Oh, yes, Aubrey recalled at once. They liked that one, too. Probably because of that damned cat Miss Prophet had inflicted on his household. Monster was a good name for him.
“Well, really.”
Miss Prophet shot a glance at Bilgewater. “Um, perhaps we ought to start out with a folk tune,” she said, thereby demonstrating a far better understanding of social proprieties than Aubrey would have credited her with.
“Sure,” agreed Becky. “Want to sing The Ash Grove? I love that one It’s real pretty.”
“Perfect, sweetheart.” Miss Prophet withdrew a second piece of sheet music and placed it over The Cat Came Back.
“Would you like me to play first, Becky?”
Becky settled herself next to Miss Prophet on the piano bench. “Yes, please.”
Aubrey watched the two young ladies with a small ache in his heart. Anne and Becky used to sit exactly that way. Only Becky had been much younger then. She was growing up so fast. She was going to be seven years old in October. It didn’t seem possible.
As Callie played the first few chords, Becky folded her in her lap and looked eagerly at the music. Mark leaned against the piano, a baby grand that Aubrey had bought for Anne on their first wedding anniversary, and gazed soulfully at Callie. Bilgewater sat in a chair as overstuffed as she was and watched with an expression of clear disapproval on her face. Observing it all, Aubrey wondered if his life would ever be happy again. He doubted it.
“ ‘Down yonder green valley, as streamlets meander . . .’ ”
The lovely old tune filtered through the memories in Aubrey’s mind. Anne used to sing it, too. The ache in his heart cranked up a notch. Miss Prophet possessed a nice voice. Not nearly as nice as Anne’s had been, but perfection happens so seldom in life that Aubrey didn’t fault her for it. Besides, Anne’s voice had been a lilting soprano. Miss Prophet sang in a lower range. In a choir, she’d be an alto, Aubrey supposed.
For a moment, he allowed himself to wonder how Anne and Callie would have sounded singing together. Fine, he’d bet, and he wished he could hear their duet. But he tried not to dwell on impossibilities, so he set that thought aside almost as soon as it entered his head. Becky and Miss Prophet’s voices blended together sweetly. When Mark entered the lists in a tolerable baritone, Miss Prophet smiled up at him without missing a note.
Dash it, how dare Mark do his wooing here, in Aubrey’s house? Aubrey rose from his chair and marched over to the piano. He took a place against the piano on the other side from Mark, who had, Aubrey noted sourly, chosen to stand on Miss Prophet’s side of the piano bench.
Becky smiled up at her papa, surprised and gratified unless Aubrey missed his guess, and he decided it was better this way. He, too, began to sing, in a musical bass. He and Anne had enjoyed singing together, especially at Christmastime, when they’d entertained family and visitors with renditions of favorite carols. His heart still ached as he sang, although the pain eased slightly the longer Miss Prophet played.
After The Ash Grove, she struck up an introduction of My Wild Irish Rose. From there, they went on to The Red River Valley, and then Callie played the opening bars of Lorena.
After the last note of that venerable old chestnut had died away, Mark spoke up. “I think we ought to play something a little livelier now. How about The Sidewalks of New York?”
“Oh, yes!” Becky gazed big-eyed at Mark. “Miss Prophet does a splendid New York accent, Mr. Henderson. You ought to hear her. She’s so funny!”
Laughing, Mark said, “I’d like to hear that.”
“It’s quite something.” Aubrey smiled at Miss Prophet.
From the frown she offered him in return, Aubrey guessed his smile had been a little too catlike for her.
He glanced at Bilgewater, who glowered at him, as disapproving as ever. No surprise there. Aubrey wondered when she’d last approved of anything, and guessed that it was before his own birth. To hell with the old biddy. “I think that’s a wonderful idea, Mark.” To Callie, he said, “Strike up the band, Miss Prophet.”
Becky laughed again. Miss Prophet’s smile appeared rather strained. Nevertheless, she played and sang gamely. She did manage to produce ‘a fairly credible accent, from what Aubrey recalled of his visits back East,
“Can we play The Cat Came Back now?” Becky asked after they’d nailed The Sidewalks of New York to the wall.
Miss Prophet sighed gently. “I expect so, Becky. And then, we ought to get you to bed.”
Although Becky looked disappointed, she didn’t argue. Aubrey wondered how one man—he—could have been blessed with such a combination of foul and good luck. Of course, the foul luck, Anne’s death, had come about directly from his good luck, which had been attaining her in the first place. And the good luck of having such a glorious daughter as Becky was the result of that same good luck.
Ah, Anne, he thought suddenly, why did you have to leave us?
But there never had been, and never would be, an answer to that one, he knew.
Callie started playing The Cat Came Back. Aubrey, glancing at old Bilgewater, saw that she was now scowling hideously.
He rolled his eyes and wondered how one woman could be so unpleasant. She must have gathered unto herself all the unpleasantness that had skipped the other members of the Harriott family. None of Anne’s other relatives was a sourpuss.
The first verse of the song passed without incident. Becky’s clear childish soprano chimed merrily along with Callie’s alto and Mark’s baritone. Aubrey decided to play onlooker during this particular piece. The three singers clearly enjoyed the chorus.
“ ‘. . . thought he was a goner, but the cat came back for it wouldn’t stay away,’” they all sang, exhibiting various degrees of melodrama.
The singers were well into the second verse before Aubrey knew anything in his household, other than the usual, was amiss. They had just sung, “caught the cat behind the ear,” when a shriek issued from the overstuffed woman on the overstuffed chair. Miss Prophet, startled, brought her hands down on the piano keys in a discordant, jarring note. Becky shouted, “What!” and Mark jumped at least a foot.
“Oh!” bellowed Bilgewater. “What is it? Oh, get it away from me!”
All of the singers swiveled to take in the spectacle of the maroon matron, eye to eye with a huge black cat, fluffed out to twice his normal size, which was immense to begin with, and with his back arched into the classic witch’s-familiar pose.
Callie slapped a hand to her cheek. “Oh, no!”
Becky sat silent and stared, goggle eyed, at Bilgewater and the cat.
Mark, agog, muttered, “What the . . . ?”
It was, therefore, left to Aubrey to march across the drawing room carpet and reach for the cat. “It’s only Monster, Mrs. Bridgewater.” He tried to sound matter-of-fact,
Bilgewater’s face had gone as purple as her gown. “A monster? It’s a cat!” she screamed.
“Of course,” said Aubrey. “Obviously, it’s a cat.” He turned and glowered furiously at Callie, who jumped up from the piano bench.
“Oh, dear. I thought he was upstairs. I’m so sorry, Mrs. Bilge—ah Mrs. Bridgewater.” She hurried over to Aubrey and the menace.
“It’s only Monster,” Becky piped up. “He’s a nice cat. Honest, he is, Great-Aunt Evelyn.”
Bilgewater rose from her chair like something out of a horror novel. A creature from a crypt couldn’t have looked more dangerous, Aubrey thought. He thrust the cat into Miss Prophet’s outstretched arms, “Here,” he said. “Take this thing out of here.”
“Certainly, Mr. Lockhart.” Callie gazed in consternation at Mrs. Bridgewater, who was eyeing her and the cat as if they were Satan and one of his minions. She stammered, “I—I’m so sorry, Mrs. Bridgewater. Monster’s usually shut up in my room during mealtimes. I don’t know how he managed to get out.”
“I have never,” Mrs. Bridgewater said in a tone so frigid, the very air around her seemed to freeze, “been so insulted.”
“Well!”
Aubrey watched with fascination as Bilgewater’s already huge bosom swelled until he feared she might pop right out of her bodice. Fearing the result of such a happenstance—if there was one female whose bosom he had no desire to see, ever, it was Bilgewater—Aubrey finally found his voice.
Since he wanted Becky to be comfortable even more than he didn’t want to see Bilgewater burst her moorings, he opted not to make her say good night to her great-aunt. He dropped a kiss on the top of her head and said, “Good night, Becky. Sleep tight.”
He was glad he’d thought of his daughter first when she offered him a tentative, but visibly grateful, smile and said, “ ’Night, Papa. I will, thank you.”
She skipped out of the room with Miss Prophet and Monster, whose fur had settled back into its normal overly fluffy, but not bristling, state. Aubrey heard her say, “I don’t know why Great-Aunt Evelyn doesn’t like you, Monster. I think you’re a fine cat.” She sounded, in short, exactly like Miss Prophet.
Bilgewater’s voice cut into his thoughts. “That woman ought to be dismissed, Aubrey. Immediately.” Mrs. Bridgewater’s voice shook with rage. “She’s a terrible influence on Rebecca. She’s impertinent and impolite and shouldn’t have the care of such a small child. I have never been so insulted.”
Aubrey sighed as his gaze left the retreating young ladies and fastened once more on his daughter’s great-aunt. He deliberately narrowed his eyes and thought to himself exactly what Callie had so imprudently said aloud. He said, “Oh. Do you really think so?” in a tight voice. To himself, he added, You must have met up with only extremely tolerant and insufferably polite people until now. And I’ll be damned if I’ll dismiss Miss Prophet just because you don’t like her. Talking back to you is the first thing she’s ever done of which I approve wholeheartedly.
Bilgewater swelled some more. “Aubrey Lockhart, it is not my intention to remain in this house to be bedeviled by a hireling.”
“Nobody’s bedeviling you, Mrs. Bridgewater.” Aubrey frosted his own voice to match hers. “You’re the one who came here unannounced. We’ve done nothing but try to be polite to you, even when you threatened to remove Becky from her home and my care.”
“I? Threatened you? I?”
Now her eyes had started to bulge. Aubrey had a momentary mental image of Great-Aunt Evelyn’s inner self bursting out of her skin and clothes, and pieces of her flying all over the drawing room. He shuddered and made himself stop thinking such things.
“Yes,” he said. “You. You threatened to remove my child from my care. And I shall never forget that piece of insufferable meddling, believe you me.” He gave her a steely-eyed stare to show her that she wasn’t the only one in the household who could be unpleasant if he chose to be.
“Never. Never have I been so insulted. Deliberately insulted. I’m ashamed to be related to you, Aubrey Lockhart, even by marriage.” She deflated slightly and began moving toward the drawing-room door.
Mark, about whom Aubrey had forgotten entirely, darted to the door and bowed civilly to her. Thank, God for Mark, Aubrey thought, even though mere minutes earlier he’d wanted to thrash him.
“Good night, Mrs. Bridgewater,” Mark said pleasantly as she passed him—not unlike a steamer passing out of a harbor and into the open sea. Aubrey shook his head to clear it of these images that seemed to want to take it over. “Pleasant dreams.”
She gave Mark a superior huff and stalked toward the stairway. Mark glanced at Aubrey and gave a shrug of his shoulders, as if to say, “I did my best. Guess I might have left out the ‘pleasant dreams’ part.”
“You’re a hero, Mark.” Aubrey walked over to stand beside his secretary.
Together they watched Bilgewater navigate the hallway and tackle the stairs. Aubrey muttered, “I hope she makes it all the way to the top without giving out. I don’t think the two of us together are strong enough to carry her to her room if she faints from indignation.”
Mark grinned. “I’m afraid you’re right.”
But they needn’t have worried. Mrs. Bridgewater managed to climb the entire stairway and make her way to the bedroom Mrs. Granger had prepared for her. Aubrey and Mark went to the foot of the stairs and listened. They both sighed with relief when they heard the bedroom door close behind her.
“Saved by the cat,” Mark said, grinning
“Saved?” Aubrey squinted at his secretary. “If you say so. I’m not so sure, myself.”
“Heck, the cat got rid of her, didn’t he? I was afraid she’d sit there and glare at us all night long.”
Aubrey headed for the brandy decanter. “There is that, I guess. And I don’t think she can remove Becky from my custody.”
“Good God.” Mark looked stricken. “She couldn’t possibly do such a thing. Could she?”
“I don’t think so. I am, after all, Becky’s father, and I believe the courts take a dim view of great-aunts pilfering children from their parents’ homes. No matter what Bilgewater seems to think.” He poured out a stiff one and held out the snifter to Mark. “I think we deserve at least one of these.”
“I think you’re right.” Mark took the snifter and inhaled the aroma of the fine old cognac Aubrey had imported from France.
Aubrey held out his glass in a toast. “To Monster.”
Mark clinked his own snifter to Aubrey’s. “To Monster.”
The two men drank that tot of brandy and had another before they, too, went upstairs to their beds.
After he undressed and put on his nightshirt, Aubrey sat on the edge of his bed, buried his head in his hands, and reviewed the evening’s events in his mind. When he got to the part where Great-Aunt Evelyn and Monster had stood staring at each other, he unburied his head and grinned. He wished someone would invent a camera that could capture such moments for all time. When he got gloomy, as happened too often these days, all he’d have to do would be to take out the picture of the confrontation and glance at it in order to cheer up.
The notion of Bilgewater attempting to take Becky from him wiped the grin from his face, however.
“The frightful old cow.” He swung his feet up and stuck them under the covers. “Her gall and nerve are almost as immense as she is.”
Even though he’d begun to steam under the influence of thoughts of Evelyn Bridgewater, Aubrey’s bed was cold. He guessed it was time to haul out the bed socks Anne had knitted for him five years before. He’d never had to wear them when Anne was alive—or, at least, not until the last year or so.
With a sigh, Aubrey allowed his thoughts to drift. Remembering Anne and all of her charming and kindly ways always made him melancholy.
He feared Miss Prophet had been right about him. He had neglected Becky. What a galling admission that was. Still, he had been unkind to Becky during this past year. He ought not to have become so entangled with his own feelings of loss. He should have been available for his daughter. Well, he was aware of his failing now, and he’d do better from now on. He’d already begun to improve. Even Miss Prophet, if she were honest, would have to admit as much.
He recalled her parting words to old Bilgewater, and went to sleep with a grin on his face.
Chapter Nine
On Becky’s very first day of school, Callie drove Becky to Santa Angelica in Aubrey’s pony cart. Becky was as excited as Callie had ever seen her. She’d written a special letter to her mother the evening before, which Callie had promised to post, detailing how much she was looking forward to starting school.
Mis Prophet nos the teacher, the little girl had written. And she says she is very nice.
And that was the truth. Callie and Myrtle Oakes had gone all through school together. If Santa An
gelica ever required the services of a third teacher, Callie had aimed to apply for it—until she’d secured her current position. Now she wasn’t so sure she wanted to leave Becky in order to teach. At all odds, she and Myrtle were the best of friends, and they’d spoken often about how nice it would be to work together.
Aubrey had dragged himself away from his business long enough to wave at them from the massive front porch of the Lockhart mansion. He’d even carried Becky to the pony cart, kissed her, and wished her well on her first day of school.
The mid-September morning air felt rather chilly, so Becky wore a bright red sweater, knitted especially for her by Mrs. Granger, over the new blue-flowered school dress Callie had made for her. She looked charming, with her cheeks glowing from good health and excitement, and in her new shoes and stockings. Mrs. Granger had packed her a lunch, which she carried in her new tin lunch pail.
Callie could tell Becky felt grown-up. “Did you remember the apple to give to Miss Oakes?”
Becky bounced on the seat. “Yes, ma’am.” Then she grinned. She and Callie had been practicing Becky’s school manners, and ma’ams were new to her.
“Very good, Becky. I’m sure you’ll be a wonderful student.”
“I already know how to read and write a little.”
“Yes, you do. More than a little, I’d say. I was impressed with your knowledge of letters.”
“My mama taught me.”
Callie was interested to observe that Becky no longer sounded sad and wistful whenever she spoke of her late mother. Of course, that might be the result of time helping to heal the wound, or the natural resilience of children. But Callie believed at least some small part of the little girl’s recovered spirits was due to her own presence in Becky’s life. Or at least she hoped so.
“You’re already very good with your letters, Becky. I’m sure Miss Oakes will be pleased.”
“Thank you. I hope I’ll do well in school. I told Papa I’d try real hard.”
Hmph. As if Aubrey cared.
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