscured by the dark velvet curtains from the curious stares of the few people who had ventured out in this weather, did she sink back into the plush cushions and consider what had just occurred.
It had to be a mistake. Grandfather was always punctual in paying his bills to the point of being regimental. For as long as she could remember, there had been plenty of funds from the shipping enterprise to cover incidentals whenever she’d wanted anything. Perhaps, with Stuart away, Grandfather needed a hand with the business. It couldn’t be easy keeping track of everything with all that he had to do.
The carriage jolted into motion, but she paid no attention to the tree-lined city parading by. Absently she tugged on the pendant at her breast. Ever since Grandmother Rose had passed on, Grandfather had been happy to have her run the household. Although she was now proficient at throwing dinner parties and carrying on the conversation with business associates, Grandfather had maintained that the shipping business was a man’s task. In the past five years he’d expanded it—adding two more ships. Had it become too much for him to oversee without an assistant?
The trip from the shopping district to the Lansing estate on Nob Hill took a matter of minutes. Once there, she hurried up the wide marble stairs and through the massive front door. The faint scent of lemon polish reached her as she deposited her cloak and umbrella into Edward’s waiting arms. “Grandfather?”
“In his study, miss.”
She headed down the hallway, untying her bonnet as she walked. The sound of her footsteps on the tiles echoed off the high ceiling and walls.
“Grandfather? We need to talk—”
His room was empty.
She sighed in frustration, spun around to search farther down the hall and then stopped herself. Something wasn’t right. She turned back to the study. Papers and notes were scattered askew over Grandfather’s massive desk. Totally unlike him. Neatness and order ruled Dorian Lansing and everything around him. He controlled his estate in the same manner he had once, as a young man of twenty-two, controlled his first ship—or so she’d been informed.
She hesitated in the doorway. Slowly, eerily, a moan issued, the sound coming from behind the dark Victorian desk. Her breath hitched in her chest. She ran to the far side of the furniture and found him lying prostrate on the parquet floor, his face pasty white.
“Grandfather!” she cried out, kneeling beside him. In the next breath she screamed, “Edward! Come, quick!”
* * *
A significant stroke, the doctor said. Upon hearing it, Hannah’s heart plummeted to the pit of her stomach. Grandfather would need constant care and rest if he was to recover. After seeing the family’s personal physician out, Hannah called the house staff together in the kitchen.
“Where is Tan Ling?” she asked. “She should hear this, too.”