by Jo Goodman
He interrupted her apology by indicating his own attire. He was wearing a pair of loose-fitting black trousers and a white shirt creased in all the wrong places. The sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, and a streak of grease peeked out from under the folds. His collar was open and he wore neither a vest nor a jacket. "If you change, then I shall feel compelled to do the same..." His smile held the same hint of roguish charm Skye had witnessed the previous day. "And I'd rather not."
Watching that smile, Skye was uneasy. "By all means," she said smoothly, covering the vague sense of disquiet. "You should be comfortable in your own home."
"I'm glad you feel that way."
Skye steeled herself against his ability to make her feel as if she were the one making the gracious concession. If she weren't careful she'd be thinking of herself as a guest and not as an employee. Perhaps it was all part of her father's grand design, but it was not any part of what Skye wanted for herself. When Parnell held out his elbow, Skye shook her head quickly and refrained from taking it. "You're very kind, Mr. Parnell, but I've had my doubts about joining you at all. I hardly think accompanying you to the dining room on your arm is necessary."
"I see," he said softly, studying the resolve in her features. Both his brows raised slightly. "Very well. But one does crave conversation around here. I hope you'll grant me that. Walker is typically so taciturn at dinner."
Skye was aware she stiffened at the mention of Walker's name. She tried to cover her reaction by pretending to have difficulties with her apron strings. Unfortunately, her diversion meant that her employer was moved to assist her.
"Problems?"
Skye's head jerked up. The drily amused voice didn't belong to Jonathan Parnell but rather to Walker Caide. He was standing in the hallway on his way to the dining room. His faint smile bore witness to his thoughts concerning the tableau in front of him.
"She seems to have her strings tied in a knot," Parnell said amiably. "Deuced if I can get them undone."
Walker watched Skye's discomfort rise at the very thought that he might offer to help. "It seems I was right," he said consideringly. "It is possible for your face to rival the color of your hair." If anything, the color of Skye's complexion grew brighter.
Parnell's fingers stopped mangling the apron strings while he got a better look at Skye's flushed profile. His deep chuckle joined Walker's. "He's right, you know. Rose red."
"How very kind you both are to point it out," she said. Stepping away from Parnell, Skye twisted her apron around and made short work of the tangled strings.
In the dining room she was seated to Parnell's right while Walker took his usual place on the left. Rose and Daisy served the courses, and Skye observed that neither girl was properly trained to carry out the task unobtrusively.
Dinner started with a cold clear soup and was followed by creamed soup with artichokes. Fish continued the meal, then thin slices of rare beef roasted in a red wine. The potato croquettes were served with wedges of baked tomatoes and garnished with a sprinkling of cheese. Cold asparagus and stuffed crepes came next. Throughout the meal a variety of wines were served to stimulate or cleanse the palate. Sorbet, salad, and an assortment of cheeses completed the meal.
Skye was aware of the expense of putting this particular dinner on the table. She hadn't questioned Mrs. Reading about the budget, deciding that Mr. Parnell was one she needed to see. From her own experience of spending childhood summers near Baileyboro, Skye knew that a menu as diverse as the ones she'd been shown required importing a great deal of food from the city. Her own family, though Jay Mac could well afford it, chose to live much more simply when summering in the Hudson Valley.
Jonathan Parnell, it seemed, chose to have certain amenities of the city wherever he lived. Skye began to understand why he was particular about keeping Mrs. Reading in his employ.
"I should very much like to see your wine cellars," Skye said, sipping her Madeira. Throughout dinner the conversation had been primarily shared between Skye and Parnell. Walker had not been purposefully excluded, but he had made no effort to add anything to the discussion. His interruption now was unexpected.
"I've already told her the cellar is off limits," he told Parnell. Though he spoke to his employer, his cold warning stare was meant for Skye.
"Have you?" Parnell asked idly. "You do look out for me, don't you?" He rolled the stem of his wineglass between his fingers and leaned back in his chair. "Mr. Caide's quite right, Miss Dennehy. I generally don't like anyone in the cellar."
Skye's lightly feathered brows came together. "I'm not certain I understand. I thought an inventory of your wines would be a reasonable request. Mrs. Reading doesn't have a list of your stock."
Parnell tapped his temple with a forefinger. "Mrs. Reading has it up here." He laid his hand on the table. His fingers were long and lean, the nails clipped short and nicely shaped. "However, I've seen that you appreciate fine wines, and for that reason alone I may be willing to make an exception."
It took Skye a moment to understand the import of his words. She had been staring at Parnell's hand though she couldn't say what about it she found intriguing. "You'd make an exception?" she asked.
"No." It was Walker who answered, not Parnell. It was clear from his tone he did not expect to be countermanded.
Skye ignored him and looked expectantly at Jonathan Parnell, clearly indicating she thought it should be his decision.
Parnell sighed. "Mr. Caide's right," he said. He offered the observation with a certain heaviness in his tone, as if he were reluctant to offer it at all. "It's not a good idea. The fewer people with access to the cellar, the better."
Out of the corner of her eye Skye saw Walker relax his grip on the arm of his chair. Loose now, he drummed his fingers lightly against the scrollwork. "Of course," she said. "It shall be as you wish."
Parnell particularly liked that phrasing. His eyes lightened appreciatively. "Tell me, Miss Dennehy, have you worked for anyone besides the Turners or the Marshalls?" he asked.
The question came out of nowhere and Skye was caught off guard. All day long she had been wrestling with the problem of Parnell's collusion with her father. One moment she was certain it was a fact, in the next she had grave doubts. Did this man know who she really was, or didn't he?
Polite prevarication seemed in order. "Why do you ask?"
Walker spoke up. "Mrs. Givens didn't know Moet et Chandon from Montruchet," he said.
"Mrs. Givens?" she asked, stalling to formulate her answer.
"The last housekeeper."
"Oh, I don't think I heard her name before." Her eyes drifted back to Parnell, who had originally posed the question, subtly putting Walker Caide in his place again. "I'm not surprised about Mrs. Givens, though. She doesn't appear to have known much about managing a household. My impression yesterday was that your staff was lacking in discipline, perhaps even skill, but I've discovered today that responsibility for the condition of this house can't be laid at their feet."
"I'm learning that myself," Parnell said. "She would have had me believe quite differently—" He paused to offer a slight, self-effacing grin. "That is, when I paused to notice anything was out of order at all."
Skye used the opportunity to skillfully redirect the conversation away from her own experience. "What is that you do exactly?" she asked. "One hears rumors, but I don't know what to believe."
"I tinker a bit," he said, shrugging.
"Mr. Parnell's being modest," Walker said. "He holds twenty-seven patents and has four pending."
"Five," Parnell corrected. "It was the paperwork on the fifth that you delivered to the post this morning."
"Then you are an inventor!"
Parnell gave a start at the strength of her surprise. "Well, yes," he said, a trifle bewildered. "Someone has to do it, I suppose."
Skye's dimpled smile was apologetic. "I'm sorry. I imagine my astonishment didn't seem very flattering. It's just that one never knows what to make of rumors, and si
nce it was never mentioned during the interview..." Her voice trailed off as she raised the wineglass to her lips. "I can understand why you don't want just anyone in the cellar. Do you have a work in progress?"
Walker's eyes narrowed, and his considering look also held another warning. "You're full of questions, Miss Dennehy."
She flushed and began to stammer an apology to her employer.
"It's quite all right," Parnell said. "I don't mind in the least."
"Mr. Parnell," Walker said warningly. "I don't think—"
Parnell's head swiveled in Walker's direction and his blue eyes were as severe and frosty as his tone. "I was going to say that as much as I enjoy discussing my work, in this case—at this stage of the invention's development—it simply wouldn't be wise." He looked back at Skye. "This is not meant to reflect badly on you," he told her. "It's simply a rule I have regarding my work."
"Perfectly understandable," Skye said. "I've heard that obtaining a patent is quite a competitive endeavor."
Parnell nodded. "There were 13,000 patents a year issued during the seventies. I've heard the number has climbed to 21,000."
"Goodness," Skye said. "'Competitive' hardly describes it."
"Exactly so."
Skye resolved then and there that she was going to see what Parnell was working on. If it looked in any way like an engine, then it supported her father's story and his reasons for sending her to Baileyboro. If it didn't exist, then she was right to think Jay Mac was up to his old tricks.
Getting to see the inside of Parnell's workroom wouldn't be nearly so difficult if it weren't for Walker Caide. She had begun to see that he functioned as some sort of protector for Parnell. She would have to get past him to view the workroom. Skye was philosophical about it. She supposed every junkyard had its guard dog.
"You might let us in on the joke," Walker said.
Belatedly, Skye realized she was smiling at the image of a snarling, mangy stray answering to the name of Walker Caide. Skye put down her glass quickly and blotted her smile with her napkin. "I assure you," she said, "it was not worth sharing." She saw that Parnell accepted her words at face value. Walker, on the other hand, remained unconvinced. Glancing at the clock on the mantel, she added, "I have to excuse myself, Mr. Parnell. Thank you for the lovely invitation to dine."
He was on his feet immediately, helping Skye with her chair. "Of course you'll join us again."
"Oh, no. I couldn't. Really. It's very kind of you, but it's not my place at all. I'm sure you can see that." Her eyes pleaded with him not to make the invitation a second time.
"Very well, Miss Dennehy. You must do as you see fit." His hand brushed her shoulder lightly as she rose from her chair.
His touch startled Skye and set a small shiver through her. She quickly ducked from under his hand and avoided his inquiring gaze. "Thank you again," she said softly. It was a strain not to flee the room.
Parnell watched her go. When the door was closed behind her he said, "She's very curious." It was a statement about her personality, not about the fact that she asked too many questions.
Walker knew Parnell was thinking out loud, that he didn't expect a comment. It didn't stop him from responding anyway. "I don't trust her," he said tersely.
Parnell sighed. "So you've said. You can't fault her work, though. Mrs. Reading reports she has everyone jumping."
As it came from Corina, Walker suspected it was more of a complaint than a compliment. "All the same, I'm going to keep an eye on her."
Parnell's brows rose slightly and his voice was somber. "See that it's all you do."
* * *
Skye was preparing for bed when there was a knock at her door. It was already quite late, a few minutes after midnight, but she had stayed up to prepare a list of things she wanted to do the following day. Compiling the tasks took longer than she had expected. As was often the case with Skye, her mundane thoughts were interrupted by her imagination—the bane of her existence, her father would have said.
Parnell's workroom continued to intrigue her. She wondered what a tinkerer's sanctuary might look like. Her own vision of it included a table cluttered with thingamajigs and whatchamacallits. A scrap heap of tin whirlykabobs was piled in a corner. Dusty reference books on the physical laws of nature were stacked near the door. The walls were gray and the small casement window had had its panes painted a sickly pea green shade so no one could see in. There would be hammers and nails and levers and awls. There would be magnets and iron filings, copper and lead pipes, jars of acids and salts.
Parnell himself would sit on a stool in the middle of the chaos, his distinguished, handsome features remote as he considered the weighty problem of harnessing the elements. He'd probably lightly stroke the bottom of his chin and his blue eyes would gaze at nothing in particular on the opposite wall. He'd be seeing something else entirely, something in his mind's eye that no one entering the room could possibly fathom. His brows might draw together and the indigo centers of his eyes would darken with his deep thoughts.
Suddenly he would jerk upright, his wide shoulders braced as though he'd felt a blow. A hand would come up and he'd be moved to speak aloud: "Eureka!"
Skye wondered if people really said that when they made a discovery. She certainly never had. Then again, she reminded herself, she had never really made a discovery.
The knock at the door came again, this time with enough force to rouse Skye from her musings. She put down her pen and slipped into her robe. "Who is it?" she asked, coming to stand near the door.
"Walker," came the low, laconic reply.
Skye was frankly shocked. Did he really believe she was going to give him entrance? She'd been privy to the scandals involving her sisters, and if she'd learned nothing else, she'd learned that trouble usually started when one let a man into a bedroom. "I'm not opening my door to you," she said. Her eyes fell to the door handle as Walker twisted it. "Go away!" she told him. Frantically she tried to remember if she'd locked the door or if the key rattling in the keyhole had never been turned. Bracing one shoulder against the door, she threw her weight into it just in case.
The handle fell back to its original position. "I need to talk to you," Walker whispered.
Skye didn't respond immediately. His hushed voice unnerved her for a moment. She felt an odd rise of panic and couldn't precisely name its source. He wasn't going to hurt her, was he? He hadn't made any threat, yet she felt threatened. "Go away," she repeated. "I'll scream—I swear I will!"
On the other side of the door, Walker paused in reaching for the key to her room. Her reaction was all out of proportion to his request. She no longer sounded as if she was concerned for her modesty or her reputation. One would think she was concerned for her life. "For God's sake," he muttered, "I believe you. Go to bed. We'll talk in the morning."
Skye didn't relax until she heard his footsteps recede down the hallway. She fell back against the door, her heart slamming in her chest. Looking down at herself, she could have sworn she saw the front of her nightgown flutter with each wild beat.
Skye caught her breath and returned to the small writing desk by the fireplace. She had no more work to do, but the thought of climbing into bed now was unappealing. She didn't think she could sleep.
Her fingers idly traced the crisp edge of the writing paper she had been using. It was a tempting notion to write to her father and tell him that whatever scheme he had up his sleeve, he hadn't counted on the likes of Walker Caide. Skye found a measure of satisfaction in knowing her father hadn't thought of everything.
She abandoned the idea of writing at all. A letter to her mother, even if she used her mother's maiden name, wasn't safe from Walker. Skye wouldn't put it past him to read anything she wrote before posting her letters. Correspondence would have to wait until she could send mail herself.
Skye's gaze drifted toward the door again. She wondered why he had come. "No doubt he thought he'd steal that kiss he wanted earlier." She placed two fingers against
her mouth as she realized she'd spoken aloud. The fingers were pressed to her lips for a moment, long enough for her to consider what his mouth might have felt like against hers.
Outside, the deep of night had made the french doors a mirror of black glass. Skye caught the movement of her hand in the window. She turned and stared at her reflection. She could almost feel the heat rising in her face. Walker Caide wouldn't have had to steal the kiss. She would have given it to him.
"I'm mad," she said softly, turning away from the windows. "Absolutely mad." Shaking her head, finding humor now in her reaction to Walker's knock at the door, Skye promised herself she'd apologize in the morning. She would have to do it carefully, without allowing him to glimpse how perfectly confused he made her. She'd never been so uncertain of herself as she was around Walker Caide.
Skye could scarcely believe it when there was another knock on her door. "I told you to go away," she called, raising her voice. There was a long silence, then a hesitant knock this time, more like a scratching than knuckles rapping against the wood. That certainly didn't sound like Walker. He was not so tentative.
"Who is it?" Skye asked cautiously, approaching the door.
"Annie. I've brought you—" She gave a little start as the door was flung open and Skye practically pulled her inside. The tray in her hand bobbled and she had to juggle it to keep the contents from overturning.
"Goodness," Skye said. "What do you have here?" She shut the door behind them and took the tray from Annie's hands. "Did you really bring this for me?"
Annie nodded. "I mentioned to Mrs. Reading that I saw a light under your door earlier. We thought you might like something. I was already on my way to the kitchen to get some milk for Matt. He's restless this evening."
"Aren't we all," Skye whispered drily.
"What?" Annie tilted her head.
"Oh, nothing. It wasn't important." She elbowed aside the papers on her desk and set the tray down. "I'm surprised you saw my lamplight. I'd have thought you'd use the back stairs. Certainly they're a more convenient route to the kitchen from your rooms."