She sniffed. “It seems to me that there are a lot of yellowbellied members of lots of species running around loose these days, Becky.”
“Really?” The little girl glanced up at Callie wide-eyed, and Aubrey saw that, as improbable as it seemed, Becky’s insufferable nanny looked uncomfortable.
Callie muttered, “That was only a joke, Becky.”
“And one in remarkably poor taste,” Aubrey said unnecessarily. He wished he’d kept his damned mouth shut—not because he didn’t mean it, but because making such prim and prissy statements made him sound like old Bilgewater. Aubrey didn’t like to think he and Bilgewater had anything whatsoever in common.
“Good evening, all.”
Aubrey turned to find Mark Henderson standing just inside the doorway, gazing at Callie. His chest tightened, although he couldn’t have said why. He certainly wasn’t jealous of Mark. Was he? The idea was more than Aubrey could stand to think about at the moment.
The only thing he knew for certain was that the poor boy had better be careful if he had intentions in that direction. Miss Callida Prophet would eat him alive if he got within wooing—rather, in her case, attacking—distance: “Good evening, Mark. Hope you’re hungry. Mrs. Granger’s putting on the dog tonight.”
“She’s putting on a dog?”
Becky’s sharp cry made Aubrey swivel toward her again.
She stared at him, horrified.
After shooting Aubrey a fulminating glance, Callie said soothingly, “It’s only a figure of speech, Becky. Sort of like ton of bricks.”
“It is?” Becky looked doubtful.
This was ridiculous. It also irked Aubrey that Miss Prophet had leaped to explain the expression to Becky before he could. “It only means that she’s preparing an exceptionally good dinner for us tonight, Becky sweet.”
“Oh. Good.”
“Did you think she’d cook a dog?” Mark opened his eyes with mock horror. He shook his head. “I don’t go in much for dining on dogs.”
“Good heavens, no,” Aubrey said, aiming for jolly and almost achieving it.
“Although a dog might be tasty with mustard,” Mark added with a wink.
Aubrey guessed the wink had been for Becky’s benefit, but it seemed to have been aimed at Miss Prophet. The woman did look remarkably pretty tonight. She wore a rust-colored evening gown with no frills, and had dressed her strawberry-blond hair in a loose pouf, a la Mr. Gibson. Tiny dangles that looked like amber adorned her earlobes, and she wore a simple amber pendant on a gold chain around her neck. The dress was modest and simple and perfectly appropriate. Aubrey couldn’t understand why, thus clad, she made him salivate.
Mark, he meant. She made Mark salivate. Aubrey was immune to feminine charms. He hadn’t glanced at another woman since he’d met Anne.
Good God, he’d clearly been under too much stress of late, if he was mistaking Mark’s infatuation for his own. Frowning, he took out his silver pocket watch and squinted at it.
“It must be about time for the gong to—” The musical note of the Chinese gong permeated the atmosphere. Aubrey stuffed his watch back into its pocket and gave an internal sigh of relief. “Ah, yes. There it is.”
“Good. I’m famished.” Mark, still eyeing Callie covertly, gave his waistcoat a playful pat. Becky laughed, as he’d intended her to.
Aubrey glanced around the room, “Where’s Bilgewater?”
“Where’s who?” Mark asked, astonished.
After a second’s shocked silence, Callie burst out laughing. So did Becky, although Aubrey imagined she wasn’t sure what was so amusing. He scowled at the nanny.
“I said,” he said, lying through his teeth, “Where’s Mrs. Bridgewater?”
“Oh,” said Becky, willing to accept her father’s word.
“Oh,” said Mark, who wasn’t, but who was game.
“Oh,” said Miss Callida Prophet, who Aubrey guessed was neither willing nor game, but was putting on an act for Becky’s sake.
Aubrey gave her a good glare to let her know he wouldn’t countenance her spreading his slip of the tongue to his daughter or the household staff. She gazed back at him, her green eyes as innocent as a new day. In other words, she could lie as well as, or better than, he could, and she wanted him to know it.
“I believe I heard the gong.”
The occupants of the sitting room turned at the sound of Great-Aunt Evelyn’s voice. She stood in the doorway, majestically clad in a maroon taffeta dinner gown that dripped beads and fluff. Aubrey blinked at the vision of enormity taking up space in his sitting room before someone—he suspected Miss Prophet, who had stood and taken Becky’s hand—poked him in the back and he started forward to lead the formidable personage—she looked like a deep-purple whale, actually—into the dining room.
Mark Henderson bowed at Callie. “May I escort you and Miss Lockhart in to dinner, Miss Prophet?”
Callie’s smile for Mark wasn’t lost on Aubrey, who kept an eye on her. He told himself it was to head off any outrageous behavior on her part but he couldn’t quite make himself believe that.
“Thank you, Mr. Henderson. Becky and I would be happy for your escort.”
‘We sure would,” Becky exclaimed happily. “I’m hungry!”
“Me, too,” said Mark.
Mark took seating arrangements out of Aubrey’s hand when he held out the seat to the left of Aubrey’s for Callie.
She sat gracefully, smiling at Mark the while. Aubrey, dealing with Bilgewater, gritted his teeth and bore it.
“And you, young lady,” said Mark with his ready twinkle, “can sit beside me here on my other side.” He held a chair for Becky as if she were a grown-up lady.
Becky smiled up at him. Aubrey could tell she was happy to be noticed by his young, handsome secretary, damn the man.
Blast it, what was wrong with him tonight? Why was he feeling this animus toward Mark, who was a very nice and obliging young fellow?
Aubrey saw the way Mark looked at Callie as he took his seat, and the reason for his sullen mood became clear to him.
He didn’t want Mark and Callie getting together. Not, of course, because he himself had any interest in the young woman, but because she’d leave Becky if she had the bad taste to marry someone. Aubrey felt better now once he’d cleared up that tangle in his mind. Smiling at the company, he said, “Mrs. Bridgewater, would you care to say grace?”
“Certainly.”
The old crone offered a blessing that sounded more like a command to God, and which lasted for what seemed like forever. Aubrey almost fell asleep before she droned an “Amen.”
That was when he noticed that his daughter’s nose only
barely reached the table. He frowned. Blast it, they had forgotten something. “Becky, my love, where’s your chair seat?”
Becky shrugged. “I don’t know.”
“I’ll look for it, Becky,” Callie said.
“Thank you, Miss Prophet.”
Aubrey stopped being grateful to her as soon as she rose and began wafting gracefully around the room. He saw Mark’s hungry gaze follow her as she searched for the cushion Anne had embroidered for Becky’s use three years before—a year before they’d found out the nature of her illness, which was only then beginning to manifest itself. Aubrey’s heart gave a familiar spasm, and he frowned as Callie lifted the pillow from a chair shoved against the dining room wall.
“Here it is.” She smiled at Becky.
For such an obstreperous female, she had a remarkably sweet smile. Aubrey, who believed that in a just world outer trappings ought to tell the truth, did not approve.
“Excellent,” said Mark, who instantly rose to his feet to help her settle Becky onto her cushion. “There you go, Becky. Can you reach better now?”
“Yes, thank you, Mr. Henderson. Thank you, Miss Prophet.”
The two said “You’re welcome” at the same time, their voices blending into a melodious duet. Aubrey discovered he was grinding his teeth and forced
himself to stop it.
Figgins entered the dining room at that moment, bearing the roast beef. Thank God. Aubrey didn’t think he could tolerate any more overt displays of mutual attraction on the part of his secretary and his daughter’s nanny.
Chapter Eight
Callie tried to spend most of her meal time taking care of Becky and being as unobtrusive as possible. She’d recognized symptoms in Mr. Henderson that spoke of his attraction to her, and she didn’t know what to make of them. She supposed she ought to be flattered. After all, he was a good-looking, personable young man with a good job and solid prospects. She knew she could do far worse than to make a match with Mark Henderson, but the sad truth was that she didn’t give a rap if Mark Henderson found her attractive or if he considered her as unappealing as a barnyard mouse. As nice as he was, Callie was totally uninterested.
She liked her job and didn’t want to leave it. More importantly, she loved Becky and didn’t want to leave her. If she was to be ruthlessly honest with herself, she’d have to admit, too, that she’d allowed herself to become fascinated with the man who’d written those beautiful letters to his wife.
She didn’t feel like entertaining ruthless honesty this evening, so she avoided that one. Besides, the Aubrey Lockhart who now sat at the head of this table bore scant resemblance to the one who’d written the letters.
Stop it this instant, Callida Prophet. For once, she obeyed her inner voice and turned her attention to food.
The meal was delicious and, although Mrs. Bridgewater—Bilgewater, indeed—landed the occasional verbal sock in the jaw to whomever she’d singled out to address at any given time, the conversation was lighthearted and friendly for the most part. Mr. Lockhart and Mr. Henderson exchanged stories about banking and the Oriental imports business. Mr. Henderson told two jolly stories that made them all—all but Mrs. Bridgewater—laugh heartily.
Mrs. Granger had outdone herself with everything, including the dessert, which consisted of baked pears in a delicious brandy sauce. Callie felt as though she might pop after she’d
“I can’t eat any more,” Becky announced when she was halfway through her own pear.
“Young children ought to be made to finish their dinners,” Mrs. Bridgewater declared.
Although it wasn’t her place to reply to her employer’s great-aunt, Callie said, “She isn’t accustomed to eating such a large meal. I think she’s done a very good job with this one. She smiled at Becky, who’d glanced worriedly at her great-aunt. Great buffalo, Callie would have called her.
Mrs. Bridgewater sniffed. “Nonsense. Children ought to be taught to finish whatever they’re presented.
“Fiddlesticks, Great-Aunt Evelyn,” Aubrey said. To Callie, it sounded as though he were trying to sound lighthearted, yet really wanted to knife the absurd purple female in her overstuffed chest.
Mrs. Bridgewater sniffed haughtily. “You’re going to be the ruin of that child, Aubrey. Personally, I am not accustomed to small children being allowed to dine with guests in the dining room.”
Becky looked stricken. Callie felt like punching the old goat herself, thus saving Aubrey the trouble of knifing her.
‘We don’t practice society manners here in the country, Mrs. Bridgewater.”
Callie glanced at Aubrey quickly, surprised by the acidic tone of his comment.
“And Becky is my daughter, and I’m not about to banish her from meals just because some silly old tradition says I should.”
Evelyn Bridgewater sniffed and fixed Aubrey with a decidedly dismissive stare. “I don’t believe in relaxing one’s standards merely because one lives at the ends of the earth, Aubrey.”
A season of quiet fell, not unlike a blanket of snow, over the diners. It looked to Callie as if Aubrey was holding back a rude comment—but just barely. Finally Mark, who appeared rather uncomfortable, spoke up, bless him. “I, ah, think Santa Angelica is a great place to bring up children. It’s small, true, but it’s awfully pretty. It’s probably the forest being so close that gives it a particularly charming and rustic air.”
Callie beamed at him, producing a blush in him, which surprised her. “Thank you, Mr. Henderson. I think Santa Angelica is about as close to heaven as one can get while still on God’s earth.”
Instantly, she wished she’d held that comment back, too. She sneaked a peek at Aubrey and was relieved to note that he wasn’t glaring daggers at her. Blast her tongue! If there was one topic she should have known better than to introduce, however obliquely, it was death and dying.
“It looks like a picture in my Bible upstairs,” Becky offered. “I think it’s the picture of the wedding at Canaan.” She smiled at her father, who smiled back.
Relief flooded Callie so fast, she barely managed to suppress a heartfelt gust of breath. “My goodness, I should like to see that picture, Becky. I thought all those biblical places were sort of desert-like.”
Mrs. Bridgewater sniffed again. Before she could rebuke Becky, Mark, or Callie for blasphemy or something equally awful, Aubrey spoke up. “Shall we adjourn to the drawing room, everyone? I don’t think Mark and I need to linger over port and cigars.” He smiled. “Particularly since I don’t like port and neither one of us smokes cigars.”
“That’s a mercy, at all odds,” Callie muttered as she untied Becky’s bib. Again, she wished she’d bitten her tongue. When would she learn not to say every blasted thing that popped into her head? With the sigh she’d repressed earlier, she wondered if she was doomed to speak out of turn for the rest of her life. A young lady ought to be able to hold her tongue when required, as she well knew. She’d obviously lived among friends and family too long; she’d forgotten her company manners.
“So glad you approve, Miss Prophet.” Aubrey’s voice sounded like last year’s fall leaves, it was so dry and crisp. She gave him an apologetic smile, which he seemed to ignore. She sighed again.
“Here, ladies. Allow me.”
At least Mark looked as if he appreciated her. He gazed at her warmly as he held her chair, He still gazed at her warmly when he helped Becky from her chair. “Do either of you ladies play the piano? Perhaps we could have a musical evening if Mr. Lockhart doesn’t mind.”
“Not at all,” said Aubrey.
He didn’t sound as if he meant it.
*****
A musical evening, my foot, Aubrey thought sourly as he held the drawing room door for Old Bilgewater. She waddled in, her enormous rear end reminding Aubrey of a schooner in high seas.
The young ladies knew how to play the piano, all right. They made more noise on the thing than Aubrey had known was possible before they’d done it. He’d always considered piano playing, unless practiced in the arena of a saloon or vaudeville house, as a genteel pursuit. It had taken Miss Callida Prophet to show him how wrong he’d been. Not a day went by during which his ears weren’t assaulted by raucous music from the nursery-room piano. At least they hadn’t sullied the drawing room for their musical incursions.
Anne had used to play, too, but she knew what a piano was for. She and Becky had used to sing soft folk songs and pretty ballads. Never, in all the years of their marriage, had Aubrey ever heard a music-hall tune tinkle from Anne’s fingers through the piano keys.
This was not the case with Miss Callida Prophet. While Aubrey wouldn’t go so far, as to accuse her of frequenting saloons and vaudeville houses by herself, she’d evidently learned a lot from her male relatives and acquaintances. If, as was customary for her, she played There’ll Be a Hot Time in the Old Town Tonight or S, Aubrey might have to speak to her forcefully. Those two were among her and Becky’s favorites, to judge by how often they appeared on their musical agenda.
“Do you play, Miss Prophet?” Mark asked.
Aubrey watched him closely. He’d always liked and appreciated Mark Henderson. Mark was the best secretary Aubrey had ever employed, and he’d taken on additional responsibilities with cheer and ability. Aubrey intended to promote him as soon as he thought he could f
ind another acceptable secretary. He’d even envisioned a future partnership with Mark, should things work out that way.
At the moment, he was less than pleased with his secretary, however. He didn’t approve of the way Mark was hovering about Miss Prophet. It wasn’t right. It wasn’t proper.
It was perfectly logical, damn it.
“Yes, Mr. Henderson. Becky and I both play the piano.” Miss Prophet’s voice was quite musical. That wasn’t proper, either. She ought to have a boisterous voice to go with her boisterous personality. But, as Aubrey had to keep reminding himself, life was unfair about the little things, as well as the big ones.
“Miss Prophet’s much better than I am,” Becky said cheerfully. “She’s real good. She’s only just teaching me.”
“You’re an admirable student, Becky. You ought to hear her play Mary Had a Little Lamb, Mr. Henderson.”
A pang that could only be jealousy smote Aubrey when he saw Becky and Callie smiling at each other. Dash it, he ought to be happy that his daughter had found a good friend in her nanny. He passed a hand over his eyes and told himself that he was happy about it. It was only Old Bilgewater’s intrusion into the peace and quiet of his life that had rattled him.
“Let’s play one of our favorites, Miss Prophet!” Becky dashed over to the piano bench, opened it with both hands and a good deal of effort, and scanned the sheets of music inside.
Callie was close behind her. “Um, I think this evening will call for some more sober selections, Becky sweets. How about, um, well, let me see here.”
Mark, standing far too close to Miss Prophet, Aubrey decided, leaned over to look through the music, too. “What do you have in there?”
“Oh, we have lots and lots of stuff,” Becky said.
“Yes, indeed,” confirmed Callie. “Mr. Lockhart has a wonderful selection of piano music in here.”
Mark swooped. “Here’s one I like! It’s a funny one.”
“Oh, I love that one!” Becky took the sheet music from Mark’s hand and spread it on the walnut music stand. The Cat Came Back. She laughed.
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