Master's Match

by Murray, Tamela Hancock

  Becca didn’t turn around. Instead she twisted her coffee-colored hair into a flattering upward style as she consoled her parent, leaving a few ringlets to fall loose around her face. “Don’t be sad, Mother. Think of this as a new adventure. Fer me, fer all of us. Maybe the whole Hanham clan will be better off because I went and worked fer some society folks.” Becca retrieved her best dress—the one she wasn’t wearing at present—out of the oak wardrobe that Grandfather had made for Mother on the occasion of her wedding. The old and simple garment was no longer considered fashionable, but it would have to do. She slipped off her old dress and slid the clean cotton frock over her petticoats, grateful that she made a point of keeping one step ahead in the ongoing battle against mounds of dirty clothes.

  “But I didn’t think ye’d be taking action so soon,” Mother protested to the point she whined.

  Unaccustomed to her mother complaining, Becca winced. “I’m sorry, but I can’t marry Micah, and if I don’t do somethin’ to earn money quicklike, Father will have us at the altar before we can take in a breath.” She touched her mother’s shoulder. “Ya don’t blame me fer not wantin’ to hitch meself to Micah, do ya? Please say ya don’t blame me.”

  “I don’t. I want someone better than Micah for ya, too, even if he does have a good position at the silver factory. But a job fer me Becca now? I thought we was just talkin’ before.”

  One of Becca’s brothers, Samuel, ran in and put his face in his mother’s skirts. Concerned about his own problems, the boy didn’t notice he had interrupted a critical exchange between his mother and sister. “They won’t wet me pway wif ’em,” the little fellow wailed.

  Both women knew “they” referred to his older siblings and assorted neighborhood children. Mother stroked his curly blond locks. “Tell yer brothers and sisters I said to let ya play with ’em or I’ll make ’em come in the rest of the day. Run along now.”

  He lifted his face, smiled, and nodded. “I’ll tell ’em.”

  Mother watched him run out. “Ah, to be young. Ever’thin’s right with the world in a minute.”

  “If you’re a boy around here, that’s so.” Becca sighed. “At least Father let Laban choose his own wife.”

  “Yea, but who can object to Lizzie?”

  The image of a green-eyed beauty popped into her head. Lizzie made Laban happy. What more could anyone want? “She’s one of my favorites, she is. I wish she had a brother older than ten,” Becca ventured in half jest.

  Mother’s laugh brightened the room. “There’s plenty o’ crop around here. Maybe one of the other fellas caught yer eye? Ye’re pretty enough to have any boy around. Peter, maybe?”

  He appealed to Becca more than Father’s choice of Micah, but not enough to wed. “No, Mother. There ain’t nobody I want. At least nobody I’ve seen around here. I’d rather be an old maid than be unhappy in marriage.”

  Mother gasped. “An old maid! Ya don’t mean it!”

  “I do. I won’t marry someone I don’t love. You love Father, and your marriage is hard enough.”

  Mother looked at the floor. “I can’t deny it.”

  “I’ll do as Father says and get me a job. Today is as good a day as any to get started.” She peered outside the window to eye the midmorning sun cutting the rising fog over the Providence River. “It’s early yet. I have the whole day ahead o’ me. I ’spect I’ll have a job by noon.” She took her coat out of the wardrobe.

  “That wrap looks mighty worn. If I’da known you’d be lookin’ fer work, I’da sewn ya a new one.”

  Becca fought the impulse to ask Mother how, considering they lacked for grocery money and probably were behind on rent, too. A new coat would be an ambitious sewing project requiring much fabric. Instead Becca whipped on the gray garment she already owned and buttoned it to the top. “This coat has come in good, and it’s still more than warm enough to fight the Narragansett winds. At least it don’t usually get as chilly here as Aunt Hilda says it gets in the Berkshires.”

  “We can thank the good Lord for that.” Mother paused, and her eyes grew misty. “I don’t want ya to go. Let me speak with yer father. I can talk some sense into him.”

  Becca had seen her mother’s pleas for any favor ignored too many times by her father to believe such a brag. “I knows ya need help, Mother, but Mary can take over some of my load. And her chores can go to Sissy. And Naomi’s already doin’ more than her share.”

  “I can’t argue none of that.” Tears flowing from her mother’s eyes betrayed her sense of helplessness.

  Becca embraced her mother. “Aw, it ain’t as bad as all that. In a way Father’s right. It’s time I made my way in the world. And don’t worry. I ain’t goin’ far. I’ll try to work close enough that I can come home ever’ night.”

  “I ain’t sure about that. Babies wake up in the night, ya know, and their mothers want the nanny to tend to ’em. Don’t count on seein’ much of us if ya get a job as a nanny.” Mother choked but composed herself enough to offer Becca a close-lipped half smile. “Then you’d best take your other dress and personal necessities along with ya.”

  Becca packed as her mother suggested, then donned a woolen bonnet before giving her mother one last embrace. “I’ll be fine. Don’t ya worry, now.”

  “I hope so. Ya know, there’s been talk of bank robbers strikin’ in the better parts of town. I want ya to stay safe, ya hear?”

  “Oh, Mother. What would a bank robber want with me? I don’t have nothin’ of value on my person, and I ain’t got no reason to go near a bank. Ya worry too much.” She picked up a cloth bag she had embroidered for herself, a small luxury she felt added a bit of fashion to her plain style of dress.

  “Mebbe I do. I’ll try not to so much.” Mother squeezed her one last time before letting her go. She wouldn’t let her gaze meet her daughter’s. “I–I’d better get to my dustin’. And there’s lunch to think about. Another burden fer me, now that ya won’t be here.”

  “Remember, there are sisters behind me to take me place. Why, ya won’t miss me a’tall.”

  Mother sniffled.

  Forcing herself to leave her mother behind, Becca went through the front room. Her father hadn’t moved from the table.

  He looked her over and then eyed the satchel. “Goin’ outside, eh? What’s that ya got there?”

  “My clothin’. I might not be able to come back ever’ night. But I promised Mother I’ll try.”

  “So you’re really goin’ to get a job at some rich woman’s house.” He let out a grunt. “I wish ya luck.” His tone indicated he thought her chances were as good as walking a city block without encountering horse manure.

  She decided to remain cheerful. “Thank ya, Father.”

  “Ya just be sure to bring yer money to me. Ya got yer family to feed. Ya don’t need to buy perfume and dresses and hats fer yerself.”

  She’d never been free with what little money she ever earned—not even the hands full of change from that young man so long ago. Why Father gave her such admonition, she didn’t know. “Yea, Father.”

  “And another thing before ya go.”

  She looked at him with more hope than she meant. Perhaps he would offer a few kind words to her before she left. Maybe even an embrace. “Yea, Father?”

  “Pour me another portion o’ ale.”

  ❧

  Nash Abercrombie sat at the desk in his study, mulling over a stack of correspondence in need of urgent tending. He’d been abroad, and the number of papers in the pile overwhelmed him. Though Nash’s official period of mourning for his father, Timothy Abercrombie, had slipped away in a sad blur, many of the letters and notices concerned matters regarding the estate. Addressing them felt painful. Not a day passed when Nash didn’t grieve over his loss. He had always felt badly enough that he never knew his mother, but why did his father have to be taken away much too early—and in Nash’s absence when he couldn’t be at his deathbed to tell him good-bye? Father and son knew they loved each other, but Nash
wished he could have told him one last time on this side of heaven. His father had been manly, yet gentle and kind with a ready laugh and a God-fearing spirit. The world suffered more without him.

  His faithful old butler knocked.

  “Yes?” Nash answered.

  “Pardon me, sir,” Harrod said. “Cook asks if you would like her to send Jack to the Providence Arcade for lobster. She suggests it for dinner tonight.”

  He smiled. “The thought is kind of her, but really, I am dining alone and don’t require such extravagance.”

  “Cook knows lobster is your favorite, and she wants to celebrate your arrival. We all celebrate your arrival, sir.”

  The notion of such a delicacy tempted him, but the reality of eating alone, along with the price of lobster in winter, left him without an appetite. God had provided him with more than enough wealth, but squandering money seemed unwise from both a spiritual and practical standpoint. “Perhaps I can indulge in lobster this spring when I can host a proper dinner party. Tell her I appreciate her consideration, but tonight I’d love some of her delicious vegetable soup and herb bread. And a bit of cheese, if she has it on hand.”

  “She’ll be disappointed, but I commend you on your frugal ways. Your father would be proud, sir.”

  Nash dismissed Harrod and swallowed a lump in his throat as the old servant took his leave. Harrod had been Father’s valet and butler and now served Nash in the same capacity. Harrod’s good opinion meant something to him.

  Tapping his ivory stylus on the top of the desk, he couldn’t help but think of Hazel Caldwell. In her eyes a modest soup would hardly be considered an adequate first course for a light luncheon. In his mind he could hear her chastising him for dining as a pauper would. He would hate to see the bills Hazel’s future husband would be forced to pay.

  He prayed someone would talk sense into Hazel so she wouldn’t hold on to the dream of their marriage. He might not have told Papa he loved him before he died, but Nash did tell him his desire was not to wed Hazel, no matter how prestigious and important her family name and connections. Nash and the Abercrombie wealth were nothing more than a means to her social ends. Judging from the way she treated him—never taking an interest in him as a person and every discussion involving extravagance—her love for him could be contained in the tip of a hummingbird’s beak.

  He set down his stylus and rested his face in his open hands, thinking. Nash was no fool and knew about loveless matches in his circle. All would be well and proper on the surface. Wives chosen for beauty, prestige, or fortune—or some combination thereof—fulfilled their duty by providing heirs as soon as was proper after the wedding day. Then they took consolation in discreet love affairs, profligate spending, or both. Meanwhile the husbands took a mistress—or two. The idea of such an unbiblical arrangement sickened him, and never would his father have asked Nash to live his life in such a way.

  Of course some of his friends and acquaintances had found love within their marriages. He wanted to be among their number. And that meant convincing Hazel that she would make a better match with someone else.

  He smiled, knowing the expression held no joy. She needs someone else indeed. Someone who can love her.

  He put his hands together in prayer. “Lord, give me the strength and courage to follow Thy will and my heart.”

  Two

  Cloth satchel stuffed with everything she owned in the world on her arm, Becca set out with a determined step. The wealthy people’s houses were up the hill, and up the hill she planned to go.

  Frigid wind rubbed at her cheeks, but she tried not to think about the cold. She hadn’t told her mother a fib about the warmth of her coat. As long as she kept walking, she stayed passably comfortable except where the coat didn’t quite cover her skin. She’d worn the wrap several years, and the sleeves fell a bit short. But the mittens Mother knitted for her this past Christmas warmed her hands, and remnants of rags stuffed in her boots shielded her feet where the soles were worn through.

  As she walked into the wealthy part of town, the atmosphere and scenery changed. Boisterous crowds couldn’t be heard, and leering men didn’t loiter in this part of town. Ramshackle, unpainted dwellings gave way to fine homes where, judging from appearances, inhabitants lived in luxury—or at least comfort. Self-conscious from the occasional curious stare aimed her way, she tilted her chin upward to show she indeed belonged there. After all, she was on a mission. She had just as much right to be there as anyone else.

  Though she had entered a neighborhood on Benefit Street where ladies could afford nannies, she kept walking. No house looked more welcoming than another, and no reason presented itself as to why she shouldn’t start knocking on doors. She stalled out of nervousness, despite her attempts to appear otherwise.

  “Lord, where do I go?”

  Gray clouds drifted over the sky, taking with them the brittle warmth from the winter sun. The time to start her search in earnest had arrived. Reaching a corner, she read the post. Williams Street.

  She smoothed her skirt and hair. Straightening her shoulders, she strolled to the front of a well-maintained house with a pretty wooden door and knocked.

  A butler answered and inspected her with a keen eye. “How dare you, girl. Don’t you know the help goes to the back?” The door banged shut.

  She had never entertained illusions about her importance in society’s ranks—her rung on the ladder hovered near the bottom—but she hadn’t expected to encounter such rudeness, especially from a servant. She lingered at the door and gathered her thoughts. He called me “the help.” Come to think of it, I sure am the help. At least I hope I will be by the end of the day.

  Within minutes she found herself at the back door. Temptation to report the butler’s unpleasant manner visited her, but she dismissed it. Snitching on a servant as Samuel tattled on his siblings would gain her no respect. She widened her eyes and set her mouth in a slightly upturned bow so she wouldn’t show she’d already been treated in an abrupt manner. She took off the mitten on her right hand and knocked.

  “Ye’re late!” The shrill voice whizzed into the air before the door opened.

  “I’m late?”

  By this time an obese woman wearing a white cotton bonnet and apron splattered with melted lard stood before her. “Oh, I thought ya were the delivery boy. Who are ya, and what da ya want wif us?”

  Becca didn’t think the cook would be much help, but there was no reason to be rude—even though the butler had slammed the door in her face. “I’d like to speak with the mistress of the house, please.”

  “Ya would, would ya?” The woman eyed her. “Concernin’ what?”

  “I’d like a job. As a nanny.”

  The woman laughed so loudly Becca jumped back. “There ain’t no need for a nanny here. Mistress is nearly sixty, and she lives alone wif nuffin’ but us servants. Off with ya now. I’ve work to do.”

  “But—but surely there must be someone in one of these houses nearby needin’ a nanny.”

  “How do ya expect me ta know such a thing? I come here to work, not gossip. Off with ya, I say.” The woman banged the door shut in Becca’s face.

  Not about to let the grumpy cook get the best of her, Becca tried one house after another, trekking from one street to the next. Between each unsuccessful encounter, she watched the weather, hoping she could take shelter should snow start to fall.

  At the seventeenth house, a pretty young maid answered. “A nanny? Why, yes, we’re looking for a nanny. Mr. and Mrs. Gill are the parents of three girls, ages two, four, and five. And we are expecting a new arrival later this year.”

  Becca almost jumped up and down with glee. “That sounds wonderful.”

  The maid’s eyebrows rose. “Really? You’d be surprised how many girls run away nearly screaming at the thought of three small charges and a new infant.” She gave Becca a knowing grin. “I think she’ll see you.”

  Becca’s heart beat with anticipation as she followed the maid. Their li
ttle family sounded easy to tend in comparison to caring for her many siblings at home.

  The maid escorted her into a small sitting room upstairs. On the way she couldn’t help but drink in the sight of life-sized portraits painted in oils, ornate furnishings, and elaborate draperies. She imagined even a small table cost more than her family earned in a year. What would it be like to work in such a fine residence? She hoped to find out.

  The sitting room proved simpler, but the woman did not. Donned in a morning dress that would have suited most people for church, she looked down her nose at Becca from her position on a settee and did not offer her a seat despite the availability of two chairs. “You don’t look like a nanny.”

  “What does a nanny look like?”

  “I don’t know.” The woman shifted in her seat, clearly taken aback that Becca had posed a question she couldn’t answer without some thought. “More educated, I suppose. How much schooling have you had?”

  “Hard to say, ma’am. Mother taught me how to read, write, and cipher numbers. She says I catch on real fast.”

  “I see. So you haven’t had many advantages in life.” Her tone reminded Becca of the long icicles hanging off the woman’s front awning.

  Becca’s mouth fell open, embarrassing her. “How’d ya know?”

  “I catch on real fast myself.” The woman’s slight smile told Becca she fancied herself funny, but Becca felt the joke had been made at her expense. “So where is your letter of recommendation?”

  “Letter of recommendation?”

  “Yes. Surely you have references to approach me in such a manner.”

  “References?”

  Mrs. Gill breathed out once before speaking. “People who can tell me you’ll be a good nanny.”

  “Oh. Well, Mother told me that’s what I should be. I’ve helped take care of me brothers and sisters ever since I can remember.”

  “And how many do you have?”