“Miss Archer—Rose—I believe it would be fine and proper. Truly. You are my assistant, and we’ve just successfully navigated the first week of school. Mind you, it isn’t always as smooth as this has been. Trust me—we deserve a small celebration.”
Rose smiled as he held her jacket for her. His eyebrows rose as his hands brushed the back of her neck, under her copper curls, surprised at the heat he felt in his fingers. He quickly drew them back and reached for his own coat, shaking the sensation off.
“After you,” he said as he held the door open for her, the sound of her skirt swishing through the door leaving him with a smile.
The walk to the restaurant was brief, and he tipped his hat to several people on the boardwalk. He realized he’d made some friends here already, and it seemed that the people he didn’t know, Rose did. She smiled and waved at them all, her cheery manner keeping his mood light, also. She seemed to take things very calmly and he’d noticed earlier how at ease she’d been, a natural, with the younger students, keeping them all in check.
As he pulled her chair out at Bailey’s Restaurant, he decided to mention it. He sat down opposite her and said, “You did a fine job this week at the schoolhouse. I was very impressed at your ability to keep so many young ones in line. Lily and Lucy were model students.”
His heart warmed at her shy smile, and he noticed the color come up in her cheeks as she cast her eyes down at the table, her long, dark lashes covering her eyes. He frowned—he’d not meant to embarrass her. Quite the contrary. It was a compliment that was truly sincere.
“Thank you, Mr. Tate.”
“Michael,” he corrected her. He wasn’t quite sure why, but he wanted her to call him by his given name—and to get to know her better. “Have you had much experience with young children before now?” The words were barely out of his mouth before he remembered her family—and he colored a bit at his silly question.
Rose laughed, her smile bright and her eyes lively. “I have five sisters, only one older than I am. Surely you haven’t forgotten them all at the table when you came for supper.”
“I do apologize. That seems long ago, and I’d forgotten. You must have gotten quite an education in small children in a household like that. It seems very foreign to me as an only child.”
Her hand rose to her chest, her look of surprise causing him to laugh.
“I imagine you can’t fathom what it would be like to be an only child.” He looked up from his menu at the room, seeing only a man behind a display case and a young woman moving from table to table. No sign of Sammy.
“No, I certainly can’t. It must have been very...quiet.”
“Actually, it didn’t seem so to me. My family—my parents—had an Italian restaurant and we lived above it. I had many aunts and uncles and cousins, so it probably wasn’t as quiet as it would normally be as an only child.”
“A restaurant? How lovely,” Rose said. “I loved cooking with my mother but don’t have much opportunity to do so these days. Maria’s taken over the kitchen.” She smiled and glanced around the small restaurant. “What kind of restaurant was it?”
Michael laughed loudly and the waitress turned their way and smiled. “Italiano, of course,” he said. “What else?”
Rose smiled and his face heated at the twinkle in her eyes. She truly was a beautiful rose. He shook his head away from the thought that his mother would like her very much.
The young waitress approached their table, and Rose ordered soup—after the waitress told them the special of the day was potato chowder—and a piece of pie.
“The same for me, young lady,” he said. Before the waitress could turn to leave, he added, “Is Sammy here?”
She whipped back around toward him, her eyes wide as she looked from him to the man behind the counter and back. “Uh...um...he’s in the back...he’s busy.” She turned away quickly and went behind the counter, whispering in the ear of the man they’d seen when they walked in.
Michael placed his napkin in his lap and smiled at Rose, her eyebrows raised as she watched the exchange.
“Who’s Sammy?” she asked as her eyes trailed to the waitress and the man behind the counter.
“I believe he’s one of the young boys we saw at the gate days ago. One who was not in school.”
“Oh,” she said quietly as she craned her neck to see behind the counter. “I wonder if—”
Michael stood as the man the waitress had whispered to came to their table. Michael stuck out his hand and said, “Hello. I’m Michael Tate, the new headmaster at the schoolhouse, and this is my assistant, Miss Archer.”
Rose nodded her head at the man as she placed her napkin in her lap.
The man stopped and looked down from Michael’s gaze to his hand and back up again. He slowly reached his hand out, quickly shaking Michael’s before letting his hand drop to his side. “Name’s Bailey. I hear you’re asking after Sammy,” he said as he folded his arms over his chest.
“Well, yes, I am, Mr. Bailey,” Michael said, producing the widest smile he could. He’d had experience with parents who chose or were forced to keep their kids from school—and as he still wasn’t sure which category this situation fell into, he’d decided that humor and kindness would be his safest bet. “I noticed he wasn’t in school this week. Perhaps you weren’t aware that it started?”
Mr. Bailey rubbed the back of his neck and blew out a deep breath. He looked from Michael to Rose, and back to Michael again. He searched the room for the young waitress, and when he caught her eye, she smiled and nodded at him, and as she did, Michael noticed the resemblance between the two.
Michael sat down as Mr. Bailey pulled over a chair from the table next to them and turned it around. He threw his leg over the seat and rested his arms on the back of the chair and he glanced at Rose and lowered his eyes, resting his head on his hands.
Michael stole a glance at Rose. Her hand was on her chest and she seemed unable to take her eyes off Mr. Bailey. Michael felt he knew what was coming, and it was exactly what he’d hoped Rose would hear.
Mr. Bailey exhaled a deep breath, lifted his head up and said, “I know Sammy should be in school, Mr. Tate. I do. All my children should be.” The waitress who shared his coloring walked up behind him, resting her hand on his shoulder as her eyes misted. “Including my daughter, here, Maddy.” He looked up at her and their eyes met. He patted her hand that rested on his shoulder and shook his head.
Maddy, who Michael thought looked to be about fourteen, squeezed her father’s shoulder. “It’s not our fault, sir. We were all in school last year, then Mama died, and...”
Mr. Bailey turned to look at his daughter. “It’s all right, Maddy. I can explain. Those folks over there need help,” he said, pointing to a table by the window.
Maddy smiled, nodded at her father and crossed the room to the table.
“She tries to protect me. Since their mama died, it’s been pretty rough on all of us.”
Michael turned to Rose in time to see her wipe away a tear and quickly replace her napkin in her lap. He suddenly remembered that her mother had passed away fairly recently, also, and his heart clenched at the thought of these two families and what grief they must be suffering.
“I do understand, Mr. Bailey, more than you know,” Rose said warmly, reaching out and placing her hand on Mr. Bailey’s arm. “But don’t you think it best that the children continue in school?”
“Easy for you to say, ma’am. My wife and I ran this place on our own pretty well, but since she died—well, I need all the help I can get. Need to feed this family, and there’s not enough spare to hire anybody. The kids have to help. It’s the only way.”
Michael snapped his head to Rose as she drew in a sharp breath. She brought her napkin to her mouth as she looked down at the table. His heart tugged, but he hoped now that seeing directly in front of her what kinds of troubles some families had, she might understand and that it would make things easier for her.
Chapter 22
Rose smiled at Maddy as she set down their soup, but couldn’t help the nagging in the pit of her stomach. She’d listened to Mr. Bailey and understood his predicament—she certainly knew what it was like to lose a mother—but she still felt that possibly there was something to be done.
She glanced around the room, smiling and nodding at Mr. Bailey, but hoping mostly to see Sammy or his brother. She couldn’t help but wonder if they were part of the group of boys that had been hanging around the school yard. If they were, that would at least show that they were eager to learn.
She craned her neck to peer into the kitchen when the door swung open but couldn’t quite get a glimpse of anyone in there. Her eyes came back to Michael, and her face flushed under his gaze.
“Your soup is getting cold, Rose. Maybe we’ll get to meet the boys before we go.”
She wondered how he’d known exactly what she was thinking. He was quite an interesting man—and, she had to admit, very handsome—and seemed to have the same philosophies about education and the world that she did. How was it that he was so willing to let this go, when children needed to be in school?
Michael dipped into his soup and closed his eyes, smiling. He reached for the pepper shaker and shook a liberal amount in his soup, distracting Rose from her thoughts.
“This is very good, isn’t it?” she asked as she raised her spoon to her lips and blew on the hot soup.
“It’s one of the things I miss most about not being in Boston. And my family’s restaurant.” He leaned forward across the table and whispered, “Don’t tell Mr. Bailey, but it’s not as good as at my parents’ restaurant.” He winked at Rose and took another spoonful of soup. “But it’ll do in a pinch, especially as I don’t cook myself.”
Rose stirred her soup and frowned. “Where do you eat?” She couldn’t imagine not knowing how to cook.
He laughed. “I’ve become familiar with just about every restaurant in town—the Occidental being my favorite.”
Rose’s eyes lit up. “I’m so pleased to hear you say that. Sadie and Tripp have worked very hard to make it a success.”
“Yes, they certainly have, and Tripp is a fine chef. In fact, he’s promised to make a special dish this weekend. I am feeling a little homesick for Italian food.”
Rose smiled at the thought of Tripp’s happiness at being able to create something new for Michael. “I have no doubt that he will thoroughly enjoy himself in making a special dish for you.”
“Do you enjoy Italian food, Rose?” Michael asked as he leveled his gaze at her, his head cocked to one side.
“Oh, yes, I do. My mother loved to cook and every Sunday, she tried a different cuisine, some from around the world. It was our Sunday tradition.” Her eyes clouded at the memory and she dropped her eyes to her soup bowl.
“That sounds like a lovely tradition. As your mother can no longer provide such feasts, would you like to join me on Sunday for dinner at the Occidental? I am looking forward to seeing what Tripp has in store.”
Her spoon stopped halfway to her mouth and she looked up quickly to see if he was teasing her. Her stomach fluttered at the intensity in his eyes. He didn’t look away and appeared to be waiting for an answer.
Rose remembered that he was betrothed—she couldn’t forget, as much as she’d tried—and his future wife would be arriving soon. Surely, he hadn’t forgotten that and his request was just for company, by his assistant.
“We could talk more about how to help these students, I suppose,” she said, hoping he would confirm that it was a “business” event rather than pleasure. “Maybe Suzanne and James could join us. Otherwise, it would be improper for us to go to dinner in the evening, Michael.”
He rubbed his chin, his eyes clouding. “Oh, yes. That,” he said, picking up his spoon.
She decided that changing the subject would be for the best although every part of her was urging her to say, “Yes. I would love to join you.”
“How is it that your family owns a restaurant and you don’t know how to cook?”
He stirred his soup and set down his spoon, his eyebrows raised at the change of subject, but he nodded. “Rose, I very much enjoy your company and—”
“It would be improper for us to go to dinner in the evening, Michael,” Rose interrupted him before he said something neither one of them should hear. “You are scheduled to be married, your future wife arriving any day now.” Rose looked down, her hands clenched together, her knuckles white as she spoke the very difficult words. She’d never thought when she started volunteering at the schoolhouse that he would open an entirely new world for her—one she was destined not to have.
She inhaled deeply, closing her eyes for a moment. She opened them and their eyes met, his dark and stormy, almost sorrowful. Rose imagined hers looked the same as she tore her eyes away, unsure that she would be able to keep the hot tears from spilling.
“How did it happen, truly, that you did not learn to cook when your family owns a restaurant,” she said as soon as she was able, feeling his eyes on her still. She felt that he could see clear inside her, this intense man, and she did her best to ensure that he couldn’t, that he not know anything more about her than he did now.
He sighed and leaned forward, taking off his glasses and rubbing his eyes. “Rose, I—”
“Really, Michael, how did that come to pass?” she repeated, forcing a bright smile. At least she hoped it was bright.
He pushed his glasses back over his eyes, covering whatever intensity that she’d momentarily seen, his own guard back up. He set his soup bowl to the side and leaned forward, his elbows on the table.
“My parents were first generation immigrants from Italy. Came over on a boat. In fact, that’s where they changed their names, from Tarantino to Tate.”
“Changed their names?” Rose asked, frowning.
“Yes. From what I’ve learned, things were not good in southern Italy, where they were born and raised. Too many people and not enough food. They’d had a restaurant there as well, and were some of the first to decide to leave.”
“That must have been a very difficult decision, to leave their family.” She held her hand to her heart.
He lowered his head. “Yes, it was difficult. They don’t talk about it much, though, and since they came, many of their family members have followed. Now, they are rich with brothers, sisters, nieces, nephews—never short on family.”
Rose had read about the recent influx of immigrants from Italy now, in the 1880s, but hadn’t known that there had been problems for many years. “They were very brave to strike out on their own.”
Michael sighed and reached into his vest pocket, pulling out a worn, silver watch. He turned it over and ran his thumb over an inscription that Rose couldn’t see.
“They loved each other then, very much, and even more so now. They felt that they could conquer anything as long as they were together. Since they were some of the first Italians and had saved some money to bring with them, they decided to open an Italian restaurant—but become fully American.”
Rose laughed as she set her bowl aside. “That sounds—challenging.”
“Yes. They believed in the promise of America, and when I was born, they vowed that I would be all American and have every advantage possible. As a result, I started school as early as possible and they took me every day, without fail. I was not allowed to speak Italian, only English.”
“That explains why you have no accent,” Rose said, her head tilted to one side.
“Yes. But I was surrounded by Italians, and while I loved school and learning English, I learned anyway. With a little help from my uncles and cousins,” he said, his eyes twinkling while he reached into the pocket of his trousers and pulled out a small, worn dictionary—Italian and English.”
“Oh, my,” Rose said and picked it up, flipping through the small book which had clearly been read many, many times by its faded, worn cover and dog-eared pages. She smiled as she handed it back to Michael.
“Yes, thank you,” Rose said, reaching for the plate he was holding, her eyes wide. She looked toward Michael and raised her eyebrows. This was most certainly the boy who had been by the gate to the schoolyard—and also the boy she’d startled coming out of the schoolroom carrying those books.
“Hello. Thank you for the pie. I’m Mr. Tate and this is Miss Archer,” he said, holding his hand out to the boy.
“Sammy,” he said as he looked at Michael’s outstretched hand and reached for it with his own. After a quick shake, he turned on his heel and headed back into the kitchen, the door swinging closed behind him.
Rose stared after him, a smile growing. She turned to Michael, her eyes shining. “That’s him. That’s the boy.”
“Yes. That’s him. The boy we won’t be able to get to school,” Michael said, his brows furrowed.
“There you are, Miss Rose. I’ve been looking all over for you.”
Rose turned at the sound of Ben’s voice. He closed the door behind him and pulled up a chair.
“I’m so sorry, Ben. I lost track of time. The school day was so very busy and we hadn’t time for lunch.”
Ben tipped his hat back over his forward. “No worries. I’ll forgive you if I can have some of that pie. It looks mighty good.”
Rose laughed and slid the plate toward him, her nerves buzzing too loudly to eat it herself.
Ben took a bite of the pie and closed his eyes. “Yep, as good as it looks.” He cut another piece and started to bring it to his mouth. The fork clattered on the plated as he said, “Oh. I almost forgot, Mr. Tate. The postmaster asked me to give this to you. I think it’s from your future wife.”
The Teacher's Mail Order Bride Page 10