Chapter 5
Five
J ackson knew he was behaving like a buffoon by ogling Sage so openly and boldly, but her presence had taken him by such surprise that he hadn’t been able to stop himself.
Or maybe he’d been without a woman for too long that he’d forgotten how to behave. More likely, after the weeks and months of shutting himself off from the world, he’d become a savage.
It could also be because Sage was a very lovely woman, much lovelier than he’d anticipated. Yes, there was even something about her that made his blood heat a degree or two.
Meredith hadn’t had that effect upon him. For all the many months he’d courted her and then been engaged, he’d never been tempted to ogle her, and the temperature of his blood had never heated.
Of course, when they’d shared kisses once in a while, he’d felt a pull toward her. He was a man with needs, after all. But he’d never had the urge to just stand and stare at her as he was doing at the moment with Sage. And he’d never had the urge to keep staring, very nearly as if he couldn’t get enough of this woman before him and needed to keep drinking her in.
“But of course you must stay, Miss Rhodes,” Augusta was saying while narrowing censuring eyes upon him. “Forgive my brother for his rudeness.”
“I can’t join you.” Sage took another step back, her blue eyes wide and filled with such uncertainty that they somehow tugged at him. Was tugged even the right word? Moved him? Stirred something inside him?
He didn’t know how to explain it, but at the prospect of her running off and hiding away the rest of the evening, he had to say something. He waved at the two empty places at the table across from his. “Please. The table is already set.” The words came out gruff, almost a demand.
Sage shook her head. “I don’t want to impose.”
Augusta reached for Sage’s hand and tucked it back into the crook of her elbow. “She’s not imposing, is she, Jackson?”
Technically, he’d never eaten with a servant. Not even lady’s maids sat down to dinner with the family—not here or when he’d lived in Rupert’s Land, which had been even wilder and more uncivilized than Victoria.
But Augusta never had put as much stock in class differences, and clearly still didn’t. So how should he answer his sister so that she didn’t throttle him?
Sage was watching his face, and at his delayed answer, a slight blush moved into her cheeks.
His hesitation was only making matters worse. The problem was, he hadn’t really wanted to have dinner with Augusta in the first place and had only done so to pacify her. Now having Sage present, too, would only make him feel more awkward because it was clear she didn’t like him and had gone out of her way to avoid him all week.
“You’re always so kind to me.” Sage squeezed Augusta’s arm. “But now that we’re here in Victoria, I do think I would be remiss to act as though I am a fine lady or a part of your family when I am only hired help.”
“You’re more than hired help to me.”
This time Sage broke away completely from Augusta. “I’m sure you’d love some time to reconnect with your brother without the bother of my presence.”
“Your presence is delightful.”
“Thank you, ma’am.” Sage gave a slight curtsy and then hurriedly retreated into the hallway.
As soon as Sage’s footsteps faded, Augusta leveled a glare upon him.
A needle of guilt pierced him. Yes, he was at fault for driving Sage away. He could admit it. She’d clearly intended to join them for dinner, but she’d sensed his reluctance and his unfriendly attitude.
“Well, that was uncalled for.” Augusta stood rigidly in her formal gown. The low lighting cast a shadow over her narrow face and made her look tired and older.
The guilt inside him only pricked harder. His sister had come all this way to visit him. The long voyage hadn’t been easy or without trials. In addition, he hadn’t been welcoming, and his home had been in shambles.
Regardless of the circumstances, she’d made the best of the situation. She’d taken charge just as she usually did. Without any complaint, she’d set to work, helping him pick up the pieces of his shattered life—whether he’d wanted to pick them up or not.
Although he hadn’t particularly liked the commotion or the intrusion on his privacy, he’d understood on some level that it was past time for him to stop living the way he had been and to start making some changes.
But what changes?
The helplessness and despair that had been plaguing him for months still gnawed at him.
With a shake of his head, he expelled a sigh. “Please, sit down, Augusta. We may as well have the dinner your new cook has prepared.” They were here now, and he had to stop focusing so much on himself and his own problems and show Augusta he still cared about her.
Besides, the scents coming from the kitchen had been taunting him for the past hour—roasted duck, wild herbs and vegetables, and even the sweetness of a berry tart.
Augusta stood stiffly a moment longer before approaching her place at the table. Before he could reach her chair and pull it out for her, she was already sitting down. He helped to push her in before he sat across the table from her.
She unfolded her linen napkin and laid it in her lap, then she straightened the oyster fork and soup spoon, although both were perfectly placed above the plate.
He hadn’t known he had linen napkins or formal silverware. Either Augusta had purchased both this past week or Meredith had done more to prepare their home than he’d realized.
He sat unmoving and forced himself to speak first. “Forgive me for being a brute. It seems that I am acting out what I have become.”
Her eyes softened, and all the love she had for him was shining there.
His throat closed up. He couldn’t remember the last time anyone had looked at him like that—probably not since he’d last seen her or his mother. Certainly his father had never given him such love, had only ever doled out criticism.
“You’re not a brute, Jackson.” Her voice held tenderness. “You’ve just become lost and need to find solid footing again.”
Was she right? He did, indeed, feel lost, as if he was stuck in the wilderness of the great Fraser River Valley and unable to find his way through the thick forests and rugged mountains to the place where he wanted to be.
Where was that place? What was his destination?
“Once in a while, we need someone to come alongside us,” she continued. “I hope you’ll allow me to be that someone to support you.”
He had pushed away everyone else—his friends, business associates, and even the woman he’d intended to marry. They’d all wanted to support him, but he hadn’t been ready four months ago to interact with anyone, had been too consumed with guilt. Could he accept the support now?
He swallowed the protest that easily surfaced—the protest at having anyone else involved in his life, at least not until he figured out what had gone wrong with his bridge and how he could fix things.
But what if he never was able to get it right? What if the ruins remained in the canyon, a testament to his failure and the destruction and deaths that had come about as a result?
“Are you thinking about the bridge?” she asked as if sensing the direction of his thoughts.
He stared down at his empty plate.
“I heard what happened.” Augusta spoke quietly, but the force of her words barreled into him anyway.
He sat back against his chair, the angst inside swelling hard and fast. Of course she would have heard. Everyone knew about it. The suspension bridge had been touted as one of the greatest feats of the modern world. He’d been lauded as a genius for developing it. Governor Douglas, the Hudson’s Bay Company, and every industry in Vancouver Island and British Columbia had been counting on the bridge.
After starting work last summer and then resuming again this spring after the winter thaw, the construction crew had been nearing completion. The accolades had been rolling in for his achievement. Requests for his expertise from around the world had begun to pile up. He’d been on the cusp of fame and fortune that was his own making and not a result of his famous explorer father. He’d even received a letter from his father with a rare compliment for his work on the bridge.
Then one day in early May, during a downpour that had turned into sleet, the freezing moisture had expanded in one of the columns with a new hollow structural section that he’d developed. In all his initial calculations of the dimensions of the steel structure, including the nominal width, depth, and diameter along with the wall thickness, he hadn’t calculated the permissible variations for freezing action.
The ice had split the column and weakened the rods, and he hadn’t realized the damage that had been done until it was too late. The full crew had been at work when the column had collapsed, bringing down the west abutments and timber towers along with all the men who had been working on that end of the nearly completed bridge.
His mind had replayed the moment of the bridge crumbling more times than he could count. He’d been on the east bank overseeing the cables being installed when it had happened. He’d watched in horrified silence as the section had broken away from the bedrock and fifteen men had plunged ninety feet to their deaths below.
“It wasn’t your fault, Jackson.” Augusta spoke in her no-nonsense tone. “Accidents happen to everyone?—”
“It was my fault, and that’s all I want to say about it!” The words came out a half growl, half roar. His pulse was spurting forward, sending frustration to every part of his body, tightening his muscles, and pounding through his head.
He had the sudden desperate need to flee from the room and from Augusta, barricade himself in his study, and pore over the equations that he’d worked and reworked to test the effect of freezing on a hollow structural section. He could escape in the equations and in the numbers, even if only for a little while.
Augusta pursed her lips. Although he could sense she wanted to talk more about it, she only eyed him warily.
The truth of the matter was that he was entirely to blame for the bridge’s failure and for the deaths. If he’d been more thorough, if he’d anticipated the freezing, if he hadn’t let the pressure of deadlines rush him—then maybe he could have prevented the tragedy.
He grabbed onto the edges of his chair to keep himself from standing and stalking away. He couldn’t behave in such an uncouth manner, not after all Augusta had done for him over the past week, not when she had arranged for such a fine meal that evening, and not when she didn’t know the whole story.
He sucked in a deep breath, closed his eyes, and tried to calm his erratic pulse.
At the tread of footsteps and the clinking of dishes, he opened his eyes to find the new cook entering the room carrying a tray laden with soup bowls, the first course of their meal.
The cook was a rotund fellow with a fleshy face, orange-red hair, and a long curling mustache, and he looked as if he enjoyed eating his food as much as he enjoyed cooking it. He went by the French name of Gustave and added a few French words into his otherwise Scottish dialect.
Jackson took another deep breath and scrambled for a way to change the subject. But he’d never been socially adept, had always been awkward in conversing with people, had never known what to discuss when it wasn’t related to his building or engineering projects.
Fortunately for him, Augusta had no trouble with talking. “I am keenly anticipating all of the courses you’ve planned, Gustave.”
“Oui, Mademoiselle.” He butchered the French words so much so, that when Jackson caught Augusta’s gaze, he could see the humor there.
Both he and Augusta spoke fluent French. In her world traveling, Augusta had also learned several other languages. He’d lost count of which ones and how many. But she was like their father in her abilities.
Gustave was wearing a long white apron over a tight black suit. His expression was somber, and he was concentrating on the tray, as though he feared spilling the soup.
“I am contemplating hosting a small dinner sometime soon.” Augusta unfolded her linen napkin. “Would you be able to provide cuisine for…say, ten to fifteen guests?”
Jackson had barely started to calm his racing pulse, and now at Augusta’s proposition, his heartbeat tapped irregularly again. He was hardly ready for a dinner with just his sister, much less ten to fifteen people.
“Oui.” Gustave placed a bowl of soup in front of Augusta, either beef bouillon or French onion, if the dark liquid was an indication. “I should be delighted to do so.” The lilt of Gustave’s Scottish accent was undeniable.
Jackson opened his mouth to protest the dinner plans, but Augusta spoke before he could. “Just a few neighbors, Jackson. You wouldn’t deny me the opportunity to get to know them, would you?”
She picked up her soup spoon and poised it above her bowl. Then she cocked her head and waited for his answer.
How could he deny her anything? He couldn’t. And she knew it.
Regardless, he couldn’t stomach the prospect of one of the guests bringing up the bridge, asking him about the accident, or inquiring into his plans for the repairs. And invariably someone would.
He’d halfway lost his temper with Augusta when she’d mentioned it. How could he remain collected and in control of himself if other people were barraging him with questions about it?
No, having a dinner party was a bad idea.
He started to shake his head.
“You’ll stay right by my side all evening.” She dipped her spoon into the soup. “And I’ll be the perfect hostess.”
She was implying that she would take care of all the awkward moments and be sure to direct the conversation away from difficult topics. Essentially, she was giving him another push to start living again, and deep inside he knew he needed to let her push. Why, then, was the next step so daunting?
“Then it’s settled.” Augusta rattled off the names of several of the neighbors and clearly knew more about them already than he did. “We’ll host the dinner on the Friday evening of next week.”
He quickly calculated the days. Ten. Maybe in that time he’d find a way to get out of attending.