The Nanny Arrangement (7 page)

In years past, she might have gone all dreamy and reminisced about some romantic love affair Paul had conducted with this woman, something beautiful and tragic and worthy of epic poetry. Never again. She was a nursemaid and a spinster, and she had left all those things behind. She would simply assume that the woman in the portrait was a family friend that was so close she was like an aunt to him. Aunt Hildegard, or some such. There. That put an end to all musing.

She better hurry back. There must be something else she could do to help. She picked up the pail and quit the room.

She closed the door with a gentle click, then turned...to find Paul standing before her.

She gasped and dropped the pail, which clattered to the floor, unheeded. “Mr. Holmes—oh, Paul, you look terrible.” His cheek was horribly cut and bruised, and spatters of mud and blood marked his otherwise elegant attire. “Are you quite all right?”

What a stupid question. Of course he wasn’t all right. He looked like he’d had a near brush with death.

He tried to give his usual ruthful smile, but paused and winced. “Hurts too much,” he muttered out the corner of his mouth.

“Come in.” She opened the door and grasped his arm, tugging him into the room. “I just put hot bricks in your bed,” she chattered on, trying to cover her shock at his appearance. “I hope you don’t mind. I wanted to help.”

He shook his head from side to side, and then closed his eyes. “Fine.”

“Where is Wadsworth? Or your valet? Surely they should be up here assisting you.” She helped him sit in the easy chair before his hearth and knelt on the floor before him, tugging at his boots. “You’re soaking wet. You’ll catch your death if you don’t dry off and warm up.”

“Downstairs.” He submitted to her tugging and the muddy Hessians finally slid free, knocking her backward a pace or two. He closed his eyes. “On their way.”

“Good.” She grabbed a blanket from the foot of his bed and wrapped it around him, then busied herself kindling a small fire from the hearth. That was the good of never having servants—you learned to do simple tasks on your own. The fire caught and blazed up, bathing the room in an orange glow.

“I’m going to send for the doctor. Your face—it’s quite awful, Paul.” His pallid appearance and weary submission to her ministrations pinched at her conscience. She must be kind and friendly and helpful to Paul now—as though she were still a milliner and he just a jolly friend of the family.

She drew closer and scrutinized his cheek. The bleeding had long since stopped, but the gashes were quite raw. “Yes, you do need a doctor. And I shall go for him now, unless one of the others already has. A tincture of arnica might help. If you don’t have any at Kellridge, I know Susannah has some at Goodwin.”

Paul opened his eyes. The usual light of mischief had been quenched from their depths; even the cold, businesslike stare with which he’d regarded her during their few disagreements had melted. He was in pain, and he was wretched.

“Paul, I am going to go now. I am going to find your valet and Wadsworth and make sure they are here right away to help you. And I am going to make sure a doctor has been called. I’ll find the arnica as well.” She patted his arm with a reassuring gesture. “Sit here and rest. Help is on the way. I’ll see to it.”

Paul grasped her hand with surprising strength and squeezed. He closed his eyes once more, his face turning a shade whiter as he lolled his head back against the cushion.

His cracked lips parted. “Thank you.”

’Twas the first time Paul had ever shown deference or humility. Tears stung the back of Becky’s eyes.

She squeezed his hand in return and quit the room.

Chapter Seven

W
hat an extraordinary few days it had been. Becky stared out the carriage window as raindrops streaked against the pane. Paul had been injured, but the doctor said he would recover in a matter of weeks. The gash on his cheek needed time to heal, as did the many bumps and bruises he’d sustained in the accident. So even though he was now home for Juliet’s arrival, he wasn’t able to travel with Becky to Cleethorpes. That was just as well. Juliet might very well be afraid of her uncle, what with that horrible wounded cheek.

Becky settled back against the seat cushions and tucked her book inside her reticule. She never was any good at reading on long trips. ’Twas much nicer to sit and watch the countryside roll by, imagining how her life might be if she lived in that farmhouse as she passed by. She and Nan would often make a game of it, which they called “Storybook Lives.” Nan was always so practical about it. She’d look at the romantic ruin of an old house and remark, “I wouldn’t want to bear the cost of glazing
those
windows,” or some such, thereby completely destroying the fun of the game.

Becky’s eyes misted over at the memory. Better not to think too much of the past. Better to enjoy the sound of the rain trickling against the landau windows as they made their sluggish progress into Cleethorpes. The roads were a good deal muddier after the rains of the past few days, which made for slower going. Good thing she was always of an imaginative spirit. One was never bored when one could roam through the fields of fancy.

The carriage swayed sharply to the right, and the smell of salt cut through the air. They must be nearing the shore now. Becky tucked her reticule next to the doll she’d brought along for Juliet, and pressed her nose against the glass. Gray sky met lead-colored sea, where froths of waves roiled and tossed. At least the rain had lightened to a sprinkle.

Dozens of seagulls cackled and screamed as the carriage drew closer to the docks. Becky’s heart quickened at the sound. ’Twasn’t a pleasant noise at all, and something about it set her nerves on edge. She dropped back against the seat cushion and drew a long, steadying breath. She was a nursemaid now, not some silly girl who grew frightened at strange noises. She couldn’t very well show up to gather her charge while cowering like a ninny. No, no matter how she felt inside, she must present a facade of calm good-natured cheer. No need to fret Juliet, especially after her long journey.

The carriage ground to a halt, its tread heavy as the wet sandy soil caught against the wheels. She was here. At long last, her life’s purpose was about to reveal itself, and she would finally live the kind of life she’d always wanted. Or, at least, had wanted and prepared for the past week. She fought the urge to gawk out the window, seeking her charge. Instead, she waited until the coachman came around and helped her out of the carriage. Even with his assistance, she floundered a bit on the damp sand.

She righted herself with her last shreds of dignity and drew her hood up over her neatly coiled hair. The cold, misty rain was already penetrating her garments. The sooner she was able to get Juliet and her nurse back to Kellridge, the better.

Paul’s schooner was right before her, tethered to the dock, as men scrambled around tossing ropes and calling orders. Perhaps her charge was still aboard? After all, it was still raining and although they had been cooped up in a cabin for weeks, a little girl could catch her death in weather like this.

She turned to the coachman. “Foster, do you mind asking one of the sailors where we could find Miss Juliet and her nurse?”

The coachman shrugged. “I could, but I see them myself.” He pointed his gloved finger down the length of the strand.

Becky glanced out over the beach. Yes, indeed, that must be her charge. Very few two-year-olds would be wandering about here at this time of day and in this weather. There was a woman beside her. So that must be her nurse. “Thank you,” she replied with as much dignity as she could muster. “I’ll go and collect them. Will you make certain that her trunks are brought back to Kellridge? They must have more than we can handle in the landau.”

Foster bowed and made his way to the ship. Becky paused for a moment after he left. Her heart still beat in her chest like a big bass drum. She must stop being silly, and she must stop being...not exactly frightened, but nervous. After all, God was calling her to take care of this child, wasn’t He? And she mustn’t fail, or allow her courage to wane.

With a mental apology to her kid boots, she balled her skirts up in one hand and gingerly stepped onto the sand. ’Twas wet indeed, and sucked at the heel of her boots like quicksand. How embarrassing it would be to get stuck, halfway between the carriage and her charge.

“Hello,” she called out, waving her free hand. The older woman looked up and gave a languid wave of her hand. Juliet did not, but then, she mightn’t be able to hear her over the crashing of the surf.

There was nothing to do but keep moving forward.

After a small eternity, she drew close enough to see the pair in a clearer manner. Juliet hunched down, the skirt of her cheap black sateen dress caked in wet sand. Her long black curls tangled down the length of her small back. She was so intent on whatever she was doing that she never looked up, or right or left. She was digging in the sand, using a shell as a scoop. As Becky drew close beside her, Juliet flicked a scoop full of sand over one shoulder, pelting Becky’s bodice.

“Oh,” Becky gasped.

Beside her, the nurse gave a short exclamation in what must be Italian. Juliet shrugged and resumed her progress, never looking back.

“Forgive her,” the nurse said, her English touched with a singsong quality. “It has been a long journey.”

“Of course,” Becky replied. She dusted the wet sand off her dress with as much grace as she could muster. No harm done, after all. “I am Becky Siddons, and I will be her nursemaid at Kellridge Hall. I’ve come to take you home.”

“Yes.” There were bags under the nurse’s kind brown eyes, and her mouth was tightly drawn, like a string that had been pulled. “Home will be a relief to us all.”

Becky knelt in the sand. Her dress was already a mess anyway. A little more filth wouldn’t make that much of a difference. “Are you Juliet?”

Juliet spared her a brief glance and then continued digging. She had a small, heart-shaped face and a pointed chin. Her large brown eyes were the precise shade of almonds and ringed with purple half moons—likely the result of fatigue. She was skinny and tangled and dirty, rather like a boy with stringy long hair. Not at all the demure little flower she’d expected.

“Would you like to go home with me to Kellridge Hall? Your uncle Paul is there.” She tried to inflect a note of cheerfulness into her voice, but ’twas difficult to manage. For one thing, Juliet never responded to a word. For another, there was the uncomfortable sensation that she would sink into the sand if she didn’t balance her weight on the balls of her feet.

“Her English is very poor,” her companion piped up in the same lilting tone. “Her mama and papa spoke to her only in Italian. I have tried to teach her a little of English, but mine is very poor as well.”

Becky rummaged through her mind for any Italian phrases she might know. She and her sisters never learned it. They’d learned French at home, then promptly forgot all but a few smatterings when they moved to Uncle Arthur’s home. And those smatterings dealt mostly with fashion.
Toilette. Déshabillé. Soie. Mousseline.
None of these phrases mattered a whit now, because even if Juliet knew French, the words she could recall were utterly useless.

She had to seize control of the situation. Even if she didn’t know Italian, she must communicate with her charge. She straightened, facing the nurse squarely. “Her uncle will want her to learn and speak only English,” she admitted. “For the purposes of this journey, you may continue to talk to her in her native language. When we get home, I am sure Mr. Holmes will instruct us on how to proceed, Miss—”

“Sophia.” The nurse gave a brief nod, her forehead puckering. “I shall try, of course, but it will be difficult—”

A fusillade of wet sand pellets slapped Becky right in the face. She took a step backward, blinking rapidly. The urge to give way to ridiculous tears fought with the urge to scream and yell, just like she had when she and Nan would fight as children. She took a deep, shuddering breath and faced her new charge, who broke into a sunny smile when she beheld Becky’s face.

Sophia spoke in rapid-fire Italian and grabbed Juliet by the arm, tossing the shell to one side. Juliet let forth a wail that startled the gulls circling overhead. They flew off, shrieking.

Becky shook her head. Already this was disastrous, and Sophia was not improving matters. How could she possibly take control of the situation? For it was her responsibility to right it, no matter what.

“No.” She pronounced the word with a snap, and the sharp sound of it penetrated the struggle between Sophia and Juliet. “We’ll have no more of this nonsense.” She pointed to the carriage and looked over at Sophia. “Tell Juliet I have a doll waiting for her in the carriage. All her own. ’Twas her mama’s. If she’s going to be naughty, then I shall tuck that doll right back into the valise and she shan’t have it until she learns to behave.”

As Sophia repeated Becky’s instructions, Juliet’s eyes widened. She gave a short nod to her nurse, and grabbed Becky’s hand, as though silently urging her into the carriage.

“Very well.” Becky allowed Juliet to lead her to the carriage. The sand threatened to pull her kid boots off with each step. Her hem was now caked with filth. For want of a clever remark, but still needing to say something to fill the silence, Becky called out, “We won’t be able to put the top down on the landau thanks to the weather. So, we’ll have to find other ways to entertain Juliet as we journey home.”

“Dio dammi forza,”
the maid answered.

“I am not sure what you said.” Becky staggered the last few steps up the beach, with Juliet’s wet, sticky hand grasping hers.

But it sounded rather like a prayer, which, given the circumstances, she considered highly appropriate.

* * *

Paul looked up at the ceiling. He’d been lying here, in this precise same position on his bed, for two days. And the patterns he’d traced in the crown moulding caused his head to ache abominably.

He’d have to get up. Kellridge needed him. He was master here, and carriage accident or no carriage accident, he couldn’t simply lay abed for two weeks. No matter what Dr. Talbot said.

He gave the bell an impatient pull and struggled to a sitting position. Wadsworth entered the room, a tea tray in his hands.

“You seem to have anticipated my bell.” An unreasonable wave of irritation surged through Paul. After all, he was still master here. ’Twas his hand that rang the bell, ’twas his voice that ordered the servants about. For Wadsworth to anticipate him almost weakened his hold on the precise manner in which he ran the house.

“Not at all, sir.” Wadsworth gave a polite cough. “It is almost teatime, and since Miss Siddons has returned from Cleethorpes—”

“She’s back?” Paul rubbed his hand over his forehead, gingerly touching the jagged scar that began above his right eyebrow. “How long has she been here?”

“They’ve only just arrived. Mrs. Clairbourne is getting them settled in the east wing.” Wadsworth set the tea tray beside the bed and began pouring the steaming brew into a china cup. “From what I gather, it was rather a difficult journey.”

“Not a broken axle again?” Paul accepted the teacup from Wadsworth with a grateful, if somewhat cautious, nod. “Surely not. The landau’s in fine shape.”

“No, the carriage made it back in one piece.” Wadsworth fussed with the biscuits until Paul shooed him away with a languid wave of his hand. “I believe the problem was with Miss Juliet. She is rather...high-spirited, shall we say.”

Paul took a bite of chocolate biscuit. Just like her mother. Juliana had been a handful from the moment she entered the world. Loud, contrary, intent on having her way...he glanced outside the window. Rain streaked across the panes. The weather hadn’t improved in two days, and that meant they made the journey back from Cleethorpes with the landau closed, and that would have made the trip feel like an eternity.

“That will be all, Wadsworth.”

The butler, long used to Paul’s abrupt manner, quit the room without further comment. Paul took another long draft of tea. A strange war of emotions was building within him.

If Juliet was a handful, as her mother had been, then she had the power to turn Kellridge upside down. If he didn’t make his presence known and felt in the east wing, it could soon spin out of control, and that would spread to the rest of the house.

No matter how he felt about losing Juliana, he couldn’t allow chaos to seep in. Not when he’d worked so hard to run Kellridge like a precisely wound clock.

He rose from the bed, slowly and stiffly, and dressed himself. No need to worry about a cravat; his hand was still too swollen and bruised to do any kind of elaborate knot. And no need to trouble his valet. He would handle this matter on his own, as was his custom.

He limped over to the door, pain singing through his body. He held on to the pain and accepted it with something like gratitude. Physical discomfort would help to drive out any ridiculous and overblown feelings of grief or sadness he might otherwise fall prey to when he beheld Juliana’s child.

Kellridge was silent and still, just as it should be at this hour. The servants were likely on the first floor, beginning the dinner preparations and lighting fires in the hearths. He would encounter no one, now that Wadsworth had left him.

As he rounded the corner into the east wing, a child’s shrill shrieking rent the air. There was a sound of something hitting the floor—a small table, perhaps?—and Becky’s tired voice rising above the general commotion. “Honestly, Sophia. Was she like this at home? This is preposterous!”

“I couldn’t agree more.” Paul pushed open the nursery room door and took a few steps in. As he entered, a hush fell over the room. The little imp who was causing all the fuss simply fell down onto the floor, her bottom hitting the wood with a little slap as she stared up at him with round, brown eyes. “Hush,” he commanded her, wagging his bruised finger in her direction. She gave a small hiccup and resumed her staring.