Her Safe Harbor: Prairie Romance (Crawford Family Book 4) (8 page)

“No,” she said, shaking her head and taking her father’s
hand in hers. “No, you have never been a fool. You have worked hard and made a
comfortable life for all of us and been a wonderful father. You love all of
your daughters, I am certain, and you love Mother very much. You’ve never been
a fool.”

William’s eyes glistened. “You mother was not loved as a
girl. It has continued to haunt her all these years later.”

Jennifer nodded. “She is an unhappy person. Jolene believes
she may be mentally unstable and has done some research on the subject.”

“Mentally unstable? What has Jolene found out about this? I
. . . it’s just that your mother is unhappy. You must never repeat this. It
would be devastating to your mother to think we thought her out of her wits.
And now she is ill and in pain.”

* * *

“So you have come home to beg our
forgiveness and move back to Boston, Jolene?” Jane Crawford said to her
daughter later that evening as the family gathered before dinner. “It is long
past time.”

Jolene shook her head. “I have no intentions of moving
anywhere, Mother. I am here for a visit and to make myself acquainted with
Maximillian’s parents.”

“Did Melinda get settled at her aunt’s?” Jennifer asked.

“Yes. I will be dining with Calvin and Eugenia on several
evenings with Maximillian’s parents, as his mother entertains little these
days,” Jolene said, and looked at her mother. “Eugenia is Maximillian’s sister
and she has asked me to invite you and father to dinner at their home.”

“We have no intentions of dining with those people. Would
you have me muck stalls and clean the commodes?” Jane said and grimaced. “You
will not be dining there, either. To think that you lower yourself to those
people, Jolene. I’m ashamed.”

“Mother!” Jennifer cried. “Those are Jolene and her
husband’s relatives.”

“Jolene’s husband is dead. She infected him and let him
die.” Jane sniffed. “And our baby as well. She let Little William die.”

Jolene’s face was ashen and her lips a tight thread.
Jennifer touched her hand where it gripped the chair and took a deep breath.
“That is enough, Mother. I will not let you upset Jolene in this way, and
Father and me as well.”

“And who are you to censor me? I’ll not stand for such
disrespect,” Jane hissed.

“No more, please, Jane,” William Crawford said as his wife
sputtered and fidgeted in her seat.

“Good evening,” Zeb called from the doorway. “I hope I’m not
interrupting a family conversation.”

“No. Do come in. May I serve you a whiskey or wine?” William
said.

“Mother. This is Zebidiah Moran. He works for Jolene’s
husband and was asked to accompany us in our travels,” Jennifer said.

Zeb bowed at the waist. “It is my pleasure to meet you, Mrs.
Crawford.” Jane said nothing, and Zeb turned to her husband. The men shook
hands and Zeb accepted his tumbler of whiskey.

“I was surprised to read Jolene’s letter that you would be
coming with my daughters,” William said. “Are you on leave from the senator’s
offices?”

“No, sir,” Zeb said. “The senator is concerned about threats
to members of Congress and their families, and insisted on an escort for his
wife, daughter, and sister-in-law. He wanted to carry out the task himself but
is sponsoring an important bill that is coming up for a vote very soon.”

“Jennifer,” Jane said. “Why is this person here with us?
Have them set a place for him in the staff kitchens.”

“He is here because Jolene’s husband is concerned for her
and he is a trusted employee and a guest of Willow Tree. Father invites bank
employees to dine with us occasionally and they do not eat in the kitchens, do
they?”

Jane leaned forward and winked. “Speaking of the bank, I
have sent Mr. Rothchild an invitation to dine with us tomorrow evening. He is
most anxious to see you, I imagine.”

“Why would you do that, Mother, without consulting me?”

Jane shrugged. “He is your fiancé, Jennifer. Of course, I
will invite him to dine with us. Don’t be ridiculous.”

Jennifer could feel her heart pounding in her chest and the
blood drain from her face. How could she have thought she would so easily
extract herself from this situation? She saw Zeb and her father deep in
conversation and glanced at Jolene.

“Jennifer sent Mr. Rothchild a letter telling him that she
no longer wished to see him,” Jolene explained. “It will be an uncomfortable
dinner, no doubt.”

“Your father and I have given him our blessing, and everyone
knows he is courting you. You are young and foolish and would have no idea how
to choose the right husband. You will marry Mr. Rothchild. I believe a
Christmas wedding would suit.”

Jennifer stood and moved close to her mother’s chair. “Do
not,” she whispered hoarsely, “begin planning any such event. You will be the
one left looking very foolish in the eyes of Boston society.”

“My sister-in-law asked me if Jennifer had set a date for
her wedding to Mr. Rothchild, and I informed her that there is nothing between
my sister and Mr. Rothchild so there would be no date to set,” Jolene said.

“Who would your relatives tell?” Jane asked with a laugh.
“The chimney sweep? They are not included in Boston society.”

“Really? They are attending the Autumn Gala at the museum.
Eugenia is a committee woman for that event.”

Jane’s mouth opened and closed. “Money-grubbers. And good
society is forced to mingle with them.”

Dinner was announced, and Jennifer and Jolene walked down
the long hallway together. “I will continue to think of her as being mentally
ill,” Jolene said. “I cannot bear to think that anyone would be so cruel to
their own daughters and be sane.”

“What she said to you was horrible, Jolene.”

“I had forgotten how uncomfortable and tense she makes even
the most benign gathering. We all wait in anticipation of who she will torment.
She does back down somewhat when we present a united front. She had us at a
disadvantage when we were young by pitting us against each other.”

“I agree,” Jennifer said and recounted her conversation with
their father that afternoon.

“And father is most concerned with what mother would think?”
Jolene asked.

Jennifer shook her head. “No. I don’t believe so. I think he
has always thought we didn’t notice how dreadful she could be.”

“It is difficult when the foundations of all you believe to
be true are shaken,” Jolene said. “You have given our father much to think
about.”

* * *

“So, Jennifer,” Jane said when the
soup course was served. “The Randolphs are having a dinner dance. We must visit
the dressmaker and begin looking for a new gown for you.”

“I haven’t received an invitation from the Randolphs,”
Jennifer said.

“But Mr. Rothchild has, of course, and he will escort you.
No more of this silly chatter about breaking off your relationship with him. I
don’t imagine Jeffrey is the type of man who would expect his intended to be
coy.”

“I am not his intended,” Jennifer replied.

Zeb watched Jennifer as her mother continued to claim that
Jeffrey Rothchild was still her fiancé. Jennifer was pale and her hands shook
as she reached for her wine. Her sister watched her closely and interjected
when Jennifer faltered. The father sat by idly, eating his lamb and smiling
occasionally in Zeb’s direction. It was as if he saw or felt none of the
tension between the three women. This was not the man who would be bullying
Jennifer, leaving only one candidate. Jeffrey Rothchild.

“I’m going to the library to look for a book,” Jennifer said
after dessert and dinner were served. Her mother had declared herself exhausted
and that she would be retiring to her rooms. Jolene and her father were talking
quietly at one end of the dining room.

“May I join you?” he asked.

“Yes,” she said, and waited for him in the hallway. “Father
keeps an impeccable library. He has several first editions and buys all the
latest popular works and dime novels as well. He says they are his guilty
secret.”

“I have been so busy reading Senate bills and the like that
I haven’t had time to read for pleasure,” he said.

Zeb spent thirty minutes combing the books in the Crawford
library. He finally settled on a collection of Thomas Jefferson’s writings and
a dark-looking novel from a magazine writer named Wilde. Jennifer was thumbing
through a stack of books beside her on a sofa.

“Nothing caught your fancy?” he asked.

“I find most popular books to be so unrealistic they are
laughable,” she said, and straightened a folded page in the book she was
holding. “Life is not always happy or without tragedy. And it does not always
have a happy ending.”

“Very true. It appears though that your sisters have found
theirs.”

She nodded and looked at him. “Yes they have. I am very glad
for them both.”

“Will you find a happy ending, do you think?” he asked.

“I don’t think so,” she whispered.

Zeb poured himself a bourbon from the cart stocked with
crystal decanters as her response echoed in his head. She didn’t hold out hope
for herself from the sound of it, and that thought hit him square in the chest.
What could be done to make her happy? What would he do?

“Would you care for anything to drink?” he asked.

“No, thank you. I am going to the bank tomorrow and don’t
want to have a fuzzy head in the morning. I’ve already had two glasses of wine
with dinner,” she said, resting her chin on her hand and staring at the dying
fire.

“You’ll want a clear head, I suppose, for dinner tomorrow evening
with Mr. Rothchild.”

She nodded.

“Your mother thinks Mr. Rothchild is your happy ending. Do
you?”

Tears filled her eyes. “There would be nothing happy about a
permanent association with Jeffrey Rothchild.”

There was little to say after that declaration and little
doubt now about who was causing this woman to cry and be terrified. Zeb looked
forward to meeting Jeffrey Rothchild.

Chapter Eight

“Good morning and welcome back,”
O’Brien said, and helped Jennifer off with her cloak.

“It is good to be back. I have missed my desk and my
numbers,” Jennifer said.

“And they have missed you. I still cannot untangle the
Dorchester portfolio your father brought us shortly before you left. But I have
become proficient with the new Burroughs machine!”

Jennifer smiled. “We shall take a look at it together. Have
you managed to learn anything about the initials on the certificates?”

“The two signatures that were different from the four
certificates signed by the one person I have figured out. Hawkins and Marlow,
both junior bookkeepers. They both work mostly for your father unless one of
the vice presidents is away, and then Mr. Marlow fills in where needed.”

Jennifer pulled the pins from her hat and shook the
raindrops off of the hem of her skirts. She had hurried through the lobby in a
rush, hoping that Jeffrey was already ensconced in his office. “I would like to
begin immediately unless we have guests to entertain. And we need to find out
whose initials are on the other certificates.”

“Yes, ma’am. I have some ideas and will begin straightaway
as we have no guests today.”

Jennifer straightened her back after hours of examining
documents. She requested multiple portfolios and began a rigorous comparison of
the percentages charged on certificates. She found multiple other certificates
charging six percent interest, but more interesting than all of that was that
the final totals reflected the interest charged as five percent. She could not
fathom how a figure began at one amount and ended up at another at the bottom
of the tally sheet.

O’Brien had long gone for the day, and Jennifer knew she
should be leaving soon as well, but there was something going on that surely
had an explanation. On one of the Dorchester certificates she calculated the
difference between five percent and six percent and combed the debit columns
for that amount but did not find it. She had no expectations of finding it in
the scribbled sheets of the credit columns, but find it she did. The exact
amount to the penny. He mind raced over what she had done and all the
possibilities for error on her part.

But she did not see an error. She saw a debit amount for the
six percent interest charged the customer against the balance of the
certificates’ worth. And in the credit column she found the difference between
five percent and six percent added back as if there had been an error in the
calculation. A cold chill ran over Jennifer’s back. She would need to check the
cash balances for that day and determine if someone with the mysterious
initials had returned the cash or debited another account balance for that
amount on that day. But there was no time for it today, she thought, bile
rising in her throat at the thought of dinner with her mother and Jeffrey.

* * *

“You are late for dinner,” Jane said
as Jennifer entered the dining room. “Punctuality is required in this household
as you well know.”

“I’m terribly sorry. I was delayed,” Jennifer said. She’d
been sitting at her dressing table, fully clothed, hair styled and jewelry
attached, thinking about how much she was dreading even the sight of Jeffrey
Rothchild. The butler seated her, and she was forced to look up at him
observing her with cold, dead eyes from across the table. She swallowed and
looked away.

“How were your travels, Jennifer?” he asked.

“Very nice,” she answered with a shaky voice. “You may have
heard my sister Jolene and her daughter traveled home with me.”

“She is dining with her husband’s family this evening,”
William said.

“They are no one you need to know or worry about, Jeffrey,”
Jane said with a smile and a nod. “Jolene will not be in Boston long enough to
cast a shadow on our Jennifer.”

“The Randolphs have sent us an invitation to their dinner
dance. It is two weeks from Friday,” Jeffrey said.

“I was just telling Jennifer that she and I must get to the
dressmaker. She must have something exquisite to wear,” Jane said.

“Please send me the bill for this dress, although I highly
doubt anything could be as exquisite as Jennifer herself,” Jeffrey said.

“No,” Jennifer said while her mother tittered. “That will
not be necessary.”

Jennifer chewed the
beef
Bourguignon
their French chef had prepared as if it were the cover of a
bank ledger book and barely tasted her wine, satisfying her thirst with water.
She concentrated intently on keeping her hands from shaking as she lifted her
glass or dabbed her mouth with the linen napkin. It would not do to allow
Jeffery to see how much she was rattled by his presence. She must adopt
Jolene’s advice to appear calm and unafraid even if she were terrified.

After dessert, her mother rose, and smiled at Jeffrey. “I am
feeling a bit tired tonight. Please excuse me if I do not visit with you in the
parlor. Perhaps Jennifer can entertain you in the music room. There will be no
one to disturb you there. William? Will you escort me to my rooms?”

Jennifer was glad then that she had not eaten much, as her
stomach rolled over as they walked down the long hallway to the music room.
Jeffrey opened the door and she preceded him inside. She hurried to the bench
side of the piano.

“Did you not receive the letter that I sent you before I
left for Washington?” she asked.

“Yes. I did receive it,” he said, and looked around the room
before settling on her face. “That O’Brien woman? She was speaking to one of my
clerks today. Someone told me she works with you in the parlor lobby. What on
earth was she doing interviewing my clerk?”

“I don’t know,” Jennifer said and watched as Jeffery took
slow, measured steps across the room, stopping near the open end of the grand
piano.

He tilted his head at her. “Come now, Jennifer. I have read
your letter. Come sit down in front of the fire. You look like a terrified
child. We will discuss this letter you have sent.”

He was right. She
was
acting like a terrified child,
and giving him the advantage. She came around the piano and seated herself near
the fireplace in a chair. Jeffrey raised his brows and sat on the sofa nearby.
“There is nothing to discuss about the letter. I no longer desire your
company,” she said.

“Why on earth not?” he asked. “Our marriage is sanctioned by
your parents and unites two old families, and there certainly is a spark
between us. We will manage fine in
all
aspects of our marriage.”

A shiver trailed down Jennifer’s back. The idea of kissing
Jeffrey, making love to him was repugnant. What she had found attractive at
their first meeting had been quickly diminished, replaced by fear and loathing.
She was certain if she married this man, he would rule her in all aspects of
her life, and force her to his will in the marriage bed. There would be nothing
pleasant about it, except, perhaps, for him.

“There will be no marriage, Jeffrey,” she said more firmly.
“You cannot force me.”

“Really?” he said, and laughed softly. “Do you really think
I would play this game without having all the cards in my hand? I will fire
O’Brien Monday morning. I will not have her snooping about in places she does
not belong.”

“No!” Jennifer cried. “No! She has done nothing to you. She
works for me!”

“No one works for you. You are a hostess, I have come to understand.
But clearly she does not know her boundaries. I’m a vice president, Jennifer. I
can fire whomever I want.”

“Please, do not do this.”

“Please, you ask? You’d best save your requests for favors.
And if you continue on with your attempts to end our engagement, you will begin
to hear rumors about your mother,” he said. “That she is mad.”

She stood abruptly. “You would not! How dare you!”

“I would not? I certainly
would
dare,” he said with a
laugh and rose from his place. “So innocent you are, my sweet one. It makes me
want to steal a kiss from my intended.”

Jennifer backed up until she could feel the fire’s warmth on
her back. She glanced left and right for a way to escape but he was touching
her before she could move, holding her upper arms in a tight grip.

“Quit fidgeting, Jennifer. I am going to kiss you. You’d
best get used to it, as I will require your services every morning before I
leave for the bank.”

She braced herself as he kissed her hard, breaking the skin
on the inside of her lower lip as he bit her, holding her cheeks tightly with
one hand. She pushed at him with her free hand, but it was useless. He was
strong and she was at his mercy. Tears pooled in her eyes. She grabbed wildly
for the mantel, hoping to reach a candlestick or a book. He pushed her away
from him for a brief moment.

“If you hit me with something it will go doubly worse for
you, I promise,” he said, and slapped her backside and hip hard with his
swinging open hand, stinging her flesh and leaving her senseless for a moment.

Jennifer’s cry was swallowed by him as he kissed her again,
shoving his tongue in her mouth. She went limp.

“I’m sorry to interrupt. I didn’t know anyone was in here.”

“Get out!” Jeffrey shouted.

 “Your father is looking for you, Miss Crawford. May I take
you to him?”

“Yes, oh yes,” Jennifer said and wiggled out of Jeffrey’s
hold. “Do excuse me. My father is looking for me.”

Zeb pulled her arm through his and led her down the hall,
patting her hand as he went. She stared straight ahead and consciously slowed her
breathing. She was out of Jeffrey’s clutches. Out of the room. But what would
she do to guard her friends and family from him? She realized then that Zeb was
seating her in the parlor by the fire and handing her a glass and a hanky. She
looked up at him. He was an intense man, she noticed then, staring at her in
such a way that she could feel the power and concentration emanating from him.
She was not frightened but rather reassured by the way his energies surrounded
her.

“Thank you,” she whispered, and stared into his eyes.

Zeb took the handkerchief from her hand and dabbed her
mouth. She sat motionless until he pulled it away and she saw the bloodstain.
Her hand went to her lips.

He knelt in front of her. “You must tell me what I can do
for you.”

“Nothing.” She shook her head.

“I don’t believe you.”

“You must believe me,” she pleaded. “There is nothing anyone
can do for me.”

He searched her eyes. “Rothchild is hurting you or
threatening you.”

“No, no,” she said and looked away from him. “It was just a
misunderstanding.”

“Have you spoken to your father about his behavior?”

She shook her head. “My father needn’t be burdened. He is
troubled enough as is.”

“Your father would not want to see you hurt.”

“And sometimes we are not the only ones who could be hurt,”
she replied and pulled her hands from his.

“Just because you give me these cryptic answers does not
mean I don’t understand. He’s hitting you and threatening those you care about.
I’ve dealt with his type before. He will only back down when met with opposing
force. Let me have a word with him. I’ll keep you safe. I swear.”

There was little doubt in her mind that Zebidiah Moran would
keep her safe and be her champion. But there was nothing he could do to help
O’Brien. And most of all there was nothing he could do to help her family if
Jeffrey spread rumors that Mother was mad. Jolene even believed it was true,
making it less of a rumor and more of a secret. What would that do to her
mother’s fragile health and her father’s equilibrium? What could he do, after
all, in the banking world and among Boston’s highest social class to keep her
family from becoming a laughingstock? Banks had shuttered their doors over
information such as this.

“Please do not speak of this again to me, and if you would
be so kind, do not repeat your concerns to anyone else. I will manage this in
my own way,” Jennifer said and looked at him. “Will you promise me?”

“You’ve given me no choice, have you?”

“Not if you respect me and my wishes.”

Zeb laid his palms on her cheeks. “I respect you, and I care
for you. I think you harbor similar feelings for me but are frightened. I
sincerely hope I do not scare you.”

She opened her eyes and watched as his face came closer and
closer, until his forehead touched hers. She breathed in the smell of him, of
soap and bay rum, and man. How easy it would be to run away, to live with
Jolene, and to see if something would come from being in company with Zeb
Moran. But life was not that easy, not her life anyway. She had her parents to
think of, of Willow Tree and all of its staff, and the bank, too, her legacy,
her family’s legacy. She could not waltz away as if none of it mattered, even
with this glimpse of a life with this man. She could not.

Jennifer stood abruptly and hurried to the parlor door.
“Thank you for escorting me from the music room. I must retire now. You know
the way to your rooms?”

“Yes,” he said.

* * *

Jennifer arrived early at the bank
on Monday morning. She’d stayed in her rooms most of the previous days and
thought about what she would do about Jeffrey Rothchild and had made some
decisions. She was going to speak to him about the threats he’d made and stop
silently acquiescing to his demands and moods. Certainly she could make him see
reason, and perhaps she misunderstood what he said about Mother. She must have
a positive outlook; far too much hinged on her managing the situation in the
best interests of the bank, her family, and her own sanity. She took a deep
breath and knocked on his office door.

“Good morning, Jeffrey,” she said and forced herself to
smile at him.