A Time for Everything (17 page)

~~~~

Mr. Stanford wasn’t
in the dining room for breakfast on Sunday
morning.

Portia brought in coffee from the
kitchen. As casually as she could, she asked Ezra about
him.

The old man took a sip of the steaming
brew and wiped his mustache with the back of his hand. “He had a
bad night.”

“
Oh.”

She poured Harry’s coffee and felt his
eyes boring into her.

“
Thanks, darlin’.” His
hand shook as he took a drink. He set the cup down and focused on
his plate. “We better hurry or we’ll be late for
church.”

After the service, they returned to
the house for lunch. Mr. Stanford still didn’t make an appearance.
April showers pitter-pattered outside, triggering contagious yawns.
Jonny fell asleep on the parlor rug with his marbles lying in wait
under his fingers.

Ezra woke him and led him upstairs for
a nap. Portia followed, pausing at the top of the stairs to look
down the hall at Mr. Stanford’s closed door.

Once settled on her own bed, she
tossed and turned, unable to sleep. Surrendering to the mid-day
insomnia, she sat at the little table by the window and tried to
read from the book of Longfellow poems. Rain pattered on the window
panes. The words jumbled into nonsensical language. Her thoughts
drifted down the hall and toward her employer. Her heart ached for
him; being faced with the prospect of marriage again must be hard
to accept, especially when he still wore his wedding ring and the
sting of his late wife’s death hadn’t lessened.

Would he mind if she checked in on
him? All he could do was tell her to go away — then she would at
least know he was alive. She set the book down and started to get
up, then sat back down. She’d already intruded once into his
personal space. He might tell her to leave and never come back if
she did it again.

No, she had to have
courage right now — part of her job was to help care for everyone
here, and she couldn’t live with herself if he lay in there sick
or… worse, with no one knowing. Everyone else might be afraid of
intruding on him, but it was better he yell at her than Jonny.
Harry, Ezra, and even Bessie, acted as though nothing was amiss,
but the strange quiet that had settled over them had
completely
un
settled her.

Before she could change her mind
again, she stood and went straight out into the hallway, walked
quietly but quickly to his closed door, and rested her ear upon it.
She heard nothing, and no one stirred from the other
rooms.

She closed her eyes and
lifted her hand to knock, but hesitated.
What am I waiting for? Surely he wouldn’t send me away for
being compassionate?

With three quiet raps on his door, she
stepped back, and waited.

Nothing.

She knocked again, a little
louder.

Still nothing.

Cheeks burning from the blush this
decision brought, she knew she had no other choice. She had to try
the door. If it was locked, she’d just have to give up and return
to her room and hope he emerged eventually. If it was unlocked,
she’d have a quick look and make sure he was in one
piece.

Deep breaths.
She turned the knob and slowly eased open his
door.

“
Mr. Stan—” She closed her
mouth when she saw him sprawled across the bed.

Was he…? Soft snores from his
partially open mouth flooded her with relief. He lay atop the quilt
on his back with one arm resting above his head and one folded over
his stomach. Not dead, thank God. From the looks of it, he simply
needed this deep sleep. She was about to close the door when her
eyes drifted to his bare chest and lingered on his tanned skin, the
soft-looking curled hair, the firm muscles of his abdomen. He wore
loose gray cotton trousers, and one leg was bent, supported by one
large bare foot. His other foot hung off the side of the
bed.

Her eyes widened, and she
quickly but quietly shut the door. She stood there breathing hard
with her hand on the knob. She had just gawked at her employer
without his knowledge. Her
half-naked
employer. If someone had
thrown bacon on her cheeks at that moment, it would have
sizzled.

Portia let go of the door knob and
stepped back. He was all right. He hadn’t woken up and exploded in
anger. No one had to know, and she could rest easy knowing he was
fine. She turned around and came two inches from colliding with
Bessie. She clapped a hand over her mouth to contain a
scream.

“
Calm down, Mrs.
McAllister,” Bessie whispered. “You’re gonna scare everybody. I was
just bringing him some coffee. He told me to wake him up at four
o’clock. I talked him into drinking some of my sleep tea this
mornin’ when you all went to church, and he’s been asleep ever
since.” She held a steaming cup of coffee in one hand and rapped
hard on his door with the other.

At a groggy-sounding,
“Come in,” she started to turn the knob but turned to Portia first,
winked, and whispered, “He
is
a fine-looking man. Can’t blame a young woman for
havin’ a peek.”

Bessie opened the door, and Portia
caught a glimpse of Beau sitting on the edge of the bed, running a
hand through his tousled dark hair. She fled down the stairs and
out to the porch before her face caught the house on
fire.

On Monday morning,
the entire household stirred before sunrise. The
men dug into breakfast as soon as Portia and Bessie got it on the
table. Portia poured Mr. Stanford’s coffee. He looked much more
rested than he had since she arrived — the circles under his eyes
were lighter, his face clean shaven. She caught the soapy tallow
scent of William’s Yankee Shaving Soap. Jake had used it
religiously; she used to run her fingers over his smooth jaw right
after he shaved and would kiss him to take advantage of his
not-so-prickly affections.

Beau took a sip from his cup and
caught her looking at him. A smile tugged at one corner of his
mouth.

“
Sugar?” She peeled her
eyes away from him to focus on the few white cubes in the pretty
porcelain dish.

“
One, please.”

Quickly as she could so no one saw her
hand shaking, she plucked up a sugar cube with the little silver
tongs and plopped it in his cup. Coffee splashed onto the table
from the sugar’s sudden dive.

“
Is something wrong?” His
voice held an undercurrent of laughter.

Portia’s eyes widened. “No, nothing at
all. Sorry,” she muttered and escaped into the kitchen. Ezra’s
throaty laugh followed her until the door swung shut behind her.
Bessie looked up from getting the biscuits off the pan and onto the
plate and pursed her lips together, holding back a
laugh.

Setting the sugar down on the counter,
Portia exhaled loudly and put a hand on her hip. “What?”

“
I’ve seen that look
before, mm-hmm, sure have.”

What look? Dear Lord, is
it that obvious?
“He knows, doesn’t
he?”

“
Maybe he does, maybe he
don’t.” Bessie chuckled and carried the biscuits into the dining
room.

Portia dipped a kitchen towel in the
water basin and dabbed her cheeks. The only way she would be able
forget that image of him sprawled on his bed was to dive headfirst
into chores and not stop until bedtime.

So that’s what she did.

~~~~

Portia leaned on
her elbows at the kitchen table that night,
having devoured her dinner of boiled eggs, green beans, and salt
pork. Her eyelids grew heavy, as did her head, which bobbed as
sleep tried to claim her. She and Bessie were both exhausted after
a day spent cleaning, shopping, weeding the garden and flower beds,
and stuffing pillows. The good thing was, she hadn’t thought about
her half-clothed employer all day… until now. Hopefully, a good
night’s sleep would take care of that.

The men had all gathered in the
sitting room, enjoying a bit of whiskey — whether in celebration or
resignation of the Clemons imminent arrival, she didn’t know. But
it would give her a chance to retreat to her room without gawking
at anyone.

“
Get some sleep. You
earned it today,” Bessie said.

She smiled in gratitude. Hearing
praise from Bessie was a welcome surprise. She yawned and started
to stand from her chair.

“
Wait a minute. Let me
doctor them blisters first.”

“
You don’t have to do
that. I’ve had blisters a plenty.”

“
Come on, let me see ’em,”
Bessie said firmly while she opened a small tin can of
salve.

Portia did as she was told and held
her hands out palms up, while Bessie applied the pungent-smelling,
greasy mixture to the red blisters. A clean white bandage came
next, wrapped snugly around her right hand. After a slight burning
sensation, the salve provided a cool tingle to her raw
skin.

“
How do you make that?”
Portia asked.

“
A little cedar sap, some
alder bark, and slippery elm, among other things.” Bessie tilted
her head and grinned — clearly unwilling to share her complete
secret recipe.

“
Well, thank you. It’s
feeling better already. Perhaps I can learn a thing or two from you
about salves and teas.”

“
Perhaps.”

“
I’ll see you in the
morning.”

Body weary and head full of jumbled
thoughts, she left the kitchen, already imagining the downy comfort
of her pillow. She passed through the dining room, headed for the
stairs… and walked straight into a solid wall of a man.

“
Oh!” Bouncing off him,
she steadied herself and looked up into deep-set eyes that were
just as startled as hers.

“
Sorry,” Mr. Stanford
said. “Let me just—”

He stepped left, and she stepped
right, blocking each other’s path.

“
Sorry,” Portia
said.

She stepped left, and he stepped
right. Blocked again.

His mouth stretched into a wide smile.
“If you’re trying to dance with me, just say so.”

“
No, I wasn’t… I mean…
um…”

Slapping his thighs, he broke into
laughter — rich, hearty, and completely unexpected. Hard as she
tried, she couldn’t hold it in. The two of them laughed like they
hadn’t done it in a million years. Heads started peeking out at
them from the sitting room, slowly retreating as their guffawing
subsided.

Mr. Stanford wiped his eyes. “I think
I needed that.”

“
Me too,” she admitted,
trying uselessly to tuck her wayward hair behind her
ears.

He nodded toward her bandaged hand.
“Are you hurt?”

“
Just blisters.” She held
it up and wiggled her fingers. “Battle wounds for a hard day’s
work. Bessie’s salve is working wonders though.”

“
She’s really good with
medicine. Shame she couldn’t be a doctor. By the way, thank you for
your help around here. Bessie tells me you’ve lightened her load
quite a bit.”

“
That’s my job,
right?”

“
Right, but I reckon it
needs sayin’ now and then.” He looked away and scratched his jaw.
“Truth is I’m not ready for tomorrow.”

“
We have everything ready
for them,” Portia said, trying to sound reassuring.

“
No, it’s not that. It’s
the reason they might be coming. I’m not ready for it.”

“
Oh. I see.” She swallowed
hard and crossed her arms, feeling a sudden chill. Her sleepy mind
hadn’t picked up on the obvious: he wasn’t ready for re-marriage.
Racking her brain for the right words, she settled on the only
thing she could think of. “Do not worry about tomorrow, for
tomorrow will worry about itself.”

“
Each day has enough
trouble of its own.”

His eyes drifted back to hers, and his
lips curved into a soft smile. He looked much more pleasant with a
smile on his face. Handsome even.

“
Matthew 6:34.” She
couldn’t break the lifelong habit of quoting scriptures. Not
everyone appreciated the talent. Before Jake and Abby died, she
spouted them right and left to grieving widows back in Brentwood.
Oftentimes, they didn’t appreciate the sentiment, and soon enough,
she understood exactly how they felt. Even after everything she’d
been through, old habits proved hard to break.

Her employer, however, didn’t seem
offended. He took a step closer and looked more relaxed than ever.
“I never could memorize scripture like that. Claire could, and I
probably should have appreciated it more. It’s good to know you’re
a woman of faith, Mrs. McAllister.”

She shrugged and shook her head. “I
don’t know about that, Mr. Stanford. Like so many things these
days, faith seems to be in short supply.”

“
Maybe you’ll find it
here.” He turned toward the stairs but stopped and faced her again.
“Since you’ll be here awhile, you might as well call me
Beau.”