by Jen Turano
“I see Buttercup’s come for another visit,” he said, smiling at Aunt Birdie, who was sitting at the kitchen table with the children, all of them involved in various stages of cutting out cookies. Izzie was standing in front of the stove, looking, for some curious reason, rather grumpy as she peered into a pot of what he was going to assume was water.
“Buttercup’s sad because she wants some apples,” Henry said. “But Aunt Birdie told me if I feed Buttercup apples, I have to wash up again, and . . .” He shuddered.
“Maybe you could feed her the apples, Ian,” Violet said, looking up from the dough rolled out in front of her. “You don’t seem to mind washin’ up.”
“That sounds like an excellent idea,” he returned, earning a shy smile from Violet in response. “I’m curious, though, why no one suggested Mrs. Delmont feed Buttercup a few treats, since I’m sure Buttercup’s been more than vocal with her begging.”
Aunt Birdie’s head shot up. She met his gaze, and then she shook her head just the slightest bit before she slid a glance to Izzie. She might have, he wasn’t exactly certain, winced. “Izzie’s waiting for the water to boil. It’s tricky business, boiling water, and she shouldn’t be distracted. Since I’m sure you agree with that, it would be best if you give Buttercup her treat.” She looked Izzie’s way again and definitely winced. “This is her second attempt, but she does seem determined to get it right this time.”
Having no idea what could have gone wrong with Izzie’s first attempt to boil water, but knowing better than to ask since Aunt Birdie was now sending him a pointed look, Ian walked across the kitchen. His eyes widened when he got a closer look at Izzie and noticed that her blouse and apron were soaking wet. Refusing a smile, he picked up the bucket of apples and headed out the door.
After giving Buttercup a few apple chunks, Ian ignored the mournful moos she immediately began to make when he told her that was all she was getting. Taking a moment to wash his hands under the water pump, he made his way back into the house, joining everyone at the kitchen table.
“Are some of these new cookie cutters?” he asked, considering the metal shapes spread over the table
Henry nodded and held up the cookie cutter he was using. “Uncle Amos just made them. It’s a chicken, and he wants us to make enough cookies so every chicken in his coop is . . .” He wrinkled his nose. “I don’t remember the word he used.”
“Represented,” Primrose told him. “Even the roosters.”
Henry pointed to his cookie. “See, that blob is supposed to be the rooster’s crown.”
Ian grinned. “Very nice.”
“Mine’s Elmer,” Violet said, showing him hers. “I’m gonna put pink icing on it and give it to Izzie ’cuz Elmer’s her chicken now.”
Glancing toward Izzie, Ian fought a laugh when she sent Violet a weak smile before she returned her attention to the pot on the stove.
“We never had sugar cookies before,” Primrose said. “But Aunt Birdie told us we could lick the bowls and have two cookies once they’re done.”
“Cookies!” Daisy bellowed, her recently clean face smeared with cookie batter, suggesting she, unlike her siblings, had already done her fair share of licking the bowl.
Remembering the wonder of having his first encounter with cookies while sitting in this very same kitchen, as well as remembering how quickly he’d come to feel a sense of safety he’d never known until he came to live at Glory Manor, Ian’s heart gave an unexpected lurch. Summoning up a smile, he picked up one of the prepared trays.
“Shall I get this into the oven so you won’t have to wait long to taste your first sugar cookies?”
With all the children agreeing that was a good idea, Ian moved to the oven as Izzie stepped out of the way. Sliding the tray into the oven, he straightened, then frowned when Izzie stepped right back in front of the oven again, staring at the pot. “Have you ever heard the expression that a watched pot never boils?”
“I can’t say that I have, but would it boil faster if I stop watching it?”
He had the sneaking suspicion her question was completely serious, which spoke volumes about her experience, or lack thereof, in the kitchen.
“Probably not, but if you were to put a lid over that pot, that would have it boiling faster.”
“Why will putting a lid on top of the pot make it boil faster?”
“Because it captures the heat.”
Her eyes widened. “Why, that’s brilliant. I would have never thought of that.” Sending him a smile that, concerning enough, seemed to steal the very breath from him, she hurried across the kitchen, returning a moment later with a lid that didn’t quite fit the pot, but one she used nevertheless. “What a clever recommendation. Should we time it now and see how long it takes for the water to boil with the lid on?”
He immediately found himself pulling out his pocket watch, a frisson of something curious shooting through him when she reached out and touched his hand with hers, bending closer to look at the dials on the watch.
“Ian, come help Violet roll out her dough,” Primrose called. “She’s havin’ trouble.”
Thankful to have a reason to press his pocket watch into Izzie’s hand and then put some distance between them as he went to sit beside Violet, he took the rolling pin Violet handed him and immediately turned his attention to rolling out cookie dough. He was soon swept up in the excitement of making the cookies with the children, their enthusiasm for such a simple activity contagious.
Ten minutes later, and after he’d taken the first tray of cookies out of the oven and put another one in, the water on the stove was boiling merrily away, something Izzie had neglected to notice because she’d gotten distracted with a bowl of icing Aunt Birdie asked her to stir.
“I believe the water is boiling.”
Abandoning the icing, Izzie consulted the pocket watch. “Ah, eleven minutes. I’ll need to add that to my notes.” She looked around. “I wonder where I left them?”
“They’re in the laundry room.”
“Which is where I need to return now that the water is boiling.”
When she went to reach for the handle, he caught hold of her hand. “You can’t pick that up without a mitt. You’ll burn yourself. And because you’ve obviously had some difficulties with the water already, allow me to take this back to the laundry room for you.”
“I can do it.”
“I’m sure you can, but since I am a gentleman, humor me and let me play the gallant.”
“You do remember I’m trying to impress you with my proficiency regarding household chores, don’t you?”
“I don’t think I’ll ever be able to forget that.”
Ignoring the way her nose was wrinkling, Ian grabbed an oven mitt, told everyone he’d be right back to fetch the next batch of cookies from the oven, picked the pot up from the stove, turned, then paused when he noticed Aunt Birdie waving his way.
“There’s no need for you to hurry back. Primrose seems to have an affinity for working in a kitchen. Because of that, I’m willing to hand over the responsibility of taking the cookies out of the oven. I imagine she’ll do a more than competent job with that task.”
“She’s only nine,” Ian pointed out, earning a glare from Primrose in the process.
“I’ve been using a stove since I was six.”
Ian inclined his head, realizing that the child now glaring his way had obviously been given responsibilities from a very young age, quite like he’d been given before he came to Glory Manor. “My apologies, Primrose. I didn’t mean to insult you.”
For a second, she continued glaring at him, but then she inclined her head in return. “I know how to cook and take a tray from the oven.”
Aunt Birdie clapped her hands. “How delightful, my dear. You have no idea how I’ve longed to have someone to work with in the kitchen. I imagine you and I are going to have all sorts of fun trying out new recipes.” She smiled at Primrose’s siblings. “And all of you are going to be the tasters of th
ose recipes.”
Leaving the children asking Aunt Birdie what recipes they should have Primrose try first, Ian fell into step beside Izzie, being careful not to spill the hot water as they walked.
“Your aunt has a way with managing children,” Izzie said.
“That she does, but speaking of Aunt Birdie’s managing ways, I should probably mention that she might try her hand at managing you as well.”
“Since I’m clearly in need of direction with managing this house, I’ll welcome her managing ways.”
Ian winced. “I wasn’t referring to her trying to help you manage the house.”
Izzie stepped into the laundry room. “What were you referring to, then?”
Taking a second to set the pot on top of a scarred table, Ian turned and found Izzie directly behind him. She was tilting her head and considering him closely through the lenses of her hideous spectacles.
“How long have you been wearing spectacles?” he asked instead of answering her question.
“For what feels like forever,” she said, pushing the spectacles in question back up her nose. “But returning to your aunt—how might she try to manage me?”
“It’s not so much managing you as manipulating you,” he admitted, wincing when she blinked somewhat owlishly back at him.
“Aunt Birdie hasn’t struck me as the manipulating sort,” she said slowly. “But how do you think she’ll try and do that?”
“I imagine she’ll begin by pointing out what she feels are my greatest strengths, such as loyalty or charm or, well, whatever else she decides will impress you. She’ll then try to ferret out what your feelings for me might be, and then . . .”
He stopped speaking when Izzie suddenly began to laugh.
“This is not an amusing matter” was all he could think to say as she took off her spectacles, swiping her eyes with her sleeve.
She shoved the spectacles back up the bridge of her nose, gave a last hiccup of amusement, then caught his eye. “This doesn’t sound like manipulation to me. It sounds like matchmaking.”
“Which, in my humble opinion, is worse than manipulation.”
She gave another hiccup of amusement.
“It’s not funny.” He blew out a breath. “Aunt Birdie wants to see me happily married before she leaves this earth. And I’m afraid that with Uncle Amos’s declining state of health as of late, it’s made her somewhat . . . determined.”
“How delightful.”
Of anything he’d been expecting Izzie to say, How delightful hadn’t crossed his mind. “She’s an incredibly wily woman when she sets her mind to it, and I want you to be prepared for a direct attack from her, especially if I’m in Pittsburgh. She’s already tried to convince me that the encounter you and I had by the pond, the one where I tried to assist you with breathing, has left us connected for life in some curious manner.”
Izzie waved that aside. “There’s no need for you to worry about me even if Aunt Birdie has her heart set on a bit of matchmaking. Marriage is not high on my list of priorities these days, so I assure you, I’ll not set my cap for you, no matter how determined she turns.”
“Is that because of Mr. Delmont?”
“Who?”
“Your husband?”
For a second, Izzie looked rather confused, but then, to his confusion, she mumbled something that sounded like “I knew that was going to be an issue” before she gave an airy wave of her hand. “Ah yes, quite right, Mr. Delmont.” A small smile played around the corners of her mouth. “All I’m comfortable saying about him is this: Have you ever met a housekeeper who went by the title of Miss?”
“Is that an actual question or some type of puzzle?”
“You seem to be an intelligent man, Mr. MacKenzie. I’m certain you’ll figure it out eventually.”
Ian considered her for a moment. “Are you implying there is no Mr. Delmont?”
She considered him right back before she shrugged. “I’ll leave that for you to determine, but returning to the laundry situation, if you’ve forgotten, I’m attempting to impress you, so . . . to the washing machine.”
Giving his arm a surprising pat, she turned on her heel and walked away, leaving him feeling oddly relieved that she might never have been married, but also disgruntled since she’d blithely admitted she wouldn’t be tempted to set her cap for him.
Chapter 15
As Izzie considered her notes, Ian couldn’t seem to tear his gaze from her or banish the disgruntlement that was still chugging through his veins.
He was considered one of the most eligible bachelors in Pittsburgh, and yet Izzie didn’t seem remotely interested in him. In fact, she apparently found the idea of Aunt Birdie playing matchmaker rather amusing.
She had to have concluded that he was a man of some means, and he knew she found him somewhat attractive since she’d said, right after making his acquaintance, that she wouldn’t imagine he needed to advertise for a bride. She also knew they shared an interest in reading, which he found to be quite compelling. But even with all that, she didn’t seem overly impressed with him.
That right there explained exactly why he was standing perfectly still in the laundry room, staring at her in what was clearly a mesmerized state.
From the time he’d begun amassing a fortune, women had shown a great deal of interest in him. Those women were from all walks of life—some belonging to the wealthiest families in Pittsburgh and some not possessing much money at all. Their interest had turned him cynical over the years, especially when he’d finally realized that most of the women were more interested in his fortune than the man who’d made it.
Izzie Delmont apparently wasn’t interested in him at all, or she was, but only as a potential employer, which meant . . .
“I still have no idea what all those cranks and handles do.”
Blinking out of his thoughts, Ian found that while he’d been pondering ideas best left unpondered, Izzie had moved from her notes and was now contemplating the washing machine.
“Here, I’ll show you,” he said, forcing aside any disgruntlement he was still feeling because he certainly didn’t want her to decide he was a churlish sort, although why he didn’t want her to come to that conclusion was beyond him.
Taking a moment to explain how the cylinders worked and how a person had to reach into the tub and pull out a piece of laundry before they could begin the wringing process, something he thought would be self-explanatory but turned out to be anything but, he stepped aside.
“So, now you’re ready to begin wringing, and then after the clothing has been wrung out—”
“We’ll be done with the laundry for the day?”
His brows drew together. “No. We’ll only be halfway done. It has to be hung out to dry, and then, now don’t faint dead away, but it’ll need to be ironed.”
“Ironed?”
“To get the wrinkles out.”
“How, pray tell, does one go about ironing out wrinkles?”
“One usually uses an iron, an object that’s triangular and is heated by placing it on top of the stove.”
Izzie’s face fell. “I have to use the stove again?”
Suddenly remembering he’d decided before the boiling water debacle that he was not going to hire Izzie to manage Glory Manor because she truly was not experienced enough to take on the role, he opened his mouth, but then closed it almost immediately when she suddenly squared her shoulders and nodded.
“I’m certain ironing must be easier than boiling water, so no need to fret I won’t be able to handle the job.”
Seeing little point in abandoning their lesson now, especially when faced with a woman who clearly was beginning to realize she was out of her depth and yet had not given up, Ian smiled. “How about we concentrate on the wringer right now? We won’t need to use the iron until later today, after all of these clothes are dry.”
She shoved a hand in her apron pocket, pulled out what looked to be a hairpin, pushed back a strand of hair that had escap
ed what he only then noticed seemed to be a good twenty pins, and stuck the new pin into her hair, adding it to the rest. He refused to laugh when another curl immediately sprang free, falling in front of her face—a curl she ignored.
“I’m definitely never taking clean clothes for granted again,” he thought he heard her say as she reached into the washing machine and retrieved one of his shirts.
“What was that?”
“Nothing. I’m simply all aflutter with anticipation over learning what using the wringer entails.”
“You don’t look all aflutter. You look more along the lines of astonished, probably due to the notion you had no idea how much work was involved to produce clean laundry.”
“I never look astonished. My mother always said astonishment is unbecoming in a . . .” She stopped talking, shook out the shirt she was holding, then thrust it his way. “Perhaps you should demonstrate first before I give it a try.”
Taking the shirt from her, he moved to the wringer, stuck the collar of the shirt into the wringer, then turned the crank that was attached to cylinders, pulling the shirt through those cylinders and squeezing the water from it as it pulled. Holding the shirt up once it made it through the wringer, Ian smiled. “See? It’s not nearly as wet.” He placed it in an empty basket, then nodded to her. “You try.”
Reaching into the tub, Izzie tugged another shirt out, stuck a piece of it into the wringer, then gave the crank a few turns. She lifted her head and smiled. “Would you look at that. I’m wringing.”
“You’ve really never done laundry before, have you?”
“Will you think poorly of me if I admit I may not have what anyone could consider practical experience?”
Ian tilted his head. “Why would you apply for a position you’re clearly not qualified for?”
She gave the wringer another crank. “I thought Glory Manor, given the name, was a country estate, not a farm. I assure you, I’m more than qualified to manage staff on a country estate.”
“How can you manage the task of making certain laundry is completed to satisfaction if you have no idea how to perform that task yourself?”