Love on Assignment (11 page)

Charlotte's hands trembled as she continued. On the following pages Sarah detailed a clandestine weekend with her male friend, racy enough to burn a hole in the carpet. Charlotte gulped a big breath of damp air. Had the professor ever discovered his wife's dalliance? She hoped not.

Her heart tapped a faster beat. This was exactly the sort of scandal Mr. Phifer coveted. Sarah's affair could provide enough damaging information to reward Charlotte with a substantial promotion, possibly to junior reporter—if she turned the prayer journal over to him. Sarah Wilmont had confessed enough in those dozen pages to condemn herself and damage the professor's reputation beyond repair. He might garner sympathy from his supporters, but his enemies would snicker and ridicule. Mr. Phifer might convince the professor to drop his column in exchange for keeping the humiliating information out of his newspaper.

Yet this scandal belonged to Sarah, not her husband. Using it against him was unethical. Not that Mr. Phifer would hesitate. As an employee of the
Rhode Island Reporter
, she ought not to hesitate either.

With a sigh, she snapped the journal shut. She didn't know quite how far Mr. Phifer would go to ruin the professor, or how far she ought to go to further her career. She'd have to think carefully how this would affect everyone involved, including the professor and his innocent children.

A tentative knock startled her.

“It's me, Grace,” came the whispered voice.

Charlotte shoved Sarah's journal into a bureau drawer, then opened the door and invited her old friend into the room. She motioned to the cushioned chair covered in faded chintz. “Do sit down, Grace.” Charlotte plopped on the bed. “It's so good to see a familiar face at Summerhill. I didn't know you were in service. Last I heard you were living in the country.”

Grace nodded. “I was until my aunt passed away and my uncle moved in with his daughter. With both my parents gone, I had no home, so I took this job as chamber maid. The Wilmonts and Mrs. Finnegan treat me very well. I'm truly blessed.”

Charlotte smiled. “I missed you, Grace. We were such close friends growing up. I often wondered why you left Bridge Street so suddenly and without saying good-bye.” She recalled how hurt she felt from her friend's indifference.

Grace sighed as she shifted her position in the chair. “I hate to admit this, but I was so jealous of you I couldn't abide living nearby any longer.”

Charlotte pressed her hand to her chest. “You were jealous of me? I can't imagine such a thing.”

Grace eased onto the bed next to Charlotte. “It was all because of Paul Seaton.”

Charlotte's heart shrank at the mention of Paul's name. “I don't understand what you mean.”

Grace spoke quietly. “I thought you stole him away from me—on purpose. I was so fond of him. He was ever so handsome and attentive. I even fancied we were in love, though he never said so exactly. I didn't tell you about him and me because I wasn't quite sure of his feelings. And we were both so busy working that year we didn't see each other nearly as often as when we were younger. The next thing I knew you were stepping out with him. He left me high and dry. I was furious with both of you.”

Charlotte grasped Grace's hand. “I had no idea you cared for Paul or he for you. I never even saw you together, so I hadn't suspected a thing. If I had known, I never would have given him the time of day.”

“He was quite the lady's man and fickle as they come.” Grace's voice softened. “I heard he left you as well.”

Charlotte bit her lip. “He did. And he broke my heart.”

“You two were engaged . . .”

“Yes, for a short while—until he realized I supported Becky and Aunt Amelia. He wanted me to forget my responsibilities. But of course I refused. Neither one of them can work, so who would support them if I didn't?”

Grace's full lips tightened. “That sounds just like Paul. He's an awful, selfish lout. We're well rid of him.” She raised her eyes toward the ceiling, or was it toward heaven? “Thank You, Lord, for protecting us from the likes of Paul Seaton.”

“I vowed never to fall in love again,” Charlotte said with a small smile. She hoped she didn't look as sad as she felt at the memory of a lost dream.

Grace looked askance. “Oh no, surely you don't mean that. When the right man comes along, you'll change your mind.” Her round face colored to a pretty shade of pink. “I have.”

“Oh?”

“I have a beau. His name is Martin Vance and he's a footman here at Summerhill. It's a secret, so please don't tell anyone. Mrs. Wilmont doesn't allow us to have followers. If she found out, she'd dismiss me.”

“Of course, I won't breathe a word.”

“And you, Charlotte—surely you have lots of suitors.”

She gave a dry smile. “As I said, I'm not interested in men. I'm involved in my career. This is just a temporary position until Mrs. Wilmont recovers.” Charlotte stopped short. Would Grace believe becoming a governess was her career choice?

“You always wanted to become a newspaperwoman like Nellie Bly.”

“Well, yes I did, at one time.”

“Then what happened to change your mind?”

Should she risk confiding in Grace? The girl looked trustworthy. Still . . . “It's difficult for a woman to become a reporter. It would be better if we didn't discuss my years at the
Rhode Island Reporter
. Professor Wilmont would never approve. The newspaper has criticized him and he might fire me if he knew I once worked there.”
Or continue to
. Another lie to weigh upon her conscience. “Of course I was only a secretary, but he might not like the connection.”

“Indeed, that paper has attacked him unmercifully. The whole staff follows the story. The poor man. He's as honest and fairminded as anyone I've ever met. For that newspaper to harass him is nothing less than criminal.”

“Yes, I suppose so.” Charlotte looked down at her hands clutched in her lap. “I'm afraid I'm getting rather tired. It's been a long day.”

Grace rose. “It's time for me to turn in as well. I'm so glad you're here at Summerhill now.”

“So am I.” As long as Grace didn't continue to associate her with the
Rhode Island Reporter
, she'd be all right.

Grace glanced toward the nightstand. “I see you have a Bible.

Did the Wilmonts leave it for you? They give Bibles to all the staff.”

“Yes, I suppose so. It's not mine.”

Grace's hazel eyes lit up. “You must read it, Charlotte. It's made such a wonderful difference in my life.”

Charlotte nodded as she followed Grace to the door. “Yes, I read some last night.” And didn't like what she'd read one little bit.

“It's well worth studying cover to cover.”

“I'm sure I shall, as soon as I find the time.”

Grace squeezed Charlotte's hands. “Will you forgive me for my envy? It's such a sin. I'm truly sorry.”

“Of course I forgive you. I hope we will see a lot of each other while I'm here.” Charlotte swallowed hard. What would Grace think of her dishonest behavior?

Long after her friend returned to the third floor servants' quarters, Charlotte felt the heat of shame branding her cheeks. On a whim, or maybe because of Grace's encouragement, Charlotte opened her Bible. She continued reading St. John's gospel, amazed that Jesus spoke of things she'd never heard before.
He is the Bread of Life and the Living Water that quenches thirst. He's giving Himself to us and pouring out His love
. She'd never pictured God as love. Somehow He seemed more real and closer than she'd ever thought possible.

CHARLOTTE ROSE EARLY. A gray mist blew in from the sea, swirling damp air through the screens. In the distance came the mournful wail of a foghorn. Closing the window against the dreary morning, Charlotte peered into the dense curtain of gray. She knew the sun would take its time to burn away the clouds that dipped to the ground, but in a few hours the coast would awaken with color.

She wrapped a shawl around her shoulders and retrieved Sarah's journal from her bureau. For a long moment she hesitated to open it again. She ought not to read any further since she'd already uncovered plenty of damaging information. But no matter how unethical, she couldn't resist peeking into the secret life of Sarah Wilmont.

Charlotte opened the book to the page where she had left off the previous night.

Our marriage is a sham but Daniel doesn't notice. He acts as he always does—polite, solicitous, yet absorbed in his own world, a world no one else can enter. As long as he has his books he's content. If I screamed the cottage was on fire, he'd ask me to repeat what I said. How can we salvage a marriage between such dissimilar partners? We're joined in name only. We have the children in common, but they're certainly not enough to hold us together.

I want a man to love me, to cherish me. Someone to fit into my world. If I must continue as a professor's wife, I shall go mad.

Often I wonder why I ever married Daniel. At the time I assumed we had everything necessary to make a marriage thrive. Our families are friends, we've known each other all our lives, we were brought up with the same values. Or so I thought. But he loves the Lord first and his studies second. They interest him far more than I do. And I can't change that. No matter how fashionably I dress or fix my hair, or smile sweetly or seductively, I can't capture him for longer than a brief compliment. Once I yearned for his heart, now I want nothing except my freedom.

Charlotte stared out into the gray, swirling mist. It was tragic, really, being privy to the disintegration of a marriage on a most intimate level. Had the professor been aware? Had he deliberately ignored his wife? Intended to hurt her? Drive her away?

Charlotte placed the journal in her bureau and locked the drawer.

LATE THE NEXT afternoon Daniel searched for the children and Miss Hale. When he couldn't find them in their usual haunts, he ventured down to the kitchen. Just as he suspected, they were there. But why were they hovering over an open picnic basket?

He swiped a gingersnap from the cookie jar and stepped behind the children's governess, close enough to smell her clean scent. She had the unmistakable fragrance of Pears soap and maybe a touch of toilette water. He peered over her shoulder into the woven basket. “Golden fried chicken, potato salad, and string bean salad. It looks delicious.”

Charlotte stepped to the side. “It's picnic food! We're taking our supper down to the beach. The children requested an outing.”

He imagined she relished time out in the great outdoors. “A splendid idea.”

“Would you like to join us, sir? Chef Jacques prepared plenty of food.”

Summerhill had a small curve of sandy beach right on the edge of the property. How delightful to relax at the coastline secluded by rock and a tangle of wild roses.

Daniel frowned. “I set aside tonight to catch up on my work. I'm afraid I can't take time for a picnic.”

Tim grumbled and Ruthie pouted. “Please, Papa.”

Daniel wiped his spectacles on a clean handkerchief and pushed them to the bridge of his nose. He noted the clear disappointment etched in his daughter's face. And also in Miss Hale's. Her stubborn little chin jutted and pink lips curved downward.

“A picnic sounds like great fun, but I'm afraid I have an enormous amount of work to accomplish. Perhaps another time.”

He averted her steady gaze as he grabbed another cookie. This one didn't taste quite as good as the first.

Miss Hale cocked a brow. “If I may say so, Professor, you have to take at least some time away from work to eat. You might as well enjoy a picnic with Ruthie and Tim.”

He cleared his throat. “I'm certain I would, but work comes first. If I have the time, I will take a late supper in my den.”

“Without
the children.”

She spoke so softly he wondered if he'd heard her correctly. Her apple cheeks burned as red as a MacIntosh—as well they should. Yes, the impertinent young woman did indeed question his parental decisions. He ought to fire her on the spot, but she merely pointed out the truth—though with far less tact than he expected. It wasn't her place to criticize him, especially in front of his children.

“I cherish my two children more than you can imagine. They're all I have. I like teaching and writing, but nothing compares to Ruthie and Tim. However, to support them I must work hard. Sometimes it's a pleasure, but often it's a duty I can't shirk.” His head of steam evaporated. He seldom disclosed his feelings, especially to someone he hardly knew. But it felt surprisingly cathartic.

Her voice seemed to hitch in her throat. “I apologize. I shouldn't question your priorities. And I certainly understand the need to work.”

She hung her head, yet he suspected she hadn't changed her mind. Such a pretty head with mounds of shiny dark hair pulled up in a pompadour, he thought they called it.

He sighed. “Perhaps I can take a half hour to join the children.”
And Miss Hale as well
. Despite her penchant for blunt speech, she was easy to talk to, amusing. To say nothing of being easy on the eyes . . .

The children squealed in delight and Miss Hale's face lit up. “Splendid. Clearly, Ruthie and Tim are quite pleased.”

Ruthie and Tim, he mused. But what about her? Was she glad he was coming too?

He didn't take to society ladies, especially the debutantes who were too young or even the widows who tried so hard to please. But Miss Hale was different; she was utterly fresh, new, unique. No one would ever think to pair them up, so he need not worry about elderly biddies gossiping behind their open fans. But why was he himself imagining such a thing?

Despite the plain white shirtwaist and black skirt, she shined like a beautiful young lady summering on Bellevue Avenue, Newport's premier neighborhood. Her natural grace and willowy figure enhanced her femininity, a trait he couldn't help but notice.