Love on Assignment (9 page)

Charlotte found Tim and Ruthie in the playroom. The children sat at the table as the dumbwaiter delivered their breakfast. Charlotte served the oatmeal, eggs, and toast.

“Would you two enjoy a bicycle ride this morning?” Charlotte asked. She nibbled cinnamon toast and sipped strong coffee doctored with a generous dose of cream and two spoons of sugar.

Tim's eyes sparked. “You mean we won't have lessons?”

She'd forgotten about their schoolwork. “We'll read later today. But let's have a bit of fun first.”

Ruthie clapped her hands with delight. “Thank you, Miss Hale.”

Mrs. Finnegan located a split skirt for Charlotte to wear, and with a belt to tighten the waist, it fit fine. For most of the morning Charlotte and the children rode bicycles on the Ocean Drive. Spectacular views of the rugged coast and cottages as big as palaces appeared as they rounded bends and conquered gentle inclines. Charlotte perspired from pumping hard, but the ocean breeze cooled her off. They returned to Summerhill windblown and slightly sunburned, despite their sleeves and hats.

“That was such fun. May we play a game of croquet or tennis now?” Ruthie asked as she adjusted the bow on her middy blouse.

“Maybe later, but reading comes first. Would you prefer to read on the veranda or in the nursery?”

Ruthie rolled her eyes. “Please don't call our playroom a nursery. That sounds so babyish.”

“Yes, you're absolutely right. Pardon my mistake,” Charlotte said with a smile.

“I choose the veranda. And I think I'll get a cookie or two first,” Tim said.

“All right, but no dawdling in the kitchen,” Charlotte warned. “I'll meet you on the back veranda in about half an hour. And remember to bring your books.”

She watched the pair head to the kitchen before she slipped into Professor Wilmont's study to search for evidence. The possibility of someone catching her in the act of snooping loomed large. Her every nerve vibrated, pulsing unease through her chest. But it was better to start now before the professor returned from his morning classes.

With shaking hands she rifled through papers on his desk and opened cabinets and desk drawers. She scanned notes and writings but discovered nothing except a few dust bunnies in the far corners.

She wasn't surprised. A smart man, Professor Wilmont would surely lock up incriminating information to thwart a nosey person such as herself. She hastened upstairs to check his bedroom. She took a deep breath and stepped inside the large, expensively furnished room flooded with light and the ever-present salty smell of the sea. She spotted few personal items except for a gilt-framed wedding photograph displayed on the wall.

She drew closer to examine the picture of a young Daniel Wilmont gazing adoringly at his lovely bride. The lady, who looked no more than eighteen or nineteen, had wavy hair topped with a crown of orange blossoms and a lace veil. Delicate features set in a heart-shaped face seemed to caress the unseen camera with half-closed, sensuous eyes. Charlotte was caught in the enigmatic gaze of the young woman, long dead.

What was Mrs. Wilmont like? Smooth and sophisticated?

Charlotte shook the musings from her mind and pulled her attention back to her task before someone discovered her in a room where she had no business. She needed to hurry. Rummaging through the bureau and chest of drawers, she found only clothes stuffed inside all in a jumble. On the far side of the room she looked through a cedar chest containing winter blankets and handmade quilts. The nightstand yielded nothing either. Peering under the bed, she noted a lone dust ball.

In the wardrobe, vests and woolen scarves spilled over the top shelf, crowding a stack of books, scrapbooks, and photograph albums. And a hatbox. She kept listening for voices or footsteps in the hallway. Satisfied she was still alone, Charlotte pulled down the hatbox and lifted the cover. A small book labeled
Prayer Journal
lay on top of several dime novels and books of poetry. She opened the journal and found the name
Sarah Wilmont
written on the inside cover. Had she discovered gold? She took a peek.

With no time to read now, she'd have to borrow the book. Most likely the professor wouldn't notice its absence. She shoved the hatbox back in place, tucked the journal under her arm, and then hesitated. Was it right to read someone else's personal account? Certainly not, but this was for a good cause, indirectly for the betterment of society. She'd return it to its proper place as soon as she glanced through it—and before the professor had a chance to notice its absence.

Charlotte flew to her bedroom and locked the book safely inside her bureau. She collapsed in a chair and tossed back her head and breathed slowly. For several seconds she sat perfectly still, relieved and exhilarated that she might have found something promising. She'd read it tonight before bed, when her time was her own. Glancing at her pocket watch, it confirmed she still had a few more minutes to search. But only a few, so she'd have to hurry.

Taking a kerosene lamp from her bureau she hurried upstairs to the attic. A lump in her throat grew to the size of a cannon ball as she plunged through the shadows and into the depths of the unlit space.

Charlotte shivered in the hot semidarkness, but she pushed onward. Brushing dust off old boxes and trunks, she coughed and sneezed and sent mice scurrying across the attic floorboards. She again rummaged through the trunk with the old doll, but no old letters turned up as she hoped. Quite disappointing. Cobwebs stuck to her disheveled hair and apron.

She closed the attic door and ran smack into Simone.

“Excuse me,” Charlotte muttered.

“What are you doing in the attic? You job is to mind the children.”

Charlotte paused. “Yesterday Ruthie and I found an old doll tucked away in a trunk, and I thought she might like to play with it. But on second look I realized the doll was too shabby.” Charlotte flinched at the lie that came so easily to her lips. Would this assignment change her into a woman she could never again respect?

Simone shook her finger. “You must stay out of places where you have no business. The attic is a storage area for junk the professor can't bear to dispose of, nothing more.”

Charlotte nodded, feeling duly reprimanded once again. “Yes, of course.”

Simone surveyed her with obvious disgust. “You're covered in dust. Go change your clothing so you don't disgrace the family.”

Once in her room Charlotte brushed and re-pinned her hair then beat the dust off her skirt. She hurried downstairs, still smarting from Simone's rebuke. Mr. Phifer felt sure she'd ferret out information in his campaign to ruin his adversary. She'd examined most every nook and cranny in the household, but she hadn't uncovered even one shred of evidence against the professor. If such discrediting data existed, it was probably in the professor's college office, a place she'd never be able to search. Only his wife's chronicle brought her a glimmer of hope.

If she failed at her once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, she'd never receive another chance. Mr. Phifer would see to that. But she couldn't conjure up facts that didn't exist, could she?

Unfortunately, her boss demanded results, not excuses.

THAT AFTERNOON, AFTER returning from the college, Daniel accepted his bowler and umbrella from Mr. Grimes and waited for the butler to open the front door.

“Papa, where are you going?” Ruthie called.

Daniel turned around as she clattered down the staircase with Tim at her heels. Their governess followed close behind.

“I'm off to buy your grandmother a welcome home present.”

“May we come too?” Ruthie pouted her plea, but her eyes shone with mischief.

If the children accompanied him, the short trip would take twice as long since Tim couldn't resist begging for the overpriced toys on display in the shop windows.

“I'm afraid I'm in a hurry. I have to finish my column this afternoon. Perhaps another time.” He flashed an apologetic smile that he hoped would end the conversation.

“Please, Papa.” Ruthie clasped her hands at her chest in such a sweet and childish manner that he weakened and had to reconsider.

He glanced toward Miss Hale. “Would you mind coming along?”

“I'd be glad to, Professor.”

“Yes, Papa, please.” Ruthie reached for her straw boater dangling from the foyer hat rack and plopped it on her head. Miss Hale came forward, straightened the tilted hat, and retied the sash on his daughter's dress.

So the decision was made for him. He raised his hands in mock surrender. “All right, you win. But we must be quick about it and not waste time.”

They hastened outside and all piled into the surrey bound for Bellevue Avenue. As he grasped the reins, Miss Hale helped the children into the backseat. When she slid onto the tan leather seat beside him, his heart inexplicably jumped. Glancing sideways, he noticed her perfect profile, creamy complexion, and long, slender neck rising above the plain white collar of her black uniform. Her shiny hair framed her face and disappeared beneath the crown of her straw hat. She was far lovelier than the beauties of Newport who sported Worth gowns and extravagant jewels. He dragged his attention away before he steered the horses off the winding road.

The matched pair trotted around the Ocean Drive and up Bellevue Avenue past magnificent summer cottages secluded behind hedges or high stone walls. Daniel seldom rode down millionaires' row, socialized with the other cottagers, or shopped at the exclusive stores. His life revolved around Aquidneck College and Summerhill, though his mother often entertained friends from the highest social circle and tried her hardest to include him in her activities.

The air weighed heavy with dampness and wilted his starched white shirt. He noted the gunmetal gray sky punctuated with thunderclouds. If he didn't rush they'd get caught in the rain. The horses picked up their pace as they drew closer to the small shopping area. Breathing in Miss Hale's light floral scent, Daniel fought the urge to move closer to her on the front seat. He gave his head a slight shake to release such an unexpected and unwelcome impulse.

He halted the carriage by the shingled-style Newport Casino. This was the club where the nation's richest set gathered to play tennis, view plays, dance, and impress one another. Branch stores from New York's finest shops and boutiques fronted the Casino on the wide Bellevue Avenue sidewalk. On occasion, he watched a tennis match or a play in the small theatre, but usually his work kept him too busy to indulge in idle entertainment.

Daniel stepped down from the carriage, glad to be released from Miss Hale's odd effect. Several other equipages with coachmen garbed in top hats and impeccable livery lined the street as their employers enjoyed leisure time and vast fortunes.

“Shall I help you choose a gift for Grandmother?” Ruthie asked as she climbed down. “A bracelet or necklace might be nice.”

Daniel chuckled then patted his daughter on her auburn head. “A pair of kid gloves is more like it.”

“But gloves are so boring. How about a book? I love stories,” Ruthie said. “And a ring also. She adores sapphires. They're her birthstone.”

Tim peered in the window of a bakery. “How about an éclair while you decide? Maybe we could buy a dozen and save one for Grandmother.”

Daniel noted the tempting confections and couldn't resist either. “I'll buy each of us a treat before we leave, but you know your grandmother doesn't have a sweet tooth except for bon bons and—”

“Oatmeal raisin cookies,” Ruthie finished.

They mingled with the fashionably dressed ladies who swept down the sidewalk and wove in and out of the shops like a school of fish. Then Daniel spotted his old suite mate from Yale pushing a pram with a lovely young woman Daniel assumed was his wife.

“Jackson Grail. How are you?” he called as the trio approached.

His friend halted and shook Daniel's outstretched hand. Tall, black haired, and looking prosperous in a well-tailored suit, Jack was not the poor but brilliant scholarship student Daniel remembered from Yale. In college he wore threadbare trousers and patched jackets that singled him out among the sons of privilege.

“Good to see you. The last I heard you were mining for gold in the Klondike and finding it by the ton.”

Jack let out a hearty laugh. “I came back to New York more than a year ago, married Miss Lillian Westbrook, George's sister. As you can see, we now have a baby son named Thomas Jackson Grail. Daniel, I'd like to present my wife, Lilly.”

Daniel bowed to the tall young woman with a warm smile. Jack had done well for himself. A lovely wife, an infant son. The look of joy tempered by contentment shown on Jack's face. For a long moment Daniel felt a pang of envy.

“It's a pleasure to meet a friend of Jack's. And the owner of the lovely Summerhill,” Lilly said, sending a small smile toward her husband. “We have such fond memories of renting your fine home.” She turned toward Charlotte. “And you must be . . .”

“Miss Hale, our new governess,” Daniel said before she asked if Charlotte Hale was his wife. Even in her plain clothing Miss Hale didn't resemble a matronly governess most might expect him to hire.

“How do you do, Mrs. Grail?”

Lilly looked to the storefronts. “While the gentlemen talk, why don't we glance in the window of the millinery shop? That hat catches my eye.” So the two women and Ruthie strolled over to the shop to critique the outlandish headgear. Tim discovered a wooden train set beckoning from another store close by.

Daniel and Jack sidestepped a pair of silver-haired matrons and tipped their hats.

“I'm a publisher now,” Jack said. “I bought Jones and Jarman along with a small New York newspaper and magazine. We struggled last summer, but business has steadily improved.”

“I'm pleased to hear of your success.” Daniel leaned against the window of the Newport branch of Tiffany's. The edges of its striped awning beat back and forth in the increasing breeze.