Whirlwind (9 page)

“Of course you would,” another maid teased. “The last time you mended your apron, the string pulled straight off the minute you tried tying it back on.”

Glad for the lighthearted response, Millicent made a getaway. She didn’t want anyone linking her romantically with Mr. Clark. Oh, he was handsome and well-off, but those were hardly recommendations.
Someday, if God brings me a fine Christian man who loves me as Frank loves Isabelle, then I’ll wed—but not before then.

Indeed, she’d given it considerable thought. Until now, she’d found contentment in whatever circumstances life brought—but that was far different than seeking and embracing what she desired for herself. Settling into a shop, decorating it just the way she and Isabelle fancied, building a business of their very own and creating their own trademark designs—it would be a challenge and a delight. Instead of following after the commands and demands of bosses, they would set their own goals and achieve their own dreams.

Heart aglow with plans, Millicent turned the corner and into the companionway. It took a moment for the sight before her to register. She burst out laughing.

Seven

D
aniel’s head shot up when he heard melodic laughter. He didn’t bother to hide his smile. “I believe Arthur’s getting tired.”

“I wouldn’t have suspected that in the least. It looks as if he’s ready to dive straight onto his boat.”

Facing backward and tucked under his father’s arm, Arthur still gripped the string to his toy and pulled it behind them. His stubby legs stuck straight out from beneath his gown, his feet paddling the air. Every few steps he’d announce, “Boat! Boat, Dadda!”

Pleased with the solution he’d found to keep his son from sinking into the tantrum that had threatened only moments before, Daniel continued to walk down the passageway. Miss Fairweather approached from her direction, and they met at the suite door. She reached for Arthur, then hesitated.

Daniel wasn’t sure how to pass his son to her. “I’d best set him down.”

The minute Arthur’s feet touched the deck, he whined, “No! Up! Up!”

Miss Fairweather knelt by Arthur. “Where is Buddy?”

A stricken expression twisted Arthur’s face. “Buddy!”

Miss Fairweather lifted him into her arms. “Let’s hurry and find him.” Daniel opened the door and watched as she passed through the parlor and carried Arthur into the nursery.

“Do you see him?”

“Buddy!”

Daniel plucked the pull toy from the deck and marveled at how the nanny managed to avert a spate of tears. Whenever Arthur grew tired, he became cranky. He’d been rubbing his eyes when Daniel scooped him up. For a few minutes Arthur had calmed, but his good will wouldn’t last long.

“You hold Buddy.” Miss Fairweather’s kind voice drifted from the other room. “We’ll pop you into a dry nappy, then you can help Buddy take a rest under your blankie.”

Blankie? Miss Jenkin had never used baby talk with Arthur. Why would—

“Bankie.” His son sighed the new word with weary relief.

From where he stood, Daniel watched as Miss Fairweather diapered, then cuddled his son. Slowly swaying to rock him, she murmured, “Sleepy-bye.”

“Mmmm-ah.”

Daniel started as the sound Arthur had made registered. He watched as Miss Fairweather brushed her lips against his son’s cheek and heard the tiny, puckered sound of the kiss he returned. To his knowledge, Arthur had never kissed Miss Jenkin. In fact, the few times Daniel had been present when Miss Jenkin put his son to bed, she’d never kissed Arthur, either. He couldn’t help but think that perhaps losing his nanny wasn’t a disaster, but a blessing.

Gently, she laid him in the cot. “Yes, there you are. Cuddle Buddy, and Nanny will cover you both with the blankie.”

“Buddy bankie seepy-bye.”

Pride speared through Daniel. His son didn’t have many words yet, and the best he’d done until now was to put two together.

Miss Fairweather reached between the slats and fussed over the blanket for a second, then nodded to herself.

Daniel turned toward the table, bumped something, and it plopped to the floor. Kneeling, he lifted the sketchpad Miss Fairweather had dropped off en route to the nursery. Precise drawings of women’s fashions and detailed notations filled both of the visible pages. He rose and continued to study them. The nursery door clicked shut. “I know very little of what women consider stylish, but your drawings are quite appealing.”

“I can’t take credit for those. I copied them from a magazine.” Miss Fairweather remained over by the nursery door.

A thought crossed his mind. “I’ve some catalogues from America. If you’d like, I’ll loan them to you. They feature some ready-made wear as well as fabric and sewing fripperies.”

“That’s most kind of you.”

A few moments later when Daniel gave her a Montgomery Ward and Company catalogue, she said, “One of Arthur’s gowns is a bit short. Shall I pick out one of the tucks to lengthen it, or were you planning to save them?”

“Save them?” As soon as he echoed the question, her meaning sank in. The pleasure of the day evaporated. Arthur was his first child—and his only child. Instead of putting Henrietta ahead of all else, Daniel failed her and God. A man who couldn’t keep his priorities straight didn’t deserve to have a wife. The bitter realization of his failure and the fact that it also cost his son a mother and siblings tore at Daniel. “I’ll not have more children, Miss Fairweather. Arthur is all I could hope for, and he’s enough for me.”

Daniel then left for the library. He knew he couldn’t change the past, but he’d do everything in his power to make sure he’d lead a life where he’d be there for his son each day from now on.

For most of the day he pored over the Sears catalogue, taking notes as he went, to ascertain what items rural Texas mercantiles might carry. Sears touted “quality” and “The finest you can buy anywhere.” If the claims were true, the prices seemed reasonable—even modest. How did local dry goods emporiums stay in business? His cousin promised the store was well stocked and served a thriving community. Even so, Daniel wanted to assume control at once and put his own stamp on things.

He dipped his pen again. The ship tossed unexpectedly, and the nib of the pen crashed into the inkwell. As the
Opportunity
righted, Daniel inspected the thin metal nib. Bent as it was, the thing rated as useless. Even after cleaning off the ink and trying to bend it back into shape, Daniel couldn’t redeem it.
Little things. Daily needs. Ordinary objects. Unanticipated items that break or suddenly fail and must be replaced at once. That’s where the bulk of my sales will be.

He turned toward the household section of the catalogue. Though he’d imported and exported thousands of dishes, Daniel realized he had no idea how often sets were replaced. Cast-iron cookware would last an eternity, so common sense dictated he’d not need a large inventory. Lamp chimneys, wicks, oil—those were staples. Matches, too.

Unthinkingly, he put the pen to paper. An ugly black blot spread beneath the nib and spidered across the list he’d begun. A wry smile twisted his lips. Pens, too. One couldn’t send off for a new one if the old pen was already broken. Another pen lay nestled in a shallow brass tray in the center of the library table. Daniel helped himself and took another sheet of paper.

“Sir, were you wanting any tea?”

The remnants of what once had undoubtedly been a tempting assortment of scones, cakes, biscuits, and cheeses littered the serving trays on the teak cart. Daniel started to send it away, then reconsidered. Arthur was teething, and Nanny said gnawing on things helped. “Put together whatever you have there. I’ll take a plate back to share with my son.”

Arthur would love his treat. That much was certain. Miss Fairweather might, too. Perhaps whilst she ate, he could ask her about how long a spool of thread lasted and whether steel, ivory, or wood were the best knitting needles.

Millicent had no more set up a tower of blocks and spools than Arthur delighted in knocking over the pile. She created yet another and leaned back. “Okay, Arthur. Get it!”

Gleeful squeals filled the air as he hit and kicked the tower. Blocks tumbled everywhere. It took a moment before Millicent realized they weren’t alone. She turned. “Mr. Clark.”

He rounded the settee and held out a plate laden with what looked like half of a bakery. “You said Arthur was teething.”

“The biscuits are a good idea.” She rose from the floor. “I’ll put a few in . . .” Scanning the room, she spied a small pasteboard box. “This’ll serve nicely.”

A curt nod of acknowledgment accompanied the muffled thump as he set the tray on the table. Hitching his pant legs, Mr. Clark knelt beside his son. “Are you building something?”

Arthur shook his head. “Me boom!”

Her heart skipped a beat. Mr. Clark had thought of his son and was going to play with him! Lazily dropping the biscuits into the box one at a time, she watched father and son together. Her little charge now sat in his father’s lap. “More, Dadda! More!”

“Here. You put that on top of my block. Daddy will help.”

“Me do!” Blocks tumbled. “Uh-oh. Boom!”

“Next time, Daddy will help you.”

Millicent glanced over and smiled. Every last block sprawled across the carpet in testimony to the fun father and son shared. She’d prayed for her boss to pay more attention to his little son. Gratitude filled her heart. Perhaps God had caused the ship’s engine top to break so Mr. Clark would see the importance of getting to know his son. The creases in Mr. Clark’s face eased, making him look significantly younger.
How old is he?

Five biscuits filled the box. Two more remained on the tray . . . alongside a pair of tarts, three slices of pie, a chunk of cake, a half-dozen scones, and a wedge of shortbread. Oh—and cheese. Several small cubes and domino-sized slices of creamy white and buttery yellow cheeses tumbled along the side of the tray. Isabelle and Frank would relish receiving even a few. Millicent clenched her fingers to keep from slipping some of the food into her apron pocket. That would be stealing.

Mr. Clark glanced up. “Miss Fairweather, if there’s anything on the tray that appeals to you, take it.”

Startled, she blurted out, “You don’t mind?”

“Not at all. I’d rather fancy some of the cake. Didn’t have 95 any tea, myself.”

“We don’t have any plates or silver. I’ll—”

He set Arthur off his lap and rose. “That’s of no consequence. My son’s taught me eating with one’s fingers can be quite efficient.” He picked up the chunk of cake. “Go ahead. Grab whatever you fancy.”

“Thank you.” Mind awhirl with plans, she took the biggest scone. “I’m not all that hungry now, but I’ll save this.”

Her boss stared at her.

Millicent flashed him an embarrassed smile. “You must think me a glutton.”

“Not at all. Cookies in a box proved you to be resourceful. I’m waiting to see how you plan to keep the scone.”

“I’ll fetch a handkerchief.” Carrying the scone into the nursery, Millicent formed a plan. She set the scone on the bureau, then took a fresh hanky from her drawer. Perhaps Mr. Clark wouldn’t notice she’d brought the scone in with her. Now she’d go get another so Frank and Isabelle could each have one. Almost giddy with joy, Millicent went back to the parlor.

“Bite.” Arthur tugged on his father’s pant leg.

As Mr. Clark bent to share what little was left of the cake, Millicent wrapped some cheese along with the scone and placed it in her apron pocket.

Mr. Clark jerked away from his son. “I say! His teeth are sharp!”

“Yes. Are you—”

“ ’Twas nothing. Here, son. Have a biscuit. Nanny and Daddy need to have a little chat.”

“If he eats too many sweets, Arthur won’t take his supper.” The scone she held branded her as either a hypocrite or thief. With great reluctance, she set it down.

“I’ve never noticed my son eating much more than a few bites of anything.” Mr. Clark gestured toward the abandoned scone. “Go ahead. Eat up. I was wondering . . .”

I’ll nibble on it. Just a few tiny bites from one edge. The rest can still be for Isabelle.
The faintest taste of vanilla and currants flooded Millicent’s mouth.

Mr. Clark gave her an intense look. “How long does a spool of thread last?”

Millicent lowered the scone, hurriedly swallowed, and blinked in surprise. “Last?”

“Yes. A week? A month?”

“It depends—” She braced herself against the table as the ship dipped unexpectedly.

“Sit.” He pulled out a chair for her.

Off balance not only because of the ship, but because Mr. Clark ordered her to be seated when she ought to be minding his son, Millicent demurred. “I’m fine. Truly.” The words had no more than left her mouth when the ship bucked out of the trough it had dipped into and Millicent had to catch herself.

“It’s foolish to stand on propriety when you can barely stand at all.” Mr. Clark’s gaze swept from her to the chair.

Millicent murmured her thanks and took the seat. In an attempt to get beyond the awkwardness she felt, she blurted out, “About the thread. A spool can last for a day or for years. It depends on the color and whether it’s merely for mending or for making a new garment.”

“Hmm.” Mr. Clark tucked the remaining portion of his cake into his mouth. He followed it up with a few cubes of cheese. “I’d better take notes.”

As he went to get a pen and ink, Millicent broke off a bit of her scone for Arthur. Happy to get more, he gave her a toothy grin and plunked onto the floor.

“You eat nicely for Nanny, don’t you?” Mr. Clark ruffled his son’s hair, then pulled a chair up to the table.

After hearing comments romantically pairing her up with her employer, the last thing Millicent wanted was for him to lounge about the suite while she was there. At least, she noted, he had left the door open to the companionway.

Mr. Clark gave her a cursory look. “How many spools would a skirt such as yours require?”

Such odd questions! “One would be gracious plenty. With an exceptionally ornate skirt, a second might become necessary.” Arthur yanked on her skirt, so she slipped him the last biscuit.