“Aubrey,” came out on a gasp.
“Good morning, sleepyhead.” He sounded friendly, and unless it was her desperate wishes making her think so, even happy. She couldn’t recall too many times since she’d come to live here that he’d sounded happy.
“I—I should have left,” she stammered. “I guess I went to sleep.”
He came over to the bed and sat beside her, taking the hand with which she gripped the bedclothes over her naked bosom and prying it loose. He lifted her hand and nuzzled her palm. “I’m glad you didn’t leave me, Callie. That’s the first good night’s sleep I’ve had since . . . in a long time.”
“I’m glad.” He’d been going to say, since Anne died, but he’d caught himself. Trying to spare her feelings, Callie knew, and she sighed inside. “I slept well, too.”
“Good.” He rose, walked across the room, and fetched Callie’s nightgown and robe.
He’d collected their clothes, Callie noticed, and folded them neatly on the back of a carved teakwood chair. She glanced around his room as she hadn’t been able to do last night. It was a suite, rather, consisting of a sitting room with a large fireplace, a bathroom, and the room hi which the two of them now were, his bedroom. Gorgeous. Perfectly gorgeous. And soon Callie would share it with him.
Or maybe not. The truth was that Callie didn’t know what sleeping arrangements Aubrey had planned for them after they were wed. She guessed lots of couples had separate bedrooms. Perhaps there was another bedroom connected to this suite of rooms.
There was a lot she didn’t know about the running of the Lockhart mansion, although she’d pretty much been doing it since she moved in. Mrs. Granger had admitted she needed help running such a huge place, and Callie had gladly stepped in to assist her. Yet, she knew nothing about the master suite.
“Here you go,” Aubrey said, handing over her nightgown.
“Thank you.” Callie slipped the nighty on over her head. She had to tie the ribbons at her throat, which made her cheeks feel hot. Usually, her nighty remained tied from washing to washing. Last night’s activities had been exceptional. In more ways than one.
Aubrey sat on the bed again and leaned over to plant a kiss on her forehead. Callie felt herself blush furiously, and silently called herself all sorts of names. After what the two of them had done last night, there was no need to blush over so chaste a kiss as the one Aubrey had just bestowed on her.
“I trust you’ll change your mind about marrying me now, Callie.” He said it with a smile on his face, but his voice was serious. “I hope you will, because I think we’d make a good married couple.”
She’d been concentrating on subduing her blush and tying her ribbons with fingers that wanted to tremble, but she glanced up at that. “You do? Really?”
His smile relaxed some and appeared more genuine. “Really, I do. You’ve already earned Becky’s undying love, and I—have a great deal of admiration and—and—affection for you.”
Affection. Well, that was nice, wasn’t it? “Thank you. I—have affection for you, too.” Had she admitted her true feelings last night? She entertained a dreadful feeling she had.
“So, would you like a formal engagement and a big society wedding in San Francisco, Callie? Or would you be willing to have a smaller ceremony here in Santa Angelica? I understand that a young woman getting married for the first and, I trust, only time might prefer to do the thing grandly, but . . .”
He allowed the sentence to trail off, but Callie understood. He didn’t want to go through another huge, messy wedding ceremony. He’d done that once, with the woman he loved. Callie supposed she was a poor substitute for the perfect and ethereal—and dead—Anne.
The truth was, however, that she’d never fancied herself as a blushing bride marrying the man of her dreams in front of thousands. She didn’t care for crowds; she preferred gatherings of comrades. She’d be pleased to be wed in the little Methodist church in Santa Angelica with her family and friends surrounding her.
“I’d rather have a small wedding here in town, Aubrey. It would be more comfortable for me.”
He nodded, but his eyes narrowed. “Are you sure? I don’t want you to sacrifice any dreams on my account, Callie. Truly, I don’t.”
She believed him. In fact, her throat tightened so painfully with unshed tears and love that she could scarcely squeeze words out. “I’m telling the truth, Aubrey. I think I’d faint dead away if I had to endure a huge San Francisco wedding.”
He lifted an eyebrow. “Somehow I can’t imagine you fainting dead away at anything, Callie Prophet. You seem mighty indomitable to me.”
Indomitable, eh? Well, who knew? Maybe she was. Or maybe she’d only had to shoulder too much responsibility too early in her life. On that note, she swung her legs out of the bed, wincing slightly when the muscles she’d used for the first time last night protested. “Good. Then that’s settled.”
“Yes. Except for the timing. I’d . . . well, I’d like to get it—that is, I’d like to do it fairly soon, if that’s all right with you. Giving you plenty of time to get a dress and a wedding party together and all that.” He frowned. “I’m not sure what all goes into this sort of thing, but I know that women have to do a lot of work and organization beforehand.”
She grinned. “Yes, they do. I recall my sisters’ weddings, and my brother’s. My sisters ran themselves ragged. My brother only had to watch his future bride running herself ragged, along with her mother. Her father watched, too.”
“Please don’t run yourself ragged, Callie. I’ll hire whatever help you need.” He walked up to her and put his arms around her.
The gesture seemed so spontaneous and genuinely fond that Callie again found herself close to tears. This was ridiculous. She had to get herself under some kind of control.
Becky. If she thought about Becky and her nanny duties, she could climb out of the swamp of emotions that seemed to want to smother her. She did return his embrace, and with enthusiasm. She couldn’t help it.
It felt so good to be in his arms. She rubbed her cheek against the velvet of his robe and sighed deeply. “I’ve got to go see how Becky’s doing, Aubrey. She felt truly terrible yesterday, poor thing.”
“I’ll go with you,” he offered, allowing his arms to slide, but taking up her hand. “We should tell her the happy news.
She’ll be pleased.”
“Yes,” Callie said after thinking about it for a second or two. “I believe she will be.” And that eased her mind some. Until she remembered those blasted letters, and then she felt guilty again. “Um, maybe we ought to wait and see how she’s feeling.”
Aubrey complied easily, which led Callie to believe he didn’t care one way or the other. And why should he? He wasn’t harboring any guilty secrets, after all.
Becky was still sick. She’d been crying, Callie saw at once, and she was tossing fretfully in her bed. As soon as the door opened, she cried out in a pathetic voice, “Where have you been, Miss Prophet? I’m sick.”
“I’m so sorry, darling. I’m here now.” Rushing to the bed, Callie glanced at Aubrey and saw that he shared her concern for the little girl. She gave her head a little shake, and he seemed to understand its meaning: They’d save their news until Becky felt better.
“You’re still sick, pumpkin?” Aubrey’s deep voice drew his daughter’s gaze. Her cheeks burned with fever, and she nodded soulfully.
“Yes, Papa. I feel icky.”
He smiled at that. “I’m sure you do, and I’m sorry Becky.” After leaning over to kiss her hot forehead, he glanced at Callie. “Is there anything I can bring you, Callie?”
“Yes, please. If you could bring some water. And maybe a glass of orange juice, if Mrs. Granger has any oranges left. I think I’d better have this little trouper take another dose of salicylic powders.”
“I don’t want to!” Burying her face in Callie’s bathrobe, Becky started crying again.
Callie knew she only did so because she felt wretched, and sh
e held her tightly, rocking her back and forth. When she glanced up at Aubrey, he appeared worried. “Don’t fret, Aubrey. I believe it’s only a bad cold. Maybe a touch of influenza. Myrtle told me that some of her other students were ailing. She says this always happens this time of year.”
“Good God,” Aubrey muttered as he turned to do his errand. “I didn’t know school was bad for one’s health.”
Callie chuckled.
Becky sniffled and knuckled her eyes. She watched her father leave her room and turned to Callie. “Why’d he call you Callie? And you called him Aubrey, too.”
Fudge. Callie wished they’d been more careful. Yet it probably didn’t matter much. She wasn’t going to spring the news on Becky until she did so accompanied by Aubrey, but she could prepare her. “Your father and I are good friends, Becky. We decided it was silly to call each other Miss and Mister.”
Becky’s fevered cheeks pressed against Callie’s shoulder, and Callie felt the little head nod. “Can I call you Callie?”
Why not? Callie thought. She’d like Becky to call her Mama, but couldn’t very well tell her so now. Besides, Aubrey might not like it. She sighed. “Of course, you may, sweetie.”
“Thank you, Callie.”
A coughing and sneezing fit followed Becky’s thanks, and after producing a clean hankie, Callie hugged her more tightly. “Poor Becky. I’m sorry you feel so rotten, sweetie.”
“Me, too.” Becky sniffled disconsolately.
“After you take your powders and I eat breakfast, why don’t I bring up some books, and I can read to you when you feel like being awake. But when you want to sleep, please tell me, because that’s the best thing to do.”
“All right.”
She didn’t sound enthusiastic about Callie’s plan of action, but Callie chalked up her lack of interest to her illness. She was surprised when Mrs. Granger bustled into the room a few minutes later, since she’d expected Aubrey.
“Mr. Lockhart’s changing into his clothes,” the housekeeper explained. “I told him he had no business in the sick-room.”
“But I want my papa!” Becky wailed.
“Tut, child,” Mrs. Granger said. “He’s coming right along. He needs to change his clothes because he’s going to ride to Santa Angelica and fetch the doctor to come out here and see you. He can’t very well do that in his bathrobe and slippers, now can he?”
Slightly mollified, Becky sniffled some more. “I guess not.”
“I expect they’ll bring back a dose of quinine for you, too.”
“I’m glad he’s going to get a doctor. Which doctor do the Lockharts use?” Callie took the glass of orange juice from Mrs. Granger after the older woman had stirred in the powders.
“Dr. Marshall comes when there’s a need. Well, except for—well, you know, Callie.”
“Yes. I know.” Except for illnesses outside his scope, such as the late Mrs. Lockhart’s illness. “Here Becky, let me hold the glass, and you sip the juice.”
Every time Callie turned around, Anne’s tragic death seemed to slap her in the face. But that’s the way life worked, she told herself with a dash of practicality borrowed from some hidden cache of sanity still dwelling inside her. She went on to remind herself that she wouldn’t be the first woman in the world to marry a man because he needed a mother for his children. Love didn’t necessarily add happiness to a marriage; Callie had lived long enough to learn that much.
Why, just a few years ago one of Callie’s dearest friends had married the man she loved, and he’d turned out to be a miserable specimen. He drank and ran around with other women, blamed it all on Sylvia for not being perfect, and even hit her occasionally. Sylvia had finally left the brute and returned to Santa Angelica.
Fortunately, there’d been no children to suffer from the separation—or from the marriage—but Sylvia’s reputation had been marred. Divorce was an ugly word, but as far as Callie was concerned marriage to a man like Sylvia’s ex-husband was a far uglier fate than divorce. And, in the end, Sylvia had married Mr. Ambrose two year ago, primarily because Mr. Ambrose needed a woman to tare for his children. The last Callie had heard, the couple were doing very well, and Sylvia was much happier than she’d been in her first marriage.
Callie wasn’t unanimously supported in her opinion about divorce being preferable to a bad marriage—or, in Sylvia’s case, a dangerous marriage. Still, Callie had done what she could for Sylvia, remaining her friend and not avoiding her as some folks did, It really wasn’t fair.
But, there. It was silly to be thinking about men like the one Sylvia’d had the misfortune to marry for love. Callie already knew that Aubrey had been an exemplary husband to his Anne, and, even if he couldn’t love Callie, she knew he’d be a considerate husband to her. That would be enough for Callie. It would have to be.
“Can you drink any more juice, sweetheart?”
“It tastes horrid!”
Callie lifted the glass away a second before Becky’s hand would have knocked it out of her own. This show of temper was a product of Becky’s illness, Callie knew, and was uncharacteristic of the usually compliant child. “I know, sweetheart, but you need to drink it because it will make you feel better.”
“I like plain orange juice,” Becky wailed. Tears welled in her eyes and spilled down her cheeks. “That tastes icky!”
Callie felt awful for her. “Maybe Mrs. Granger can get you a fresh glass of juice, sweetheart. To drink after you finish this one.”
“I’ll run right downstairs and squeeze another couple of oranges.” Mrs. Granger suited her action to her words, and whirled around to go downstairs to her kitchen. She called back, “I’ll bring some breakfast for you, too, Callie.”
“Thank you.” Returning her attention to Becky, Callie said, “There. Now you finish this, and you’ll have some good-tasting orange juice in a jiffy.”
“I don’t want to.”
She sounded too pitiful for Callie to be angry with her over the rebellion. She was about to try to jolly her into drinking the rest of the medicine-laced juice when Aubrey returned, dressed for the road.
“What’s this I hear about my girl not taking her medicine?” He pitched his voice to sound mockingly severe, but Becky evidently heard the steel in it.
Whimpering miserably, she lifted her huge eyes and gazed at her father. If that look had been directed at her, Callie figured she’d melt, but Aubrey was made of sterner stuff. Becky’s pretty mouth trembled. “But it tastes horrid, Papa.”
He smiled at her, and Callie decided if that look had been directed at her, she’d also melt. Merciful heavens, but she loved that man. How strange, considering how much she’d disliked him in the beginning.
“Why don’t we let Callie wash up and get dressed, Becky, and I’ll force that stuff down your throat?” Aubrey winked at Becky, but it didn’t help much. She started crying again, softly.
Callie looked up at him, a question in her eyes, but Aubrey nodded. “Go on, Callie. Mrs. Granger’s fixing your breakfast and squeezing some more oranges. I hate to rush you, but I want to get to Dr. Marshall as soon as I can. You’ll probably feel better after a wash up. After all . . .”
He didn’t have to finish his thought, because Callie understood perfectly. Instinctively, she lifted her hands to her hair, which probably looked like she’d swept a floor with it. Her face felt hot when she arose, Becky still held in her arms.
“Right. Absolutely. Here. You’ll probably have to strap her down.”
Becky threw her arms around her father’s neck and buried her small face on his shoulder. “He won’t! Don’t strap me down, Papa! Please don’t.”
“Callie’s only teasing, Becky,” Aubrey said in so loving and gentle a tone, Callie would have swooned if she’d been the type of female who did such things.
She did stare, though, for far too many moments. When Aubrey sat on the bed and lifted an eyebrow at her, she realized she was in a trance and jerked out of it, swirling around and dashing for the door. �
��Right. I’ll hurry. Be right back.”
“Take all the time you need,”
She heard the laughter in his voice. It made her want to cry. Which only went to prove what a besotted fool she was.
Aubrey had been absolutely correct, however. She felt much better after she’d taken a quick bath—praising the Lord the whole time for having allowed people to discover the benefits of indoor plumbing—brushed and knotted her hair into a French coil, and donned a clean frock.
She was a little disconcerted to discover bloodstains on her nightgown. They were mere spots, really, and could probably be chalked up to her monthly courses having started during the night. God alone knew what Delilah would make of any blood stains on Aubrey’s sheets, but Callie couldn’t very well take the time to do anything about the sheets with Becky feeling so poorly.
With a sigh, she decided she and Aubrey weren’t the first couple—and undoubtedly wouldn’t be the last couple— who’d anticipated marriage by a few days or weeks. She didn’t know when Aubrey wanted to wed, but he’d mentioned sooner rather than later, which suited Callie.
First, however, they had to get Becky well.
And Callie had to confess about having read his letters to Anne. She didn’t want to. But she’d rather be pilloried in the Santa Angelica public square than begin marriage with the man she loved with a big guilty secret on her conscience.
Perhaps he wouldn’t be as upset as she feared he would be.
“Not very likely,” she muttered as she glanced in the mirror to make sure everything was in place and buttoned, and that her hair wasn’t lopsided where she’d pinned the coil up. “He’ll probably hate me.” Or at least be angry.
With a sigh, Callie knew she couldn’t very well blame him if he did get angry with her. She’d be pretty darned annoyed if anyone read her private correspondence. And she’d be downright furious if anyone read her love letters.
Not that she had any to read.
Bother. She was borrowing trouble again. Making only one further detour, down to the library, where she quickly selected The Adventures of Tom Sawyer, Adventures of Huckleberry Finn, and a volume of Edgar Allan Poe stories, she darted up the stairs, taking them two at a time, and hurried to Becky’s room. She felt much more the thing when she entered and saw Aubrey’s smile of approval.
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