Читать книгу The Nanny Solution - Barbara Phinney - Страница 10
ОглавлениеThe young porter hefted Victoria’s bags off the damp platform. The early morning’s cold drizzle reflected the mood of the day. Victoria looked sidelong at the four children staring at her from under the cover of the train depot’s narrow overhang, each clutching one small bag. She cringed. Her maid had managed to pare her luggage down to four pieces, but they seemed huge compared to everyone else’s. Yet she needed it all, and she hadn’t even packed a mourning dress.
And why should she? She refused the convention of grieving the man who’d ruined her life. What she wore today was conservative in style and color and quite expensive. It was more than suitable.
Her mother had taken six bags with her. Her departure yesterday had been surprisingly difficult for Victoria, despite the discontent between them and the fact that Mother had come and gone in Victoria’s life several times. With her need for the cool air of Portland in August or the warmth of the Carolinas in February, she was always leaving Victoria in the care of a nanny, but this time their parting was different. Their home must be sold. Discreetly, of course, the assets liquidated as per Mr. Lacewood’s instructions, after consultation with an investor. The staff would be let go, each with a glowing letter of recommendation.
Victoria took one lamenting look down the platform, wondering if she’d see any friends. She recognized no one. A blessing, really, she told herself, all the while fighting disappointment. Mother had asked that this dreadful affair be completed as quickly and quietly as possible and such meant no one must know they were slipping out of town in disgrace.
Once she was settled in Colorado, she would write to the few women she called friends and explain everything. Perhaps by then, time might have softened the emotions roiling through her.
And Francis? Would he call before the harvest soiree that his mother was to host? Shouldn’t she write to him, too? Abigail had not invited his family to Charles’s funeral. Victoria clenched her jaw. Honestly, a funeral shouldn’t require invitations as though it were some exclusive fete. All she could do now was hope that Francis would not call to an empty house.
Oh, who was she trying to convince? She and Francis had shared only a trio of engagements. Not one word in their conversations had ever suggested that he’d been interested enough to come calling. They owed each other nothing.
Which was what Victoria had right now, apart from a few small coins in her purse. Once the young porter had finished stowing all her bags save the one she’d asked to be made readily available, she dropped one coin into his palm as she thanked him. He nodded.
With an edgy exhalation, Victoria watched the porter disappear. What was she going to do when her money was gone? She had good secretarial skills, because of her education, but Walter was expecting her to trade his charity for a marriage to his partner. Mother had married Charles out of convenience. What had that done for her? It had turned her into a poor relation. Victoria firmed her shoulders. Marriage to a stranger? No. As soon as she arrived in Proud Bend, she’d start looking for clerical work.
Her heart lurched at the bitter humiliation.
A sturdy breeze rolled down the platform, bringing with it the foul, oily smoke from the locomotive and forcing Victoria closer to the children to prevent her lovely traveling outfit from catching the soot.
It was a dark green skirt suit in a quiet style suitable for the day. The bustle was small and the tailored waistcoat with its unobtrusive buttons could fit both mourning and traveling. She battled the filthy breeze that seemed determined to lift her skirt.
Victoria searched the platform again. It would soon be time to board. Mr. MacLeod had asked her to be here at 7:45 a.m. sharp, a good half hour before the train was to leave this Sunday morning. Indeed, his children were here, standing dutifully against the wall, staring at her as if expecting her to vanish in a puff of smoke.
“Miss Templeton?”
She turned and found Matthew holding out her small change purse. He was nearly as tall as she was. “You dropped this.”
She patted down the small hidden pocket in her skirt and found it empty. Then, accepting the coin purse, she smiled. “Thank you. I wouldn’t want to lose this. It’s all I have.”
The young boy’s bland expression didn’t change.
Poor mites. Their mother had entered a hospital and had not returned. Victoria couldn’t blame them for expecting her to disappear, as well. She peered once more up and down the platform. Had their father decided that he couldn’t handle the stress of caring for all these children? He hadn’t struck her as that type when they’d met at the brownstone, but what did she know about men? They could all have a bit of that slick behavior her stepfather had shown.
“Where is your father?” she asked Matthew.
“He’s gone to get the baby.”
“Oh.” She consulted the large clock that hung from the rafters. “The train leaves in fifteen minutes. Do you have the tickets?”
Matthew shook his head. Gripping her purse tighter, Victoria bit back uncertainty, torn between pulling those frightened little children into her arms and marching into the depot’s office to ask for copies of the purchased tickets. Finally she said, “We may as well board and get you all settled in. Do you have any more bags?”
“No, ma’am.”
“Why do you have so many?” Mary piped up.
Feeling her cheeks color slightly, Victoria peered down at the little girl. How old was she? About seven? “A lady needs a lot of things.”
“Papa says I’m a lady, and all I have is this.” She hoisted a small drawstring bag. “One nightgown, a fresh pinafore and stockings. Why do you need more?”
Glancing around, Victoria drew the children toward the train. “The things a lady wears underneath are bigger, that’s all. And some of them can’t be crushed. Besides, I’m bringing soap, and all of you will need a good scrubbing. Now let’s hurry. I don’t want your father to have to deal with us should he be late himself.”
As they climbed aboard, the conductor asked for their tickets. Victoria felt the heat rise once more into her cheeks. She had no idea the conductor would demand the tickets so early. She’d taken the train when they’d traveled up to Portland last summer, but Charles had seen to those details. “I’m sorry. They haven’t arrived yet. Are we assigned seats?”
“Yes, ma’am, but I have a list of the passengers. What is the name?”
“MacLeod. Mitchell MacLeod,” a deep voice behind her answered.
Victoria turned to find Mitchell climbing up with great ease despite the baby he held. Swathed in a simple white layette and a brown blanket, she nuzzled her cap, which had managed to cover half of her face. Her attitude was clearly deteriorating.
“She’s hungry,” he said bluntly.
Victoria swallowed. “Do you have any milk for her?”
“Yes, but let’s get settled first. Here, take her.” Supporting the baby’s head, he shoved her into Victoria’s arms. In that brief moment, panic swept through her. Until now, Victoria had yet to hold a baby. Ever.
Oh, dear, what was the child’s name? Mitchell had told her, but she’d forgotten it in her haste to accept his offer. Oh, yes, Emily.
For fear she might drop Emily, Victoria drew her close as Mitchell surrendered the tickets. Glass clinked in the cotton drawstring bag he held. She half expected the bottom of the bag to start leaking milk, but it didn’t.
Hoping that Mitchell knew how to bottle feed the infant, Victoria smiled bravely at the rest of his children. They did not return it.
Goodness, she thought. This was going to be a long trip out West.
A porter led them to their seats, speaking as he walked. “I can show you where you can warm the milk, ma’am.”
Ma’am? Did he think that she was married? Regardless, Victoria thanked him before turning to Mitchell. “Am I expected to feed Emily? We didn’t discuss the finer details of my employment.”
Mitchell removed his tall, wide-brimmed hat and slipped it into the compartment above them. Was it one of those Stetsons she’d read about in stories of the Wild West? He chose then to peer down at her, his thick, chestnut hair springing free into enviable curls. Her dark blond hair had only a light wave to it. Although slimly built, Mitchell had broad shoulders and arms that strained his jacket’s sleeves. He was obviously a man used to hard work. “Have you ever fed a baby before?” he asked.
Reddening, Victoria glanced around. By now, the car was nearly full. A young woman carrying her own infant squeezed past, her wide, slightly dated skirt sweeping away everything in its path. She settled in a seat across from them. When Victoria returned her gaze to Mitchell, she shook her head. “Until this moment, I hadn’t even held a child. I have no siblings nor friends with children. Mother thought they were messy and felt it unbecoming of a lady to fawn over them.” Her smile felt watery. “Do you know how? I presume we should warm the milk, and I can only hope that bag has everything we need.”
* * *
Mitch frowned at her. What on earth kind of woman had he hired? When he’d met Victoria a few days ago, she was genteel and seemed full of common sense, unlike that fretful mother of hers.
He’d assumed she would know about babies. Didn’t all women? Grimacing, he realized that he should have asked that question when they’d first met. But by then, he’d been in Boston for a fortnight and at the time still reeling from his wife’s passing two weeks before that—and of course from Emily’s arrival. The hospital hadn’t even contacted him about Agnes’s death, he recalled grimly. They’d simply arranged for her church to bury her.
Mitch was thankful for their compassion. But by the time he’d terminated the rental agreement of her home and figured out how to set aside his anger at the situation she’d created, another week had passed. Only by the charity of the nurse who’d attended Agnes during her final hours did the baby get the care she deserved. The nurse had then instructed him to either find a nursing mother or purchase the bottles and baby’s milk needed. The doctor had suggested the latter also.
By then, time had become even more precious. He’d needed to hire a woman to help him during the train ride out. Not just any woman, but a trustworthy one. Mitch had heard tales about women willing to care for babies, but once payment was given, the children often died mysteriously.
Mitch looked down at Emily, her nuzzling and fussiness escalating. A good screaming bout would soon begin and his heart wrenched. She may always represent the worst betrayal in his life, but he could not abandon her. He’d never be able to live with himself if he did.
He rubbed his forehead. “I’ll show you what to do.” He turned to his oldest son. “Matthew, mind the young ones. We’ll be back in a moment.”
He strode to the front of the sleeper car. He could only assume Victoria followed, because he couldn’t hear a thing over the train whistle and the din in the car. The train lurched ahead and immediately, he spun, fully prepared to catch Miss Templeton and the baby. But all was fine. Miss Templeton’s grip might have been a bit tight, but she’d kept herself steady.
* * *
The older porter tending the fire in the small stove of the train kitchen looked up when they approached. Victoria watched Mitchell thrust the cotton bag at him. “We need some baby’s milk warmed, please.”
Still holding the baby, Victoria slipped in beside Mitchell, determined not to miss a thing. She had better learn all she could as quickly as possible.
The porter took the cotton bag and loosened its drawstring to peer inside. He nodded and told them he would deliver the warmed milk to their seats.
As they made their way back, Mitchell said to Victoria over his shoulder, “You do this each time. I’ll see to the man’s gratuity when we reach Denver. That’s when we change lines.”
“Where will we store the milk between the feedings? It’s already quite warm in here.”
“I expect the kitchen has an icebox, but each time we stop, I’ll purchase more if need be, plus food for us.” He slowed. “I won’t waste money on the food made at train depots, though. It’s inedible and the children will only refuse to eat it.”
By the time they’d reached their seats, Emily’s whimpering had become full-out wailing. Automatically, Victoria bounced her lightly. She wasn’t looking forward to feeding her. Why, she hadn’t even peered inside that cotton bag. What on earth did a baby’s bottle look like?
“Would you like the window seat?”
She quickly shook her head. “I don’t think so. If you expect me to feed and change the baby, I’ll have to sit closest to the aisle.” She cringed. Oh, dear—change the baby? Another task of which she knew nothing.
Nodding, Mitchell slipped in ahead of her, stepping over the basket that he must have had delivered. Victoria took her seat beside him, glancing over at the young woman across the aisle. The baby in her arms rested comfortably, no doubt well fed.
The woman eyed her up and down, her interest far too blatant. Uncomfortable at her nerve, Victoria looked away, realizing she probably looked foolish, still with her gloves on, as though a child was something to avoid touching. She wasn’t. The child was beautiful. Victoria suppressed a smile as she looked down at Emily. At least now she could see the baby’s face, since she’d removed her small bonnet. She’d removed her own hat as well and slipped them both in beside Mitchell’s Stetson before they’d strode up to see about warming the milk.
A few minutes later, after far too many screams from Emily, the old porter arrived with the bottle.
It was shaped like a flattened lemon, made of clear glass with a rubber nipple sticking up at one end. Victoria thanked the man, and after fitting the small blanket over her waistcoat to protect it, she eased the bottle down to Emily’s mouth.
At least the baby knew what to do. Being careful not to tip up the bottle too much, Victoria awkwardly began to feed her.
It worked well for a bit, but before long, Emily began to squirm. “You need to burp her,” Mitchell advised. “Bottles let in too much air. That bothers them.”
“Are you sure it’s not the milk?” Victoria asked, wondering how one burped an infant. Around Beacon Hill, nannies cared for infants. Victoria had seen them strolling the streets in the latest large-wheeled perambulators that came over from Europe. But she’d never seen an infant burped.
“No, it isn’t the milk. The doctors now say that mother’s milk is not good enough, and that this formulation is better.” With a frown, Mitchell took one of the blankets in her basket, tossed it over his shoulder and held out his arms. “Here, let me show you how to burp her.”
Taking the baby, he met Victoria’s blue eyes with his brown ones. His were a lovely color, she decided, as rich and dark as the wood that made up her mother’s highly polished secretary.
Those lovely eyes were also guarded and wary. Why? Blinking, she watched him gently support Emily’s head as he took her. Resting her against his broad chest, he began to rub and tap her back. The simple action was almost hypnotic. She’d never seen a man so gentle.
“Why did you accept my offer of a job if you have no experience?” he asked.
She snapped out of her foolish reverie. “Why did you hire me without asking about it?”
“I was in need.” He did not hold her gaze again, she noted, but rather studied the child. “Why did you answer my question with one of your own?”
She flushed and swallowed. “You already knew that I was going to Colorado. I assumed Lacewood had told you everything else about me.” That was all she would say on the matter. The reason she was leaving Boston was no one’s business but hers. It was bad enough that Mitchell probably knew that her home needed to be sold, her mother having already fled to the Carolinas. He didn’t need to know anything more.
Heat filled her cheeks and she looked everywhere but at Mitchell. She was headed west to live as a poor relative, someone the family was hoping would marry one of her uncle’s cronies and be gone from their house. “I may as well earn a small wage for traveling there.”
“Your income will be very small, you know that. I’m deducting the cost of the fare from it.”
Victoria swung her attention back to him. “I know. But I don’t need much.” She had absolutely no idea what she would need, but surely it couldn’t be too much.
Well, she was going to have to say it out loud sooner or later. Victoria lifted her chin. “I plan to find some employment there.”
* * *
Mitch raised his brows as he carefully shifted Emily. He was drawing the stares of nearly everyone on the train car with his behavior, but frankly, until Miss Templeton—Victoria—learned this simple task, he needed to burp the baby. The nurse at the hospital had shown him everything he needed to know about feeding Emily, but the rest, such as this burping, he’d done before with his other children.
He finally gave Victoria his full attention. “What kind of work are you seeking?” She didn’t look the employable type.
“Well.” She cleared her throat. “I have some secretarial skills. I can read, write and have a decent grasp of mathematics.”
“So you haven’t actually searched yet? Or sent any letters? Proud Bend is a rather small place.”
She blinked without answering.
Victoria was indeed an oddity. Like him, considering he was caring for a baby while the woman beside him watched like a studious pupil. Mitch knew little of her save the fact that Lacewood could vouch for her character...and that there had been a death in her family, but he knew that only from the black wreath on her front door. There seemed to be a problem with money, judging by the need for train fare.
Why? Her brownstone was worth at least three of his ranches. Yet she was heading west to meet a man who had been willing to send her money for a first-class train ticket.
Was he her beau? Mitch frowned. She certainly didn’t act as though she was going to meet the love of her life. Or was Victoria a mail-order bride who’d naively decided she’d rather work as a spinster instead of marrying? He’d already gathered that her family’s situation had turned dire. What had precipitated her new decision?
No. He would not pry, not even about her vague plans for employment. He didn’t want Victoria, or anybody in Proud Bend, to know his business, so he ought to stay out of other people’s. Ranching was lonely work, something best left to bachelors who weren’t encumbered by fickle women who acted too much on emotion, needy things that they were. And he wasn’t seeing anything in Victoria that changed his mind. She was most likely a socialite in financial disgrace, forced to Colorado to marry a man who wanted something cultured on his arm. Mitch would leave her to her naivety as soon as they stepped off the train at Proud Bend. That would be best for everyone. No point in the children expecting she’d be a fixture in their already battered lives.
Proud Bend was a small town southwest of Denver, but it was up-and-coming with its own church, bank and three stores, not to mention the blacksmith and the school and a few establishments Mitch chose not to frequent. The train depot had taken on the post office’s duties, something that seemed odd at the time, but the townsfolk preferred it that way. Beside the smithy sat the sheriff’s office and behind it, a small jail. The boom of the gold rush and the offer a few years back of cheap land for ranching along with Colorado joining the union had all worked in Proud Bend’s favor. The town was thriving and healthy.
A few years ago, when he’d first arrived, he’d been so impressed that he’d named his ranch Proud Ranch, after the town. He’d spent that first winter carving the sign above the entrance to his land. He had been building a home for the family he’d left out east.
Then the honeymoon ended. That spring someone in town commented that they were surprised Mitch could even write. Mitch had held his tongue. Two things he’d learned from being the son of a retired schoolmarm. Know your letters and keep your mouth shut.
Thinking of letters, he still had an unread one from Lacewood in his breast pocket. The man had written a long explanation when Mitch had told him that he couldn’t keep his last appointment due to this train trip. If there were still questions, Mitch could write him. First, though, he needed to read the letter while there was still daylight.
He handed a calmer Emily back to Victoria.
“Her milk doesn’t seem to sit well with her,” she commented.
“She’ll have to get used to it. There is no substitute.”
Lips pursed, Victoria began a slight rocking, something that accentuated the insistent clacking of the wheels on the rails. Before long, the baby was asleep. Mitch glanced at his children. As expected, they took the rear-facing seats, but Ralph and Mary weren’t impressed with the arrangement, craning their necks to peer out the window at what was coming.
His gaze wandered. Some other passengers still looked his way with open curiosity, except the new mother across the aisle. She was taking an extraordinary interest in Victoria.
And why not? Victoria’s outfit was stunning, especially compared to the basic accommodations second class offered. The color of a forest at twilight with equally dark lace and plenty of pulled up layers tucked in spots to make the whole skirt look like a series of green waves, her outfit was sober but tasteful. It could almost count for a mourning suit. In fact, it seemed to respect both necessities—that is, mourning and traveling. She’d also abandoned her hat, he noticed, though he couldn’t say when. She must have set it up in the compartment above them beside his Stetson. Did she know that whole compartment would become a berth in a few hours?
“Can we play a game?” Mary asked.
Mitch nodded. “Why don’t you play I spy?”
Thankfully, Matthew started them off. Mitch’s heart lurched. They’d lost their mother and yet they seemed to be handling it better than he was. It was a fact that Ralph had acted up yesterday, and Mary cried herself to sleep most nights, but overall they were adjusting. Mitch was grateful that a simple game could keep them occupied.
He’d been out West for so long, they hardly knew him. Matthew and John remembered him, and Ralph took his cues from his brothers and had warmed to him, but Mary had treated him with distrust. For the briefest instant, Mitch regretted his decision to ranch, but he stalled that thought. It put food on the table. He’d made the best decision he could for his family.
And Emily? His attention dropped to her as Victoria laid her gently in the wicker basket on the floor between their feet. Along with some sheets that the porter had tucked away, he’d had that basket delivered directly to the train.
The baby squirmed and Victoria placed a quietening hand on her. Mitch felt his jaw tighten. He had been gone so long that Agnes had turned to another man. Emily would never know either of her parents.
No. She would have him.
As Victoria straightened from her soothing pats, their gazes locked again. She had the most perfect features. Regal, yet not overly aristocratic. Despite being genteel, she was broke, he assumed, and therefore she would have had few decent marriage prospects in Boston. If she wasn’t too fussy, her chances might be better out West.
Mitch tore his gaze away and glared out at the passing landscape. Forget it, he told himself. Compassion was the ruination of a man, especially a rancher who needed to focus on providing for his family.
Families need more than food and shelter.
He bristled. Where had that thought come from?
From your own common sense, fool. Haven’t you already learned that? Providing for children took more than putting food on the table. It meant being there, supporting the mother of one’s children.
A stab of pain radiated out from between his tightening shoulders. Well, he was a rancher. He couldn’t spare the time. He’d do right by the children, but this just proved again that ranchers were better off staying single.
“I won!” Mary called out, interrupting his thoughts. “It’s my turn now.”
Remembering his letter, Mitch pulled it out and opened it. His reading skills were fine, but it was a struggle to understand Lacewood’s long, flowing script.
After a short preamble, the solicitor began to explain that Agnes had made certain arrangements before she’d died. A chill ran through Mitch. Had she known she would not survive childbirth? Had it been a difficult pregnancy?
His heart sank as he read further. A few years back, Agnes had signed on to the ranch’s mortgage just as he had, although the paperwork had taken many weeks and visits to the post office to complete. Agnes had considered that fact in her will.
Then he read Lacewood’s summary. Not only did Mitch now have an extra mouth to feed, and to figure out how he would explain Emily’s presence without getting tongues a-wagging, but he also had this to explain to the bank that held his mortgage—a month-old baby who wasn’t even his blood now owned half of Proud Ranch.
