Engaging Deception, page 8
With a tip of his hat, he left the two of them on the sidewalk.
Miss Kentworth fidgeted with her notebook. She turned as if to follow the doctor’s path, then spun to face the way she’d come. When with his children, she was the epitome of maturity and decorum. Now she was acting like Stella when she couldn’t settle down. He didn’t think Miss Kentworth would allow a lullaby while being rocked in the rocking chair, so he offered the next best thing.
“Would you like me to accompany you?” he asked, already determining that it was exactly what he wanted.
“No. I’m going that way.” She motioned toward the doctor’s path, still hesitant to follow him too closely.
“I see.” Maxfield saw a lot, but he wished he understood more. “So you’ve never been sick, but . . .”
“Tell me about the house that’s going here.” She looked past him at the men working, her face calm, poised, and not revealing anything more.
“My draftsman talked to the builder. It’s to be an Italianate residence. Marble, porticoes, and a fountain. All the elements required.” He was preparing to tell her what color it would be, which was usually what ladies primarily wanted to know, when she asked him something else,
“How will it be situated on the lot?”
She’d stepped around him, before he’d recovered from the unexpected question. Taking her arm to prevent her from going any closer to the men at work, he drew her across the street.
“I’m not sure, but I can tell you how I would do it,” he said as they took to the neighbor’s yard across the street. “I would leave the trees in the back. They’d make a good start for the landscaping behind the house. Then I’d have the floor plan wrap around that dogwood in the front, but I’d have the rest removed or replaced.”
He watched her closely, wondering if she really was interested. Obviously she was trying to distract him from asking about the doctor. Maybe her business with the doctor was none of his, but Maxfield felt a tug of kinship. No wonder he found her so interesting. She might be as skilled at diversion as he.
The last thing Olive wanted was for Amos to speak to Mr. Blount without her. While the project Mr. Scott was describing interested her, she had her own project to commence. There was no time to waste on Dr. Stevenson’s compassion or on Mr. Scott’s curiosity.
She tried to keep the conversation on benign topics until Dr. Stevenson had cleared away and she could walk unobserved.
“I’m sure it’ll be fascinating once it’s built,” she said. “What type of marble did you say they were using?”
He raised an eyebrow. “It’s going to be tan with gold stripes. It’s mined in Missouri, and—”
“St. Genevieve’s? Gold vein, I suppose.”
“Actually you are correct. How are you familiar with different types of marble?”
And she’d thought she was keeping to benign topics.
“I read a lot.” She shrugged. “It was nice visiting with you, Mr. Scott, but my cousin is waiting.”
“We’ll talk again soon. Actually I might need your help tonight. Are you available?”
“Yes. Tonight.” Olive bit the inside of her cheek. Not tonight. She’d have all kinds of work to do, but she’d already agreed to it.
“Until then.” He stood between her and the empty lot as if ready to intercept her if she walked toward it.
But she wasn’t inspecting the lot. She had her own lot to worry about.
By the time Olive reached the Blount home, Amos was there waiting. He’d washed up for the occasion, his tawny hair combed back and his cheeks flush with a recent scrubbing. He’d ridden in from the farm and had tied his horse to the birdbath in the front garden.
“You think that birdbath is strong enough to hold your horse? If it gets a notion to leave, it’s taking that thing with it,” Olive said.
“You reckon?” Amos walked to the stone birdbath and without a by-your-leave gave it a strong shove. The heavy bowl atop the pedestal got to tipping, and then gravity did its part. Seeing the bowl toppling, Amos’s horse shied backwards, and as it did, it pulled the pedestal over onto the peonies, smashing the landscaping.
Olive winced as Amos sprinted to the horse’s side to grab the reins and calm it.
“Welp, that was unfortunate,” he said. “But who could’ve seen it coming?”
She could. She had. And the fact that Amos didn’t was the reason that their plan would never work.
The front door opened. Mr. Blount’s face screwed up in annoyance. “What in the Sam Hill happened to the missus’s birdbath?”
As determined as Olive was to be the silent partner, she was used to being the more responsible of the cousins. But before she could apologize, Amos spoke.
“Mr. Blount, that birdbath was a hazard. I’ve never seen anything so poorly constructed. It’s a wonder that it hadn’t fallen on a guest ere this. I’ll tell you what, when I build you something, it’s not going to be rickety like that.”
Olive rocked back on her heels. Amos had copious experience in talking his way out of situations. That was the one thing he excelled at. In these instances, she should let him ply his craft.
Mr. Blount had changed his tune. “It didn’t frighten you, did it, Miss Kentworth?”
“No, sir. I was well out of the way but thank you for your inquiry.”
“Then I guess no harm done. I’ll add the construction of a new birdbath to the list of changes.” He turned, then called over his shoulder, “Come inside.”
Forgetting Olive, Amos followed right behind him. They should’ve met somewhere else first, where they could’ve gone over their plans together. Ignoring the beautiful wrapped porch that Mr. Scott had designed, she hurried along. More than likely, it wouldn’t have mattered anyway. Amos would do what Amos would do. He would be just as surprised as she was when it happened.
“Here’s the room I want extended.” Blount stopped in a parlor on the west side of the house. “There’s space on the lawn for it to be here, and this room isn’t anyone’s favorite. In fact, it’s only used for the staircase. If I remember your plans, you wanted to turn this into a living hall, and I’d like to hear more about that.”
Settling in on a footstool, Olive sketched the room as quickly and accurately as she could, while still keeping an ear open to what Mr. Blount was saying.
“It’s not that I don’t like this room, it’s just that I need more space. I liked the idea on your sketch. Show me how you would change this room to make the new room look like it belongs.”
Olive drew in a strong breath. With her eyes wide and directed at Amos, she willed him to look her way. The doorway to the new parlor should be where the left window was currently situated, but Amos was headed straight for the corner of the room. Olive cleared her throat. Amos looked at the floor as if the instructions were marked there instead of at her, who was trying to communicate with him.
“I’d fancy a door somewhere out of the way,” he said. “It’d be best if it was around here.” He’d nearly walked himself into a corner. It wasn’t until he turned to Mr. Blount that he caught sight of Olive waving her hand in warning.
He took a big step sideways. “Or maybe it would look better here?”
Olive pointed her finger to the left. Amos narrowed his eyes. He wasn’t much on reading, but surely he could read that sign? She took both hands and, holding them horizontally, mimicked a windowpane opening and closing.
His eyes lit with understanding. “Here! Here, where the window is.” He squared his shoulders and stood in the passageway.
“And could we put a fireplace along this wall?” Mr. Blount asked. “I don’t remember if there was one on your proposal.”
“I don’t remember either,” Amos laughed.
There wasn’t. Olive looked the room over and tried to remember the second story. What was above this room? Would a chimney be obtrusive upstairs? She wrote her questions in the margin, then blocked in a fireplace. A door didn’t need to be in the corner, but it was a good place for a fireplace, where it would cause the smallest annoyance upstairs. Set diagonally in the corner. She’d come back and perfect it later, but while she was here and they were busy, she wanted to get the basics on paper.
“Hey, Olive, did you get that written down?” Amos asked.
Olive lifted her head. The two men were watching her. “Get what written down?” she choked out.
“I’d like some Leghorn design in the spindle work here and some Dominique brick around these windows.”
“Leghorn design and Dominique brick?” She tapped her pencil. “Got it.” Obviously Mr. Blount had never raised chickens, or he’d wonder if Amos was turning his parlor into a hen house because, instead of architectural terms, Amos was bluffing with agricultural ones.
“And let’s plan for an Angora-shaped window with a door that has Spanish Billy accents.”
Now, he’d gone on to goat breeds. Olive needed to intervene. “I’m not sure what to write about that,” she said. “Mr. Blount, could you explain in a way that’s easier for me to understand? What exactly is it that you want in here?”
“I want it bigger,” he said. “Amos’s design mentioned a dark study in the center of the house that was reminiscent of a European great hall. I think that’s a splendid idea. As for what the new room is, I don’t have any idea. Since we’re taking out a parlor, we should probably make the new room into another parlor, don’t you think?”
Amos nodded. “Let’s go outside and see what we’re working with there.”
“Certainly, but I hate to leave Miss Kentworth without entertainment.”
Olive rose to her feet. “I’ll go with—”
“Minnie, you have a guest,” Blount bellowed.
No, she wasn’t a guest. She had work to do. Olive flashed a warning at Amos.
“Actually my cousin is assisting me.” He laced his fingers together and spun his thumbs. What was that? An imitation of an educated man?
Olive had to speak up or she’d be left out of the discussion. Remembering her father’s challenge to be brave, she stretched her spine to its furthest limit and addressed Mr. Blount. “I play an integral part in Amos’s work. It’s important for me to hear exactly what it is that you’re asking for.”
But instead of showing any surprise at her demand, he ignored it. “Minnie, this here little lady is Oscar Kentworth’s daughter. She’s tagging along with her cousin. He’s the one doing our house addition.”
Mrs. Blount stepped into the room, dressed for a day on the town. “I had planned to go to the market,” she said, but with another look at Olive, she changed her tune. “Please have a seat, I’ll hurry back with some lemonade.”
Olive sat. Her attempt to claim respect for herself had failed miserably. She was being left behind, but at least Mrs. Blount wasn’t poor company. Despite her fine dress, Mrs. Blount reminded Olive of her Aunt June. Olive’s father had told her that the Blounts came to Joplin around ten years ago, as broke as an eggshell in a throwing contest. One discovery of ore had led to all the riches they could ever imagine. Mr. Blount might be competitive and aggressive, but her father respected the man, and his wife seemed of the reasonable sort.
Amos followed Mr. Blount to the back of the house, leaving Olive with nothing to do except return to her seat on the footstool and finish her sketch of the room. Before they left, she’d have Amos take her to look around the garden. Hopefully he could remember everything Mr. Blount had said, and not dig them in too deep of a hole with his baseless promises.
“Here you go.” Mrs. Blount handed Olive a glass and set her own on the floor. She went to an armchair next to the staircase and slid it over so she could sit closer to Olive. “How did you get the job with your cousin? Does architecture interest you, or are you only helping him out?”
Olive had been concerned with exposing her charade to Mr. Blount, but Mrs. Blount’s first question had struck to the heart of their deception. She wasn’t sure how to answer.
“It’s fascinating, no doubt, but I’m sure he could find someone more capable than me if he searched.” She slid her hand over the sketch on her notebook.
“My friend Matilda Weymann helped design her house over on Sergeant Avenue, so it’s not unheard of for a woman to assist an architect.”
But maybe for a woman to be an architect?
“You have a lovely house,” Olive said. “I’m surprised Mr. Blount wants it changed.”
“It is lovely, isn’t it?” Mrs. Blount’s mouth tightened as her eyes roved from the staircase behind them, to the massive beams overhead, and the glowing light that filtered through the windows. “It was designed and built by Maxfield Scott. He’s the best, and Clydell wants nothing short of the best, which is why I don’t understand having it changed.”
“I wondered the same thing,” Olive admitted.
“I’m not saying your cousin Amos isn’t talented, but he has no education to speak of. Didn’t train abroad. In fact, when I eavesdrop on him, it doesn’t seem like he knows what he’s talking about at all.”
Olive had to agree, even though most of the description applied to her as well. “I think your house is lovely, but when Amos heard that your husband wanted to change it, there was one area he thought he could improve upon.”
“That’s what Clydell said, but I’m not convinced. He gets an itch to change for the sake of change, and I get dragged along with it.” She looked into her lemonade. “When life gives you lemons . . .”
If she was smart, Olive would sit and commiserate with Mrs. Blount about the unfairness of men who spent their days at an office designing a house that they were too busy to rest in. If she was careful, she’d ask Mrs. Blount who she used as a dressmaker and where the inspiration for her gown came from. But Olive Kentworth had a daring streak that years of safety, dread, and protection hadn’t quite been able to extinguish.
Flipping her notebook open to a blank page, she asked Mrs. Blount, “If you had a say in the design of the new addition, what improvements would you want?”
And she smiled as the lady shared her vision.
CHAPTER
9
Back home, Olive mused over the outcome of her serendipitous encounter with Mrs. Blount. The living hall plans that had captured Mr. Blount’s imagination and secured the project for her would remain largely unchanged. Olive had been able to steer Mrs. Blount away from alterations to that, but the parlor he was tacking on would be another matter altogether. A ladies’ parlor, they were calling it, full of large windows, light-colored wallpaper instead of heavy woodwork, and sheer drapes instead of brocade. Let the men retire to the living hall with exposed timbers and taxidermy. The ladies would have more delicate furnishings that they could arrange to enjoy the sun coming through the windows or to appreciate the view of the rose garden. It would be beautiful, and at least one of the inhabitants would like it.
Now that she had a specific design and measurements—Mrs. Blount had been most helpful in holding the measuring tape as they worked their way through the room—it was time to make a list of materials, estimate the cost, and enlist Mr. Flowers and his construction crew.
But not tonight, because she’d inadvertently committed to staying with the Scott children. Olive packed her notebooks, along with a few children’s books in case she was ever questioned about the contents of her bag, and headed to the front door.
“You’re working for Mr. Scott again tonight?” Her father lowered his newspaper.
“I’m either working on Mr. Blount’s plans or I’m with Leo and Stella. You wanted me to be busy. I’d say you got what you wanted.”
“And you’ve never been happier.” His grin was contagious. “Admit it. Every morning you wake up looking forward to your work.”
“Every morning I wake up scared to death that I’m going to make a mistake. I wonder how I’m going to get everything done, how I’m going to work without Mr. Blount knowing, and how I’m going to keep Amos under control. It’s a lot of stress.”
“But you don’t regret it, do you? You’re looking to the future, anticipating seeing your creation standing before you. The work is something you need.”
He was right—she couldn’t deny it. “As long as no one knows, then yes, you are right. I do enjoy the work. And I have another job I enjoy that I’d better get to. Don’t want to make Mr. Scott late for his engagement.”
At least Leo and Stella’s bedtime was early. After dinner and baths, she could work on her estimate, although the time wouldn’t be long. Some nights it seemed that Mr. Scott spent more time visiting with her than he spent away from the house, although he was taking his lady friend out more often. Olive had yet to meet her, but she could only imagine how sophisticated and knowledgeable she must be. Probably she sat around spellbound as he talked about his experiences and projects. Olive was jealous, but she knew there were some things you didn’t even hope for.
When the sidewalk turned onto Mr. Scott’s street, Olive was surprised to realize she was no longer nervous. Instead, she was eager to see the children’s cheerful faces. Playing with Leo and cuddling with Stella was a break from the enormity of what she was trying to accomplish. She knocked, but she didn’t expect Mr. Scott to open the door wearing his checked cassimere vest without a suit coat or tie.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “Am I early?”
“Not at all. Come on in.” He stepped aside to let her pass. “How’s your father doing?”
Always the gentleman, was Maxfield Scott. Why he bothered charming his help, she couldn’t guess. Unfortunately, no one was below his notice, and she was doing things she didn’t want him to notice.
“He’s doing well, thank you,” and then because she felt like she should have some polite inquiry in return, “How is your work on the Dennis house?”
She tensed as she waited for his reply. Was that too much? Should she pretend to have no interest in his work? If she wasn’t doing architecture, would she have asked that?
“It’s coming along nicely. Soon I’ll be ready to turn it over to the family to decorate and furnish, and in the meantime, I’m drafting a new design that’s opened for bids.”
