“Hear! Hear!” murmured Alta.
“And another thing.” Callie had stood up by this time, and was leaning over Mrs. Bridgewater, who had somehow seemed to have shrunk in the last few moments. “How you, of all people, a relative of the late Mrs. Lockhart, could spread such malevolent calumnies about Mr. Lockhart is incomprehensible to me. That man is a saint. He adored his wife. He all but worshiped her. He was and still is devastated by her death. He hired me because Becky needed a female presence in her life. I may be a poor substitute for her mother, but at least I care, which you obviously do not, or you wouldn’t be spreading such insulting prattle.”
All of the women except Mrs. Bridgewater nodded. Mrs. Hurst had to draw a hankie out of her pocket and dash a tear away. “So sad,” she murmured. “So very sad.”
“You,” Callie went on, pointing at Mrs. Bridgewater, “are a malicious harpy!” And, with that, she turned on her heel and headed back to the group of children. Offhand, she couldn’t recall another time in her life when she’d been so angry. When Aubrey’s voice came to her from behind a hedge of daphne, she was so startled, she almost shrieked.
“Thank you for defending me, Miss Prophet.”
Whirling around, Callie saw that Aubrey was carrying Becky on his shoulders. It looked to her as if the little girl had been crying. She opened her mouth to ask what had happened, but nothing emerged.
Aubrey saved her the chore of finding her voice. “Becky fell down and skinned her knee, so I’m giving her a pony ride.”
With a pathetic cross between a giggle and a sniffle, Becky said, “Papa’s being the pony.”
From somewhere inside her, Callie found the wherewithal to smile at the child. “Papas make good ponies, especially if you have a sore knee, don’t they, Becky?”
Becky nodded.
“I think we ought to take you indoors and bandage your knee, sweetheart. What do you think about that?”
Another nod from Becky, this one accompanied by a sniffle.
Although she’d have liked to have spent a few more hours mentally beating Mrs. Bridgewater to a bloody pulp, as she deserved, Callie turned and waved to the group of women. “Alta! Becky hurt her knee and we have to go indoors to bandage it. Will you please keep this swarm of skating children from running wild for a few minutes?”
“Glad to!” Alta called back.
Several of the other mothers rose to assist her amid a sympathetic buzz and bustle, thereby leaving a wide empty patch around Mrs. Bridgewater, Callie was gratified by this show of support.
When Callie, Aubrey, and Becky entered the house, Mrs. Bridgewater was left to stew all by herself under the tent. Which, Callie said to herself, was merely appropriate. She wished a tree limb, or something heavier, would fall on her.
Aubrey and Callie took Becky to the kitchen and parked her on Mrs. Granger’s utility table in the middle of the room. Callie wetted a clean rag and rubbed soap on it, while Mrs. Granger tutted and clucked over Becky, and Becky explained how her accident had happened.
“I skated into a bush,” she said soberly. “And fell down on the pavement.”
“What a very bad bush!” said Mrs. Granger.
Becky smiled up at her. “It’s ‘cause I wasn’t looking.”
“Well, then, perhaps the bush isn’t so very bad,” Mrs. Granger amended, handing the little girl a piece of bread and jam to help soothe her battered soul.
Callie tried not to look at Aubrey as she reached for the ointment and bandages,
Had he thanked her out there on the driveway? She’d been so startled by his sudden appearance, she couldn’t recall. And if he had thanked her, why had he done so?
“All tight, Becky, Be a brave girl now, This will sting a little bit.”
“I’ll be brave.” Becky swallowed the last of her bread and jam.
It tore at Callie’s heart to see the twin trails of tears drying on the little girl’s pretty cheeks. “Hold on to the edge of the table, Becky. Sometimes it helps to hold on to something.”
“You can hold my hands, Becky,” Aubrey offered.
Callie was pleased to see Becky instantly reach for her father’s hands and hold on tight. Using the greatest care, she lifted Becky’s drawers up over the bloody knee. “This doesn’t look too bad, although I know it hurts, darling. I’ll try not to hurt you any more than I have to.”
“Thank you.”
Holding the small ankle so as to avoid getting kicked should Becky react to the soapy rag, Callie concentrated on her task, trying hard not to hurt the wound.
“I really do thank you, Miss Prophet.”
She glanced up quickly, and just as quickly returned her attention to the job at hand. After clearing her throat, she said, “For what, Mr. Lockhart?”
“For sticking up for me out there.”
Oh, good God, he’d heard. Callie’s lips pinched together for a second as anger against Becky’s great-aunt surged through her. “That woman,” she said through gritted teeth, “ought to be horsewhipped.” Immediately, she glanced up to see if Becky was paying attention to the adult conversation. She was looking pretty worried and seemed to be concentrating on her knee, so Callie hoped her last intemperate remark had passed over her head.
Aubrey chuckled. He had a deep chuckle that did odd things to Callie’s insides. “You’re probably right. Didn’t they used to do that to gossipmongers?”
“I don’t know, but I wish they still did.”
“What’s a ‘gossipmonger’?” Becky asked.
So much for her not following the adult conversation, Callie thought glumly.
She and Aubrey exchanged a glance, and Callie opted to answer the question. “A gossipmonger is a person who spreads gossip and tells tales on other people?”
“Oh. Miss Oakes says people like that are bad.”
“She’s right,” Aubrey said firmly. “Your teacher seems to have a good head on her shoulders, Becky.”
“She’s real nice.” Becky winced as Callie plied her soapy rag.
“I’m sorry, Becky. I’m almost through here. Then we’ll put some nice ointment on your poor knee and tie a bandage around it. Maybe I can find a colored ribbon to decorate it, and then you’ll have a birthday knee!”
Becky offered a tiny laugh, although Callie knew she was in pain.
“A birthday knee,” said Aubrey. “I’ve never heard of such a thing.”
“It’s better than a plain old bandaged knee,” Callie said in defense of her idea.
“Oh, much better,” he agreed, and Callie could tell he was amused rather than annoyed.
She felt slightly cheerier.
Ten minutes later, when the three of them emerged from the house, Becky’s leg sported a pristine white bandage and two pink ribbons that went nicely with her new pink-and-white checked gingham birthday dress and ruffled white pinafore.
Alta had done a good job in organizing skating races among the children, but they all stopped skating when they spotted Becky. Several of the children broke ranks and began wobbling toward the porch. Becky bounded down the stairs as if nothing of a painful nature had ever happened to her.
“Looky! I got a birthday knee!” She bent her knee and lifted her leg to show off her bandage. Callie thought that if Old Bilgewater—as Aubrey called her—was watching, she was undoubtedly scandalized at such a brazen display of frilly drawers.
The other children swarmed around Becky, desiring to see the knee. Callie turned to look at Aubrey and discovered he’d turned to look at her. Their gazes held for a moment before Callie wrenched hers away. “I guess she’ll live.”
“Looks like it,” he said. “You did a good job. Your birthday knee was a brilliant stroke.”
Unused to having compliments bestowed upon her from this source, Callie felt her neck get hot. She hoped like thunder she wouldn’t blush. “It was, wasn’t it?”
He chuckled.
Oh, but Callie wished he wouldn’t do that. Every time he chuckled, dark, trembly feelings tumble
d through her. It really wasn’t fair that Becky had showed her those letters, she decided unhappily. If she’d only known the Aubrey Lockhart who lived in this house now, a year after his wife had died, she’d probably not even like him much, mainly because she considered he’d been beastly to his daughter, whom she loved.
But Becky had showed her those letters, and Callie had read them, and, horror of horrors, she’d now managed to fall in love with Aubrey the letter writer. Life could get tangled up at the drop of a hat, blast it, and Callie didn’t approve.
*****
Shortly after the knee incident, Mrs. Granger and Delilah brought out a delicious luncheon for the children and their mothers. And, of course, Mrs. Bridgewater, who seemed to have lost some of her starch. Watching her, Callie wished she could lose even more of it. In fact, if she’d go somewhere and lose her whole self, the world would be a better place.
However, that was nothing to the purpose, and Callie didn’t dwell on it. She tried not to dwell on Aubrey, too, but was less successful.
Fried chicken, biscuits, potato salad, and Mrs. Granger’s famous coleslaw were served up to the throng of children, all of whom had worked up voracious appetites as they skated. Their mothers also dined well, although a couple of them tried to pretend they weren’t hungry. Callie knew better. Nobody could be not hungry in the face of one of Mrs. Granger’s feasts.
After the luncheon had been consumed, Becky’s favorite white cake with coconut frosting was brought out in style by Aubrey, who carried it as if he were carrying a crown to a queen. Callie followed with a tub of ice cream that two of the stable boys had spent the morning churning. The oohing and aahing that went on at the prospect of cake and ice cream made Callie’s heart glow.
The afternoon’s festivities came to a conclusion shortly after luncheon, and Callie found herself standing next to Aubrey and Becky and thanking the guests for their attendance at Becky’s party. She felt not unlike a matron herself under the circumstances, and she experienced a yearning in her soul that it should be so.
Which was nonsensical. It was also dangerous, as she learned when she glanced around to find Mrs. Bridgewater giving her a glacial stare. Because she couldn’t stand the woman and, even more, couldn’t bear the notion of gossip being spread about herself and Aubrey, Callie smiled at her. Mr. Bridgewater sniffed and turned her face away. Callie rolled her eyes.
“I’m going upstairs to rest, Aubrey,” Becky’s great-aunt said during the departure of the other guests. “I’m sure I’ve never been to a more unruly children’s party.”
Callie had to bite her tongue in order to prevent herself from asking exactly how many children’s parties the old hag had attended. Fortunately, Aubrey did it for her,
“Oh?” he said, his own eyes glittering ominously. “And how many children’s parties have you attended, Mrs. Bridgewater?”
The woman sniffed. “Several.”
“I see. Well, since most seven-year-olds have much more energy than adults of your years, I should advise you not to attend any more than you can avoid in the future.”
Callie’s mouth fell open in surprise at that smart thrust. She expected Mrs. Bridgewater to launch a counter-attack, but she didn’t. She said only, “I believe that children should be disciplined,” and marched into the house.
Becky reached up and tapped Callie’s hand to get her attention, which was just as well, since Gallic was wasting time watching Bilgewater and wondering how a person could get to be that way. She smiled at Becky. “Yes, lovie?”
“What’s ‘dis’plin,’ and is it bad not to have it?”
Aubrey choked. “Ha!”
“Discipline is manners, sweetheart, and you have wonderful manners for a girl your age,”
“Don’t pay any attention to Great-Aunt Evelyn,” Aubrey advised his daughter dryly. “She doesn’t believe in having fun herself, and she wants the whole rest of the world to be miserable along with her.”
Becky still looked puzzled. “But is it bad to have fun?” she asked in a small voice.
Callie fielded that one, “Good heavens, no! Having fun is the whole purpose of a party.”
“Then I don’t understand.”
“Don’t fret about it, Becky,” Aubrey said. “Nobody understands your great-aunt. Your mama didn’t understand why she’s so grumpy all the time, I don’t understand it, and I’m sure Miss Prophet doesn’t understand it, either.”
“True,” Callie said, this warm feeling of inclusion she’d begun to harbor beginning to worry her. She didn’t dare let herself get used to feeling as if she were part of the family; such a path was dangerous and might lead to sorrow and heartbreak should she have to leave this job for any reason.
Adopting her no-nonsense-nanny manner, as soon as the last carriage rolled away, she swooped down and picked Becky up. “I imagine you, young lady, could use a rest right about now.”
“I’m not tired,” Becky cried, appalled at the prospect of being made to take a nap. “Besides, I’m seven now!”
Aubrey laughed softly and chucked her under the chin. “You are, indeed, Becky. You’re a big girl.”
“Yes, you are,” Callie agreed, severely lecturing her heart to stop pretending she belonged to this family. “But even big girls need to rest after exciting parties. I’m older than you are, and I’m exhausted. Although you may not need to rest, I do.”
“Do I have to go to sleep?”
“No. I think we ought to go up to the nursery and read and draw for a little while. That’s rest enough for a seven-year-old, I think.”
This news cheered Becky considerably. “Oh, good! I can draw with those new colored pencils you gave me.”
“Brilliant idea,” said Callie.
Aubrey smiled at the two of them. Callie felt as if she’d been purposely included in one of his smiles. The sensation threatened to knock her cockeyed for a second before she regained her composure.
He left them at the foot of the, staircase and went in the direction of his office. Callie breathed a small sigh and put Becky down so that she could walk upstairs under her own steam. “You’re getting too big for me to carry around much longer, Becky. You’re as heavy as a sack of flour.”
The little girl laughed and ran up the stairs, birthday knee and all. Worn out after the day’s festivities—not to mention the planning that had gone into carrying them off—Callie followed more slowly.
Becky had already fetched some paper and her new colored pencils by the time Callie got to the nursery door. Personally, Callie could use a nap, but she’d had sufficient experience with young children to know it would be better not to force Becky to lie down. Better that she play quietly for a while and allow her mind to catch up with her body enough to realize it craved a nap, too. “Are you going to draw a picture of your party, Becky?”
The little girl nodded. “I want to send a picture to Mama. I think she’d like it that we went roller skating at the party.”
Callie’s heart squeezed. “I’m sure she would.”
Nodding, Becky settled into a low chair and opened up the box containing her pencils. “I’m gonna draw a picture of my birthday knee, too.”
“I’d forgotten all about your knee, sweetheart. How does it feel?”
“It’s fine.”
Callie saw that Becky was concentrating hard on drawing a picture, so she didn’t press the issue of her knee. She was pleased that Becky didn’t seem inclined to use her injury for sympathy as might have been expected of a child who’d been left to flounder without attention for an entire year.
She tried to drum up some indignation against Aubrey on Becky’s behalf, but didn’t have enough energy left after Becky’s party. Besides, she’s seen something today that made her wonder yet again if she’d been too hard on Aubrey.
He’d actually enjoyed himself once or twice during the party. Callie realized that for the first time his customary austere, haunted look had vanished and had been replaced by one of friendliness and interest—several
times, in fact. She supposed he’d been used to looking friendly and interested before Anne took sick.
Perhaps he was beginning to put his grief behind him. Maybe he’d even turn human again, one of these days.
Which would be good for Becky. And perhaps for Callie, too.
*****
Aubrey had intended to get some work done after Becky’s party, but he found himself brooding over several other issues instead. He sat at his desk, drumming his fingers and frowning out the window, watching in a desultory way as the household staff dismantled the tent and removed the other vestiges of the day’s festivities.
He wished the idea of remarriage would go away and leave him in peace. For some reason, once he’d allowed the notion to enter, it seemed to want to take over all of his thought processes. Dash it, what was the matter with him?
Then again, he thought, he oughtn’t to he too hard on himself. After all, there probably wasn’t a man alive who wasn’t occasionally troubled by carnal impulses. Aubrey, neither religious scholar nor psychologist, had a sneaking feeling that men’s carnal impulses were one of the reasons the institution of marriage had been invented in the first place. The good Lord had known what He was doing. Aubrey’s own experience with sexual matters had led him to believe that if it were left to women to initiate such contact, far fewer children would be born into this sorry world. Heaven forefend that the race should die out.
He passed a hand over his eyes and railed at himself for becoming cynical. Hell, he wasn’t even old yet, and already he was thinking like an ancient, embittered man.
With the exception of Anne’s death, if anything could be excepted from that, his life had been remarkably lucky. He had money, a successful business, two lovely houses, a beautiful daughter, and . . . and . . . and what?
And nothing.
“Dash it, man, stop wallowing. You’ve been wallowing for two years now, and it’s unbecoming.”
Not only that, but it wasn’t fair to Becky.
Giving Becky a new mother, and one, moreover, whom she already cared for, would be doing Becky a good turn. And about time, too. If he married Miss Prophet, he’d be ensuring that she remained in Becky’s sphere, too.
Heaven Sent Page 18