Whirlwind (20 page)

“Compromise—”
Daniel sat ramrod straight and folded his arms across his chest—“is the other thing we’re going to discuss.” The tone he used for the word made it clear how he felt about the concept. “I’m a man who believes in excellence—doing my best, giving my best, and expecting others with whom I associate to do the same. We’re to work as unto the Lord, and anything less is wrong.”

Gawking at him in astonishment, Millicent said, “You mistake me! I don’t mean to compromise standards by any means. I simply meant that you are an orderly man and operate by schedules and agendas, whereas I am accustomed to adjusting to the vagaries of weather, children’s sniffles, and serendipity. No doubt, we will have to acquaint ourselves with what this means to our household.”

“Indeed. As you remarked, there are conventions which reflect on the family and business. Having grown up removed from a family setting, then minding children in a home where the parents were absent, your exposure may be . . . lacking. In the future, if you wish to express an opinion contrary to a stand I’ve taken, do so in private.”

Was this the same man who just moments before had so kindly held her hands? Completely unprepared for his condemnation, Millicent sat perfectly still and stared at him. The best she could manage was a single stiff nod. Then came a crushing sense of humiliation. She’d worked her very hardest all day to prove her value to him; the only thing she’d done was given him cause to regret marrying her.

The bell above the door sounded, and Daniel rose, took one look at the man entering the store, and knew he needed to get rid of his wife at once. “That’s all, Millicent. Go join Isabelle and Arthur. I’ll be there shortly for supper.”

She inclined her head in a genteel acknowledgment of his order and stood. Her moves looked rather stiff, but after all she’d done today, that didn’t seem unexpected. Unless it wasn’t just her muscles but her tender emotions that were smarting.
I don’t know my own wife well enough to guess if that’s the case.

Once Millicent left the store, Daniel met the man in the middle aisle of the store. “Daniel Clark.”

“Clive Keys. Only everyone calls me Clicky.” They shook hands. “Local telegraph operator. I have two for you.” Clicky handed over two crisp sheets of paper. “Want me to wait in case you’d like to send a reply?”

“Yes.” Daniel looked at the first and scowled.
Girls well. Give Fairweather best. Alastair.
The abysmal lack of information in response to his query might be attributed to the butler’s discretion. Providing the information that he and Millicent were now wed would likely ease the starch in the old retainer’s collar.

Children well. Ignorant of death. Cease all contact. Fawnhill Academy.

Daniel grabbed the paper at once. He stared at Clicky. “I’m not one to confide in others, but in this case, I’ll do so and rely on your discretion in order to protect my wife and sister-in-law. Two little girls whom they love have been orphaned.Until I can assure them the girls are safe and happy, I don’t want Millicent or Isabelle to know anything.”

“I’ll keep all telegrams regarding that aside for you alone.”

“Much obliged.” Daniel immediately composed a couple of telegrams. The first went to Nellows, a man he’d used on rare occasions when he required sensitive information to be obtained quickly and discreetly. The complete lack of cooperation and information from both sources clearly spelled out a need for someone else to assist in gathering facts. This wasn’t something that could wait.

He quickly jotted down the pertinent facts about his marriage to Millicent so Alastair could confirm the news for himself. Adding that he wished to spare his bride undue stress, he hoped to discuss the girls’ welfare and future with their guardian before Millicent learned of the tragedy and to please provide identity and contact information of same.

To Fawnhill, Daniel wrote very decisively,
Foreboding rises. Eberhardt girls’ welfare is ultimate concern. Wife, Millicent nee Fairweather, was nanny—wishes to maintain loving contact. Personal guarantee will not divulge tragedy. Will wire funds to permit supervised cable exchanges. Require identity of guardian.

Clicky’s eyes bulged when Daniel handed him four twenty-dollar bills. “Wire fifty of that to Fawnhill Academy and keep the other thirty to fund the other telegrams that’ll follow. I appreciate your discretion.”

Being late for supper would be rude, so Daniel dashed down the street. He barely made it there in time to seat Isabelle. Millicent didn’t await his assistance. She took care of herself, but Mrs. Orion was carrying hot heavy platters out from the kitchen, so it might have just been thoughtfulness on her part.

The boarders were a talkative bunch that night, which suited Daniel just fine. Hungry and trying to anticipate what needed to be done next about the store, the Eberhardt girls, and his marriage, he didn’t want to be bothered with trying to be social. After the meal ended, Daniel slid in the chair Millicent had vacated, then took his son from Millicent. “Mrs. Orion, I appreciate your kindness to my family.”

The owner of the boardinghouse started stacking the dessert dishes. “If my daughter hadn’t needed me so badly after my husband passed on, I would have withered up and blown away. Heidi gave me a reason to live.”

The way Arthur cuddled against his shoulder sent a rush of warmth through Daniel. “Having my son has been a joy.”

Arthur twisted around and thumped Daniel’s chest. “Mine dadda.”

Mrs. Orion smiled at Arthur’s declaration, but her smile melted just as quickly as it started. “It’s such a pity that Isabelle doesn’t have a little one.” The silverware tinkled as she gathered it up. “Your entrusting her with Arthur—that’s the best thing you could have ever done.”

“He’s a handful. If he’s too much for her . . .”

“He kept her busy while he was awake, but I made sure she napped when he did.” Mrs. Orion lifted the dishes and walked off.

Arthur dove back into Millicent’s arms. She cuddled him and seemed eager to wander off toward the window. Ever since their discussion in the store, Millicent hadn’t spoken a dozen words. Was she in a pique? Chagrined? He owed it to her, though, to set matters straight at the outset. A man’s charge was to be head of his home. Perhaps it was best that she lived here for a few days yet—for the sake of her tender heart and pride. With time, she’d settle in.

Arthur rubbed his eyes and yawned loudly.

Millicent kissed his forehead. “It’s bedtime for a tired little boy.”

Daniel strode over. “I’ll carry my son upstairs.”

Millicent looked around to make sure they were alone.

“There’s no need.”

“I said I’d do it, and I will,” he snapped. “I lost one wife and child because she fell down the stairs. I’m not losing another.”

Millicent gasped, then clamped her lips into a tight line.

With exaggerated care, she passed Arthur to him.

Daniel stared intently at Millicent.
It was the wrong way and time for me to tell her, but at least she knows. She ought to understand now.

Her gaze went to how he cupped his son to his chest. Without a word, she slipped past him and up the stairs.

“Dadda?” Arthur sounded as tearful as he looked.

“Shhh. Daddy has you.” Millicent deserved a few minutes to regain her composure. Daniel went out to the porch and eased down into a wicker rocking chair. The fibers crackled for a moment as they accepted his weight, then the planks beneath the runners let out a faint creak as he rocked. Arthur crammed his thumb into his mouth, then dragged it right back out. “Buddy.”

“Buddy’s upstairs. He’s . . .”
What would Millicent say?
“Buddy’s getting ready for sleepy-bye.”

Satisfied with that answer, Arthur shoved his thumb back into his mouth and nestled in.

Night descended and the lamplighter walked down the street, singing as he fought back the darkness with the spark he carried from one light post to the next. With the creak of the rocker as a lullaby, Daniel anticipated Arthur would doze off.

Rubbing his eyes, Arthur whined, “Bankie. Buddy.” The ritual Millicent had created now robbed him of his ability to soothe his son to sleep. Daniel rose. By now, she would have realized the wisdom of his edict. He went inside and carried Arthur upstairs. Millicent had left the door open. Surely, that indicated she’d seen past his gruff words and understood.

The sisters stood over by the window, Isabelle wrapped in Millicent’s embrace. Feeling like an intruder, Daniel considered quietly gathering Buddy, the blanket, and a few nappies. He could keep his son for the night.

Millicent caught sight of him. She tilted her head toward the crib.

As he crossed the floor, he wished with every step that the mercantile had been ready so there wouldn’t be this quandary. Arthur pushed away from Daniel’s chest and tumbled into the crib. “Seepy-bye.”

“Yes, son. Sleepy-bye.” Daniel leaned down, drew up the blanket, and kissed him. Afterward he glanced over at the women. Neither looked back, so he took that as his cue. He left, shutting the door behind him.

Purposeful strides carried him down the street to his mercantile. The way his thoughts churned, he couldn’t possibly sleep.
Just as well. I’m going to get things done so I can have my family with me as soon as possible.

The small store adjoining the mercantile lay vacant, but Daniel saw a shadow move inside. He stopped and peered over the
Eldo’s Fine Photography
lettering on the window. The door opened, and Orville stuck out his head. “Whaddya want?”

“Is this place available?”

“I’m renting it until the widow Vaughn leaves.” Greed lit Orville’s eyes. “Wanna split the rent? You could use the downstairs for storage.”

Several blistering replies came to mind. “The only thing we’ll ever share is our last name.” Daniel strode on to his store.

The bell jangled as Daniel let himself inside. The scent of ammonia no longer lingered in the air, but the gas lamps on the street now shone through the clean windows and illuminated his path to the counter.

Again Daniel felt his anger flare . . . at Orville for leaving the store in such wretched condition, but most of all at himself. His fears had caused him to snap at his bride, when all she’d done was want to care for his son.
He’s her son, too.

But even now, Daniel knew he couldn’t apologize; it would be a lie because he wasn’t sorry in the least for drawing the line he had. He had to do everything within his power to minimize any risk to his wife and child. Millicent would come to accept the fact, even if she didn’t understand it.

Restlessness sent him pacing through the store. The base of the stairs was where he’d first seen Millicent that morning. She’d been pinned there—could have killed herself with that stunt. Women’s skirts were wont to tangle and get in the way, and the way ladies cinched themselves in led to lightheadedness. Those were already a dangerous combination, but adding in the heavy box Millicent had been moving—that was enough to make Daniel go gray. He’d exercised notable restraint in his reaction then, but the memory confirmed everything he knew: Stairs were treacherous. He’d make Millicent and Isabelle promise they wouldn’t carry anything up or down the stairs . . . not even Arthur. Especially not Arthur.

When Millicent’s skirts were pinned to the wall, it was the last time she’d been still all day long. Whirlwind. He’d called her one in that last discussion with Frank. At the time, he hadn’t known just how true the word was. All about him lay proof of her energy and labor.

Crates with boxes of food and soap, large boxes filled with jars, barrels with countless items piled high upon them . . . Not a single item remained where it had been yesterday. Empty, dust-free shelves formed an alley down the center of the store. Fabric formed two stacks: one that was ruined by the dust and the other that God, in His grace, had shielded from ruination because a Turkish carpet hanging on display had blown against the bolts.

Row upon row of toiletries and patent medicine bottles lined up along a bench like soldiers at attention—Millicent had laughingly called it the “March of Promises” and agreed with him that they needed to sort through them and decide which needed to be discarded.

She’d located the store’s ledger earlier in the day, had set it out for him to peruse. If she’d taken a peek inside, she hadn’t let on.

Lists hung from the wall—an idea she’d concocted. Their customers happily scribed all manner of items they’d appreciate having available. There, in Millicent’s handwriting, was Hope Stauffer’s name with only one request: pecans.

Alongside the requests, Millicent had tacked her things-to-do list. Each time she’d crossed off something, jubilation lit her features. It didn’t matter how small the accomplishment, she’d celebrated it with a powerful pencil stroke. Twice, when he’d been nearby, she’d handed the pencil to him and insisted upon his doing the honors.

He took his own list from his pocket and tacked it up. Already three pages long, it still didn’t begin to cover all that needed to be done.
From the looks of this place, we could work a solid year and still not be open for business.

His hand froze over the tack.
We.
He was thinking in terms of their working alongside one another—rather than setting her aside or having her stay upstairs with his son. Somehow, even while he’d been irritated at how she’d behaved, he’d come to think of her as his helpmeet. He accepted for certain that she’d still be there in a year, and they’d work together—yet given how strained the last part of the day had gone, those assumptions were significant.

That morning, when he’d said he wanted a word with her, Daniel had known exactly what that word was: submit. By the time he spoke with her at the end of the day, he’d been glad of the delay. He’d had the opportunity to soften his approach and realize she needed to be counseled and tutored. How could she have known what was proper when she had never actually seen a family in action? As her husband, it fell to him to teach her these things. Telling her to submit would have been wrong. Harsh. What he would do, though, was make lists and schedules to give her guidance.