“Hmm.”
“I was not,” Callie added, feeling defensive, “granted anything else. I mean, I was given no special consideration, but was admitted on my own merits and my academic record. I earned a scholarship based on my academic achievements, as well.” She was darned proud of that scholarship.
“Hmm.”
Callie wanted to jump out of her chair, dash over to Aubrey Lockhart, and batter the hmms out of him. They were rude, and they made her edgy.
He squinted narrowly. “Why aren’t you teaching, if you have a degree in it?”
That was none of his business, either. She said, “My family lives in Santa Angelica. Santa Angelica didn’t need any teachers when I returned home from college. I needed some type of employment, and since there was an opening for a mail carrier at the post office, I applied. I would, of course, rather be teaching, but I do enjoy my postal route.”
So there.
“Do you have written references?”
“No, sir. You may feel free to call upon Mr. Wilson, the postmaster in Santa Angelica. He can vouch for my dependability and moral character. Miss Myrtle Oakes, the Santa Angelica schoolmistress, is a good friend of mine and can also vouch for my character. I can supply verification of my employment and education. I have a diploma, of course.”
“Hmm.” He stared at her some more, his brows drawn straight over his eyes. He looked formidable; cold, aloof, annoyed, and unfriendly. Callie stared back, doing her best not to frown.
“Have you ever cared for children in your vast work experience?”
Oh, so he was going to be sarcastic, was he? Well, Callie would just show hint who was capable and who wasn’t—and she wouldn’t have to resort to sarcasm, either. “I not only possess a teaching degree, I’ve also had a good deal to do with my sisters’ and brother’s children, Mr. Lockhart. I care for them often when my family needs help.”
“That’s far from the same as being a nanny to a six-year-old girl.”
She inclined her head a quarter of an inch. “Perhaps you don’t know as much about six-year-old girls and their needs as you think you do.”
His head jerked up so fast that Callie was surprised not to hear his neck snap. “Is that so?”
She hated to do it, but she apologized. “I beg your pardon, Mr. Lockhart. I have had abundant experience caring for children, but I shouldn’t have been impertinent.”
“Indeed.” He squinted at her again. “How old are you?”
Well! In any other circumstances, Callie would have told Mr. Aubrey Lockhart what he could do with himself if he were sufficiently dexterous. However, she cared enough about Becky to hold her tongue. “I shall be twenty-five years old in May, Mr. Lockhart.”
“You don’t look it.”
Whatever did that mean? Did he mean she looked like a crone, or that she looked like a child?
“You’re too young,” he announced after several pregnant seconds, during which it was all Callie could do to keep from kneading her hands in anxiety. His frown deepened. “You’re too young, too immature, and you have no experience with this kind of work. What the devil do you think you’re doing, applying for a job for which you’re clearly unfit?”
That was enough of that.
Callie stood up, straightening her frame to show off her whole five feet, five inches. “I am fully fit to be a nanny to your daughter, Mr. Lockhart. I love children, I’ve cared for them many times, and if you think an older woman could do a better job than I, you’re mistaken. Your daughter, Mr. Lockhart, needs someone in whom she can confide. Someone who will take care of her and who will make her feel special. She needs someone to love her! You certainly seem to have abdicated from the position!”
“What?”
If Callie hadn’t been so angry, Aubrey’s roar might have demoralized her. As it was, she stood her ground indomitably. “You heard me. You’ve abandoned your own child, Mr. Lockhart, and you ought to be ashamed of yourself. That poor little girl needs you. If she can’t have you, she needs someone!”
“Why, you—”
The door opened, and Becky Lockhart barreled into the room, rushing right past her father and over to Callie, who barely stooped in time to catch her up in her arms. She straightened and glowered at Aubrey, whose mouth hung open as he stared at Callie and his daughter, her arms around Callie’s neck.
“What the—?”
Becky’s blue eyes twinkled happily, “Oh, Papa, isn’t it wonderful that Miss Prophet has come to be my nanny? She’s ever so nice!”
“Wh-what are you . . . ?” He stared at his daughter. Callie was pleased to note that his expression softened considerably.
“Oh, Papa,” Becky went on, evidently not worried about her father’s frown. “I’m oh, so fond of Miss Prophet. Please say that you’ll let her be my nanny.”
He fastened his attention on Callie. “And how, pray tell, did you get to know my daughter?” His voice cut like a knife.
Becky’s smile faded. Callie, sorry to see it go, made sure she didn’t sound as furious as she felt when she answered Aubrey’s question. “Becky and I met while I drove my mail route, Mr. Lockhart. We’ve become quite good friends.”
“Yes,” Becky confirmed, “Oh, please hire Miss Prophet, Papa. She’s my best friend.”
Callie felt like crying.
Aubrey, plainly irate and also clearly believing that Callie had somehow hornswoggled him, opened his mouth and shut it twice before anything came out of it. Callie knew how much he wanted to snatch his daughter from her arms and then kick her down the Lockhart mansion’s grand marble front porch steps.
She was pleased when he did neither, but only sucked in a breath and held it for a moment. When he let it out, he looked calmer. Thank God.
“Becky, would you please leave Miss Prophet and me alone for a minute? We won’t be long.”
Becky looked doubtful. “But . . . isn’t Miss Prophet going to come live with us, Papa?” Her eyes were so eloquent, Callie wouldn’t have been able to deny her anything. She feared Becky’s papa was made of sterner stuff, however.
“We’re going to talk about it now, sweetheart,” Aubrey said. ‘We won’t be long.”
“All right.” Becky nodded somberly at her father, then gave Callie a quick hug.
Callie lowered Becky to the ornate Chinese rug decorating the drawing room floor and dropped a kiss on her pretty blond curls. “I’ll see you later, Becky.”
“Promise?” Becky looked worried.
Callie smiled at her. “Promise.”
“Well . . . All right.” Becky left the room much more slowly than she’d entered it.
As soon as the door closed, Callie returned her attention to Aubrey. She braced herself, expecting to be tossed out of his house and told never to return. It would kill her to know that Becky would be living in this sterile household without a mother or a father, or anyone else to love her.
“I don’t know how you managed to finagle your way into my daughter’s good graces, Miss Prophet, but I suppose I’m going to have to give you a chance.”
Callie’s heart nearly jumped out of her chest. Her eyes opened wide.
Aubrey sneered. “Yes, you might well stare. However, while I’m willing to hire you on a contingent basis, I want you to understand absolutely that if you do anything—anything at all—to upset my daughter, my servants in general, or me in particular, you’ll be thrown out on your ear.”
“Oh!” She gulped. “Yes. I understand.”
“Good.”
Swallowing the hot words his attitude provoked in her, Callie said, “Thank you, Mr. Lockhart.”
“When can you start?”
She lifted her arms in a gesture of befuddlement. “Er, well, it doesn’t matter. Any time.”
“Good. Bring your things tomorrow. I’ll have Mrs. Granger prepare a room for you.”
“Thank you.” Callie bobbed a curtsy, but he didn’t see it because the door had opened again and he’d turned, scowling.
Callie imagined he expected to find Becky, come to see if they were through talking yet. Time went very slowly for six-year-olds.
It wasn’t Becky. It was Mrs. Granger, with a tray holding tea things. Aubrey sent her away. The last Callie saw of her, Mrs. Granger was glancing back over her shoulder at the two of them, curiosity writ large on her elderly features.
As for Callie herself, she walked home on a cloud.
Chapter Two
Aubrey left his drawing room feeling rather as if he’d been run over by the Santa Angelica mail wagon. He didn’t like it.
He did, however, manage to smile at Becky and pick her up when she ran down the hall to him, her face as eager as if she were anticipating Christmas.
“Will Miss Prophet come to live with us, Papa?”
The usual reserve Aubrey had come to expect from his daughter seemed to have vanished under the influence of Miss Prophet’s anticipated arrival into the Lockhart home. Aubrey’s heart hitched. He’d been so unfair to Becky these last couple of years. “Yes, Becky. Miss Prophet will move her things in tomorrow. Perhaps you can help Mrs. Granger pick out a bedroom for her to use.”
He was sorry he’d made the suggestion as soon as Becky wriggled to get down. It had been a while since he had held her, and he had forgotten how good it felt. It especially irked him that all this enthusiasm was for Callida Prophet. He knew he shouldn’t mind. After all, what had he done lately to win his child’s affection? Not dashed much.
“Oh, thank you, Papa! I know ezackly what room I want her to have!”
At least she deposited a quick kiss on his cheek before she darted off to find the housekeeper. Aubrey sighed as he stared after her.
Before Anne got sick, he had been on top of the world. He’d exuded confidence and competence, and for good reason. He’d started his own Chinese imports business when he was barely out of college, and had made a million dollars by the time he was twenty-five, Miss Prophet’s age. He’d attained his life’s ultimate goal when he’d married the woman he loved: the sweet and beautiful Miss Anne Harriott. It was Anne for whom he’d worked so hard. He’d wanted to be worthy of her, When Anne had given birth to Becky, he’d thought he’d never want for anything again.
Not any longer. Now he faced each day with dread and loathing. He was still rich—once the wheels of progress had started, it took a lot to slow them down—but everything else in his life had gone straight to hell. He entered his library, which doubled as his office, shut the door, flopped down in the chair he’d vacated when Callie had arrived to be interviewed, and stared at nothing. “Why, Anne? Why did you have to leave us?”
No answer to the question had occurred to him by the time Figgins rang the antique Chinese gong for dinner.
*****
Callie bumped along on the passenger seat of her brother George’s utility wagon, the one he used when he was transferring supplies for his successful Santa Angelica hardware store. She held the handle of the wicker picnic basket sitting on her lap. Irate and terrible yowling sounds came from inside the basket. Callie was especially grateful that George had thought to tie the lid of the basket down with some rope before they left the house.
“I still say you’re out of your mind,” George said, for perhaps the fiftieth time.
“Fiddle. She’s a sweet little girl.”
“Sweet little girl be hanged. She’s not your responsibility.” George, who had two children of his own as a result of his marriage to his childhood sweetheart Marie, sounded more severe than he really was.
“Perhaps not, but I remember what it was like to lose our mother when I was her age.” Callie felt stupid when she had to brush a tear from her cheek.
George reached over and patted her knee. “I know. It was hard on all of us. But we all pulled through it eventually.” If he hadn’t been driving, Callie would have hugged him.
“Exactly. But poor little Becky doesn’t have any wonderful brothers or sisters to help her. And her father seems to have taken up residence on some other planet. She deserves to know that someone cares about her and how she feels.”
George heaved a sigh. “I’m sure her father cares.”
“He doesn’t act like it.” Callie sniffed.
“How do you know?”
“Because I—” Recalling that she’d not filled George in on Becky’s sweet and emotionally devastating letters, Callie stopped herself just in time. “Urn, because I got to know her on my postal route.”
George nodded but didn’t jump in to agree with her, as he usually did. Callie eyed him sideways, wondering what had given her brother pause. After a moment, he said, “Well, he was hurt, too, you know. That doesn’t mean his behavior is acceptable, but it does make it more understandable.”
She heaved an aggrieved sigh. She didn’t want to understand Aubrey Lockhart; he had treated her horribly, and Callie wasn’t ready to forgive him for that yet. “Of course he was hurt, but he’s a man.”
George offered her a grin. “Are you saying men don’t feel?”
“Of course I don’t mean that men don’t feel!”
“It’s a good thing, because if anything happened to Marie, I don’t know what I’d do.”
“Oh, George, I’m sorry.” Callie, who knew George loved his family with all the vigor in his strong body, felt a pang of guilt until she noticed her brother’s satisfied expression.
“Why, you beast!”
George grinned, obviously enjoying his sister’s consternation. “Got you that time, didn’t I, Callie-coe?”
She huffed. Then she grinned, too. Then she giggled. She couldn’t stay mad at her brother, no matter how hard she tried. He was too jolly and joyful for anyone to be angry at for long. George and her sisters, Florence and Alta, were the three finest human beings in the world and, in Callie’s opinion, their respective spouses ranked as the three second finest.
George eyed Callie’s basket. “I don’t know what Mr. Lockhart’s going to think about you bringing Monster with you, though.”
“That’s Mister Monster to you, George.”
“Fudge. He’s a monster, and you know it.”
“Just because he likes to nibble your boot laces doesn’t make him a real monster. I only named him Monster because he’s so big.”
“He’s big and spiteful and tried to kill Miss Naomi, you mean.”
“I do not. Miss Naomi got to like him. After a little while.”
“Pooh. She gave up, is what you mean.”
Callie imagined he was right. Miss Naomi, the Prophet family cat for years, took things as they came. “Fiddlesticks. They used to curl up and purr together until she died. And then Monster was terribly sad.”
“I’ll just bet.”
But she knew he was joshing in order to take her mind away from how much she despised Aubrey Lockhart. And he was right to do so. She couldn’t very well enter into employment and overtly demonstrate her contempt for her employer; not if she wanted to keep her job for long. She hadn’t even started it yet and already the miserable cad had threatened her tenure.
Realizing she’d just undone her brother’s good intentions, she detached her mind from Aubrey Lockhart, to which it seemed to want to cling like a leech, and returned it to the cat in the basket. “Besides, Becky wants a kitty or a puppy. She said so.” She hadn’t revealed to her family that she’d been writing Becky, pretending to be the little girl’s mother in heaven.
“That cat,” said George in a crisp tone, “is not a kitty. It’s a damned big cat. And a mean one.”
“Monster isn’t mean,” Callie crooned, leaning over the basket—but happy she wasn’t within scratching distance. “He’s a love.”
“Right.”
They’d come to the entrance to the Lockhart mansion. The main iron gate in front of the long drive stood open and was, according to the Santa Angelica gossip mill, never locked. Callie guessed that, at one point, this had been intended as an indication of the family’s sociability. However, now it seemed to be more of an o
ld habit or a relict of bygone, happier days. Because Aubrey had chosen to isolate himself from the rest of the world, no one visited the Lockharts any longer. Which was one more pity to add to the growing heap.
George maneuvered the horse around the corner and onto the well-tended driveway. Azaleas bloomed alongside the drive, and Callie could see a rose garden in the distance.
“Aubrey Lockhart aside, I’m glad I thought of applying for this job,” Callie said, not bothering to suppress the excitement in her voice. “I’m sure I can help Becky.”
“You really like that kid, don’t you?”
When she turned her head, she saw George watching her curiously. “Yes. Yes, I do. I love her. She’s a sweet child, and she’s suffered a tremendous loss.”
“She reminds you of you, in fact.”
“Well . . . yes.” Callie sighed. “I can’t help it, George. I just want to help her.”
“You’re an amazing young woman, you know that, Callie?” George smiled affectionately at his youngest sister. “A bit crazy, but amazing nonetheless.”
Callie giggled, glad her brother was there to lighten her mood and soothe her nerves. She was gazing at the roses and thinking how lovely the blooms were when George said, “But all joking aside, there’s something else I’m worried about, Callie. You quit your job. What happens if this one doesn’t work out?”
Callie had wondered the same thing. She’d talked about it to Mr. Wilson, in fact. He’d told her she could have a job at the post office any time she wanted one, although she might have to wait for a position to open up. It wasn’t a guarantee, but at least it was some kind of insurance. “I’ve already talked to Mr. Wilson. He said he’d be happy to rehire me.”
“Well, that’s something.”
Exactly what she’d thought.
George stopped the wagon at the kitchen door of the mansion at Callie’s request and hopped out. Mr. Lockhart already didn’t like her. If she dared to walk through the front door as if she were an honored guest, she was pretty sure he wouldn’t appreciate it.
George walked over to Callie’s side of the wagon and held out his hand. Taking his hand and shinnying down over the big dusty wagon wheel, Callie muttered, “Thanks, George. I think I’d better see if anyone’s home before we unload.”
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