Every Perfect Gift Read online

  “I’ve thought of that. The orphanage has been vacant for years. It’s sitting there falling into disrepair. And it’s perfect for my infirmary because it already has lots of rooms where I can set up beds. It has a kitchen and a dining room and an office. And it won’t be too expensive. All it needs is some repairs.” She huffed. “I should think the mayor and the council would rather have it occupied and useful instead of continuing to offend the eye of every visitor who comes to town.”

  “Can’t Dr. Spencer plead your case? Or your father? I can’t imagine Mayor Scott would turn a deaf ear to Mr. Gilman.”

  “Daddy’s no help. He says this is my project, so it’s up to me to make my case.” Gillie wrinkled her nose. “He thinks it’s good for my character.”

  Sophie grinned. More than once Wyatt Caldwell had told her the same thing about her newspaper enterprise. In the end, though, he had advanced her the money to get her business started. Surely Mr. Gilman would do the same for his only daughter.

  Gillie sighed and fanned her face. “Dr. Spencer is all for my infirmary. He has spoken to the mayor, but Mayor Scott keeps putting him off too, and Doc’s too busy to fight this battle for me. Why, just last week, Mrs. Sproule came down with consumption. And Mrs. Harper is expecting another baby and having a hard time of it. Poor Doc hardly has time to eat and sleep before he’s called out again. Even with Mrs. Spencer’s help, he can barely keep up.” Gillie frowned. “That’s exactly why we need the clinic. So he can spend his time with the serious cases instead of traveling all over the county treating minor illnesses.”

  “What about women in town? Surely Mrs. Spencer supports the idea.”

  “Oh yes, and Mrs. Rutledge and Mrs. Whiting and some others.” Gillie made a face. “Naturally Mother thinks the whole idea is ridiculous and that I should worry instead about finding a husband. But I don’t care.”

  “You don’t want to marry?” Sophie took out her own fan. “I sure do. Someday.”

  “Oh, I’m all for finding a good man and settling down, but my Prince Charming is going to have to find me, because I am far too busy to go looking for him.” Gillie leaned over and placed a hand on Sophie’s arm. “Speaking of princes, you’d better get going if you want to be ready when the handsome Mr. Heyward gets here. I didn’t mean to keep you so long. I only wanted to ask if you would write another opinion piece in the paper. Something to persuade the mayor and the council to hear me out.”

  “I’m not sure I have any influence with them, but of course I’ll do anything I can to help.” Sophie clasped Gillie’s hand. “I think your idea is wonderful, and I personally would love to see the orphanage transformed into something useful.”

  Gillie nodded, her expression thoughtful. “It couldn’t have been easy for you there.”

  Sophie gazed past her friend’s shoulder, remembering. “It was a pretty dismal place. Only a few of us were taken into permanent homes. And nobody wanted a skinny mutt of a girl who had trouble with handwriting and only wanted to spin stories. Mrs. Lowell refused to let me go to school with the others. It still hurts to think about it. So I try not to.”

  Gillie placed a hand on Sophie’s arm. “Maybe it would make you feel better to help turn the building into a place of hope.”

  “I’m willing to try. Next week’s edition will be taken up with the Blue Smoke opening, I’m afraid, but after that I’ll work on the mayor and his ilk.”

  “I knew I could count on you.” Gillie jumped up and threw both arms around Sophie just as a carriage rattled down the street. “Oh my lands. Speaking of Blue Smoke, here comes Mr. Heyward.”

  Before Sophie could reply, Gillie gave her a gentle shove. “Go on upstairs. I’ll entertain your gentleman while you change.”

  “Thanks.” With a backward glance at the approaching carriage, Sophie ran inside.

  Lucy Partridge met her at the foot of the stairs. “You’re late.”

  “Don’t I know it.” Sophie took out her handkerchief, dabbed at a spot of black ink on her hand, and glanced at her hair in the hallway mirror. “Mercy. I look like something the cat dragged in.”

  Lucy laughed. “You could never look that bad. Go on up. I prepared your bath and hung your dress up.”

  “You’re a lifesaver.” Sophie raced upstairs, undoing her buttons as she went. In her room, she slid into the warm, rose-scented water, wishing for more time to enjoy such an indulgence. But Ethan Heyward was waiting, and besides, she didn’t want to miss a minute of the reception. She scrubbed away the day’s grime, dried off, and ran a brush through her hair before fashioning it into a simple coil at the nape of her neck. She splashed on a bit of rosewater and stepped into the new dress, a whisper of cream silk that showed off her slim waist.

  The sound of laughter drew her to the window. Down below, Ethan stood in the yard, his hat tucked into the curve of his arm, one foot resting on the hotel’s bottom step. Beside him, Gillie pointed up the street, and they laughed again.

  Sophie felt an unexpected stab of pure old jealousy, then chastised herself. She had no claim on Ethan Heyward. If he wanted to share a joke with Gillie, why should she care?

  She opened her velvet-lined jewelry case, a sixteenth-birthday present from Wyatt and Ada, and took out two jeweled combs for her hair. She fastened a pearl choker at her neck, tucked a couple of pencils into her reticule, and buttoned her jacket. With a final glance into the mirror, she picked up her reporter’s notebook and headed for the door.

  Lucy grinned when Sophie came downstairs. “My word, you look pretty as a princess.” Lucy parted the front curtain in the parlor and looked out. “That’s some carriage. And Mr. Heyward looks mighty fine too.”

  “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  “I’ll make flapjacks for breakfast, and you can give me a full report,” Lucy said, her eyes full of mischief. “And not just the stuff you plan to print in the paper either. I want the details.”

  Sophie gave her a wave and then stepped onto the porch. Ethan looked up, a broad smile lighting his face.

  “Mr. Heyward.” She rushed down the steps, her silk skirt swirling about her ankles. “I am six kinds of sorry for making you wait. I’m usually much more prompt.”

  “He knows it was my doing,” Gillie said.

  Ethan laughed. “It was worth the wait. You look beautiful, Miss Caldwell.” He offered his arm. “Shall we go?”

  “Have fun.” Gillie waved as Ethan handed Sophie into the carriage, then stepped in and took the seat opposite her.

  The driver executed a wide turn. The carriage rocked along the main road and then began the climb to Blue Smoke. Sophie watched the scenery slipping past—the trees cloaked in late-spring green, patches of birdfoot violets growing near the road, golden sunlight filtering through the thick branches.

  “Excited about the reception?” Ethan smiled into her eyes, and she smiled back.

  “Oh yes. It isn’t often I have a chance to talk to editors from other newspapers. I like knowing what’s going on in their towns and what their readers are interested in.”

  He nodded. “Last time I was back in Baltimore, all the interest was about the new Equal Rights Party. I’m not sure how I feel about it.”

  She raised a brow. “Truly? It seems to me that any democracy should welcome the full participation of all its citizens. You don’t agree?”

  He blushed. “Well, when you put it that way, of course. And I recognize time won’t stand still.” He peered out the window. “Our world is changing faster than I ever thought possible. Who would have thought we’d have a Negro playing baseball for the major leagues? But it’s happened in Ohio.”

  “Yes. Moses Walker gave an interview shortly after he joined the Toledo team. Several of the Texas papers reprinted it.” Sophie braided her fingers and watched for some clue as to what he thought of Mr. Walker’s achievement, but Ethan’s face remained impassive. “I personally think it’s a sign of progress.”

  “No doubt. But don’t you think our society will become more
complicated when the natural lines between the races, or between a man’s world and a woman’s for that matter, become blurred?”

  “Is that a diplomatic way of telling me you don’t approve of my owning the newspaper?”

  “Not at all. I think it’s fine for now. But surely you’ll want a family someday?”

  She fingered the cover of her notebook and swallowed the sudden tightness in her throat. He didn’t know his question had touched the deepest recesses of her heart. Having grown up without a family, she couldn’t imagine a more precious gift.

  “Begging your pardon,” Ethan said, his voice soft. “I’ve upset you, and I didn’t intend to.”

  She took a long breath and smiled into his eyes. “I’m perfectly fine, Mr. Heyward.”

  “And that’s another thing I’ve been meaning to mention. Do you think you can call me Ethan? ‘Mr. Heyward’ makes me feel old.”

  She relaxed, happy to have the conversation back on more neutral ground. “You don’t look old.”

  He laughed and she smiled, enjoying the sound of it. “I’m thirty-one. Old enough to know better than to peer too closely into a woman’s feelings. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to pry. Your future plans are none of my business.”

  “You’re forgiven. And of course I’m honored to call you Ethan, if you will call me Sophie.”

  “Done.” He peered out the carriage window. “The view of the sunset tonight from the terrace will be spectacular. We must remind the photographers to have their cameras at the ready. Did I tell you the Boston Globe sent two writers and an illustrator?”

  “That’s wonderful. Is anyone from the Atlanta papers coming? I should think Blue Smoke will draw lots of visitors from there—from all over Georgia, really. And since you’re a native son, there must be tremendous interest in—”

  His handsome face darkened. “They weren’t invited.”

  “I see. But why?”

  He shook his head. “Never mind, Sophie. We’re here.”

  NINE

  A distinguished-looking man in a blue, brass-buttoned uniform stepped forward and held the carriage door open for Sophie. “Good evening, miss.”

  “Good evening.” Sophie gathered her skirts and stepped from the carriage. A row of rigs and carriages lined the road and overflowed onto the soft grass. Pots of bright pink and yellow blooms nodded in the cool mountain breeze that wafted through the covered portico. On either side of the massive entrance, twin fountains burbled softly, reflecting the sunlight that painted the distant hills and turned the trees to gold.

  Ethan followed her from the carriage and nodded to the doorman. “Thank you, John. Tell Silas I’ll need the carriage later to see Miss Caldwell home.”

  “Yes, sir. Enjoy your evening.” The doorman motioned to the driver and the carriage pulled away, the horses’ hooves making a hollow sound on the road.

  Ethan offered his arm. “Shall we?”

  He led Sophie through the reception hall and up a short staircase to the main ballroom. Two more uniformed servants smiled a greeting and opened the door. Inside, Sophie stood transfixed. Holy cats. No wonder folks called these present years the “gilded age.” Like the mansions she’d read about—the Carnegies’ palatial home in New York, the Palmers’ castle-like mansion in Chicago—Blue Smoke was awash in gold. Thin golden ropes adorned three massive, gas-lit crystal chandeliers that spilled soft light into the room. Tables dressed with heavy white linens held stacks of gleaming china rimmed in gold. Goblets and wineglasses, flatware and serving platters glittered in the light.

  “Well?” Ethan smiled down at her, and she was acutely aware of his nearness—the clean scent of his skin, the tiny wrinkles fanning out from the corners of his eyes.

  “It’s breathtaking.”

  “And so are you.” His eyes moved from her face to her shoulders to the tip of one satin slipper peeking from beneath the hem of her dress.

  She inclined her head, acknowledging his compliment, and waved a hand toward the crowd gathering at the other end of the room. “Perhaps we should join the others. I’m dying to meet everyone.”

  He laughed softly, and she felt her cheeks grow warmer as he continued to hold her gaze.

  “Did I say something funny?” She opened her reticule and busied herself with her pen and notebook.

  “Not at all. I was actually admiring your enthusiasm. Come on. I’ll introduce you to the few people I know, and I’m sure they will do the rest.”

  Taking her arm, he moved into the crowd and motioned to a handsome, stocky gentleman who had just accepted a glass of wine from a passing waiter. “Miss Sophie Caldwell, may I introduce Mr. Edward Carmack of the Columbia Herald. Edward, Miss Caldwell is the new owner of the Hickory Ridge Gazette.”

  “Hello.” Sophie nodded, and Mr. Carmack smiled back.

  “Pleased to meet you, miss,” he said. “I’m glad the Gazette is back in business. I thought a lot of the Greers. It was surely a sad day in these parts when Mr. Greer passed on.”

  A waiter came by with a tray laden with punch cups and Sophie took one. “Patsy Greer is the reason I got into newspapering. She let me try out her typewriting machine when I was a child, and I never got over the excitement of a newspaper office.” She sipped the punch. “This is good. Do you know what’s in it?”

  “Sophie,” Ethan said. “I must go and speak to my other guests. I’ll catch up with you later, all right?”

  Mr. Carmack smiled. “Don’t worry about her, Ethan. Such a lovely lady is not likely to want for conversation.”

  Ethan disappeared into the growing crowd, and Mr. Carmack motioned to a handsome woman clad in a navy dress, a small flowered hat perched at a jaunty angle on her head. “Lydia, come and meet Miss Caldwell.”

  The woman set down her plate and cup and made her way through a knot of people gathered near the fireplace.

  “Lydia McPherson, meet Sophie Caldwell. She’s the new owner of the local paper.”

  “Indeed.” The woman smiled and nodded. “I am delighted to meet another woman engaged in our profession.”

  Sophie returned Mrs. McPherson’s nod, suddenly shy in the presence of a woman she’d long admired and hoped to emulate.

  “Lydia owns the Democrat down in Sherman, Texas,” Mr. Carmack said. “It’s one of the most successful dailies in the South.”

  “My sons deserve some of the credit for that,” Mrs. McPherson said. “After my husband died, we moved to Texas. The boys have worked hard to make the paper a success. We’ve done all right for ourselves.”

  “She’s being modest,” Mr. Carmack said. “Lydia here was one of the first women to join the Texas Press Association. Why, they even made her an honorary commissioner for the World Expo in New Orleans last January.”

  “I was there,” Sophie said, delighted to have even more in common with the accomplished newspaperwoman. “My guardian spent summers with her family in New Orleans when she was growing up. The exposition provided her a good excuse to show her children the place where she spent much of her childhood.”

  “What did you think of it?”

  “It was overwhelming, to tell you the truth. Didn’t they say it was the biggest world’s fair ever held in the United States?” Sophie took another sip of punch. “But I loved New Orleans. So many kinds of people, so much noise and energy on the river. I can see why Ada wanted to go back there.”

  Mrs. McPherson laughed. “I agree with you, even though I felt as if I walked a hundred miles just to see it all. My poor feet may never be the—”

  “Lydia!” A bearded man dressed like an undertaker pushed through the crowd. “I didn’t know you were coming.”

  “Hello, Adolph.” Mrs. McPherson smiled. “I didn’t either. My son planned to come, but he’s ill, I’m afraid, and I didn’t want our paper to miss out on a firsthand look at Mr. Blakely’s masterpiece. And my cousin Deborah Patterson lives here. The opening was a good excuse to pay her a visit. Blue Smoke is quite something, isn’t it?”

  The ma
n nodded. “Mr. Heyward invited me up here for a look a couple of times while the building was going up, but I had no idea it would turn out to be so fancy. Small wonder that they’re calling Hickory Ridge the Saratoga of the South.”

  “Well, there’s your lead paragraph for page one.” Mr. Carmack began scribbling in his leather-bound notebook.

  “Oh my goodness,” Mrs. McPherson said. “Where on earth are my manners? Miss Caldwell, this is my old friend Adolph Ochs. Adolph, Miss Caldwell of the Gazette.”

  “Chattanooga Times.” Mr. Ochs smiled at Sophie. “Pleased to make your acquaintance.” He waved one hand at the crowded room. “Mr. Heyward has himself quite a turnout.”

  Sophie looked around. Reporters leaned against the fireplace, talking and taking notes. At the other end of the room, a photographer had set up his equipment and was busy framing a view of the mountains through the tall windows. Waiters scurried about bearing gilt-rimmed trays laden with sandwiches and tiny iced cakes. The hum of a dozen conversations filled the air.

  “. . . wouldn’t you say so, Miss Caldwell?” Mr. Carmack smiled down at Sophie, one brow raised.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “I was just saying that newfangled machine Mr. Mergenthaler patented is sure to revolutionize our business.”

  “The linotype, yes. I’ve wanted one in the worst way ever since I read about it.”

  Mr. Ochs laughed. “Don’t we all? They say one of the New York papers will get the first one sometime next year.” He shook his head. “Imagine being able to form an entire line of type as one piece of metal.”

  Mrs. McPherson, who had accepted another glass of punch, took a sip and sighed. “Imagining is about all I’ll be able to do, I fear. No doubt that new machine will be scandalously expensive.”

  “But it will be worth it in the long run,” Sophie said. “Think of how much faster the work will go when we don’t have to set the type letter by letter.”