Then again, Loretta Linden was an unusual woman who espoused many causes. Perhaps she made it a habit to take in strays, like the Golightlys and Miss MacTavish, and needed the room in which to house them.
“It was my aunt’s house,” she said, as if she’d been reading his mind. “I bought it when she decided to move in with my cousin Andrew.”
“Ah.” That explained it. Kind of. He decided to ask. Loretta didn’t seem the delicate type of female that would shrink from a nosy question—and he was a newspaperman, after a fashion. “Do you utilize all this space?”
She laughed. “Of course not. However, I have plans for the place.” She said no more and gave him a teasing look that told him he’d get no further answers that day.
“Aha. I trust your plans involve no nefarious activities.”
“That depends on who’s judging them,” Loretta said with another laugh.
Her companions weren’t nearly as jolly as she. Marjorie MacTavish, staring out the cab’s windows at the mansion looming closer and closer, looked as if she might be sick. Isabel seemed both pensive and slightly downcast, and Eunice gawked at the house as if she suspected dragons lived inside.
“Oh, my,” the little girl said in a tiny voice as she turned on her mother’s lap and stared fixedly back at the massive entryway, laden with lions, they’d just driven through. “Is this really your house, Miss Linden?”
“It really is, Eunice.”
“Do you have a large family?”
With a chuckle, Loretta said, “I’m afraid I don’t, dear. Except that it’s now your home, too, and I’d be pleased to call you my family.”
“Oh,” whispered Eunice. “How nice.”
Somerset understood instinctively what Eunice and her mother were thinking: they’d never even seen a house as grand as this one; how could they ever be comfortable living here? “Big place, isn’t it?” he said, smiling benevolently upon the child, who was so different from most children but who was still only six.
The two of them must be overwhelmed. According to Eunice, who had become quite chatty on the train, Isabel had earned money cleaning other people’s houses in their village of Upper Poppleton. He wondered if any of the people for whom she’d worked had owned homes as large as this one. From the expressions on their faces, he doubted it.
San Franciscans were noted for their flamboyance, and the man who’d built this house had been one of the flashiest. Somerset wondered if Loretta’s aunt had been married to him, or if her aunt had bought the place from him. Maybe Loretta came by her outspoken ways naturally.
“It is extremely tremendous,” Eunice said, stepping from the cab and holding her hand out to assist her mother. “Even huge.”
Somerset smiled as he watched Isabel exit the cab. She was staring at the grand house with the same awe her daughter exhibited. “My word,” she said, and swallowed.
Loretta had left the taxi on the other side, assisted by the driver. “It’s only a house,” she called over the top of the cab. Then she chuckled. “Larger than most, I must admit.”
“Ah,” said Isabel. “Yes, of course. Somewhat larger.”
Somerset knew she didn’t believe it. He didn’t, either, although he could understand Loretta’s point of view, too. He didn’t want to abandon Isabel and Eunice, but knowing he should offer his aid to the other passengers, he walked around the cab to see if he could help Loretta or Marjorie. “It’s a grand one, though, you must admit,” he said to Loretta.
“Indeed it is,” Loretta acknowledged. “I love it.”
Her household staff were coming at a run. Out the massive double doors, across the huge marble porch, down the polished steps, and across a well-tended expanse of grass, they hurried: three women in uniforms. Somerset guessed Miss Linden didn’t employ a butler. No surprise there, as she was an admitted feminist. Somerset imagined she didn’t want employ a man in her home, because men could get jobs anywhere.
It might be true that men could find employment more easily than women, but Somerset didn’t necessarily think that was a bad thing. After all, it was the men in the world who had to support the women and children.
His glance returned to Isabel and Eunice, and he realized how stupid his last thought had been. However, he didn’t want to contemplate the injustices of the world at the moment.
Loretta didn’t stand on ceremony with her staff. She hugged them all as if they were long, lost friends, and she the prodigal daughter returning to the fold. Which might not be too far from the truth. He hadn’t asked her what she’d been doing in England, but he wouldn’t be surprised to learn she’d been agitating. He could envision her in a suffrage march with a band of like-minded women, waving a placard, or attempting to chain herself to the gates surrounding 10 Downing Street. The picture his mind conjured up made him smile until he thought about it some more.
Women with the vote. Imagine that. He mulled it over for a second or two, and his mind’s eye presented him with a vision of Miss Eunice Golightly as President of the United States addressing the Congress. Good God. He shook his head, dislodging the picture, and forced himself back to the present.
The taxicab rattled off, leaving everyone on the drive in front of Loretta’s front porch, most of them staring around in awe and wonder. Somerset picked up the one piece of luggage before anyone else could snabble it, allowing Loretta’s household help to grab the rest of the bundles. He might not be any better than a woman, but he was damned well going to act like a man, whether they liked it or not.
He noticed that Isabel and Eunice had left off staring and were now walking very closely together, and that Eunice held tightly to Isabel’s hand. Or vice versa. He couldn’t tell which one appeared more cowed by this ostentatious show of wealth, but neither one of them looked comfortable. A glance at Marjorie told him that she wasn’t comfortable, either. In fact, her face had gone dead white and she was standing still as if she didn’t dare to move. As he watched, she swayed slightly and he feared she might faint.
Alarmed, he plopped down the suitcase and caught her before she could collapse on the hard concrete drive. “Miss MacTavish!” He glanced around. “Somebody, open the door.” Relinquishing his suitcase to a maid in favor of a more chivalrous and manly duty, he lifted the woman in his arms and dashed up the steps.
“Marjorie!” Loretta cried out, too, and darted after Somerset.
Isabel and Eunice, dismayed and wide-eyed, exchanged a worried look. “What happened to Miss MacTavish, Mama?”
Somerset caught the little girl’s question as he hurried inside the house, and he almost grinned. Imagine that: at long last Eunice Golightly had encountered something she didn’t understand.
# # #
Although she was sorry for Marjorie, Isabel was glad to have something useful to do now that the other woman had fainted. Isabel knew how to nurse people. She didn’t have the least idea in the world how to live as a poor person in a rich person’s house. As a guest. She could perform like nobody’s business as a housemaid.
Kneeling beside the sofa upon which Marjorie lay, she fanned Marjorie’s pallid face with a fan Loretta had discovered in the drawer of a writing table—and a lovely ivory fan it was, too. It had probably come from China or Spain or somewhere else equally exotic. Glancing up, she asked, “Do you know if the tea is almost ready?”
“Mrs. Brandeis is in the kitchen making it right now, I believe, Mama.”
Wherever the kitchen was. Mrs. Brandeis, Isabel had learned, was Loretta’s housekeeper. Mrs. Brandeis’s niece Molly was one of Loretta’s housemaids. The other housemaid, a Chinese girl named Li, was obviously unrelated to the Brandeis clan. Loretta had bustled off after seeing that Marjorie was comfortable on the sofa and, since Isabel didn’t know her way out of this room much less around the house, she hoped someone would come back and rescue them soon.
“Gi’ a lady rest, canna ye?” Marjorie, whose Scots accent was ruthlessly subdued under normal conditions, sounded both fussy and intensely Sc
ottish.
The fussiness was normal, a fact that made Isabel glad for Marjorie’s sake, since it meant she was feeling better. For her own sake, she’d be just as happy if the woman would remain laid up for a while—at least for as long as it took Isabel to overcome her immense feeling of inferiority.
This house. It might as well be a palace, for the love of God. Isabel would never, ever, in a million years, be able to repay Loretta for everything she’d done for her and her daughter. In truth, Isabel was beginning to feel the tiniest bit oppressed by her kindness.
But that was silly. She needed help, and it would be the height of stupidity to refuse help when it was offered. For Eunice’s sake, if not for her own, she would accept Loretta’s offers of assistance.
If she ever saw Loretta again. Gazing about the room in which she, Marjorie, and Eunice presently resided, she realized it was larger than her entire home in Upper Poppleton. Not to mention better furnished.
Was that real gold decorating the picture frame over the fireplace? And was the picture of the snobby-looking woman that was framed in gold a relation of Loretta’s? Painted by a real, honest-to-goodness artist? Was the fireplace itself really crafted of black marble? Were those Chinese lions rampant on the mantelpiece carved out of real jade and ivory? And was this sofa presently holding Marjorie MacTavish’s recumbent form truly covered in forest-green velvet? Sweet Lord in heaven.
Damnation, but she wished she’d been born somebody else. Somebody with money. Not lots of money, perhaps—she was neither greedy nor selfish—but it would be ever so wonderful to have enough for once. Enough wasn’t too much to ask for, was it? Enough would be wonderful, and more than she’d ever had so far in this bloody life. Blooming life. Isabel mentally chastised herself for her many profane lapses of thought in recent hours.
“Och, don’t bather me,” grumbled Marjorie, drawing Isabel’s attention from her surroundings and back to her patient. “I feel enough of a baffin already.”
“It’s perfectly natural that you should be overwhelmed, Miss MacTavish,” she said in her most soothing voice, deducing from context what a “baffin” was. The tone of voice was one she’d cultivated while taking care of old Mrs. Finchley in the village. Now that was a job she’d actually enjoyed, until the old lady died. Then she’d had to go back to cleaning houses.
“Call me Marjorie, canna ye?” Isabel’s patient said vexedly. “For the love of Christ Jesus, we sank on the same ship together.”
The brusque words startled a short laugh from Isabel. “True, true. Very well, Marjorie. In that case, you just lie there and rest for a few more minutes. You fainted, and you had every reason to, given everything that’s happened to us all. But we’ll fix you right up.”
Marjorie uttered an unhappy sound that might have been a huff or a sigh, but that Isabel decided not to pay attention to. She was being useful; that was what was important at the moment. When Marjorie recovered, Isabel would just find something else to do in order to be helpful in this alarming house.
Maybe she could assist with the mending. Or with the mopping and dusting. Eyeing the gleaming furniture, she ruefully acknowledged that Loretta’s household staff seemed to be doing quite nicely without her. Still, she was used to doing that kind of work. It didn’t matter that she hated it; it would be one way, if a small one, of paying Loretta back for her tremendous kindness.
“Here’s the tea. I brewed it according to a recipe I found in New England, with some feverfew I got out of Miss Linden’s garden. I hope you don’t mind that I added a sprig of lemon balm and a pinch of anise seed to the feverfew. Feverfew is pretty powerful all by itself.”
Isabel jumped at the sound of Somerset’s voice. She hadn’t expected him to be assisting her in the nursing of Marjorie. None of the men she knew had ever helped her nurse sick people. In fact, if memory served, when faced with illness they generally ran the other way as fast as they could. Isabel had assumed all men did the same.
Peering up at him, she gave him a tentative smile. “Thank you. That’s fine. I’m sure the concoction will taste better for the lemon balm. I’m not sure about the anise.” She also wasn’t sure about the feverfew, whatever that was, but she didn’t say so. She took some comfort from his sudden reappearance, though, and not merely because she liked him. If he could find his way around in this monolithic mansion, certainly she could. Eventually.
Somerset grinned as he gently deposited the silver tray holding a lovely flowered China teapot, cup, and saucer on the table. “It smells good, anyway.”
“Yes, it does.” Isabel was impressed and entertained the frivolous notion that perhaps Somerset could cook, too, as well as brew tea. What a useful man he seemed to be.
“Miss Linden’s housekeeper is bringing some regular tea and some sandwiches for those of us who aren’t ill.”
“Ah, good.” And now she was going to be waited upon. Would wonders never cease? “Here, Marjorie, let me help you.” She slipped an arm under Marjorie’s shoulders to help lift her into a seated position.
Marjorie was having none of it and shook off Isabel’s arm. “I can sit up by meself,” she snapped. “And I can hold my own teacup.”
“Very well.” Marjorie MacTavish had no reason to bark at her; she was only trying to help. Nevertheless, Isabel didn’t bark back. She drew away from the sofa upon which Marjorie had been lying and watched the other woman push herself to a sitting position. Then she poured out some tea and handed her the cup and saucer.
“Thank you.” Marjorie took a sip of the concoction and grimaced. “Och, my, that tastes as if it will cure anything.”
“It’s good for what ails you,” Somerset said heartily. “No matter what it is.”
“Nothing would dare stay in t’same body with it,” Marjorie murmured after swallowing another sip. “Is there any sugar to put in it?”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t think to bring any, but I’m sure Mrs. Brandeis will bring some with the regular tea.” Somerset laughed. Isabel didn’t. She was annoyed with Marjorie, the ungrateful prig.
Marjorie reached out and touched Isabel’s hand. “I’m sorry I’m so cankersome, dearie. It’s only that I’m so worried, you know.” Her Scottish burr gave the words a pleasant lilt, and her face was intensely sincere. “I dinna know what to make of America. I’ve never worked as anyone’s secretary. I’m fleefu’, Isabel, dreadly fleefu’.”
Isabel deduced that “fleefu’” meant worried, and her heart melted at once. She could understand frailty much better than she could incivility. “It’s all right, Marjorie. We’re all frightened about what to expect in America.” She glanced at her daughter, who didn’t look upset or scared in the slightest. “Well, most of us are, anyway.”
Marjorie peered at Eunice, too, and sighed. “It mun’ be nice to be young and eager for new things.”
“Yes.” As Isabel gazed at Marjorie, she pondered how old the other woman was. She didn’t look very old, although she often acted as if she were a hundred and ten. How sad and bleak Marjorie’s life seemed to be. At least Isabel had experienced the joy of having loved a man—briefly—and she had a wonderful daughter.
Poor Marjorie had been employed as a stewardess. That might have been interesting work, and it must have been entertaining to travel the world, but now she seemed to have nothing and no one. Isabel decided she ought not allow herself to lose her temper at the poor woman, even when Marjorie was ill-natured.
Somerset, who had been watching from a chair nearby, said, “Can I get you anything else, Miss MacTavish?”
Marjorie’s cheeks went from pasty white to bright pink, Isabel presumed with embarrassment. “Nay, thank you, Mr. FitzRoy. I feel like a gudgeon for having fainted.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. You ladies have been through an amazing series of events, tragic and otherwise. You have every right to faint if you want to.”
“I didna want to,” Marjorie said with a sigh.
“Such is life.” Somerset gave Marjorie one of his wonderfu
l smiles, and Isabel considered having a faint of her own.
They all stiffened as a bell sounded in the house. “Is that a doorbell?” Isabel asked. “Who could be visiting Miss Linden so soon after her return from abroad?”
She didn’t expect an answer, which was just as well since she didn’t get one. She did, however, see the Chinese housemaid scurry down the hall outside the room and felt better for having espied a human being belonging to the household. She felt even better when Loretta, following Li down the hall, turned into the parlor in which her guests tarried.
“How’s our patient?” she asked, smiling.
“Much better, thank you.” Marjorie’s color remained high. “Mr. FitzRoy’s tea is . . . fortifying.”
Somerset grinned. “It’s less fortifying than it would have been if I hadn’t added the extra ingredients. Feverfew by itself would have curled your hair.”
Eyeing Marjorie’s pretty red hair, Isabel said wistfully, “Not that you need it.”
“I’m so glad, Marjorie.” Loretta smiled upon them all. “I’ve been giving Cook instructions for dinner, and Mrs. Brandeis is bringing tea.” She turned to Somerset. “I expect you to stay and dine with us, Mr. FitzRoy. A meal is the least I can offer you, after your many kind services.”
“I’d be more than happy to take dinner with you ladies.” Somerset bowed and appeared genuinely glad to have been offered the invitation.
“What’s that I smell?” came a booming voice from the hall. “Have you taken to concocting poisons in your spare time, Loretta Linden?”
Loretta whirled around with a squeal. “Jason!” She pelted to the door, clearly elated, and when a young man entered, she threw herself into his arms. Isabel, Marjorie, Somerset, and Eunice all stared, astounded.
After letting the newcomer go, Loretta grabbed his hand, and dragged him into the room. “But I must introduce you to my new friends, Doctor.”
This she proceeded to do, and Dr. Jason Abernathy bowed politely to each of them. He was a nice-looking man, tall and lean, with curly dark hair and twinkly blue eyes. “How do you do? Don’t let Miss Linden bullyrag you.” He spoke the last words to Isabel and Marjorie.
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