Somebody Wonderful (19 page)

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Authors: Kate Rothwell

BOOK: Somebody Wonderful
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On the bouncing, jolting train that was the last leg of their journey, they talked about the Tuckers. “I worry for them,” Mick admitted to Timona. “Perhaps Uncle Dave is not the answer. But they couldn’t stay in New York, I’m certain of that.”
Timona rubbed the steely muscles of his upper arm. She didn’t do more than that because Eddy clutched at Mick’s other arm.
The boy silently stared out the window of the train, lost in his own thoughts, but unwilling to let go of his protector.
Timona decided not to mention the money she had left with Rob and Lex. And Jenny. Mick still seemed touchy about money. So she said, “If Uncle Dave is not the answer, Rob will write to you and we shall find an answer that suits.” She couldn’t resist adding, “That is the beauty of money, you know.”
Mick scowled at her, as she assumed he would.
She attempted an Irish accent. “Go on, laddie. No need to disdain a
bhean
for having a bit o’ gold. Tis not her fault.”
“What on earth did you just say, Timmy?”
She giggled. “I tried to tell you to put up with the hardship of staying with me.”
His scowl transformed into an easy smile. “Hardship? Not likely.”
God, how she loved that smile of his. She searched his face and whispered, “Hard to imagine what life was like before we met, isn’t it.”
“I can see it too well. My life was empty,” he answered without hesitation. “Filled with noise and people, but empty. You may be the princess of the world, but it turns out I am too selfish to give you up, Timmy,
a ghrá mo chrói
. We should marry.”
Hardly able to breathe, she clasped his hand. And spoke with unusual seriousness, for she had to bring up her last stumbling block. “But I still think . . . you do not entirely approve of me. And I think I cannot marry someone who does not approve of me.”
He was silent for a time “ ’Tis not you. Never you, now. It’s the rest . . . the claptrap.”
Relief made her roll her eyes and give a dramatic groan. “You still mean money, don’t you, you great lummox?”
“More than that. Your place in the world. The gang o’ Calverson boyos.”
“Ignore it all, Mick,” she urged. “I’m not them.”
“It’s me that they may not ignore. Nay, Timona Calverson. I won’t let them stop us, but I can’t ignore it all.”
“Purely because you’re pigheaded.”
“Purely because I’m sane.”
Timona, her heart filled with contented joy leaned against him. He had not said he loved her, but he came close. She was nearly certain from the book she’d been reading about Irish Gaelic that
a ghrá mo chrói
meant “love of my heart.” She would have to look that up.
She agreed with him, in part, about her blasted life. She almost didn’t want the trip to end. It wasn’t merely because travel was a familiar world to her, and this was a particularly luxurious form of travel (though her bum ached from sitting so long every day, and she wished the seats were higher so she could lean back).
She worried about their currestination. Her father and Mr. Blenheim. They would want to her to stay with their entourage. But she was happily finished with that part of her life. Now she was going to take pictures and live with her Mick. Only Mick himself had the power to tell her otherwise, and she was gloriously aware that luck was on her side: He seemed to want her as much as she wanted him. Almost as much, at any rate.
She yawned, and leaned on his broad comfortable shoulder. He shifted a bit so he could wrap his arm around her and pull her close. Oh, she did hope Mick didn’t want to go exploring the globe. If she never saw another new port of call, or discovered another uncharted corner of the earth, or even visited another one of her father’s digs, she would be just fine, thank you.
Timona knew there would be some fuss about this plan of hers. She’d rather not think about how much.
Chapter 17
 
He should have stayed with the turkeys and the Tuckers. The second he laid eyes on Blenheim, Mick knew life had taken a turn for the worse.
Blenheim was tall, well formed, handsome, and thoroughly aristocratic. Blond, elegant, graceful—athletic, rather than willowy—Blenheim’s perfection extended to his face. He had the classic chiseled features of a blue blood.
Perhaps his chin was not entirely strong, but Mick didn’t think the man’s physical imperfections were pronounced enough. Mick was immediately conscious of his own over-large body, twice-broken nose, and large, blunt fingers. And his riotously curling hair, which badly needed a cut.
Before Mick even got off the train, he suspected he disliked Blenheim. Once the man opened his mouth, Mick knew he loathed him.
Blenheim met them at the door of the train. He helped Timmy down the steps as if she were made of spun sugar, and cooed over her like a slightly disapproving but indulgent mentor.
Right away, Mick caught on to the bastard’s hold on Timmy. Blenheim did not fawn on her, the way her other would-be suitors must.
Maybe that was how Mick had gotten his opportunity with Timona Calverson. He’d been mighty critical of her at first.
He was still contemplating this dismal thought, when Blenheim turned to him and Eddy. “You two. Help with the bags.”
Mick could see Blenheim knew who he was. He considered pointing this out to the blighter, but for the merest second the ice blue eyes met his, and dared him to make a scene in the tiny train station.
“Wait. Mr. Blenheim, this is Mr. McCann, and Mr., ah, Eddy,” said Timmy. Her voice sounded slow and uncertain. For half a second, Mick thought his heart would shatter. She spoke as if she wasn’t sure she actually knew Mick after all.
But no, this was Timmy.
She broke into a grin.
“Did I do that correctly, Mr. Blenheim? I think that’s the order to the introductions since you’re related to royalty. I would introduce someone to you rather than . . .”
“It is never proper,” said Blenheim very, very quietly—but not so quietly Mick couldn’t hear, ”to introduce one’s friends to servants.”
The silence was deafening. Until Timmy, bless her, put out a reassuring hand and touched Blenheim’s arm. “Oh, Mr. Blenheim, you and Aunt Winifred have tried and tried to explain this, but I cannot fathom it. Truly, just because you are Papa’s secreary we can not consider you a servant.”
Mick couldn’t hold back the guffaw. Blenheim turned ashen, but did not move or utter a peep. Mick had to admire the training that kept the man from exploding on the spot.
He knew Blenheim was his enemy, but he should not have laughed at the man’s humiliation. He also knew, though he suspected Blenheim did not, that Timmy was absolutely innocent of malice. She really was trying to reassure this duke’s grandson or earl’s nephew that he was socially acceptable to her friends, the near-penniless, ignorant Irish farmer and the illegitimate street orphan.
It’s something like people who can’t sing properly, Mick thought as he walked behind Timmy and Blenheim to the waiting carriage. Poor Timmy knew about rank but could not really grasp the importance of a person’s place in the world. It had blared loud and clear to Mick’s ear, all his life, a menace to his peace. Like this Blenheim was sure to be.
Saints, it was not a case of poor tone-deaf Timmy. She was the blessed lucky one.
Eddy must have sensed the tension in the air, because he again clung to Mick’s arm. In the city, the sensitive boy had always been one of Mick’s more frequent visitors and beggars, but now he seemed to be melded to his side. Mick ruffled Eddy’s hair with his free hand.
“We shall be fine, Eddy. I promise I shan’t leave you.” The promise he’d lately repeated so many times had its usual effect. Eddy loosened his death grip, though he still held onto Mick’s sleeve.
“An’ the kitten?” Eddy whispered. “We’ll get him soon?”
“He’s safest tucked into his little basket.”
The groom helped Timmy into the carriage. She gathered in the growling Botty. Her face appeared in the window, which she lowered.
“Come on, Mick and Eddy,” she called cheerfully oblivious to Blenheim’s pained look.
Mick came to the carriage and leaned in, glad for the excuse not to sit in the carriage with Blenheim.
“Eddy’s worried about his cat. We’ll get a ride with the luggage.”
Timmy nodded, and tightened her hold on Botty. “I shall have to keep this boy from leaping out the window to get at you.”
“Pray tell, Miss Calverson. What is that beast?” Blenheim walking past, stopped to stare at Botty with undisguised loathing.
“A Corptic terrier,” said Timmy.
“I’ve heard tell tis Bortic,” Mick said mildly.
“Of course. How silly of me.” Timmy shook her head sadly. “And all this time I have considered myself an expert on the breed.”
Blenheim busily ordered everyone in the area to help load the luggage onto the pony cart. Then, ignoring the groom’s proffered hand, Blenheim climbed into the carriage.
The groom doffed his cap to the Blenheim and said, “
Póg mo thón
,” in a respectful tone. Kiss my ass.
Mick laughed. The groom tipped him a wink, then leapt up to his seat.
It felt glorious to be in the clean, sweet air, after being cooped up in the small railway car. Pressed against Mick’s side, even Eddy relaxed and looked all around them at the rolling hills.
The driver of the cart introduced himself as Morrison, then said, with a chuckle, “So you are another man to play the Irish harp, then?”
Mick frowned. The old derogatory re the luggace to a shovel sounded odd coming from the mouth of an Irishman.
Morrison didn’t seem to notice Mick’s response. He asked, “Planning on staying long?”
“I plan on finding work on a farm eventually.”
“It’s not a bad outfit,” said the driver in Gaelic. “Pay is good. The old man is fairly mad but not a bad sort. Imagine. He offers a thousand dollars to the first man to dig up a dinosaur bone. Only have to watch out for the young Gall.” Englishman. “Blenheim is a rare windbag of a man. Blown up with his own self worth.”
He nodded towards Eddy. “Your son looks too thin. The camp cook will help fill him out. God, I wish she’d help me out. She has the look of a wild one, and makes the finest food I have ever put in my mouth. She can’t abide the old gentleman, though.”
“Calverson?”
“Himself.” The driver spat over the edge of the cart and continued. “I see you came with the blessed Timona. Quite a honey mouth look to the girl. She has some ripe and pretty parts to her, aye?”
Mick growled, “Just a moment Mr. Morrison . . .”
The man mistook his anger. “No, no. I don’t mean to offend your boy’s precious ears. We’ve heard a word or two about the fair Timona from the cook, who’s fond of the lass, it seems. Of course I wouldn’t touch the girl if she were beauty itself.
“Calverson Junior is pure trouble, they say, and I guess he wouldn’t take to any bog dweller messing with his sister.”
“What are you two talking about, Mick?” asked Eddy.
The driver tsked disapprovingly. “He calls you by your name? I’d flail that disrespect out of a boy. And why don’t you teach him your own tongue?”
Mick was careful to answer in Gaelic. “I’m glad he can’t understand with some of the nonsense you’ve been spouting, Mr. Morrison. He calls me Mick because he’s not truly my son.”
Mick turned to Eddy. “We’re talking about where we’re heading. Remember what Miss Timona told you about dinosaur bones? We’re going see where they actually dig for them.”
Morrison glanced over at the dark Eddy. “Now I can see what you mean. Got some spic in him. Or yid? Watch your wallet!” He laughed like a hyena.
Mick growled and hugged Eddy closer. Blenheim might not be the only idiot in the outfit.
The cat began to yowl but Morrison didn’t allow them to stop and search for the basket. Mick felt annoyed for Eddy’s sake, until Morrison showed a spark of kindness when he offered an explanation.
“I don’t want to miss lunch, as you call it. It is called dinner here, and ’tis the largest meal of the day. But I think your cat is just fine. Hark how it is complaining loud and clear, like it was a good strong animal? Don’t fret, boy—I was extra careful with the basket as we loaded up.”
When they had arrived at the camp, it proved to be larger and more luxurious than Mick had imagined. There were four buildings on the site. The largest was a former farmhouse and had been set up in fine style, said Morrison, for the boss, his secretary, the cook, and now his daughter. Two buildings were barns converted into bunkhouses for the diggers. And the last smaller building housed Sir Kenneth’s two assistants.
Mick and Eddy helped Morrison unload the baggage.
“How many diggers are there?” Mick asked, looking around the sprawling compound.
“Counting you, now there’s thirty-eight. And there are others too. Grooms and whatnot. You are a digger ain’t ye?”
Mick again wished he’d stayed at the damn turkey farm. “I am not a digger. I think.”
“You are not? You think?” Morrison pushed back his shapeless felt hat and from under thick gray eyebrows examined Mick with interest. “What are you then?”
Good question.
“I’ve been a farmer.” That was all Mick could say with certainty.
“We’re friends of Miss Timona’s,” said Eddy.
A good enough answer.
Within moments the woman herself appeared and trotted across the yard towards them. The leashless Botty raced ahead of her as if he’d been shot from a cannon.
Timmy gave Mick a hug. Thank God she held back her usual lusty kiss.
She shook hands with Morrison who muttered an astonished, “How do ye do.”
“
Dia duit!
That’s supposed to be ‘hello,’” she said and added, “I have an atrocious accent, or so Mick tells me. He has been teaching me Irish. I’m Timona Calverson. And you are?”
Morrison’s eyes were round with fascination “Brian Morrison. Pleased to meet you.”
He looked at Mick and then at Timona. And then at Mick again.
“A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Morrison,” said Timona cheerily.
She reached for Eddy and Mick’s hands. “Sorry to hurry you, but we’re just in time for lunch,” she told them, and pulled them towards the house, allowing Eddy to stop and scoop up his cat’s basket.
She looked over her shoulder. “Thank you again, Mr. Morrison. I understand your meal is ready, too, so you might as well leave the pile of bags where they are. It won’t rain, and we can fetch them later.”
She stopped for a moment while Mick held open the door for her. She said, “Before we eat, there is something I should mention.”
Mick racked his imagination. Was her father in the habit of dining naked? Did Blenheim refuse to share a table with him?
But he didn’t get far in his speculations, when she continued, “You must not forget to tell Araminta how wonderful the food is as she serves the meal. Do not stint on the praise. She is an artist, and feels she deserves compliments for every meal. I suppose it is entirely true, for she puts up with the most appalling conditions.”
“Araminta? Isn’t that your best friend’s name, too?”
Timmy looked confused for a second. “Yes, that’s Araminta.”
Mick couldn’t help grinning. What other rich girl would count her cook as her best friend?
He wasn’t sure how Botty would do in a real house, so he ordered the dog to wait on the porch. At least he didn’t have to worry about people throwing rocks at the dog here. He hoped.
The father did not appear at the meal.
“He’s in the middle of something, so I’ll introduce you later,” said Timmy as she settled in the chair Blenheim held for her.
Mick wondered if the old man had even looked up when his daughter had reappeared in his life. Poor Timmy.
Mick did not suppose Mr. Morrison and the others were eating the same delicate fare, though he thought Araminta could probably make shoe leather taste delicious. But he didt to tell her because one of the diggers served the meal.
“Mrs. Araminta asked me to because she is in the middle of writing something down,” the nervous laborer explained. He’d scrubbed his hands so much they were a different color than the rest of his tanned arms.
Blenheim, at the head of the elegantly laid table, tsked impatiently at the man’s lack of training. With icy and exaggerated politeness he corrected the laborer’s blunders. “I appreciate you taking the time to help the cook, but do you think you could hold still long enough for us to serve ourselves? And could you please hold this lower so that I might actually see the food you are offering? Thaaaank you.”

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