“Never been better.” Ed arched an eyebrow, grinning as he looked up at me. “You see, I had a hearty breakfast of Grape-Nuts this morning. That put everything on the right path for the day.”
“Glad to hear it,” I said, rocking back and forth on my feet, patting down my skirt. I was in a lightweight day dress of pearl-colored silk, with a casual scoop neck and pale blue embroidery around the waist and sleeves. I hoped I looked relaxed and bright, even if my nerves suddenly felt in a tangle.
Ed cleared his throat. Was he awaiting my invitation to sit on the veranda? Or perhaps we should walk? Golly, I knew nothing about entertaining gentlemen callers. It would have helped to have grown up with a mother who spoke to me about these matters. But then, Mother and Papa had known each other since childhood; I doubted they had ever experienced any of these awkward encounters of an early acquaintance at the start of a courtship. If that was what Ed was even doing—was he there to court me, or simply for the house tour that Papa had offered? I was hopeless. But one thing was certain: I would not be caught dead asking Leila for advice on any matter of the heart—or any other topic.
Ed spared me having to suggest any activity when he said: “I’ve come for the tour. The tour your father was kind enough to propose when we spoke last night at the club.”
My heart sagged. So then he wasn’t there for me. Of course not. I was just a sheltered sixteen-year-old girl from Battle Creek, and he a Columbia law student, tall and blond, a member of the Four Hundred. Ed Close probably had half a dozen blue-blooded debutantes to whom he would pay visits of courtship before even thinking of me in that way. I squared my shoulders, forcing a neutral tone as I said, “I do apologize, Mr. Close, but my father is out this morning.”
“Ed, remember?”
“Oh. Yes. Ed.” I shifted on my feet.
Ed looked out over the grounds. A mourning dove cooed in the nearby elm tree, its body hidden in the branches that hung thick with leaves. Then Ed turned his light eyes back on me, saying, “I’m afraid I’ve come all this way, and I was rather hoping for my promised tour.”
I swallowed.
“Can’t you lead it, Miss Post? Please? You are, after all, mistress of the place, are you not?”
My heart lifted. “Marjorie, remember?”
“Marjorie.” He pressed his palms together in a posture of exaggerated supplication and then winked. “Would you be so kind?”
“Oh, all right, I suppose I can do it.” I bit the inside of my cheek, forcing myself to move slowly down from the porch and toward him. “Here, let’s start in the garden.”
The property was immense, and we were still working on the place, but Ed would be able to see the shape it was taking. The grounds were in the full bloom of summer, and the gardens spread before us green and leafy, the ancient elms and oaks stocked with bird life, and a stream cutting through our back lawn before rippling into a cheerful waterfall. Just past that, Papa had put in a golf course, and beyond that was a view of our horse stables and fresh-clipped fields for riding. “Papa plans to hire fifty gardeners just to take care of the grounds,” I said. Not to mention the staff we would hire to clean, cook, drive our automobiles, manage our stables, wash the linens and clothes, and attend to the many other needs of the estate.
I turned and Ed followed suit, both of us looking up at the elegant home. The sound of the stream rippled in our ears, mingling with birdsong. The scent of summer roses and cut grass traveled on the gentle breeze. “I like those,” Ed said, pointing to the striped awnings of green and ivory that hung over the house’s two wings.
“Oh, they were my idea. For some shade,” I said, trying my best to sound casual.
“It really is a splendid place,” Ed declared, his voice quiet but earnest. “And your father was correct when he spoke last night.”
Unsure of his meaning, I tilted my face sideways, so he added: “You have a good eye.”
I allowed myself to smile at this.
He nodded once. “And remember, I warned you last night: I have exquisite taste.” A playful grin, and I noted how his eyes took a quick glimpse downward, tracing a line from the scooped neck of my dress to my corseted waist, as he said it. I straightened, resisting the urge to fidget, to adjust my skirt or pat my hair. After a moment he turned and took my gloved hand in his, holding me with his gray-eyed gaze. My stomach tightened. Then he said, “You must be the happiest girl, Marjorie.”
“Papa is very generous,” I answered, resuming our slow walk up the lawn and back toward the veranda. He released my hand as we approached the house.