“Watch this, Papa.”
Becky, who had been standing between the two adults, threw something small, white, and round at the chair.
Aubrey said, “What the . . . ?”
But Monster, who knew a good game when he saw it, shot out from under the chair like an arrow from a bow, leaped on the white thing, which, Callie now discerned, was a crumpled piece of paper, turned a somersault, and started batting the paper ball in the air. He kept it aloft for several bats before the paper dropped to the Oriental carpet and rolled a foot or so. He leaped upon it as if it were a mouse, threw it up into the air, swiped at it with a furry black paw, connecting with a skill that would have done many a baseball player proud, and bounded after it as it flew across the room.
Becky laughed merrily. “See? He loves to play. But he’s so big and black that you don’t expect him to, so it’s extra funny when he does.”
Callie couldn’t have said it better herself. She nodded, intuitively believing that Aubrey would rather not hear from her at the moment.
“Good God. I’d never have guessed.” Aubrey sounded awed. “I didn’t even realize the thing was a cat until you told me.”
“He’s a sweet cat,” Becky said. “Look, Papa.” She tripped over to Monster, grabbed the crumpled paper from between his paws, and threw it across the room. The cat charged after it and pounced again, making a tremendous thudding noise. Monster wasn’t exactly a lightweight.
Callie noticed that Aubrey’s head was shaking back and forth, not in denial, but in amazement, as if he were witnessing something strange and incredible. She guessed it wouldn’t hurt to say something now.
“He’s a very nice cat, Mr. Lockhart, although I’m sure he must have given you a start this morning. As you didn’t know about him and all.”
“A start?”
She didn’t like the way he turned to peer at her. His eyes had gone narrow, and his expression was something like a grimace, but it was mixed up with incredulity, wonder, disapproval, and disbelief. “Um,” she said, “Yes. I’m sure you must have been startled.”
“Startled doesn’t begin to describe my feelings upon being attacked by an animal I didn’t know resided in my home, Miss Prophet.”
Oh, dear. “Urn, yes, well, he doesn’t usually bite people. Really, he doesn’t.”
Fortunately, Becky wasn’t listening to this conversation. She was having too much fun playing with Monster to bother with grown-ups. Callie thanked her stars for small favors.
“I see. He undoubtedly objected to my stepping on his foot. Or perhaps it was his tail I trod upon.”
“You stepped on him!” Callie cried. “Well, then, that explains it. He objects strenuously to being stepped on, Mr. Lockhart. I mean, you can’t really blame him for that, can you?”
“I don’t blame the cat, Miss Prophet.”
“Oh.” It pained her, but Callie said, “I’m very sorry, Mr. Lockhart. I ought to have asked if it was all right to bring Monster with me.”
“Indeed.”
“And . . . well, I should have told you about him.”
“Indeed.”
This string of “indeeds” irritated Callie. She snapped, “Although, anyone with an ounce of sense or warmth in his heart ought to have understood before now that his daughter wanted a pet.”
“Indeed.”
Fiddlesticks, there was another one. Callie guessed she shouldn’t have spoken up. It was one of her many failings that she spoke her mind too readily. Feeling defensive and, worse, wrong, she said, “Becky loves Monster.”
“Yes. I see that she does.”
Aubrey left off staring at Callie, thank God, and returned his gaze to Becky and Monster. Becky was crowing with laughter, and Monster was performing like a circus acrobat. For such a large, heavy cat, he was quite agile.
Callie caught her breath when Becky threw the paper ball and it landed on a table on the other side of the room. With the quick reflexes that had recently been admired by Callie, the cat took a run at the table.
“No!” Aubrey shouted, sending Callie’s trepidation skyrocketing.
Aubrey darted like a sprinter across the room, barely reaching the table before Monster landed on it. Callie clapped her hands to her cheeks when she realized that Aubrey had just rescued a magnificent Ming vase from destruction.
Whirling around with the vase in his hand, Aubrey spoke in a controlled voice to his daughter. “Perhaps you ought to take that thing outside and play with it later, Becky:”
“I’ll take him up to Miss Prophet’s room, Papa. He lives there.”
“I see.” He turned to eye Callie with distaste. “We’ll discuss the cat later, Miss Prophet. I believe it’s time for my daughter’s breakfast.”
“Yes,” Callie said, and swallowed. “Yes, I believe it is.”
Becky was out of breath when she scooped Monster off the table and into her arms. “I’m sorry, Papa. It was my fault about the vase. I didn’t mean to throw the ball on the table.”
“It’s all right, Becky.” Aubrey gave his daughter what looked like a genuine smile. “I’m glad you introduced me to Monster.” He returned his gaze to Callie, although his smile didn’t accompany it. “At last.”
Oh, dear. “Yes, well, let’s go take Monster upstairs and wash our hands, Becky. I’m sure Mrs. Granger has your breakfast all ready.”
“All right.” Happy and undaunted in the face of the strained relations between the adults in her life, Becky lugged Monster toward the door.
“We’ll discuss this later, Miss Prophet,”
“Yes, you mentioned that before. Thanks for the warning.” Blast. She shouldn’t have said that. Callie helped Becky carry the cat upstairs. She felt very low and achy around the heart as she helped Becky wash her hands well and accompanied her into the breakfast room.
There, as on most mornings, a tempting repast was laid out on the sideboard. Callie had her choice of eggs, bacon, ham, chops, toast, and a variety of jams, jellies, marmalades, and honeys. Not to mention the oranges and apples.
If she were to make a judgment based solely on earthly merits, Callie’s have to admit that it was rather nice to be living in the Lockhart mansion where there were wonderful breakfasts to be had simply by walking into the dining room. And then there were the fully accoutered bathrooms on every floor, and hot and cold running water. Callie had never lived in such luxury. She wondered how long it would last.
*****
A cat. The woman had brought a cat into his home. Without even asking.
If she’d asked, he’d have told her no, but that was no reason for her outrageous presumption. Aubrey could scarcely imagine the effrontery it took Miss Prophet to inflict a pet upon the Lockharts. After all, what if Becky had been allergic or something? Or him. What if he had been allergic?
And then the damned thing had bitten him. Bitten him! And he’d only barely stepped on its tail. Unless it was its foot. Aubrey wasn’t sure. It had all happened so fast. If he hadn’t been glancing at the book in his hand, he’d have seen the . . . well, the monster on the steps and would have avoided a collision. As it was . . . Well, it was unconscionable for Miss Callida Prophet to have brought the animal into his house. Unthinkable. Her behavior was truly execrable.
Aubrey entered his library in a towering grump, cursing Callie Prophet and the Fates. “Why did you leave us, Anne?” he all but wailed, after shutting the library door so no one could hear him talking to himself. “Why?”
As always, there was no answer. Neither Anne nor God nor the Fates, if Fates there were, ever answered his questions. He was, therefore, as bereft and alone as ever.
Folding up into his desk chair, he stared at the window giving a view of the lawn. Something occurred to him, and he said, “Oh. By God, that’s what they meant.” He shoved his chair away from the desk and stood.
After walking to the window, pulling the curtain aside, and gazing at the lawn, he recalled the time he’d observed Becky and Miss Prophet playing Robin Hood
. He’d heard them talking about a “monster” later on that same day, and had assumed they’d been playing at Frankenstein.
“What a way of discovering a mistake,” he growled.
As he turned away from the window and went back to his desk, he recalled the stupid cat turning a somersault as it tried to get at a balled-up piece of paper. He remembered the idiotic animal whacking the ball as if he were a crazed baseball player trying for a home run. He remembered Becky squealing with delight as the deranged feline, with his fluffy black tail trailing behind him like a cloud of dust, raced after the paper ball like a lion after an antelope, and pouncing on it as if it were making a kill.
Aubrey had been laughing to himself for probably thirty seconds—perhaps even a whole minute—before he realized what he was doing and stopped, appalled.
What in the name of holy hell did he have to laugh about? His wife was dead. His daughter was in the clutches of a mad nanny. A huge black cat stalked at will through the halls of his home. His life was ruined. It might as well be over.
There wasn’t a single amusing thing left for him in this horrible world, and it was a blot on Anne’s memory to laugh under these appalling circumstances.
Then he remembered the cat juggling the paper ball like a circus performer and, while he didn’t allow himself to laugh, he did grin.
Chapter Six
Brisk winds had started to blow, there was a distinct nip in the air, and the leaves were threatening to turn color. School was about to start in the little village of Santa Angelica. It would be Becky’s first school year, and Aubrey’s heart hurt when he thought about how Anne would have enjoyed preparing her for the new experience.
But Anne wasn’t here to see their daughter off to school. And Aubrey hadn’t a clue as to how to prepare a child to endure the vicissitudes of the schoolroom. Rearing children, as he’d discovered a long time ago, was not man’s work. Men generally didn’t know how to go about it, and Aubrey was no exception to this rule. Oh, how he missed Anne during the days leading up to their child’s first day of school.
He’d heard Miss Prophet telling Becky all about the Santa Angelica Public School, which she had attended as a youngster. The village was small, and its school consisted of two rooms and boasted two teachers, one an elderly man and the other a young woman. Miss Prophet said this made it twice as big as when she’d gone there. Becky had laughed when she’d said it.
Since Miss Prophet had been born and reared in Santa Angelica; she knew Aubrey had heard her detailing their different personalities in a humorous way, but one that left no doubt as to what she expected Becky to do in the way of discipline and paying attention. Aubrey thought she’d done very well in this regard, although he didn’t tell her so.
He presumed the two teachers split their teaching responsibilities by age or sex or something. He hadn’t looked into the matter personally, but had left everything to Miss Prophet who, unlike Aubrey himself, knew all about getting little girls prepared to face the challenges of education.
Miss Prophet had also sewn five dresses for Becky to wear to school. Aubrey hated to acknowledge her talents in the direction of fashion, but he’d done so, grudgingly, when Becky, her face radiant, had turned in front of him, showing off her new wardrobe one dress at a time. The dresses were quite fetching, and he’d gone so far as to thank Miss Prophet, who’d responded coolly and inclined her head a quarter of an inch.
Upon further acquaintance, Monster had not stopped biting Aubrey, but attacked his feet whenever he had the chance.
As Aubrey went to his office on this chilly September morning, he had to leap out of the way of the pugnacious cat, who seemed to enjoy lurking under furniture and hiding behind corners and leaping on him unawares. The cat seemed to consider attacking Aubrey’s feet one of the great pleasures in life. Aubrey disagreed, although he hadn’t gone so far as to kick the beast yet.
He made it to his office after fending off the cat, removed his coat and threw it on the sofa, and seated himself behind his desk. As he did so, he growled, “Mister Monster, my hind foot. The animal ought to be dispatched as a menace to society. It’s a menace to my society, however much Miss Prophet likes to say he’s a benevolent creature.”
He didn’t mean it. If Monster were to go away, Becky would be grief stricken. Aubrey didn’t think he could bear to see her unhappy again, although he wasn’t altogether sure he approved of the renewal of her spirits having been accomplished by Miss Callida Prophet and an insane cat. He, as Becky’s father, ought to have been the one who’d comforted her and soothed her grief.
With a sigh, Aubrey burdened his conscience with the same reproach that had bothered him for months and months: He’d failed his daughter. He, who should have showered her with tenderness and understanding during her time of great loss, had withdrawn into his own selfish melancholy and ignored her.
The unfortunate truth was, though, that he hadn’t a clue bow to deal with children. Not even Becky, whom he loved beyond anything.
However, Miss Prophet, for all her faults—and she had hundreds of them—had eased his mind, if not his conscience, a good deal when it came to Becky. He applauded himself for having had the forethought to hire a nanny. Miss Prophet might be the bane of his own existence, but she’d been Becky’s salvation. In truth, when he didn’t want to kill her with his bare hands, he appreciated her.
For several days now, it had been difficult for Aubrey to remove his thoughts from Miss Prophet and Becky and concentrate on his Oriental imports business, but he always managed to do it. He might know nothing about children, but he knew his business inside and out, and he aimed to do that right, if nothing else. Therefore, this morning, as every morning, he cleared his mind of irrelevancies—if his child could be considered an irrelevancy—and concentrated on Chinese vases, Persian rugs, Siamese wall hangings, and Indian teas.
He’d been working at his desk for an hour or two when Figgins knocked at the door and entered. Aubrey expected the butler would announce the arrival of Mark Henderson, his secretary from the San Francisco office, who made the trip to Santa Angelica every week in order to go over business affairs.
Aubrey was surprised, therefore, to see that Figgins was alone. He also bore a silver tray with a single white calling card in its center.
With a sigh—Aubrey didn’t really go in for all this formality, but he didn’t have the heart to tell Figgins to forgo it since he took such obvious pleasure in these traditions, he took the card and lifted it to his line of vision.
He goggled. “Good God!”
“Sir?”
Aubrey realized he’d uttered an improper exclamation, and that Figgins undoubtedly deplored such a lapse. “I beg your pardon, Figgins. But . . . well . . . this card. Is she here? Now? Right this minute?”
“Yes, sir. She’s awaiting your pleasure in the drawing room.” Not a flicker of emotion showed on Figgins’s face.
The same, Aubrey was sure, could not be said of his own face. “Mrs. Bridgewater? Herself? Here?” Pleasure, be damned. She could await that forever and her wait would be for naught. Aubrey, pleasure, and Mrs. Bridgewater would never occupy the same room at the same time.
“Yes, sir.”
Oh, God. There could be no doubt about it. Figgins never lied. Nor could he be mistaken, having known Mrs. Bridgewater far longer than he’d known Aubrey, since she was Anne’s father’s sister.
Aubrey allowed his head to bow for a moment before he straightened and told Figgins, “Please have Mrs. Granger bring refreshments into the drawing room. Have somebody fetch Becky and her nanny.” It was difficult for him to say Miss Prophet’s name aloud. A small groan escaped him when he added, “I’ll tackle Mrs. Bridgewater as soon as I put my coat on.”
“Very good, sir.”
Figgins left the room. It had always amused Aubrey that Figgins looked as if he were floating, so smoothly did he move. The man was so dashedly formal. Figgins’s gait ceased to amuse him today, however. The promise of encounterin
g Anne’s least favorite aunt could smother anyone’s enjoyment of life.
Anne Harriott’s parents had been wonderful people. It stood to reason that it had been so, since Anne herself had been an angel. Their lives had been cut tragically short, as had their daughter’s, although their deaths had been incurred in an accident five years before Anne’s illness had begun.
And, no matter the reason for this unusual visit, Aubrey was sure it augured a problem. Mrs. Bridgewater, Mr. Harriott’s older sister, had missed the angelic Harriott family leaning entirely. She was an overbearing moose of a woman, and Aubrey didn’t like her. Worse, neither did Becky. The poor child was always cowed in Mrs. Bridgewater’s presence. Well, and why shouldn’t she be? Aubrey was pretty much cowed himself when faced with the austere and disapproving Mrs. Bridgewater. Anne and he had started calling her Mrs. Bilgewater in private, although they never did so in front of Becky, fearing she might believe it to be the woman’s real name.
He stopped to take a deep breath before he entered the drawing room. Old Bilgewater, he saw at once, hadn’t bothered to sit, but stood before the fireplace, staring with censure through her eyeglasses at the portrait of Anne hanging above the mantel. Immediately, Aubrey’s ire rose. If the old bat said one word about that portrait, Aubrey would give her a piece of his mind that she wouldn’t easily digest.
However, he owed it to Anne’s memory to be courteous to any of her relations, at least at first, so he said pleasantly, “Mrs. Bridgewater. What a nice surprise.” An honest man, Aubrey nonetheless permitted himself the occasional social lie.
Mrs. Bridgewater turned in a regal manner—probably due to her corset stays, Aubrey thought bitterly. Her eyeglasses glittered, giving her an even more forbidding appearance than she might have had without them. Aubrey had never seen eyeglasses have that effect on anyone but Aunt Evelyn Bilgewater.
She appeared to sneer at him. “Oh. There you are. I think you ought to remove this portrait, Aubrey. It can’t be good for Rebecca to be reminded of her mother all the time.”
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