by Jen Turano
As Hank loped away, Uncle Amos suddenly strolled into view. Knowing there was little reason to delay having a chat with him about frightening off help they were in desperate need of retaining, Ian strode over to join his uncle.
“Ah, Ian, I didn’t know you were planning on visiting Glory Manor today,” Uncle Amos said, smiling as he caught sight of Ian.
Seeing little point in explaining he’d been at Glory Manor for days, Ian fell into step beside his uncle. “I hear you were recently missing a chicken.”
“I was, but it turned back up in the chicken coop, so I was worried for nothing.” He frowned and stopped walking. “Who told you it was missing?”
“Hank, who also told me you accused him of stealing it while directing your rifle at his face.”
Uncle Amos’s eyes clouded with confusion. “I don’t remember threatening Hank. I might have asked him if he knew the whereabouts of the chicken, but I wouldn’t have threatened him or accused him of stealing it.”
“I’m afraid you did, and Hank had nothing to do with the missing chicken. The children simply took it up to Mrs. Delmont’s room so she could name it.”
“I’m not certain why you’re addressing dear Izzie as Mrs. Delmont. You are soon to be married to the woman, so it’s perfectly acceptable for you to use her given name.”
“Who told you I was going to marry Mrs., er, Izzie?”
Uncle Amos tilted his head. “It might have been the children, or maybe it was Hank.” He frowned. “I think Hank might have also told me to keep an eye on Izzie because she likes to steal chickens.”
A sigh escaped him. His uncle was clearly confused again, which lent a certain urgency to finding additional help for the farm.
“Whoever told you I’m going to marry Izzie was mistaken. She’s merely a candidate for a housekeeper position we need to fill. As for chickens, she doesn’t seem to care for them, so I don’t believe you need to worry she’ll try and filch one of them.”
“She doesn’t like chickens?”
“Not at all. Frankly, I think she would be perfectly content to never encounter another chicken again, especially after Elmer—that’s the chicken she named and the one that was missing—took an immediate dislike to her and chased her around her room.”
“Elmer’s an odd name to choose for a hen.”
“She thought it was a he, not a she.”
“Ah well, that explains much.” Uncle Amos clapped him on the back again. “And it’s just as well you’re not intending to marry her. A woman who doesn’t like chickens isn’t to be trusted.”
Swallowing a laugh, Ian began walking again, promising Uncle Amos he’d go fishing with him just as soon as he got caught up with all the chores he had left to do. As Uncle Amos agreed that would be a splendid way to spend the afternoon, their progress toward the house was interrupted when Henry suddenly dashed into view, waving a piece of paper.
“This just came for you,” he yelled to Ian, running up to join him. “The man who delivered it said it’s one of them telegrams.” He thrust the telegram at Ian. “I never seen a real telegram before. I bet it says somethin’ important.”
Knowing there was little doubt that the contents of the telegram were indeed important, Ian opened it up and frowned. “Looks like I’m needed in Pittsburgh as soon as possible, which is a bit of a problem.”
Uncle Amos shook his head, his eyes now bright and devoid of even a hint of confusion. “There’s no reason for you to think you need to stay here and mind the farm. I’ve been minding Glory Manor for over fifty years.”
“True, but you’ve now got four children to mind as well, and Aunt Birdie is still recovering from her accident.”
“But what about Izzie? I thought you told me she’d come here to apply for a housekeeping position. Don’t see why you shouldn’t just give it to her. That way, you’ll be able to go to Pittsburgh and not have to worry about us.”
Finding it more than curious that his uncle could be completely out of his mind one moment and then completely rational the next, Ian folded up the telegram and shoved it into his pocket. “Perhaps I should speak with Izzie, even though I have some doubts about her qualifications.”
“You could always offer her a temporary position,” Uncle Amos suggested, taking Ian aback by the soundness of that suggestion. “That would fill the void for the moment, and that would give you an opportunity to check out her letters of reference, if she came with any, that is.”
“That is some excellent advice, Uncle Amos, and certainly worthy of consideration.” He sent his uncle and Henry a smile. “If you’ll excuse me, I’m off to have a chat with Mrs. Delmont.”
As he strode away, he refused to wince when he heard Uncle Amos question Henry about who Mrs. Delmont was and why Ian was off to have a chat with her.
Taking a detour toward the water pump, wanting to wash up after being near the chicken coop, he slowed his pace when he spotted Primrose, Violet, and little Daisy standing a foot away from the pump, eyeing it warily.
“It doesn’t bite,” he said, drawing their attention and immediately finding the wariness in their eyes increasing as they watched him approach.
Remembering all too vividly how it felt to be uprooted from everything known and thrust into a world that was completely foreign, he continued forward, smiling at the girls once he reached the water pump. “I hear all of you have been spending some time naming the chickens.”
Not one of the girls returned his smile, their gazes on the water pump he’d begun to prime. The second water came pouring out the spout, the girls jumped backward, little Violet stumbling into Primrose, who grabbed hold of her, steadied her on her feet, then sent a glare to Ian, as if it had been his fault they’d almost suffered a tumble to the ground.
“Aunt Birdie told us we couldn’t help her make cookies until after we wash up,” Primrose said. “We couldn’t figure out how to use that pump, but now you’re here and the pump seems to be workin’ just fine.” She scowled. “That means we can’t tell Aunt Birdie the pump is broken.”
“Which, oddly enough, does explain why you’re glaring at me,” Ian said before he stuck his hands under the running water. “All of you do realize, even with it becoming remarkably obvious that you dislike bathing, that washing your hands isn’t the same as taking a bath, don’t you? As you can clearly see, there’s not nearly as much water involved.”
“Aunt Birdie said we was to wash our faces too,” Violet said, taking a step toward him. “And she even said we wasn’t to forget our necks.”
“That’s almost like taking a bath,” Primrose added before she caught Ian’s eye. “Mrs. Lyman—she’s the woman that Pa paid to watch us every now and again before he went missing—told us our mama died because she liked to take so many baths and those baths done gave her a chill and killed her.”
Ian completely forgot about keeping the water running as temper crawled through him. His father had often told him bathing was harmful, had done so merely to spare himself the bother of making certain his one and only child was clean. Ian had the sneaking suspicion that this Mrs. Lyman might have used the same tactics with the Duffy children to save herself some work.
The children’s father had evidently not been diligent with making certain the woman tasked to look after his children every now and again was qualified for the work she’d been paid to do, which spoke volumes about the man’s suitableness as a parent.
With disgust for Mr. Duffy mixing with the temper, Ian drew in a breath and slowly released it, knowing he couldn’t very well voice that disgust to the children. Their father might have abandoned them, but he was still their father. Even though his own father had sorely abused him from the moment his mother had died until he’d come to live at Glory Manor, there was a part of Ian, albeit a small part, that loved the man. He’d always held out hope that his father would one day want to come and take him home, or at least track him down and apologize for all the abuse he’d given his only son. That day had never come, nor
would it since his father had died years before, and . . .
“Maybe that pump is broken now, Prim, and Ian is lookin’ so mad cuz he don’t know why there’s no more water comin’ out of it.”
Forcing down the temper that was flowing through him, caused by thoughts and memories that were hardly productive, Ian summoned up a smile, unsurprised when it did not have the wariness in the girls’ eyes dissipating.
“I’m not angry about the water pump, which isn’t broken by the way. And I’m not angry with any of you, if that’s your next question.” A sigh escaped him. “I’m angry at the circumstances you’ve been forced to face, and I’m sorry to hear about your mother. It must have been horrible to lose her.”
Primrose began inspecting the end of a red braid, one tied with a bit of string. “She died a few months after Daisy was born. Me and Henry remember Mama, but Violet doesn’t, and Daisy never even knew her.”
“I’m sure your mother didn’t want to leave you, Primrose, just as I’m sure she didn’t die from taking a bath,” Ian began quietly. “She must have suffered from an unexpected illness.”
“It was the bathing. Mrs. Lyman said so.” Primrose hugged her arms around her thin body. “That’s why we decided we weren’t takin’ no more baths. If one of us gets sick, we’ll get separated for sure since everyone knows people don’t like to keep children who are sickly.”
Ian frowned. “Aunt Birdie is even now making plans to offer you a permanent home at Glory Manor, which means there’s no need for you to worry you and your siblings are going to be separated.”
Primrose gave a jerk of her head. “And we appreciate that offer, but Aunt Birdie might not be around to see all of us grown and out of the house, which means this isn’t a permanent home for us, and we could be separated.”
He’d forgotten how matter of fact children could be about their circumstances, forced to become that way because the future was always so questionable for children who were born into abject poverty and then suffered the loss of one or both of their parents. He’d been much the same way in his youth.
Unfortunately, he’d not found the time to truly consider the children’s circumstances, which meant, since he’d never been one to make promises he wasn’t certain he could keep, he had nothing of worth to say to the girls, at least not yet.
“Even though I realize there’s much to discuss about your future,” he finally said, earning a slight widening of the eyes from Primrose, as if she hadn’t been expecting him to address their future, “this isn’t really the moment for that because I’ve not had the time to consider the matter properly, and . . . Aunt Birdie is evidently waiting for all of you to bake cookies.” He grinned. “I’ve enjoyed many an afternoon making cookies with Aunt Birdie. Allow me to simply say that you haven’t lived until you’ve been given the very great pleasure of licking a spoon filled with the most delicious icing you’ve ever tasted.”
“Aunt Birdie puts icing on her cookies?” Primrose asked, moving an entire inch toward him as Violet and Daisy did the same.
“Oh, Aunt Birdie won’t be putting the icing on her cookies. All of you will be doing that, but only if you agree to wash up.”
The sisters exchanged looks, and then, to Ian’s surprise, little Daisy toddled forward and beamed a gap-toothed smile at him. “I want icing.” She held out her arms. “Wash up, pweez?”
Smiling at the dirty little girl with the messy red braids and not wanting to waste a prime opportunity, Ian took her hand and situated her beside the water pump. He gave the handle a few pumps, then resisted a laugh when Daisy immediately began shrieking as cold water splashed over her. Helping her rid herself of at least one layer of dirt, and then using the cloth he’d dried his hands on to attack her neck, he finished up a few minutes later, nodding at the clean and remarkably pink face looking back at him.
“Beautiful,” he exclaimed, right before Daisy suddenly threw herself at him. She planted a wet kiss against his cheek when he lifted her up, completely stealing his heart in the process.
When he turned to Primrose and Violet, he found the sisters once again watching him warily, apparently not convinced that washing was not going to leave them with a deadly cold. Setting Daisy down, he showed Primrose how to operate the pump, explaining that the water would come out slower if she didn’t pump it rapidly. Then, after telling Violet to try and get as clean as she could because Aunt Birdie would notice if she wasn’t clean, he sent the sisters a smile and headed into the house, touching his cheek where Daisy had kissed him.
“The girls decide to wash up?” Aunt Birdie asked as she walked across the kitchen, carrying a bag of flour.
Striding to her side, he took the flour from her, helped her into a chair, and set the flour on the table. After sending her a shaking of his head, which she ignored, he smiled. “Daisy’s somewhat clean, but Primrose and Violet are still a little hesitant about getting wet.”
“I imagine their father, exactly like your father, convinced them bathing is harmful to a person.”
“Curiously enough, it wasn’t their father. It was a woman hired to look after them when their father wasn’t around, a Mrs. Lyman, I believe.”
Aunt Birdie’s eyes flashed. “I hate to speak ill of a woman I’ve never met, but it seems to me Mrs. Lyman wasn’t what I’d call a loyal woman. She clearly abandoned those children when Mr. Duffy went missing.” She shook her head. “I’m afraid our world is a most troubling one at times, what with how often people forget to show kindness to those most vulnerable. I imagine it must pain God no small amount when He witnesses us ignoring those in need.”
“I imagine it does, but I also imagine He takes pleasure in watching people like you and Uncle Amos,” Ian countered. “You didn’t ignore the plight of the children, which means their future is looking much brighter.”
“Amos and I won’t be around forever, dear.” She looked up from the bag of flour she’d just opened. “Someone will need to take over for us—and that’s you, if it was in question.”
“You want me to take over the running of Glory Manor?”
“No, I want your word that you’ll see after the children when Amos and I are no longer here.”
Even though Ian had only very recently begun considering the children and their futures and had, on some level, known this conversation was coming, he wasn’t prepared for it. “You know that a bachelor isn’t exactly the best person to raise four children, don’t you?”
“Which is why I also expect you to promise me that you’ll devote a great deal of effort to finding yourself a bride.”
“You could live for years,” Ian pointed out, hearing a hint of desperation in his tone.
“Or I could be dead tomorrow,” she countered. “And if that were to come about, I’m sure I’d enjoy a more peaceful transition to the hereafter if I knew the welfare of the children was settled and that your future was settled as well.”
“I’m not currently interested in a specific woman, so a wedding probably won’t take place anytime soon.”
Aunt Birdie released a bit of a humph. “I heard you were kissing Izzie down by the pond. If you ask me, that implies you have a bit of interest in her.”
Ian shot a look to the back door, where the faces of three little girls were pressed up against the screen until they seemed to realize he was watching them. In a fit of what almost sounded like giggles, they turned and ran away. Refusing a smile because that would only have his aunt thinking up all sorts of different scenarios, he returned his attention to her.
“Contrary to the chatter of children, I was not kissing Izzie. I was trying to force the breath back into her lifeless body.”
Aunt Birdie’s eyes widened. “You saved her life?”
“I’m not certain I’d go that far because there was the chance she’d begin breathing on her own again, but . . .”
“You’re connected to her forever now, which means, at the very least, you’ll have to offer her the housekeeping position.”
&nb
sp; Ian’s brows drew together. “Your thought process, Aunt Birdie, is downright terrifying. I will admit, however, that I’m going to consider offering her employment but only because we need help around here, not because I’m connected to her for life.” He caught her eye. “However, connections aside, if I need remind you, I thought we agreed you were going to discontinue your attempts at matchmaking.”
Aunt Birdie gave a breezy wave of a hand. “You wouldn’t care to deprive an old lady of a spot of fun, would you?”
“You told me just the other day that you don’t think of yourself as elderly.”
“Shouldn’t you seek Izzie out and begin interrogating her on her housekeeper skills?”
“I wasn’t intending to interrogate her but merely ask her to tell me about her past work experience. Then, if I find that satisfactory, I’ll have her show me how she’d go about doing a few household chores.”
“I’m so relieved to learn I won’t have to go through an interrogation process. And I’m sure you’re relieved to learn that I’ve now abandoned my room and that I’m here to present myself as your next potential housekeeper.”
Turning toward the door, Ian found Izzie standing there, the sight of her leaving him feeling as if someone had punched him in the gut.
Gone was the soda paste that had been practically covering her from head to toe the past few days, revealing one of the most beautiful faces he’d ever seen, even with a bit of a lingering red rash and those hideous spectacles perched on the bridge of her nose.
His gaze drifted from her face, taking in the practical white blouse paired with a black skirt and the white apron she’d put on over the blouse. Gone were the housedresses she’d borrowed from Aunt Birdie, revealing a figure that was trim yet possessed of delightful feminine curves.
Dragging his attention away from those curves when he realized it was less than acceptable to be gawking in the first place, he settled his attention on her face again, finding her watching him closely.
Clearing his throat, he summoned up a smile. “You took a bath.”
“And discovered my rash has greatly improved in the process.” She lifted her chin. “That means I’m ready to roll up my sleeves and get right to work.” She smiled even as she reached into her apron pocket, pulling out a sheet of paper. “As you’ll see from this reference letter penned by Mr. Hatfield, head butler to the esteemed New York Waterbury family, I’m very proficient with organization, and I have . . . ah . . . a wonderful work ethic.”