Love on Assignment

by Cara Lynn James

  Charlotte took a breath and entered the foyer behind the children. She jumped as an elderly woman bustled toward her, a snowman come to life—three balls sitting atop each other. The sash of her starched apron pulled tight at her expansive waist right below a round, ample bosom. Above, a circular face as white as pastry flour grinned broadly with blue button eyes and an oval mouth full of crooked teeth. Her head was crowned with an off-center silver-white bun tucked beneath a hair net and a small cap that resembled a doily with streamers trailing from the back. Promptly, the woman sent the children off to wash up.

  “I’m Mrs. Finnegan just back from my sister’s funeral, God rest her soul. And I’d wager you’re Charlotte Hale, new governess to my dear little ones.” Her brogue sounded musical and friendly.

  Encouraged, Charlotte smiled. “Yes, I am. I’m pleased to meet you.”

  “Well, I’m delighted to meet you as well. I can certainly use help with the rascals. I’m not old by any means, but I’m not a spring chicken, either. I’ve been watching over them while their grandmother convalesces. Then my dearest sister passed on, God rest her soul.”

  “Who has been watching over the children in your absence?” Charlotte asked.

  “Simone, Mrs. Wilmont’s maid, helped out with Ruthie and Tim while I was gone. And thank the good Lord she was willing. It’s a fine job she did, but they need their own governess, not someone to fill in.”

  Mrs. Finnegan looked close to seventy, but she was as spry as a forty-year-old. And as chatty as a little girl.

  “I wasn’t planning on staying away, but families need a lot of looking after. My sister Minnie left six good and two good-for-nothing children. ’Tis well they’re all grown and on their own, but still very sad for them. And for me.”

  “I’m sorry for your loss.”

  “Thank you, dearie. Now you’re probably looking for your room key. Come with me.”

  She followed Mrs. Finnegan to the children’s wing on the second floor. Her key ring jangled at her waist. They strode into a cheerful playroom—bookshelves and toy chests resting against bright yellow walls, and an elaborate train set in the middle of the floor.

  “This is your room, Miss Hale, right next to Ruthie’s and across the playroom from Tim’s. You’ll take all your meals with the children up here.” Mrs. Finnegan pointed to a small table in the corner of the playroom. “Sometimes they eat with their father in the dining room. Then you’ll come down to the servants’ hall off the kitchen unless you’re invited to stay with them. It’s fine food they serve in this house, even to the staff.”

  Charlotte nodded as she entered the bedroom she’d call her own for the next week or two. “This is lovely.”

  A breeze stirred the muslin curtains in the small, sunny chamber facing the sea. She inhaled the salty air laden with humidity. An oak bureau with a mirror, a washstand, a small wardrobe, and a white iron bedstead provided everything she needed. A rag rug gave a burst of color to the floor while an easy chair by the window added comfort. Charlotte opened her valise and hung one frock and three skirts in the wardrobe.

  “Here’s the key to the drawers. Always keep them locked. We’ve no thieves in this household, but it’s always better to be safe than sorry. That’s what I always say.” Mrs. Finnegan chugged toward the door. “I’ll be back in two shakes with your uniforms.”

  “Uniforms? I assumed I’d wear my own clothes.”

  “Then you weren’t counting on Mrs. Wilmont. She insists everyone wear uniforms.” Mrs. Finnegan hesitated. “But maybe with you being a governess she’ll allow a plain white shirtwaist and black skirt. As long as you don’t look like a fine society lady, she probably won’t object too loudly. But just in case she makes a fuss, I’ll get the uniforms.”

  Charlotte nodded and looked to the window, watching wave after wave wash up on shore. Why did wearing a uniform make her feel more like an imposter than ever? Dragging her gaze from the view, she turned to finish unpacking her valise, placing clothes she would apparently not need, in the drawers.

  The housekeeper returned with an armful of light blue uniforms for morning and black ones for the afternoon and doily caps with streamers. “Here you go, dearie.”

  She ran her fingers over the rough stitching of the doily cap and placed the pile of clothing on the bed. She’d never wear such an ugly thing. Would they notice?

  “Thank you. As soon as I change my clothes I’d like to meet with the children.”

  “I sent them to the kitchen for a snack. You will find them there.”

  Soon after, Charlotte came across the youngsters munching cookies in the kitchen. It was tucked away in the basement so the cooking odors and heat from the ranges would be confined. Dressed as a governess in a black uniform dress with white collar and cuffs, Charlotte grinned with feigned confidence.

  “Good afternoon, children. Your father said you’d show me around the house. Would one of you like to lead the way after you finish your cookies?”

  “I shall.” Ruthie wiped her hands on a linen napkin and put her plate into the sink. “I’m the only one who knows where everything is kept.”

  “Shall we start right here in the kitchen?” Charlotte glanced around the enormous room that boasted two stoves, two large iceboxes, a pie safe, and food preparation tables. Countless pans with shiny copper bottoms hung from a ceiling rack. She glimpsed the chef and kitchen maids retrieving items from the pantry.

  Now was the perfect time to begin her investigation. Though she didn’t expect to find anything of significance in the kitchen, it would be the perfect setup to explore the entirety of the cottage.

  “I’m ready to begin.” Ruthie kept up a running stream of conversation to the annoyance of her brother who tried to chime in without success. The young girl gave a complete tour of the area, spouting far more information than Charlotte would ever need. With Ruthie in charge and obviously enjoying the attention, the tour proceeded slowly, which was fine by Charlotte.

  She followed Ruthie through the first floor rooms, peeking into every nook and cranny. Obviously bored, Tim ran ahead and hid, attempting to startle them in each new room. They passed marble fireplaces, antique French furniture, and enormous gilt-framed mirrors that startled Charlotte each time she caught a glimpse of her prim reflection. A mouth seamed shut, a frown at her brow—she certainly looked tense. She tried to relax, but she couldn’t pretend composure when her nerves sizzled. They toured a morning room, drawing room, game room, library, back parlor, and dining room.

  Professor Wilmont saluted the three of them with a wave as they trooped by his study.

  “I’m showing Miss Hale around, Papa.”

  “Me too,” Tim chimed in.

  Daniel looked over a stack of papers. “Thank you, children. I’d come along, but I have tests to correct.”

  Ruthie’s mouth drooped. “That’s all right, Papa. I know you’re busy.”

  But she quickly brightened as she gave Charlotte a tour of the second floor bedrooms.

  “Summerhill has twenty-two rooms,” Ruthie said proudly. “Would you like to see all of them?”

  Charlotte laughed. “Goodness, no. That would take all day. Tell me, why do you need such an enormous house?”

  Ruthie shrugged. “I don’t know, but I believe it’s Grandmother’s idea to keep Summerhill. And it’s convenient for Papa to walk to his classes. He only needs his bedroom and office, but Grandmother wants a lot of room to entertain her friends when she’s not sick.”

  They worked their way down the hall, stopping by several of Ruthie’s favorite guest bedrooms, now empty. “When Grandmother is well we have a house full of guests—but not very many this summer. Let’s go to the playroom.” At the far end of the hallway, Ruthie turned into the children’s room. She pointed out every game, book, and toy in the spacious area. “Why don’t we play dominoes?” For the next hour Ruthie beat Charlotte at the game, and when they finally arose, Ruthie had a satisfied look on her face.

  They returned to the
hallway, and Charlotte glanced up at a steep, narrow staircase leading to the third floor. “Is there anything up there besides the attic?”

  “The servants’ quarters.” Tim answered. “The attic is on one side and the servants’ rooms are on the other.”

  “What do you think about exploring the attic?” Excitement spun through Charlotte’s chest. The attic was the perfect spot to unearth hidden letters or some other hidden evidence of Daniel Wilmont’s shadows.

  “The attic? I don’t think so.” Ruthie shuddered.

  “No? And why is that?” An attic conjured up images of brass-bound trunks and boxes, a real treasure trove of rags and riches. Who knew what might be buried under old blankets and out-of-date clothing. Some information pertinent to her investigation might lurk just a short distance away. Or was she allowing her active imagination to take over?

  “It’s just a lot of junk.” Ruthie scrunched up her nose. “And it’s probably dusty.”

  “Perhaps we could clean it up a bit.”

  The girl mulled it over and then gave a vigorous nod. “We could, but that sounds awfully boring.”

  “Shall we go up? We might find some toys up there. Let’s take a good look.”

  Ruthie shrugged.

  “I think I’ll play with my trains,” Tim said, returning to the playroom.

  Ruthie tromped up the stairs and shoved open the squeaky door to the left of the stairs. Charlotte glanced to the right and spotted a green baize door closing off the servants’ quarters. The male servants would occupy part of the area, the female help the other, as they did in most other homes. Charlotte followed Ruthie into the attic. Except for light filtering through a few windows, the space lay shrouded in dimness. Charlotte waited for her eyes to adjust as Ruthie stepped aside.

  “You go first.” Ruthie gave a sly grin.

  “Would you mind fetching a light?” Charlotte asked.

  A few minutes later Ruthie returned with a flickering oil lamp. But even with its glow, most of the area still hung in the shadows. Charlotte hesitated. Would the floorboards splinter and crack, then plunge her to her death? Her heart sputtered. No, of course not. This floor was rock solid. She took a deep breath, mustered her courage, and stepped into the gloom. Hand shaking, she shuffled toward the center of the room where she could better view the entire area.

  Sagging sofas and rickety end tables littered the cavern. Probably the decrepit chair in Professor Wilmont’s study would end up in this furniture graveyard. It ought to be here already. A few steamer trunks resting against the opposite wall might hold some promise. It could hide old letters of a scandalous nature or family secrets from the past.

  “My goodness. You’re right, this place is dusty. It needs cleaning out. Badly.” Charlotte ventured forward, tripping over a footstool. Off balance, she slammed to the floor, smashing her side against the corner of a table. Yelping with pain, she lay still, breathing hard as tears stung the back of her eyes.

  “Are you all right?” Ruthie ran in from the doorway.

  “No, but I will be in a moment,” Charlotte muttered.

  She waited until the searing pain subsided in her shoulder and her breathing steadied before hoisting herself to her feet. Gingerly she plodded on until she reached an old wooden trunk. Bending down, she dusted off the lid and lifted it slowly. Creak. A musty odor assailed her nostrils. Inside, a face, dead white and porcelain, stared up at her with wide-open crystal blue eyes.

  Her hands covered her mouth in horror. Every ounce of bravery drained from her body. Pressing her hands to her heart, she tried to calm the wild beat, but an eternity passed before its rhythm slowed to normal. Goodness, what was wrong with her? She was as jumpy as a cat with a dog about.

  She stared at an old doll, no doubt discarded by a child of another generation. It lay prone on its coffin of rich satin that looked like the skirt of an old ball gown. Slowly she slid her fingers into the trunk, touching layer upon layer of woolen blankets and cotton quilts. Only fabric brushed her hand. Charlotte breathed deeply to steady her shredded nerves.

  “It’s too old to play with,” Ruthie said.

  “What are you looking for?” A deep voice caught her off guard.

  Startled, Charlotte jumped up. More pain engulfed her. Professor Wilmont loomed in the doorway, filling the space. His brows drew together in puzzlement. Should she run right past him, down the stairs, and out the front door?

  She gulped and gave a weak smile.

  “I saw Ruthie run by with a lamp, and I wondered what she was up to.”

  Ruthie giggled. “Miss Hale wants to tidy up. She thinks the attic is one horrid mess. And I agree.”

  “So now you’ve seen our messy attic. I suppose you’ve noticed we seldom throw anything out.” He looked rueful but not in the least bit sorry.

  That should increase the odds of her discovering something pertinent to her investigation. Charlotte smiled. “Perhaps the children and I could give it a good cleaning out.”

  A grin spread across Professor Wilmont’s face. “But this is where I keep my treasures.”

  His steady gaze melted Charlotte’s legs to jelly. He’d caught her in the act of spying, but thankfully he didn’t realize it. “Most of this stuff should be thrown in the trash or given to the poor,” she said. No, the destitute.

  The professor threw back his head and chuckled. “It’s too big a job to tackle alone. Anyway, I like my things and I don’t want to part with any of them just yet. Don’t you keep souvenirs and memorabilia?”

  Charlotte nodded. “Well naturally I do, but I strive to stay organized as well. I’d enjoy arranging your treasures. I wouldn’t mind at all.”

  Professor Wilmont ran his hand through his blond hair and pulled a frown. “All my paraphernalia could use a heavy dose of organization, but please leave it to Mrs. Finnegan and the maids. Your only job is to watch the children.”

  Hands on her hips, Ruthie grinned at her father. “Now Papa, you know I’m quite grown up. Maybe Tim is an unruly child, but I’m not.”

  The professor laughed. “I beg your pardon, young miss. I came upstairs to join the house tour, but it looks like you’re finished. Shall we go downstairs?”

  “Yes, sir.” Charlotte gritted her teeth as her shoulder continued to throb.

  “Is something the matter, Miss Hale?” he asked as they headed to the hallway.

  She sighed. “I stumbled and fell and wrenched my shoulder. But I’m better now, sir, at least slightly better.”

  “Shall I send for the doctor?”

  Charlotte shook her head, surprised by his concern. “That’s not necessary. But thank you all the same.”

  “Might I pray for you?” he suggested.

  Pray? Before she could decline, the professor and Ruthie grabbed her hands and bowed their heads. Amazed that someone would think to pray over something as inconsequential as a hurting shoulder, Charlotte closed her eyes and listened to words that were unfamiliar but slowly brought back vague memories of the few times she’d attended worship services as a child. Her parents had never been consistent churchgoers and neither was her aunt.

  “Heavenly Father, we love You and praise Your holy name. I ask You to please use Your awesome power to quickly heal Miss Hale’s shoulder and make it good as new.”

  For what seemed like several minutes, Professor Wilmont spoke to God like He was a friend. His words blended in a soothing cadence that brought a strange rush of peace. Charlotte basked in the warmth, letting her mind focus on God as she’d seldom done before. Was she missing something that the Wilmonts possessed? Charlotte blinked to clear away her odd thoughts, then listened to Ruthie add a prayer of her own.

  “Dear Lord, please make my new governess feel better so she can help my family and play with my brother and me.”

  Tears welled up behind Charlotte’s eyes. What was going on? Maybe the strain of deceiving this family was already taking its toll. Get a grip on yourself, Charlotte. You’re a professional journalist—almost—d
oing a job. Don’t let the pressure throw you off balance.

  Silence hung in the air. Her eyes opened like blinds at half-mast. Professor Wilmont and Ruthie looked nearly in a trance and still grasped her hands. They must be silently praying. Or maybe she was supposed to follow their lead and pray aloud. Her hands perspired. What could she say that would end this session?

  “Thank you, Almighty God,” she mumbled. She didn’t think He’d look down from His heavenly perch and miraculously heal her shoulder, but anything was worth a try.

  Professor Wilmont and Ruthie opened their eyes and dropped their hands. Charlotte breathed easier. “Well, thank you. I’m sure that will help.”

  What if he took this opportunity to ask about her relationship with the Lord? As they descended the stairs, she chattered about the weather, the architectural features of the house, anything to keep his mind off of her spiritual condition. When she ran out of topics, she said, “Actually, my shoulder feels ever so much better. It must be the prayer.” Or perhaps not. But the pain had diminished, for whatever reason.

  “Let’s go down to the kitchen. I’d like an apple before dinner,” Ruthie said.

  “I think I’ll have one as well. How about you, Miss Hale?” the professor asked.

  “No, thank you,” Charlotte said as she followed the Wilmonts down to the basement kitchen again. An apple would settle like a cannon ball in the pit of her stomach.

  A short, rotund man in a tall toque and immaculate white apron staggered about the room and with grand flair sprawled onto a hard, ladder-back chair. The chef’s Gallic face paled, and his features pulled downward like the droop of his luxuriant black mustache. Several servants hovered in the doorway, watching the drama unfold. “Ah, Mr. Wilmont. My supper for the staff was marvelous and up to my usual standards. But now I fear I’ve taken ill.” He gulped air as his body went limp. “Call for the doctor, Simone. What shall I do about the family’s dinner?” He groaned and rolled his head from side to side and cradled his stomach and chest with soft, manicured hands.