Whirlwind (10 page)

“How many buttons are on a dress? And a lady’s shirtwaist?”

The questions seemed vaguely improper. Millicent felt her cheeks growing warm. Curiosity provided a way to avoid answering. “Do you mind my asking why?”

“I bought a mercantile.” He scanned the tray, reached out, and lifted a slice of pie. The tip of it drooped, but Mr. Clark swept it upward. What would have been fifteen or sixteen ladylike forkfuls for her amounted to four big bites for him. “Jet or mother-of-pearl buttons?”

Flummoxed, she realized she’d been staring at him. “Precisely what are the buttons for?”

“Shirtwaists and the like. How many do you women use, and what’s the preference?”

His explanation made sense and took some of the awkwardness from his odd interrogation. The edge of the scone started to crumble between her fingers. Millicent shoved the scone into her apron pocket.
Oh heavens. I just stuck food into my apron with him watching me!
“The number of buttons varies tremendously. It depends entirely upon the style.”

“Seven buttons. All of my shirts have seven buttons. I counted. Why can’t women be just as standardized?”

Either Mr. Clark is the most diplomatic gentleman on the face of the earth, or he’s the most oblivious. Please let him be the latter.
Millicent disciplined herself to focus on the conversation. “Men are accustomed to a regimented life. The number and size of their buttons are predictable and functional. Therein lies the difference. Regardless of the pursuit in which a woman is engaged, she is expected to appear beautiful. Buttons therefore become an important part of the design and flair of her clothing. Several dainty ones can signal she is demure, while a few black jet quietly state she is a widow. There’s nothing standard about being a woman, so women require a plethora of buttons from which to choose in order to express their style.”

“That makes sense.” He ate more cheese and turned the tray toward her, gesturing for her to help herself.

Well, as long as he didn’t mind her taking the cheese. . . . Millicent took a few pieces and leaned over to give two to Arthur. “These are yummy. Your daddy likes cheese.”

“Oooh.”

As she straightened back up, Mr. Clark absently scratched his cheek with the end of the pen. “Did Arthur make that as a sound of approval, or was he thanking you?”

“I can’t be sure.”

What looked suspiciously like relief eased the furrows in Mr. Clark’s brow. “So it’s not just me; even with your experience, you don’t completely understand him.”

“No, I don’t.” A smile tugged at her mouth. “Though now that I think of it, he was fascinated with his coat buttons this morning. Perhaps you can have a conversation about them.”

“No telling what he calls them. I’ve not been around children, and most of what my son says sounds like pure gibberish to me.”

“Most tots only say a handful of words. I recall little Fiona’s vocabulary seemed to blossom quite suddenly when she was about Arthur’s age.” The memory tore at her. Millicent dipped her head. “My apologies. It wasn’t right for me to mention someone else’s child.”

“No apology necessary. It’s a relief to know Arthur’s progressing as he ought.”

At the mention of his name, Arthur tugged on Millicent’s skirt. He stood and pushed a misshapen lump of cheese flathanded into his mouth. “Up.” He lifted his messy hands.

Millicent lifted him onto her lap and briskly cleaned him. He promptly leaned forward and reached for the shortbread. Broken in half, it still filled his little hand. He held it up to Millicent’s mouth.

“What a nice boy you are to share with Nanny!” She pretended to nibble the edge.

Pleased with her praise, Arthur twisted and aimed for his father’s mouth.

“Daddy’s busy.” Mr. Clark picked up the pen. “We were discussing buttons and such.”

Puzzled by his father’s rebuff, Arthur turned back to her. She covered his hand with both of hers and took a tiny bite.
Why doesn’t this man spare his son’s feelings? Maybe he needs someone to show him how to act around a baby.
“That tasted wonderful! Thank you, Arthur. Here. You have a bite now.”

While he happily aimed for his own mouth, Millicent rearranged Arthur on her lap. Her hand bumped her bulging apron pocket.
Oh goodness. How much have I tucked away?

Unaware of her chagrin, Mr. Clark dipped the pen into the inkwell. “I thought it might be wise to keep a good assortment of sewing goods. I presume women purchase based on immediate need.”

“Indeed.”

Mr. Tibbs knocked on the doorjamb. “I have some of the lad’s nappies.”

Millicent started to rise, but the steward quickly said, “No need for you to get up, miss. I’ll set them in the nursery. Mr. Clark, sir, the captain ordered the crew to inform the passengers that the repairs are almost completed. He anticipates we’ll be under power at seven o’clock.”

“Tonight, or in the morning?”

“This evening, sir. We’ll pull into New York only two days late.”

A curt nod acknowledged the information.

Millicent looked at her charge and held out her hand. “Arthur, your nappy’s wet.” Once she shut the nursery door, Millicent noticed only three nappies and one gown lay on the bed. Swiftly, she changed his nappy and gown, then went to address Mr. Tibbs, who hovered by the table. Mr. Clark was gone.

“Miss Fairweather?” he said tentatively. “With the delay, there’s more wash to do than expected. Your recommendation—to have your sister launder the baby’s clothes—I got approval as long as she does the Haxton child’s, too.”

“Excellent. My sister is below . . .”

He looked relieved. “I remembered. I’ll watch the lad for a few minutes if you could fetch her. Oh, and here—no use in good food going to waste. Tuck these tarts into your apron for her.”

Millicent smiled in thanks and ruefully wondered if he’d noticed her already bulging pockets.

“Come sit on Daddy’s lap.” The teak deck chair creaked softly as Daniel lifted his son. Arthur squirmed a moment, then rested his head against Daniel’s neck and clutched Buddy to his chest.

“Here’s a lap robe, sir.” Miss Fairweather carefully tucked Arthur’s blanket around him. Once done with that, she made sure Arthur’s cap covered his ears.

“With the blanket and me holding him close, he’ll be warm enough. You needn’t fuss over that.” Daniel reached to remove the cap.

“Please, sir—leave it on.” Desperation edged Miss Fairweather’s voice. “Surely you’ve noticed he’s already sniffling a bit. By keeping his ears warm, we might ward off infection. Audrey—one of the Eberhardt girls I minded—sometimes got ear infections, and they were so frightfully painful. I want to spare little Arthur that.”

Daniel cupped his son’s head and thumbed the edge of the knit hat so it gave even better coverage.

“I’ll bring my son back to you once the engines start up and he’s calm.”

Miss Fairweather took the hint and backed up. Hands clasped demurely at her waist, she murmured, “I’ll be in the nursery.” As she walked off, the setting sun’s rays illuminated her brown hair, bringing out strands of gold and russet. The wind swooshing off the sails captured tendrils, pulling them free to dance in the cool breeze while her skirts and apron fluttered about her until she turned the corner and disappeared from sight.

Mr. Haxton escorted his wife around the corner. They approached and took a nearby pair of deck chairs. Mrs. Haxton slanted a look at Daniel, then stared pointedly at his son. “If your governess isn’t working out, there must be dozens of other unfortunates in steerage who’d watch your boy.”

“I want my son with me.” Daniel didn’t bother to explain. Had Mrs. Haxton truly held the merest scrap of concern for Arthur, she would have volunteered to allow her daughter’s nanny to mind him. More often than not, Mrs. Haxton’s conversation at the luncheon and supper table consisted of sly remarks and catty comments. As seating was assigned, Daniel chose to be civil enough to acknowledge her presence; but that was the sum total of his interaction with her. It hardly seemed right to request a change of tables and subject someone else to what he himself found objectionable. Citing his wife’s abhorrence of tobacco, Mr. Haxton spent a good portion of each day and all evening on the deck with a cigar in his hand. Daniel suspected he used cigars as an excuse to escape her.

“When I disembark, you can be sure I’m going to report the laxity shown on this vessel.” Mrs. Haxton wagged her head like a disappointed tutor. “Imagine, the crew going about in shirt-sleeves! It’s indecent. Simply indecent.”

Daniel ignored her. Explaining the men couldn’t heave ropes, trim sails, and do any number of other chores while wearing the standard tailored jacket would be a waste of breath. Mrs. Haxton merely needed to complain.
Better to be single than wed to a woman like her. Far better.

Arthur sneezed.

“God bless you.” Before Daniel could pull out his handkerchief, Arthur burrowed his face into Buddy, effectively wiping his own nose. Oh well. The pillow slip was just as easy to launder as a handkerchief. Daniel dipped his head. “Remember what Daddy told you? There’s going to be a big noise, and then the ship will move fast.”

Completely unimpressed, Arthur stuck his thumb in his mouth.

Daniel refused to take chances with his son. The first time the engines had fired up as they’d prepared to set sail, Arthur had suffered a horrible fright, and Nanny Jenkin hadn’t been there to soothe him. This time, it would be different. Daniel vowed he’d keep possession of his son until the sound of the engines became a welcome lullaby.

It didn’t take long before Arthur’s eyes grew heavy and his body went lax. Daniel relished simply holding him. The setting sun seemingly lit the water on fire—a display of scarlet, orange, and gold. The wind whipped the tips of some of the waves, and the resulting froth winked silver and gold. Under other circumstances, this time would hold nothing but contentment. As it was, Daniel waited with concern. When the engine started, how would his son respond? In the best of all possibilities, Arthur would sleep through it all.

About ten minutes later, already weary of the Haxtons’ jaded opinions, Daniel wavered between impatience and pity for the ugliness in their hearts. To move would risk waking Arthur, so he tried to ignore their unpleasant conversation.

An almost imperceptible vibration began. The deck chair transferred the motion, letting him know the engine was starting. As it had in port, the engine slowly built up power.

Arthur slept through it all.

The Haxtons argued about whether the
Opportunity
ought to combine sail and engine power or to simply rely on the more modern propulsion.

“What do you say, Clark?”

Daniel didn’t want to be drawn into their bickering. “I say my son’s in need of his cot.”

“He ought to have been in it already.” Mrs. Haxton pulled the edges of her fur coat closer. “Keeping him out in the night air was foolish. He’ll likely come down with a chill.”

“My wife’s right, you know. The nanny ought to—”

“I made the decision to have my son with me.” Daniel rose carefully, trying not to jar his son. “Good night.”

The minute he opened the door to the suite, Miss Fairweather hopped up from the table. She whispered, “How is he?”

“Slept through.”

She murmured something that sounded like, “Praise God.” The lamp in the nursery burned enough to give safe light, but low enough not to awaken Arthur.

When Daniel stopped at the cot, he lifted slightly and pressed a kiss on his son’s curls.

Miss Fairweather carefully eased the blanket away, and he laid his son down. Arthur sleepily rolled over onto his tummy and wiggled until his knees tucked up beneath his chest. Daniel smiled as he laid the blanket over his son.

Miss Fairweather whispered, “Isn’t it darling how babies like to sleep like that?”

“Do they?” Daniel whispered.

She nodded. “By next year, he’ll sprawl like a boneless cat across the bed.” She kissed her fingertip, then pressed the “kiss” on Arthur’s cheek. As soon as she did, she looked away.

Even in the dim room, Daniel witnessed the faint blush in her cheeks.
She always kisses him before she puts him down. I thought it was for him—but it’s not. Her affection for my son is unmistakable.
Miss Fairweather reached between the slats and scooted Buddy closer to Arthur.

Daniel gestured, “After you,” and followed her out of the nursery. She wouldn’t meet his gaze, and he suspected why. “Miss Fairweather, I’m thankful for your tenderness toward my son. After what happened, he needs to feel safe and treasured.”

Her shoulders melted. “Arthur’s a very lovable boy. You’re exceedingly blessed.”

“Indeed. Well, then. I believe I’ll go look at the catalogues.”

“Mr. Clark—you were asking questions regarding sewing items. If you’d like, I’d be willing to review the crochet and knitting goods in the catalogues for you.”

“Would you? Excellent!” The words had barely left his mouth when a loud sound cut the air and the
Opportunity
lurched, flinging Miss Fairweather into his chest.

Eight

O
h dear. I’m sorry.” Millicent pushed away.

“Are you—”

Arthur’s cry sent her rushing to his side. “Arthur!” He pushed himself up and sat in the center of his cot as he wailed.

Mr. Clark plucked his son out and awkwardly tossed the blanket over Arthur. The blanket descended to bury the boy, and his wails grew.

“There, now.” Millie repositioned it and patted his back. “I bet you want Buddy, don’t you? Buddy heard a loud noise. Do you think he’s scared?”

Arthur jammed his thumb into his mouth and reached out with his other hand. Whimpers still spilled from his lips.

“We’re fine. Yes, we are.” Mr. Clark patted his son’s back. “Let’s go sit down. Maybe Nanny can find you a biscuit. Can you, Nanny?”

“Right away.” Thanking God for having provided those biscuits earlier in the day, Millicent withdrew one from the box. “Here you go.” She held out the biscuit, and Arthur pulled his thumb from his mouth to accept it. “Here, sir. I’ll take him.”

“That’s not necessary.” Mr. Clark sat in a chair and didn’t seem to mind that his son crumbled the biscuit all over both of them. He didn’t say much, but the reassuring
thump, thump, thump
of his hand patting Arthur filled the silent suite.