She stiffened her spine and turned her gaze to the side, as if the clerk were beneath her notice. “Kindly inform Mr. Bevin that Miss Adelaide Proctor has arrived as per his invitation. He did not specify an appointment time when he requested my appearance, so naturally I presumed he would see me at my convenience. Now, if you would be so good, sir …” She motioned for him to rise, like a queen commanding her subject.
Just as the man began to stand, a quiet chuckle from off to her right ruined the effect. An older man, probably in his early forties, stood in the doorway that appeared to lead to an inner office.
Drat! That had to be Mr. Bevin, and here she was trying to win some kind of snobbery contest with his clerk. That couldn’t be good. He smiled at her, though, and nodded.
“Come into my office, Miss Proctor. I’m afraid you’ll have to excuse me for the misunderstanding. I seem to have forgotten all about our plans to meet today and therefore neglected to inform my assistant.” His cultured tones soothed instead of insulted. Due to the grin that continued to dance across his face, no doubt.
Holding high her head, which still only reached to his chin, she swept past him and took a seat in a leather chair. He closed the door and went around the side of the desk, seating himself behind it.
“You’ll have to excuse Mr. Lyons. He’s a bit high in the instep, but his father is a friend of mine and asked me to take him on.”
Some of the starch went out of her. “I shouldn’t have let him rile me. I apologize for my rudeness, and for imposing on you.”
His chair creaked as he leaned back, resting his weight on one elbow. “I actually thought you handled him quite well. A person needs to be able to stand his ground without letting others intimidate him, especially out here. Texas abounds with ruffians who will run over you given half a chance. Now … tell me about this invitation that has slipped my mind in such discourteous fashion.”
Adelaide felt a blush heat her cheeks. “Well … it was more of a general invitation, not one addressed to me in particular. I’ve come about the advertisement in the Gazette. I wish to apply for the governess position.”
“Cleverly evasive, yet honest. An admirable combination.”
His manner put her at ease. In fact, the paternal smile he favored her with, combined with the silver at his temples, reminded her of her father. Of course Daddy would be dressed in broadcloth and denims, not a distinguished black frock coat and vest, but it was a nice feeling all the same.
“Are you qualified for this position, Miss Proctor?”
“Yes, sir.” She retrieved her credentials from her bag and pushed them across the desk for him to examine. “I graduated from Boston Normal School in 1880 and have taught in Cisco, Texas, for the last two years.”
She clutched her purse so firmly, the brass closure bit into the pads of her fingers. By the time Mr. Bevin finished reading through her letters of recommendation, precious little feeling remained in them.
“Your colleagues and board members speak highly of you, both personally and professionally.” He set the papers down and peered at her from across the desk. “It sounds as if they wished you to stay on. If I may ask, why did you leave?”
“I thought I was getting married.”
As soon as the words burst out of her mouth, she wanted them back. The tension of waiting for him to peruse her letters must have rattled her brain. Any intelligent person would have simply stated “personal reasons” and left it at that. Why couldn’t she have taken two seconds to come up with an appropriate response instead of spouting off the first thing that came to mind?
“I take it things didn’t work out?” His tone was mildly curious, but not laden with pity, and for that she was grateful.
“God seems to have other plans for me,” she said, hoping that the tremor in her voice conveyed anticipation and not fear.
“Ah. So you are a believer. Mr. Westcott prefers hiring people of faith. That will work in your favor.” He placed his palms on the desk top and pushed to his feet. “There are two other candidates whom I have deemed qualified. However, Mr. Westcott insists on conducting the final interviews himself—after he sees how each of you interacts with the child. We leave on the eight o’clock train tomorrow morning. If you are interested, I will procure a ticket for you.”
He held out his hand and helped her to her feet. After struggling with patience when the Lord refused to move as fast as she expected, she was left feeling a bit dizzy with the blistering pace he was setting now.
“I’ll need to secure passage for Sheba, as well,” she said, still trying to sort things out in her mind.
Mr. Bevin raised a disapproving brow. “Don’t tell me you have a child, Miss Proctor?”
Dazed, she tried to make sense of his question. “A child? No, sir. I have a horse.”
After a stunned moment, he let out a guffaw that shook the walls. “A horse, she says. Ha! Well, Miss Proctor, I would advise you either to sell the horse or board it until Mr. Westcott makes his decision. He—”
“I’ll pay the stock fare.” She rummaged in her bag for the necessary money. “Sheba comes with me.”
She held out the coins and watched for his response. He cocked his head to the side, contemplated her for a moment, and accepted the money.
“Very well. I’ll see to it.” He moved past her and placed his hand on the doorknob. “The train will only take us halfway. We will be traveling overland for a few days after that. Having an extra animal along could prove beneficial, I suppose.”
“Thank you, Mr. Bevin.”
He opened the door, and she stepped into the outer office, taking her first full breath in several minutes.
“Oh, Miss Proctor? There’s one more thing.”
She pivoted to face him. “Yes?”
“Should Mr. Westcott hire you, be prepared for a challenge.”
Maybe his daughter was a hellion who terrorized governesses with snakes and lizards in their beds. Well, Adelaide had been raised on a ranch, too. She’d pulled her own share of stunts on the ranch hands and the cook her father paid extra to tend his little girl.
“I think I can handle a few pranks,” she stated with confidence.
“It’s not pranks you have to worry about. It’s communication.”
She waited for him to elaborate.
“The child is barely five years of age and has yet to learn her letters.”
“I don’t see how that will be a problem. I’ve taught numerous students—” She stopped when he started shaking his head.
“Miss Proctor, the child is mute.”
Chapter 3
MENARD COUNTY, TEXAS
“A telegram has arrived, sir.”
Gideon Westcott, youngest son of Baron Mansfield, formerly of Leicestershire, England, lifted the linen napkin from his lap and dabbed at his mouth before turning to address his butler.
“Thank you, Chalmers.” He accepted the message from the servant’s white-gloved hand and dismissed him with a slight nod of his head.
After spending the last two years learning the sheep business from the ground up, subsisting for weeks on end with only bleating ewes for conversation, beans and bacon for food, and gnarled mesquite branches for shelter, the strict English formality he’d been raised with seemed at odds with the man he’d become. However, his mother had insisted that he bring Chalmers and Mrs. Chalmers with him to set up house after his last visit home, and he knew better than to gainsay her. She maintained that since he was now to be a landowner backed by his father’s finances and not a mere herder, it was his duty as an Englishman to help civilize Texas. And, of course, nothing provided civilization more effectively than proper household staff.
Gideon scanned the telegram from his man Bevin. He and the three women had disembarked the train at the terminus in Lampasas and were to have started their overland journey this morning. Taking into account the slower pace necessary for a wagon and genteel ladies, they should arrive sometime the day after tomorrow, barring any une
xpected complications.
They couldn’t arrive soon enough, as far as Gideon was concerned. The spring shearing had been postponed longer than wisdom dictated. This time last year, teamsters had already hauled the wool clip from the other ranchers in the area off to the warehouses in San Antonio. It had only been through the grace of God and his own nimble negotiation that the Mexican crew he’d hired this year for the shearing agreed to return to his ranch after completing their northern route.
The late shipment would hurt his competitiveness in the market; however, he hoped the superior quality of his wool would add to the value. But even if he had to accept a low price, he did not regret his decision. Isabella needed someone whose sole responsibility was seeing to her care. During the shearing, he would be consumed with overseeing the crew’s progress from dawn till dark. And the rest of his staff would have increased responsibilities, as well. Bella would get lost in the shuffle. And that was unacceptable.
Gideon bit back a sigh. All those months spent carefully outlining his business strategy and meticulously calculating risks like prairie fires, predators, disease, and anything else that could harm his flocks, he had failed to factor in personal issues. But then, how was he to anticipate becoming a parent overnight without benefit of the normally requisite wife?
He pushed aside his unfinished dish of bread pudding and slid his gaze down the table to where Isabella sat, her sad, soulful eyes fixed on the telegram in his hand. It was hard to reconcile this silent, somber creature with the vibrant, carefree child he had first met aboard ship four months ago. Her radiance had died with her mother three hours before they reached American soil. Lady Petchey, frantic to protect her daughter in the hours before her death, extracted a vow from a man she barely knew, having him claim Isabella as his own.
He hadn’t regretted that vow for a single moment, for the tiny blond beauty had stolen his heart the day she’d braved the cold January air to trounce him in a game of tiddlywinks on the steamer’s deck. Recalling that day, he found it easier to smile in the face of her melancholia.
“Good news, Bella.” Gideon injected as much cheer into his voice as he could manage. “Mr. Bevin is on his way. Soon you’ll have a new governess to teach you your lessons and play all sorts of games. Won’t that be fun?”
The girl didn’t even meet his eye. She just shrugged her shoulders and picked at her food.
Not easily deterred, however, Gideon plunged ahead. “We will have three ladies to choose from, and I’m depending on you to let me know which one you like best.”
Her eyebrows lifted a touch, and she tilted her chin a shade to the right. Such a small change in most children wouldn’t signify a thing, but for Isabella, it was a rare indication of interest. Slowly she turned her gaze on him and brought her finger up to point at her chest.
Gideon winked at her, hoping to uncover a hint of the jolly child he remembered from beneath the layers of apathy she’d insulated herself in. “I thought you should have some say in the process since you will be the one spending so much time with her. Do you think you can handle such an important decision?”
She thought for a moment, then nodded.
“Excellent.”
Isabella lifted the edge of her dish off the table and sent him a questioning glance, her way of asking to be excused. Gideon hid his disappointment.
“Yes, love. You can go play. I’ll be up to read you a story in a few minutes.”
She glided out of the room without leaving a single ripple in her wake. Her golden curls didn’t bounce. Her shoes didn’t squeak.
Nothing. Children weren’t supposed to glide. They were supposed to skip and run and frolic. He would give anything to see her smile again. Grief was supposed to fade over time, but with Isabella, it locked her away. And so far, he’d been helpless to find the key.
When they’d first arrived at the ranch, his work had kept him close to the house, so he encouraged her to follow him around, hoping that once she became comfortable with her surroundings, she would open up, but she only withdrew further. Then lambing season hit and he’d been forced to leave her behind, trusting the staff to care for her. Mrs. Chalmers assured him she was no trouble.
She always sat quietly in a corner, flipping through the pages of a picture book or playing with her doll. But that was the problem. She was easy to ignore. He needed someone looking after her who wasn’t distracted by other duties. Someone who would draw Isabella out of her silence and bring joy back into her life. He needed a miracle.
Miracles had been in short supply in her life, but if she managed to land this job, all the credit would certainly go to the Almighty. Adelaide held on to the side of the wagon bed as the vehicle rocked over yet another rut. Traveling had been much easier the previous two days when she had ridden Sheba, but since this was the final leg of their journey, she had chosen propriety over practicality. The other two women applying for the position were refined ladies reared back east who had only recently come to Texas. They had looked at her askance the first day she’d appeared in her split skirt astride Sheba. Astride. Oh, the horror.
True, most women in these parts still rode sidesaddle, if they even had a saddle, but being raised on a ranch full of accomplished horsemen, Adelaide had never seen the use in it. Her split skirt properly covered her ankles, yet she could tell the other women thought her scandalous. It wouldn’t do for her to make the same impression on the man who had the power to hire her.
“Mr. Bevin, I thought you said we would reach Mr. Westcott’s property before noon.” Mrs. Carmichael’s shrill voice grated across Adelaide’s nerves. “My timepiece indicates that it is well after twelve thirty, and I see no sign of the ranch. You cannot expect us to swelter away in this intolerable heat another day, sir. I must insist that you pick up the pace at once.”
Adelaide stifled a groan. The day was lovely. Blue sky. Sunshine. A light breeze. If Mrs. Carmichael thought this was sweltering, what would she do in August when the heat could melt the hide off a buffalo?
“Actually, madam, we’ve been on Mr. Westcott’s property for the last twenty minutes. The ranch house will be in view soon.”
She marveled at the man’s restraint. He didn’t grind his teeth or raise his voice or condescend to her in even the slightest degree. After three days of her harping from the seat beside him, it was a wonder he hadn’t stuffed his handkerchief in her mouth. Or his own ears.
“I didn’t realize he resided so far from town,” Miss Oliver observed. “I haven’t seen more than two buildings since we left Menardville. Are you quite certain it is safe out here?”
This time a small sigh escaped the heretofore unflappable Mr. Bevin. “You’re as safe here as anywhere else. Westcott’s ranch lies halfway between Menardville and Fort McKavett, and the cavalry units stationed there drove out the Comanche from this area years ago. You don’t have to worry about Indians, miss.”
He had given Miss Oliver the same assurances last night at the hotel. Adelaide smiled and shook her head. It was probably a good thing she rode in the back of the wagon with the trunks and supplies. If she had been squished in between the women, she would’ve probably said something unforgivably rude by now. No. It was better to watch the dust swirl out behind the wagon wheels and wave at Sheba plodding along behind them. She’d get herself into less trouble that way. Unfortunately, not participating in the conversation gave her plenty of time to ponder her hazy future.
She had been sure that her combined ranch and teaching experience would win her the position, but now that she knew more about her competition, her confidence waned.
Though Mrs. Carmichael was a stern, pinched-face woman who put one in mind of a grape that had hung on the vine too long, she had twenty years of experience. Not just teaching experience, either. She’d served as governess to some of the finest families in New York. Adelaide had hoped that Mrs. Carmichael might not be so anxious to take the job once she saw how primitive the conditions were, but the old gal had proven tough. She compl
ained about everything under the sun, but she never once asked to go back.
Miss Oliver, on the other hand, seemed afraid of her own shadow. She rarely spoke above a whisper, and although she was securely sandwiched between Mr. Bevin and Mrs. Carmichael, she jumped at every sound, gulping and gasping each time a hawk cried or the wind rustled the brush near their wagon. When they were indoors, however, it was a different story. She became the essence of serenity and feminine dignity the minute four sturdy walls surrounded her. A plank of wood wouldn’t stop anyone bent on doing her harm, of course, but Adelaide decided not to mention that fact to her. Miss Oliver’s last position had been headmistress of a girls’ school in Virginia. She would be the obvious choice if Mr. Westcott valued poise and deportment. As long as she stayed inside.
And then there was Mr. Westcott. It turned out he wasn’t the wealthy cattle baron she imagined him to be when she first came across the ad in the Gazette. Mr. Bevin informed them last night that he was an Englishman. The son of a baron, no less. He was probably the stodgy type who wore a monocle and drank tea out of fancy china cups while waiting for his Texas investment to turn a profit without him having to dirty his hands with actual work. A proper English gentleman would most likely be drawn to what the other women had to offer.
To top it all off, he ran sheep. Sheep, for pity’s sake. Daddy would disown her if he were still around. His passion had been horses, but he had run several hundred head of cattle, too. There wasn’t a cattleman in Texas who didn’t get his dander up at the thought of a sheepman running his flock over rangeland that God created for longhorns. It felt as if she were conspiring with the enemy. Yet her cloud was leading her. Was it possible for God to take a wrong turn?
“There you go, ladies,” Mr. Bevin called out. “Your first glimpse of Westcott Cottage.”
Adelaide clambered atop one of the trunks, balancing precariously on her knees, in order to see over the heads in front of her. As the wagon crested the hill, the house came into view. Her jaw hung slack. Only an English nobleman would call that mansion a cottage.
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