Mail-Order Haven

by Linda Carroll-Bradd

  “I’d love to.” Smiling, Missus Hutchins stepped forward and lifted Angela. She leaned close and nuzzled the baby’s cheek. “You’re a healthy one.”

  Satisfied the baby was in good hands, Tavia gave one last look over her shoulder then hurried to the lavatory. What a treat not to have to go outside into the cold winter air. When she re-entered the kitchen, she saw a bottle of milk standing in a pan of water. The items for the nipple were set on the counter. The woman was indeed an accomplished housekeeper. “Do you have children, Missus Hutchins?”

  The woman swayed in place and patted Angela’s back, and the baby tugged on the apron strap. “My husband, Ned, and I have two sons. But they’re grown men now.” Her eyes took on a faraway look. “Thomas is twenty-eight, lives in Fredericksburg where he was married last summer, and is the newspaper editor. Matthew works on a ranch about twenty miles south of here and is twenty-six.” Smiling, she shook her head. “Like night and day, those boys are.”

  “I’m glad you have experience, because I have mostly observed other women and their babies.” Tavia rested a hand on the bin table and shrugged.

  Angela turned and thrust out her arms. “Eh, eh.”

  “I guess I’m being summoned.” Tavia glanced at the stove and frowned. What was more important—ensuring the bottle got fixed right or reclaiming the baby?

  “You take her into the laundry room and get her changed.” Mrs. Hutchins passed off Angela. “I’ve already washed the diapers, and they’re hanging outside on the line. The washtub now has a towel on the bottom to be used as a diaper changing area.” She cocked an eyebrow. “And, I’ve had Ned bring in a couple metal pails from the barn for the diaper. I figured one downstairs and the other upstairs. That wad was a smelly surprise on the hearth in the den.”

  Heat flushed Tavia’s cheeks. “Oh, I’m sorry. I meant to collect that bundle before retiring last night.” She stooped to gather the satchel and walked across the hall. True to her word, Missus Hutchins had covered the upturned metal tub with one towel and then folded another to create a pad on just the flat surface. At the right edge sat a stack of flannel pieces about six inches square. A half-full ceramic bowl of water rested on the floor boards. Behind that was a dented but clean metal pail. Everything she needed. This diaper change would be so much easier than the two she’d done last night—especially the one Tavia struggled to accomplish when dragged from a deep sleep.

  After grabbing a diaper and soaker from the satchel, Tavia laid Angela on the towel and shifted the little one’s nightgown up to her waist.

  “Bottle’s ready.” Missus Hutchins came to stand at Tavia’s side. “Do you have everything you need?

  “This layout is wonderful, Missus Hutchins. Last night, I was at my wit’s end with figuring out what to do. Frankly, I wished I could grow another pair of hands.” She turned to look at the woman who stood a couple inches shorter and smiled. “I appreciate your help.”

  “I remembered how I liked to have a special area for diaper changes. Lordy, although more years than I can count have passed since those days, all the details easily returned.”

  Working with more skill than the day before, Tavia kept a hand on Angela’s tummy as she bent down to moisten the cloth. Next time, do this step first. A quick wipe, criss-cross of the triangular diaper, and pull on of the soaker, and the change was completed.

  Missus Hutchins extended the flannel undershirt and yellow calico dress with a wide rounded bib. She ran a finger over the hem trimmed in eyelet. “I always wanted to sew dresses and add feminine touches like this.”

  Tavia heard the wistful note in the woman’s voice and knew she had an ally in the baby’s care. “And her little socks have lace edgings, too. Her mother must have enjoyed sewing.” A lump formed in her throat at the thought of poor Sylvia Weller from yesterday’s coach ride. The woman who would not have the chance to see her sweet baby grow up.

  The housekeeper cleared her throat. “Can I cook you an egg?”

  Nodding, Tavia lifted Angela into her arms. “I’d love some tea, too. Maybe a slice of that delicious bread we enjoyed last night.”

  Missus Hutchins hurried off, and then met Tavia at the kitchen doorway with a strip of flannel, the filled bottle, and a damp washrag. “Wipe off your hands then get comfortable in the den. If she’s still emptying this bottle when your meal is done, then I’ll bring in the food on a tray.”

  For a second, Tavia stilled, rolling over in her mind the switch in roles brought by her marriage. Years of being the servant hadn’t prepared her to be the recipient of such generous help. “You’re spoiling me…” She hesitated for only a moment before letting loose with a laugh. “And I truly love it.”

  Angela stretched her hands for the bottle and bounced on Tavia’s hip.

  “All right, little one, I know you’re hungry.” Tavia headed for the den, her stocking-covered feet making muffled slaps on the floor. The fact she was still in her night rail felt scandalous. Yesterday had been traumatic. She needed today to get oriented in her new home, and then tomorrow she’d be ready to establish a routine.

  Twenty minutes later and with both of them fed, Tavia patted Angela’s back while walking the length of Fitz’s bookcases. She’d hoped to find a book of an appropriate nature to read aloud while she put the baby to sleep. Unfortunately, the titles described mostly biographies and military histories.

  Angela rested her cheek on Tavia’s shoulder, running her fingers over the end of Tavia’s long braid.

  On the top shelf in the far corner, Tavia spied a slim volume titled Stories about Animals, with Pictures to Match. Slipping it from its place, she saw the edges were well worn. This book by Francis C. Woodworth much have been read often. Holding something from Fitz’s childhood brought a catch to her throat.

  None of her childhood books or toys remained in her possession. But she still remembered the times Papa held her in his lap and read aloud. He always smelled of fresh air, leather, and horses. First, they shared a book with lots of pictures and few words, and he’d urge her to name each item. A couple years later, the book he chose had more words than pictures, and he pointed to each word and helped her sound it out if she struggled. That book she’d carried with her to the first and second foster homes, holding tight to the last connection with her beloved papa. Somehow in the move to the third household when she was ten, the book was misplaced. After that point, she learned not to cling to any possession. Better to hold tight to the memories—no one could take those away.

  “Can I remove the tray, Missus Saunders?” The housekeeper stood in the doorway.

  Angela straightened and glanced toward the voice, her eyelids drooping.

  Tavia returned from remembering the past. “Yes, I’m done.” Taking slow steps, she moved across the floor. “I have never been one for formality. May I ask you to address me as Tavia?”

  “I’d like that, and I’m Edlynn. Mother bore eight children before me, and I think she was just plain tired of thinking up names.” Her blue eyes sparkled as she talked. “So she combined hers and Father’s names to make mine.”

  “Edlynn has a wonderful heritage, and I like it.” Tavia watched as the cook gathered the breakfast things. Asking the woman to collect the drawer bed from upstairs might sound like such a bother. “Would you mind finding the sheet we left on the laundry room floor and bringing it in here? Rather than put Angela down for a nap all the way upstairs, maybe we could lay her on the sheet?”

  Edlynn frowned and shook her head. “Too cold. What did you use for her to sleep in last night?”

  “A drawer from the bureau. At least, for part of the night.” After she’d woken and been fed, Angela resisted being apart from Tavia. In desperate need of sleep, Tavia just pulled the child close, and they fell fast asleep curled together.

  “I’ll fetch that.” Edlynn set down the tray. “We’ll put it on the sofa in here. One of the armchairs can be scooted right to the edge to hold the drawer in place.”

  Nodding,
Tavia flashed a grin. “Why, Edlynn, you sound like the practiced voice of experience.”

  Working together, the women set up a day nursery and tucked in Angela then tip-toed out of the room. Within another few minutes, Tavia was stretched out in warm, sudsy water, washing away the travel dust. Whatever soap Fitz bought had a wonderful honey-almond scent, and her skin felt so luxurious as she ran the terry washrag over sore muscles. Leaning her head against the tub’s edge, she let her thoughts drift. Although she still hadn’t inspected all the rooms, she knew this house was the finest one she’d ever seen—security in the shape of thick walls and a sturdy roof. Contented, she sighed.

  “Tavia?” Fitz’s voice boomed from somewhere close by.

  Instinctively, she ducked low in the water, covering her breasts with a hand and tossing the washrag on her belly. “In the…um…lavatory.”

  “Well, hurry.” Boot steps approached and stopped right outside the door. “I brought you a surprise.”

  Heat flamed her cheeks. Only a wooden door separated her naked body from her husband’s gaze—a titillating situation, to be sure. Her pulse raced, and she couldn’t deny the tingle of excitement spreading goose bumps over her skin. So, this titillation was marriage.

  ~**~

  The swish of moving water spun Fitz’s thoughts. With both hands braced on the doorframe, he leaned his forehead against the closed lavatory door, fighting the images that crossed his mind. His wife was bathing, with warm water caressing her skin like he wished he could. Possibly soap bubbles trailed down an arm or a leg and dissipated when sliding into the water.

  How long was her hair—to the middle of her back or to her hips? Did it curl as it dried? Were the curves he’d glimpsed the previous night as they tended the baby naturally hers? Or had they been aided by enhancers or bustles or a tight corset?

  Water gurgled as it ran down the drain, and he envisioned her standing naked not three feet away, rubbing a length of toweling over her fair skin. His breath lodged in his throat, and he turned toward the sanctity of his den, stomping along the hallway. Muttering under his breath, he walked straight toward his favorite armchair—which wasn’t where it usually stood. Stuffing his hands in his pockets, he scanned the room to see his chair now abutted the settee where the dresser drawer rested. After noticing the sleeping baby inside, he moved to the other armchair and sat.

  A discussion about their marital intimacy must take place tonight. He reached toward the side table for the book he was currently reading but instead, he lifted a slim volume. A children’s book? Stories About Animals. He hadn’t seen this book in years and flipped to the first illustration. Immediately, he was transported decades back to the family home and of being cuddled under a quilt of blue and red anchors with his next-younger brother. Perched on a nearby chair, Mother read aloud in her calm melodic voice, and he and Alder took turns answering her questions about animal names or where they lived. Mother always smelled like rose water and had a smile or a soft touch for her children—no matter the mischief they’d gotten into.

  Fitz turned a page. Seeing ink marks on the leopard brought a chuckle. An alteration from when Gloriane, the younger of his two sisters, thought its coat needed more spots. He flipped a few more pages, remembering quiet family moments as he glanced at the familiar illustrations. The one with the tiger held pink flowers because the younger sister, Mercia, had just learned how to draw tulips with her wax crayons.

  Years had passed since he’d thought of his childhood. Of the happy years of family life before his mother’s death when he was only fourteen and away at boarding school. Just as well. That life was gone. His was here and now on the Texas plains, working his ranch and raising cattle.

  “There you are.” Quiet words preceded Tavia’s entrance into the room, and she headed straight for the fireplace. Her hair hung loose, and she rubbed it with the toweling.

  For a moment, Fitz stared at the long wavy hair tumbling around her shoulders and down her back. The firelight caught lighter streaks within the rich brown color and made them shine. Tavia was a beautiful vision, like the woman in a painting titled “The Siren” by Edward Poynter he’d seen in a museum during his college years.

  “Did you find my portmanteau?” Her soft whisper barely carried across the room.

  “I did.” His words croaked, and he cleared his throat then matched her lowered tone. “I set it in the laundry room. Some of the clothes were a bit dusty.”

  “I’ll tend to those as soon as I gather my comb and brush.” She walked close to the settee to glance at the sleeping baby and then scurried out of the room.

  He stood and walked to the hearth, adding a quartered log. Sparks danced from the contact, and swirls of smoke rose up the chimney. With a wrought iron poker, he shifted the burning remnants under the fresh wood until flames licked along its surface and spread.

  Tavia returned, head tilted as she ran a brush through her hair. She stood sideways on the hearth, bent at the waist, and continued brushing.

  That position doesn’t look comfortable. Fitz glanced around and then lifted the wooden blanket chest to position it opposite the fireplace. “Sit so you don’t have to bend.”

  “Thank you.” She flashed a smile and then sat. “I see you gathered several loose items, too.”

  Scents of honey and almond trailed her, and he breathed them in. “They were on the prairie, just scattered about.” He shrugged. No matter how far he traveled, he couldn’t shake his upbringing. Possessions were meant to be either saved and reused or given to those in need. “Figured I could drop them at the church.” Air heated by the increasing flames grew too hot so he moved back to the chair.

  “Good idea. Living on Army forts taught me someone always has more need than my own.”

  Hypnotized by her repeated motions, Fitz watched her hair change from dark hanks to fluffy strands as she pulled the brush along each length. Never had he been witness to a woman drying her hair. Even here, in the den he used for an office, the scene felt intimate. Between this personal act and watching her sleep this morning, he couldn’t deny his growing feelings. How could such an emotion happen this quickly? They’d made a pact, a business arrangement, to allow him to meet his father’s stipulations. He expected they’d become fond of each other over time. But not this soon. Best not to think on that change now. “I also spoke with the sheriff.”

  “The sheriff?” Wide-eyed, Tavia turned, the brush stilled in her hand. “You did? About the accident?”

  “And about tracking the baby’s relatives.” When he didn’t hear a response, he straightened. “Like we discussed in the depot last night? You gave the agent the envelope with a Fredericksburg address.” He narrowed his gaze. “A location to what you assumed was the dead man’s father.”

  “Oh.” Her shoulders slumped. Turning away, she resumed brushing. “I suppose you had to.”

  A niggle of unease crept along his neck. “Because that gentleman must be informed of his son’s and daughter-in-law’s deaths.” From where he sat, he saw only her profile as she stared into the fire.

  “Even though from what I gathered in speaking to the Wellers, he’s never met Angela.” The brush twirled in her grasp.

  Why should such an omission have a bearing on reconnecting with blood relations? “You know for a fact that information is true?”

  “I talked a while with Mrs. Weller before the accident. She was a bit nervous about the holiday trip, because they were surprising her widower father-in-law. Plus, she’d only met him once, at the wedding.” Tavia nodded. “Sylvia didn’t get a warm feeling from the man on that occasion.”

  Her hair moved like a rippling curtain in a freshening breeze. At the strange thought, Fitz shook his head and leaned forward. “Meeting the child before or not, the man has the right to know his granddaughter survived.” Then Mr. Weller would claim the child and take her off to Fredericksburg so Fitz and Tavia could start their married life the way he’d envisioned.

  “Of course.” Blowing out a
sigh, Tavia angled her body to stare at the dresser drawer. “You’re right, Fitz. I understand the logic of your words.” Absently, she tapped the brush against her temple.

  “I hear hesitancy in your voice. What is bothering you?” He prided himself on being a problem solver, and his new wife sounded like she muddled over one just now.

  “All you say is true. Most people believe in the saying, ‘Blood is thicker than water.’ I was hoping…” She scooted on the chest to face him, elbows braced on her thighs, and met his gaze, her eyes shining. “I know this idea is probably silly, but hear me out. Only two weeks remain until Christmas. This year is the first I’ve been someplace I can call my own home.” She swallowed hard before continuing. “Or part mine, at least. I’m assuming as mistress of the house, I’m in charge of arranging the decorations and selecting what dishes to serve for the holiday’s special meal. I’ve been waiting a long time for this opportunity.” Her gaze searched his and then flicked toward the sleeping baby. “Wouldn’t celebrating the holiday with a baby in the house be extra special?”

  Her question chilled his blood and set his jaw into a tight clench. Of course, Tavia couldn’t have known his feelings, but he wanted no misunderstanding about this vital point. “I don’t celebrate Christmas, not since leaving Rhode Island.”

  Chapter Eight

  Two days had passed, and Tavia wasn’t any closer to knowing what had caused Fitz to stop celebrating Christmas. Introducing the subject again proved harder than she’d thought. Today, she’d risen early enough to share breakfast with Fitz, but all he talked of were the ranch and the related chores. She sipped at her tepid coffee then grimaced and set down the cup with a clunk on the matching saucer. The dinnerware of beige salt-glazed pottery with a leaf design around the plate rim was probably practical, but his choice was definitely more masculine than what she preferred. A smile crept across her mouth as she contemplated making the variety of changes Fitz mentioned she could accomplish.