by Jen Turano
Isadora frowned. “Were you not given an opportunity to pack up your belongings before you came to Glory Manor?”
Primrose returned the frown. “We didn’t have any belongings that the woman from the orphanage thought were . . . I think she said worthy of being packed. We came here with just the clothes we was wearing.”
“You didn’t bring anything with you?”
Primrose shrugged. “There wasn’t much we would have wanted to bring. Pa got rid of Mama’s things after she died, and it wasn’t like any of us had any treasures that were real important.” She pushed aside a strand of red hair that had escaped a messy braid. “But Reverend Davis, he’s the minister in town, sent a basket of clothes he said was ours to keep, and that’s what we’ve been wearing this past week.”
Violet rubbed the small dress she was holding against her face. “This . . . was the . . . most bea . . . ut . . . iful dress I ever seen.” Her eyes brimmed with tears as she held the dress out for Isadora to see. “It’s purple, just like violets are purple.” She drew in a ragged breath. “Mama named me Violet because they was one of her favorite flowers.” With that, she hugged the ruined dress to her tiny frame and released another sob.
The sight of Violet in such obvious distress sent a wave of something peculiar crashing over Isadora as an unpleasant realization took that moment to settle in her very soul.
She’d always considered herself a sophisticated lady, educated by numerous governesses over the years, and then sent to a prestigious school for young ladies. She’d traveled around the world and spoke more than one language, but her sophistication was nothing but a ruse because, clearly, the world she thought she knew so well was nothing like the world the children standing right beside her inhabited.
She’d been sheltered and catered to her entire life and had certainly never wanted for anything, not that she’d taken even a moment to be grateful for the luxurious and pampered life she’d led.
Her slightest desires were always met by the army of paid employees her family kept at their disposal, paid to indulge Isadora’s slightest whim, no matter what it was or the inconvenience it might cause the Delafield staff.
Her vast collections of the latest fashions were displayed in special rooms in the many houses her family owned. She’d always assumed that numerous changes of clothing a day were normal, but now, when faced with four children who were evidently brokenhearted that their hand-me-down clothing had been all but destroyed by goats, she was quickly beginning to realize that the world she thought was normal was nothing of the sort.
It was becoming obvious that the world was not a kind place for many of its inhabitants and had certainly not been kind to the children standing before her.
That idea left her reeling and caused the blinders she’d apparently been wearing for her entire life to fall.
Straightening, she reached out and took the ruined dress from Violet, determined to make matters right with the Duffy children.
“I need to speak with Aunt Birdie, children. I’ll be back directly.”
“Do you want us to clean up this mess out here?” Primrose asked.
Isadora glanced around the yard and squared her shoulders. “It’s my fault the laundry got ruined, Primrose. I’ll clean up the mess after I speak with Aunt Birdie, but if you’d be so kind as to make sure the goats don’t eat more laundry while I’m gone, I’d appreciate it.”
“We can do that,” Henry said, charging with Daisy through what little laundry was left hanging, a goat giving chase a second later, which had Henry and Daisy letting out shrieks as they scattered in opposite directions.
“You couldn’t have known the goats would get out,” Primrose said quietly, moving to take Violet’s hand before she caught Isadora’s eye.
“True, but I promised Ian I’d look after all of you, and I’ve done an abysmal job. Do know that I intend to do much better from this point forward.”
Pretending she didn’t see the clear skepticism in Primrose’s eyes, Isadora turned on her heel and headed for the farmhouse.
Edging past Buttercup, Isadora slipped through the screen door, turning to look through the screen when Buttercup emitted a mournful moo. “You can’t come inside.”
Another moo was Buttercup’s response to that.
A smile tugged at Isadora’s lips. “How about if I promise to bring you some apples after I speak with Aunt Birdie?”
To Isadora’s surprise, Buttercup’s tail began to swish back and forth, and taking that as a sign the cow’s obviously tender feelings were no longer hurt, Isadora turned and stepped farther into the kitchen.
Her gaze immediately settled on Aunt Birdie, who was leaning on a cane directly in front of the oven, her forehead furrowed as she surveyed the mess Isadora had left behind when she’d gone to attend to the goat situation.
“I’m sure you’ve got a few questions about how all that happened” was all Isadora could think to say.
When she swiveled around, Aunt Birdie’s lips, surprisingly, curved into a smile. “No truer words were ever spoken, child, but . . .” She gestured to Isadora. “Why are you covered in dirt?”
Isadora set Violet’s ruined dress on the kitchen table. “There was an unfortunate incident with the goats. And while I’d dearly love to say I handled it, I’m afraid the goats got the better of me, and we now have laundry strewn about the yard—at least the parts of the laundry the goats haven’t eaten yet.”
“What in the world were the goats doing running around the yard?”
“Hank seems to believe Uncle Amos forgot to shut the gate before he left to go fishing.”
Aunt Birdie frowned. “That does seem to be occurring often of late, but it’s quite unlike Amos to be so careless, even with his failing memory. He’s always taken great pride in caring for his animals.”
“The goats don’t seem to have come to any harm, if that makes you feel better,” Isadora began. “Although I wouldn’t be surprised if they came down with stomachaches since laundry can hardly be good for a goat’s digestion.”
Aunt Birdie waved that aside before she slowly walked over to join Isadora at the table. After leaning her cane against the table, and then nodding to an adjoining chair, she sat down, waited for Isadora to do the same, then smiled. “Goats rarely suffer from stomach ailments. They’ve even been known to eat tin at times. But what happened to the biscuits?”
Isadora rubbed a hand over her face. “I’m afraid I was careless with watching the oven, and before I knew it, they were on fire.” She glanced to the biscuits and fought a wince. “But not to worry. After I finish cleaning up the mess in the yard, I’m determined to set the kitchen to rights, and then I’ll whip up a new batch of biscuits.”
With her eyes widening in what appeared to be horror, Aunt Birdie glanced to the oven, then turned back to Isadora, reaching out to place a hand on Isadora’s arm. “My dear, it’s always been my belief that God gives all of us certain gifts. You, I’m confident in saying, have not been given a gift as pertains to anything involving a stove. And with that said, and because I do think you may have promised Ian you’ll keep the house from burning to the ground, we should agree that cooking, baking, and even boiling water should be left to me.”
Swallowing the argument that was on the very tip of her tongue because she knew with every essence of her being that Aunt Birdie had just voiced a suggestion that could very well keep the house from being burned to a crisp like the biscuits, Isadora fished out the list Ian had penned for her from her apron pocket. Laying it on the table, she drew her finger down the list and shook her head. “Ian’s hardly likely to agree to keep me on permanently when he discovers I’m unable to complete five of the twenty or so chores he left for me to finish. Those five chores, I’m sad to say, all involve cooking, baking, boiling water, and”—she lifted her head—“I’m not sure what he meant by putting up jam, but I’m going to assume that has something to do with the kitchen.”
She wasn’t certain, but Isadora though
t Aunt Birdie might have shuddered before she gave Isadora’s arm a good pat.
“Putting up jam, which involves boiling berries, straining them, and cooking them, while also boiling jars over the stove before putting the jam into them, is not going to be an ideal task for you to try and accomplish,” Aunt Birdie said. “As I mentioned, I believe God gives all His children certain gifts. And while I don’t think your gift is in the kitchen, I’m sure you’re possessed of a gift, most likely several. All that’s left for you to do now is determine what that gift, or gifts, may be.”
Isadora tried to think of something she was overly proficient with, but nothing of consequence sprang to mind, at least nothing that could be considered important, such as competently feeding a family with edible food.
Her only skills as far as she knew were being able to speak on topics that gentlemen found interesting, such as the weather, maintaining perfect posture, and painting charming pictures, although she wasn’t actually certain she was good at painting, no matter that everyone always claimed she possessed clear talent.
Unwilling to admit to Aunt Birdie that she couldn’t think of a single gift God might have bestowed on her, not that she’d ever really contemplated the subject of God and His gifts before, preferring to keep thoughts of God to the hours she spent in church on Sundays, and the occasional Wednesday evening service, Isadora summoned up a smile.
“What gifts do you believe God has given to you?” she finally settled on asking.
Aunt Birdie returned the smile. “I’m not certain I’d call this a gift, more along the lines of a life purpose, but I was given the opportunity to raise Ian and provide him with the education he needed to achieve the success he so longed for.” Her eyes crinkled at the corners. “I’m sure if God had not put Ian in my path, or whispered in my ear that day so long ago that I needed to give him a proper home, he’d not be where he is today. He’d be eking out a living working in the mills instead of—” She suddenly stopped talking, sent Isadora a look that had guilt written all over it, then picked up the list Isadora had left on the table and began taking an unusually marked interest in it.
“Instead of what?” Isadora pressed.
Aunt Birdie lifted her head. “Has Ian mentioned anything at all to you about what he does?”
“He said he was a man of business, but he didn’t elaborate.”
“I can’t claim I’m surprised.” Aunt Birdie suddenly began considering Isadora with a rather interesting look in her eyes. “I do find it encouraging that he’d admit he’s a businessman to you, even with him not elaborating. He’s always reluctant to discuss matters of business with anyone outside of his Pittsburgh associates or social circle. That he’d broach the matter with you, well, I certainly see that as progress.”
A tingle of apprehension began creeping up Isadora’s spine. “Ian’s involved with Pittsburgh society?”
“I’m afraid so, even though I’ve been trying to convince him that gaining entrance to that society, and then continually climbing the proverbial society ladder until he reaches the very top, should not be his life’s ambition.”
“His life’s ambition is to reach the top of Pittsburgh’s social ladder?”
“It is.”
Isadora tilted her head. “Why would he then warn me that you may have matchmaking on your mind, that matchmaking certain to fail because he obviously wants to marry a society lady to improve his social standing?”
Aunt Birdie blinked. “He told you I have matchmaking on my mind that he believes involves you?”
With a nod, Isadora smiled. “He did, but don’t worry that I’ve set my cap for him or am disappointed that I don’t possess lofty enough connections for him to consider me a suitable candidate for marriage. The last thing I want is a husband.”
“Is that because of something that happened with Mr. Delmont?”
Isadora felt heat settle into her cheeks. She’d never been a lady comfortable with spreading false tales, not that she’d ever had a reason to since she’d always been one to follow the rules. Now, however, the tales she’d woven about her identity were becoming more and more difficult to keep, but she wasn’t comfortable with lying to the woman sitting beside her.
Aunt Birdie was obviously a strong woman, having lived her life on a farm. But she was also a compassionate woman and had taken children into her home because they’d had nowhere else to go.
That meant she was a woman who demanded respect, and she was a woman who demanded the truth, if only in part.
“I’m afraid there isn’t a Mr. Delmont.”
Aunt Birdie sat back in the chair and pinned Isadora with a stern eye. “So you are here under false pretenses, aren’t you?”
“Are you going to send me packing if I admit that I am? Although I must tell you that I only assumed the title of missus because no one will hire an unmarried lady in any position except for the lowest of maids.”
Aunt Birdie pursed her lips and stared at Isadora for an uncomfortable moment before she suddenly nodded. “A logical explanation, to be sure. I might have done the same if I’d been forced to seek out employment in my youth.”
“So you’re not going to ask me to leave?”
“Not today, but know that I’m well aware there’s something curious about you. However, having said that, I don’t get the impression you’re a malicious sort. You’re also a hard worker—some might even say an overly enthusiastic one—but you somehow managed to convince Ian you were worth hiring, so for now, you may stay.”
“What if I told you Ian only hired me because I presented him with a business proposition he couldn’t refuse? And by that, I mean I agreed to work for the next two weeks without drawing a wage.”
Aunt Birdie’s mouth made an O of surprise. “Good heavens, child, you understand him.”
“You’re obviously reading far too much into the proposition I broached to Ian. I don’t understand him at all.”
“Nonsense. You knew he wouldn’t be able to refuse an offer where he’s getting a housekeeper, even a rather questionable one, for such a bargain.” Aunt Birdie’s gaze sharpened on Isadora. “No one has ever understood my Ian, but that you do, and in such a short period of time . . . well, it’s telling.”
“Telling?”
“You’ve obviously been sent here for a reason, and that reason must have something to do with Ian.”
Isadora’s mind went curiously blank for all of a second until alarm bells suddenly began clanging in her head.
Ian had warned her that his aunt was wily and intent on matchmaking, but Isadora certainly hadn’t expected the tactic Aunt Birdie seemed to be using now.
“As I mentioned before, I’m not looking for a husband,” she said slowly.
Aunt Birdie arched a brow. “Perhaps not, but if I’m right about this, and I do believe I am, a higher power is at play here, my dear.”
“You think God led me here?”
“But of course, and He might very well have done so to help you discover something about yourself or to discover your true purpose in life, which might involve my Ian.”
Uncomfortable with the direction the conversation seemed to be heading because she was not used to discussing matters of God and men over the kitchen table, Isadora picked up Violet’s dress and held it up. “I think my only purpose right now is to figure out if this can be salvaged.”
“A clever way to change the subject, my dear. But do know that we’ll continue this discussion after you and I become better acquainted.” Aunt Birdie sat back in the chair. “Once that happens, I expect you to disclose the secrets you’re obviously keeping, but I won’t press you just yet.”
“How . . . reassuring.”
“Indeed. Now, with that settled, let me see the worst of that dress.”
Spreading the dress out on the table, Isadora sighed when she noticed the many holes and rips in it. “I’m not certain it’s salvageable.”
“I’m afraid you’re right.”
Isadora frowned. “
Is there a store in town that might sell ready-made garments for children?”
“The general store does have a selection of ready-made clothes. If you’re comfortable driving the wagon into town, you could see if there’s anything available that would fit the children. If there isn’t, you could purchase some fabric, and I could sew the children some new clothes.” She smiled. “I’ll send you with a note penned to Mrs. Rogers, who runs the store, and she’ll see to it that you’re allowed to put the purchases on our account.”
“I’m not charging anything to your account,” Isadora argued. “It’s my fault the children lost their clothing, so I’ll pay to replace that clothing.”
Aunt Birdie immediately took to tsking. “You’ll do no such thing. Ian set up that account for me, and he’s a more-than-generous man and would never balk at any charges made, especially not when you’re purchasing much-needed items for the children. He was planning on shopping for the children before he got called back to Pittsburgh anyway.”
“But it was my fault their clothing was destroyed.”
“It was hardly your fault the goats got loose, and I’ll not hear another word on the matter.”
Isadora shook her head. “I’m perfectly capable of paying for the items of clothing that were damaged under my watch.”
“What part of I’ll not hear another word on the matter did you not understand? And forgive me for reminding you of this, but you’re not going to be paid for two weeks’ worth of work, unless . . .” Aunt Birdie’s gaze sharpened. “Do you need a position because you’re in need of funds, or . . . something else?”
An image of the Duke of Montrose’s leering eyes and roving hands flashed to mind. “Something else,” she heard slip out of her mouth.
“And is this something else because you’re running from the law?”