Whirlwind (2 page)

Cook managed a wobbly, yet knowing, smile. “What a very interesting idea.”

Millicent smiled at Audrey. “This way, we won’t be too full to enjoy it!”

“Aren’t we going to pray?” Fiona asked.

“Yes, of course we are.” It warmed Millicent’s heart how the girls loved to recite their prayers. “But since this is a backward lunch, we say our prayer at the end.”

So the meal went, until they finished. Fiona clasped her chubby hands together. “Jesus, it is you we greet and thank you for the food we eat. Make us good and strong and kind, and help us have pure hearts and minds.”

Audrey then prayed, “Jesus, help me be brave at my new school.”

Millicent took her turn. “And grant the children a safe journey.”

Fiona added, “And thank you for giving us new friends!

Amen.”

As they left the table, Millicent’s mind whirled. No doubt, the school would use pieces from
The Book of Common Prayer.
She’d taught the girls the bedtime prayer her mother had taught her. She’d also made up the beginning of their mealtime prayer, and each of them always took a turn adding something more.
Father, I wanted them to talk to you not from rote, but from their hearts. Everything will change for the girls, and I haven’t prepared them.

A knock sounded, and the nursery door opened. To Millicent’s amazement, the butler stood in the aperture. “Miss Fairweather, Billy’s returned. The photographer will arrive shortly.”

“Thank you, Alastair.”

He cleared his throat. “If I might be so bold, I’d like a 16 picture of the girls, myself.”

“Of course.”

Twenty minutes later, the girls stood in the center of two lines of household staff. Everyone had hands at their sides, eyes focused on the camera.
Poof!
The flash exploded, and Millicent blinked. When she could see again, Mr. Eberhardt slinked past the open parlor door. She opened her mouth to call him back, but at the last second she stayed silent. A lady never raised her voice, hired help never summoned the master, but most of all, he’d ordered them not to tell the girls he was home. She consoled herself by thinking she’d spared the children the sting of his rejection.

“Miss Fairweather?”

She turned to the photographer. “I beg your pardon?”

“I suggested you sit on the chair, and I’ll pose the lasses with you. I can make two copies so you can have one and they can take the other.”

“Thank you, but I’d like three copies of this one so each of the girls may have her own.” Millicent sat as he directed and gently tamed Fiona’s curls, then straightened Audrey’s bow.

“Girls, you must hold still.” The photographer squinted, then scowled at Fiona as he tacked on, “And don’t smile.”

Fiona not smile? Unthinkable. Millicent adored her sunny disposition. “Fee, you must hold very still,” she said, “but I’d love for you to smile.”

Audrey looked at her, somber as could be. “Are you going to smile, Miss Fairweather?”

“Let’s all smile. That’s what we always do, and it’ll make us happy to look at the picture and remember the wonderful time we had together.”

While the photographer took over the upstairs bath to develop the pictures, Millicent took the girls out for a walk. A brook bordered one side of the garden. Impulsively, Millicent allowed the girls to wade. She committed the sight to memory—wanting to recall every giggle and delighted squeal. With no towel, she glanced about to make sure no one could see her, then used her eyelet-edged petticoat to dry their feet.

Watching Millicent tie up her sister’s shoes, Audrey asked, “What shall we do next?”

“Why don’t we gather a bouquet for Mrs. Witherspoon?”

Fiona clapped. “I’ll make one for Alastair!”

“Silly, boys don’t like flowers.”

Millicent rose. “It would be nice to make a nosegay for each member of the staff.” What would it matter if they stripped the garden bare? Mr. Eberhardt wouldn’t stay long enough to enjoy the garden, let alone entertain or escort a lady out for a stroll.

By the time they’d tied ribbons about the small bouquets and delivered them to the staff, Mrs. Witherspoon was directing the livery boys as they carried down the girls’ trunks.

Grief slashed through Millicent at the sight.

“Where’s Flora?” Panic lent a shrill edge to Fiona’s high voice. She adored the rag doll Millicent had made for her.

“In the trunk.” Mrs. Witherspoon sounded overly cheerful.

“The trunk!” Fiona burst into tears.

“Don’t worry, Fee.” Millicent knelt down and took Fiona’s hands in hers. “Flora’s having fun riding down the stairs.”

“Can I ride down the stairs, too?”

Throwing all caution to the wind, Millicent answered yes. A few minutes later, Millicent stood at the bottom of the stairs. “Slowly, now.”

“No, go fast!” Fiona bounced inside the blanket-lined wooden crate on the landing. The boys lifted the box onto a large sheet of pasteboard, and Alastair held fast to the length of clothesline tied to the box.

“Wheeeeee!” Fiona shouted as the box sledded down the flight.

“It’s my turn!” Audrey looked down from the banister.

“I want to go again!” Fiona scrabbled out of the box and raced back up the stairs.

“Millicent, you’ve succeeded in taking their minds off what’s to come.” Mrs. Witherspoon blotted at her eyes. “Bless you, I—”

“The pasteboard’s all hooked up,” one of the boys said, holding the bedraggled piece aloft for inspection.

“I’m sure it will last for at least Audrey’s turn.” Millicent couldn’t bear to cheat Audrey out of a ride. Audrey was always the serious, sensible one who asked for nothing and felt everything deeply. But she’d wanted a ride.

Alastair inspected the pasteboard and shook his head. “This won’t do. No, it most certainly won’t.” He looked down at the head housekeeper. “Mrs. Witherspoon, I do believe the trays need a good buffing.”

Millicent couldn’t believe her ears. Even at that distance, though, she could see the grin tugging at the oh-so-proper butler’s mouth.

“Which one?” Mrs. Witherspoon called back.

Straightening himself and sounding absurdly dignified, Alastair said, “Every last one, Mrs. Witherspoon.”

Over the next half hour, Fiona and Audrey rode square, round, oval, and rectangular trays down the stairs. Citing a concern that the box might dent the trays, Alastair took to tying the clothesline to a belt he buckled around the girls. All the servants abandoned any pretense of working and came to cheer for the fun.

Millicent noticed the butler down on his knees, whispering to the girls. From the day she’d taken her position in the household, Millicent had liked the stately old man. He possessed a sense of propriety and managed the entire manor with finesse. Watching him shed his stateliness and grin at the girls, Millicent blinked away tears.

“Miss Fairweather.” He rose and suddenly took on the full mantle of his authority. “A word, please.”

Lifting her skirts ever so slightly, Millicent mounted the stairs. “Yes?”

Audrey handed him a tray. Well, at least she tried to. The piece measured at least a yard long. “This one?”

“Indeed, Miss Audrey.” Alastair lifted the piece, then poked his nose into the air in an officious manner. “Miss Fairweather, Miss Audrey and Miss Fiona have determined that you’ve not done your share of polishing the silver.”

Disbelief shot through her, but the twinkle in the old man’s eyes told Millicent she’d have to do some fancy talking. “The girls are right, Alastair. But governesses don’t . . . polish silver.”

“Yes, but those are ordinary governesses. You are an extraordinary governess.”

“Thank you. How—”

“Quite simply,” he interrupted before she could finish her sentence. “This is sufficiently long for you and the girls to . . . ahem . . . work on together.”

Denial sprang to her lips, but Millicent looked into Audrey’s hopeful eyes. Tugging on her sleeves, Millicent nodded. “Never let it be said I shirked my chores.”

A few seconds later, Alastair tested the rope he’d secured about her waist. “Safe and secure, Miss Fairweather. I’m sure this will be a smashing success.”

“That was hardly a reassuring choice of words,” she muttered. To her relief, Alastair and the boys looked away as she sat on the tray. The only way to keep from having her skirts fly up was to gather her narrow hoops high and spraddle in the most unladylike way imaginable, but with the girls in her lap, all ought to be . . . passable. “Audrey . . .” Once the elder girl sat before her, Millicent beckoned, “Fee.”

With the girls in place, Millicent glanced down at how her boots hung off the tray. “I’m afraid this simply won’t do.”

“Ah, but this will.” Alastair popped a small, round chafing dish beneath her heels.

“Here you go!” One of the boys heaved against Millicent. As they started careening downward, Millicent suddenly realized they were going far too fast.
Alastair doesn’t have hold of the rope!

Thumpthumpthumpthump.
How could anything drag and bump, yet move with such speed?
Dear God, don’t let anything happen to the girls.
Terror sucked away any breath she’d use to scream, but in the few seconds of the dizzying descent, Millicent prayed a million words. Everything blurred, then they sent a shower of larkspur, roses, and fern in all directions and came to a skidding stop in the center of the marble foyer—directly beneath the massive oval table.

“Girls! Are you hurt?” Millicent’s dry mouth made the words come out in nothing more than a croak.

Laughter bubbled out of Fiona, and Audrey shook with a fit of giggles. With her skirts beneath the girls’ weight, Millicent couldn’t move. She patted them, desperately trying to reassure herself they’d come through unscathed.

From the parlor door, an ominous voice rumbled, “What is going on here?”

Two

F
iona rolled onto her knees and peeked from beneath the table. “Who’s that?”

Audrey squeaked, “Father?”

“Father!” Fiona scrambled out, and Audrey rolled away.

“Miss Fairweather.” Alastair’s hands curled over her shoulders. “Allow me to assist you.”

Unable to speak, she nodded. As the butler pulled, the tray beneath her grated across the marble floor. He helped her to her feet. No, foot. One was stuck in the chafing dish.

A subtle twist didn’t manage to dislodge the toe of her kid boot from the inner rim, and her heel wedged tighter still from the action. A swish of her skirts failed to cover that humiliating detail. Something tugged at her waist.

“Miss Fairweather.” Mr. Eberhardt tilted his head toward the study. In a tone that rivaled a thunderclap, he added, “Now.”

The combs and pins securing her prim chignon became traitors—abandoning her in her moment of need. Audrey tucked her hand into Millicent’s. Millicent gave it a reassuring squeeze. “Curtsy to your father, girls. Then you may go with Mrs. Witherspoon.”

As the girls dipped with very nice form, Millicent did her best to collect herself and correct whatever flaws she could. By the time she reached the study door, she wanted to regain as much order as possible. She didn’t know precisely how she’d manage that feat, but anything would be an improvement.

Alastair murmured from behind her, “My apologies, Miss Fairweather. I cannot untie the knot.”

Muffling a moan, she took an ungainly step toward the study, the metallic sound of the chafing dish echoing loudly. Acting as if the chafing dish wasn’t there and pretending she didn’t have a clothesline trailing after her like a tail, Millicent accepted the butler’s proffered arm.

Mr. Eberhardt moved only enough to lean against the doorframe and watch her as she clung to Alastair for dear life. Every other step, she tried to subtly shake off the impossibly heavy chafing dish. It protested by holding fast and putting every drum in the queen’s brigade to shame.

Fiona scooped up a spike of larkspur and galloped to her father. Oblivious to the deep furrows in his dark brows and the stern grooves bracketing his thin mouth, she thrust the flower at him. “This is for you!”

Mr. Eberhardt bent stiffly at the waist and accepted the broken stem. “Thank you.”

Clearly hungry for his attention, Audrey scooped up every flower within reach and sidled closer. She bit her lower lip and looked at her father with longing in her big blue eyes.

“Go put the flowers in water,” Mr. Eberhardt said in a remarkably gentle tone to Audrey. He added the larkspur to her armload and walked deep into the study.

In the moment the master’s back was turned, the butler swooped down and yanked on the chafing dish. It came off—but took along Millicent’s boot.

“Thank you,” Millicent whispered. Anything was an improvement. She hastily repositioned a slipping hairpin and squared her shoulders.

His back still to them, Mr. Eberhardt ordered, “Leave us, Alastair. And shut the door.”

Her skirts didn’t dare even rustle as she crossed the floor and stood in the center of the room. To Millicent’s astonishment, the photographs she’d commissioned lay across the desk.

“I’m waiting.”

“My apologies, Mr. Eberhardt.”

He wheeled around. “I didn’t ask for an apology. I demanded an explanation. Just what were you doing?”

Making a ninny of myself.
“I wanted to give the girls a special day to remember.”

His brows hiked toward his hairline. “I’m sure you’ve succeeded.”

She bit her tongue and folded her hands in front of herself.

Stalking toward the table, he lifted one of the pictures of her with the girls. “It would appear decorum isn’t your strong suit.”

Millicent remained silent.

“No reply, Miss Fairweather?”

“You made a statement. A man is entitled to his opinion—especially in his home and regarding his family.” She watched in disbelief as he tucked the picture into his pocket.

“Is something wrong?”

“I’m sure you noticed how very young the girls still are when they offered you the flowers. Though I understand you make the final decisions, they would continue to benefit from a governess’s care—”

“Indeed I do make the decisions and they are no business of yours.”

Millicent stared at him in utter dismay. “You asked me what was wrong.”