Flights of Fancy

by Jen Turano

  When the boots stopped a few feet away from her, she tipped her spectacles down her nose and found a man frowning at her—a man who fit the word manly to perfection.

  He was well over six feet and his shoulders were incredibly broad, their breadth shown to advantage because the shirt he was wearing was soaking wet and clinging to him. His jaw was strong, and stubborn if she wasn’t much mistaken, and his lips were firm and unsmiling, but she didn’t allow herself to dwell on that as she continued her perusal. His nose looked as if it had been broken at some point in time, what with the slight bump right in the middle, and his eyes were the greenest green she’d ever seen. His hair seemed to be a brownish color, but since it was also wet and plastered to his head, it was hard to say with any certainty, although . . .

  “I don’t mean to alarm you, but there’s a large snake right beside you. It’s not poisonous, and I’ll take care of it, but we’ve got a more serious situation than the snake, because . . .”

  Whatever else the man said, Isadora didn’t hear because the moment he said snake, she turned her head. Sure enough, looking back at her out of eyes that clearly had murderous intent lurking in their depths was the most enormous snake she’d ever seen, one that was hissing and clearly preparing itself to strike.

  Screaming so loudly she hurt her own ears, she jumped to her feet, turned, and rushed forward, tripping over another branch, which had her plummeting toward the ground again, landing right in the center of additional cushy green plants. Breathing in the earthy scent, she rolled from her stomach to her back and simply stayed there, praying she wasn’t soon going to be consumed by a snake that could only be described as monstrous in size.

  A shadow drifted over her, right before the man with the compelling eyes came into view.

  Feeling at a distinct disadvantage since she was spread out on the forest floor, she stuck her hands through the plants to push up from the ground, stopping when the man moved closer.

  “Don’t move,” he ordered in a voice that was so commanding she froze on the spot, even though she’d never in her life had a man speak to her in such a fashion.

  “Is it the snake?” she whispered.

  He stepped gingerly to her. “You scared it away when you screamed.”

  “Then why can’t I move?”

  “Because you’re lying in the middle of poison ivy. I need you to stay still so I can get you out of there without getting more of the poison on you than you already have.”

  “Poison ivy?”

  “It’s a nasty plant that should be avoided at all costs, but since you’ve landed in it twice now and rolled down an embankment filled with it, it’s cause for alarm.”

  Before she could ask additional questions about a plant that did sound rather horrid, Isadora was scooped straight up into the man’s arms and brought close to a chest that was as muscular as it looked. Then, without saying a word, the man turned and began running with her up the embankment, reaching the top an impressively short time later. Instead of setting her on her feet, though, he began running through the forest, not slowing his pace even when they left the forest behind.

  The next sight to catch her eye was the farmhouse she’d seen upon arrival, but instead of heading toward that house, the man made a sharp right and continued running, not stopping until they reached the banks of a pond. Before she could utter a word of protest, the man plunged straight into the water, taking her with him.

  The second she hit the water, she let out a scream, which came to a rapid end when the man dropped her underneath the water, effectively stopping any additional screaming she might have been contemplating.

  He then began swishing her around in the water, quite like she imagined a person might do when they washed laundry, before he finally pulled her back to the surface again just when she was certain she was running out of breath.

  “What in the world do you think you’re about?” she demanded. “Unhand me at once, or . . .”

  The rest of what she knew would have been a scorching tirade ended when the man disappeared under the water, rose out of that water a mere blink of an eye later, and then began slapping mud he’d retrieved from the bottom of the pond over her face.

  “Stop that,” she all but sputtered as he continued slathering mud on her, his attention now centered on the small bit of exposed skin on her neck that the high collar of her blouse wasn’t covering.

  “Hold still, I’m trying to help you.”

  “Help me from what?”

  Smearing mud down her wrist and then onto her hand, he frowned. “I’m hoping that the mud will get rid of some of the poison, but poison ivy is tricky, and there’s no telling if this will work.” He looked her up and down. “Not that I want to alarm you, but the poison may very well have seeped through your gown, which means you might want to remove it and really give yourself a good scrub.”

  She lifted her chin. “As delightful as giving myself a good scrub sounds, I believe I’ll keep my clothing intact, thank you very much.”

  “I wasn’t planning on staying in the pond with you while you had that scrub.”

  “How reassuring.” With that, she turned toward the bank, preparing to make what would certainly amount to a grand exit, but she slipped in the mud and plunged underneath the water again, sputtering her way to the surface after she finally found her footing, thankful at least that her plunge had washed the mud from her spectacles.

  The first sight to greet her was that of the elderly man who’d been chasing her. He’d apparently joined them in the pond while she’d been submerged, but instead of glaring at her, he was smiling broadly, his brown eyes twinkling.

  “What a lovely day to take another dip in the pond,” he said as he paddled up to the man who’d been slathering her in mud. “Invigorating, isn’t it, Ian?” He stopped paddling and stood up next to the man apparently named Ian. “I must say it’s wonderful that you’ve decided to visit us at Glory Manor. But when did you arrive, and . . .” The man turned to Isadora, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “Goodness, you’ve got a lady in the pond with you, one you’re covering in mud, which is somewhat odd. Shall I help?”

  Before Isadora could voice her objection, the man disappeared underneath the water, returning a second later with a hand filled with mud that he immediately dumped over Isadora’s head.

  Having no idea what to do or what to say to the elderly man who was now disappearing underneath the water again, Isadora lifted her mud-covered face to the man named Ian and discovered him smiling back at her.

  “This is not amusing,” she began right as the elderly man resurfaced, both of his hands filled with mud.

  Unwilling to be the target of that mud, she took a step backward, losing her balance in the process and finding herself underwater yet again.

  As Isadora wondered if she should simply swim away from the curious encounter she was experiencing, strong arms lifted her up, and then a steadying hand was placed at the small of her back.

  “Are you all right, Miss . . . ?” Ian asked.

  She pushed the spectacles that were sliding down her nose firmly back into place. “It’s Mrs. . . . Mrs. Dela . . . er Del . . .” She pressed her lips together, trying to recall who exactly she was supposed to be. Thankfully, the name popped to mind a second later. “Delmont. I’m Mrs. Delmont,” she said right before she was distracted by the troubling notion that her feet seemed to be sinking straight down into the muck of the pond.

  “And isn’t that just a shame,” the elderly man said with a shake of his head. “I thought you were Ian’s new wife, but since you just claimed to be a Mrs. Delmont, well, I must have been mistaken.” He smiled and held out a hand filled with mud. “I’m Amos Alderson, dear, but you must call me Uncle Amos. Everyone does.”

  Before she knew it, Isadora found her hand being taken by Uncle Amos, mud squishing between her fingers as he gave her hand a good squeeze. He then thrust their joined hands underneath the water, swishing them around a few times until he got dist
racted by a duck swimming past them.

  “I must see if I can beat that duck to the other side of the pond,” he said, and off he went, swimming with a surprisingly graceful stroke through the water.

  Returning her attention to Ian, Isadora found him watching Uncle Amos with a fond expression on what she realized was a very handsome face.

  Shoving that thought aside because now was hardly the time to descend into fanciful thinking since she was standing fully dressed in the middle of a body of water, something that was becoming a frequent occurrence since she’d only yesterday been standing in a lake in Central Park, Isadora realized that while she’d been admiring Ian, he’d turned from his uncle and was watching her.

  “I fear I’ve neglected any semblance of manners,” he began, holding out his hand. “I’m Ian MacKenzie, Mrs. Delmont. I’m also really sorry for what you must see as a most peculiar welcome.”

  Placing her dripping hand into his, Isadora nodded. “It was somewhat unusual, and not exactly what I expected when I decided to apply for that position advertised in the Pittsburgh paper.”

  “Huh, imagine that. I placed that advertisement weeks ago. I wouldn’t have thought there were still any newspapers carrying the posted position.”

  Isadora withdrew her hand from his. “I saw it in an older newspaper, Mr. MacKenzie, but thought I’d take a chance and present myself at Glory Manor in the hopes that the position was yet to be filled. From what I was told by the helpful ticket man at the Canonsburg train station, I have reason to hope that you may very well still need a housekeeper considering a Mrs. Gladstone, your recent housekeeper from what I heard, left on a train earlier today.”

  “And the ticket man at the train station encouraged you to travel out here and put in your application?”

  “He did, as did all the gentlemen who seemed to be passing the time by sitting in rocking chairs at the train station, keeping the ticket man company.”

  Ian ran a hand through his hair. “I sometimes forget how word travels in small towns, but those men were right. We do need another housekeeper here at Glory Manor, and—”

  Before he could finish his sentence, Uncle Amos suddenly popped up from underneath the water directly beside her, shaking his head and sending water flying from his white hair.

  “Did I hear you say something about a position?” Uncle Amos asked as he pulled a water lily off his jacket and placed it in the water.

  “Mrs. Delmont has come to see about a position I posted in the Pittsburgh Gazette a few weeks back,” Ian said.

  Uncle Amos watched the water lily drift away, then smiled as he returned his attention to Ian. “That must have been what Birdie was going on about the other day.” His smile widened before he clapped Ian on the shoulder. “It’s about time you’ve decided to find yourself a wife, especially since your children could certainly use a motherly influence. And how clever of you to find that wife by placing an advertisement for a mail-order bride.”

  Chapter 8

  Feeling as if she’d been dropped into the middle of one of the madcap comedies she enjoyed on Broadway, Isadora turned to Ian after Uncle Amos dropped underneath the water again and found him pinching the bridge of his nose, quite as if he might be developing a headache.

  “Just to be clear,” he finally said when he apparently noticed she was watching him, “I did not post an advertisement for a mail-order bride.”

  “I wouldn’t imagine you’d need to advertise to find a bride.”

  As soon as those words left her lips, Isadora couldn’t help but hope the silt that was sucking her feet deeper into the pond would simply hurry up and swallow her whole. It was not like her to speak so forwardly to a man she’d only just met. She was known throughout society as a lady possessed of a distant and reserved nature, but there was simply something that was causing her to behave in a very un-Isadora-like fashion lately, and . . .

  Her train of thought came to a rapid end when he flashed a grin her way. The sight of that grin stole the breath right out of her chest, robbing her of anything remotely sophisticated she might have wanted to say to him and leaving her feeling nothing like the cultured society lady she’d always prided herself on being.

  “Why do I get the distinct feeling you didn’t intend to voice that particular statement?”

  Knowing she had nothing remotely witty at her disposal with which to respond to that, Isadora settled for readjusting spectacles that now seemed to be stuck to her hair, realizing as she did so that she’d lost her hat when she’d fled into the forest.

  “You wouldn’t have happened to have seen where I lost my hat, did you?” she asked, grateful to have something to say to redirect the conversation.

  “It must have fallen off in the forest, but no need to fret. I’ll go search for it after we get out of the water.” He leaned closer to her. “I’m sorry about what happened before with Uncle Amos. He’s been suffering from bouts of confusion of late. And, for some reason, he’s taken to believing everyone is out to steal his chickens and cows.”

  “Has someone been stealing his chickens and cows?” Isadora asked.

  “That’s highly doubtful since this isn’t what anyone would consider a true working farm these days. We’re down to only a dozen cows, and I know for a fact none of those have gone missing. As for the chickens, they’re not a creature that often gets stolen. I’ve just not been very successful with convincing Uncle Amos of that.”

  Isadora frowned. “Does Uncle Amos make it a habit to chase people around with his rifle when he decides they’re out to steal his animals?”

  “Will you think poorly of him if I say yes?”

  Isadora smiled. “Since he’s clearly suffering from an ailment probably brought about by his advanced years, no. Although I do think you might want to consider relieving him of his rifle so that someone doesn’t accidentally end up dead when he’s in a confused state of mind.”

  “My aunt has already taken the precaution of hiding all the bullets.”

  “Thank goodness for that.” She tried to lift a foot and realized she was well and truly stuck. “I do hate to be a bother, but would it be possible for you to help me out of the pond? I can’t seem to move.”

  In the blink of an eye, Ian was right beside her, and then, in the blink of another eye, she was plucked out of the muck and into his arms again, her breath leaving her the moment she was brought up against his muscled chest.

  Calling herself every sort of ninny for apparently being susceptible to a finely muscled chest, she cleared her throat, struggling for something to distract herself from her unusual reaction to the man.

  “What happened to your previous housekeeper, the one who caught a train earlier today?” was all she could come up with to say as Ian sloshed his way through the water.

  “She decided to flee . . . ah . . . I mean investigate other employment opportunities.”

  “Why?”

  “I could be wrong about this, but after being called a would-be chicken murderer by my uncle, and then encountering a cow moseying through the house, I believe Mrs. Gladstone realized she wasn’t cut out for life at Glory Manor.”

  “Your uncle called her a would-be chicken murderer?”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  “And then she encountered a cow moseying through the house?”

  One side of Ian’s mouth quirked. “She did, which was unfortunate because I’d almost convinced Mrs. Gladstone to stay on in her position.”

  “But the cow changed her mind about that?”

  “I believe so, especially after Buttercup ate the pie Mrs. Gladstone made for supper, and then went about eating a flower arrangement I’m fairly certain Mrs. Gladstone assembled herself.”

  Isadora frowned. “Did your uncle also chase this Mrs. Gladstone around with his rifle?”

  “Oddly enough, no.”

  “May I assume it’s uncommon for cows to stroll through a house and then help themselves to pie?”

  “I would hope so.” Ian grinn
ed. “Buttercup, though, is a most unusual cow, and she’s apparently been invited into the house by my aunt, who seems to enjoy her company while she recovers from an unfortunate accident.”

  “Perhaps you should consider getting your aunt a dog. I imagine any housekeeper would be more accepting of having one of those in the house over a cow.”

  “My aunt and uncle had a dog until recently,” Ian said, reaching the shore and heading up the slight bank of the pond. “Sparky disappeared a month or so ago.” He stopped once he reached a grassy spot and set her on her feet. “Uncle Amos is convinced someone stole him, which is why I believe he’s become so fixated on the idea that someone is out to steal all his animals.”

  “Do you believe someone might have stolen this dog?”

  Ian shook his head. “Sparky was an ordinary dog, which makes it rather unbelievable that someone would want to steal him. It’s more likely he suffered from an accident while he was ambling around the farm. I’ve yet to find any proof of that, though, since this farm encompasses many acres and Sparky’s remains could be anywhere.”

  “That’s a morbid thought.”

  “Indeed.” He smiled. “And since it’s hardly good form to discuss morbid topics with a woman I’ve only just met, allow me to broach a different subject. As I mentioned, the housekeeping position is available once again, and since you went through the bother of traveling out to Glory Manor, I’d be more than happy to discuss that position with you further, after I see your references, of course.”

  Taking a second to scratch at an arm that had begun to itch, Isadora frowned. “When you were talking about Buttercup, you mentioned she’d eaten a pie that Mrs. Gladstone made. Did she make that pie because she loves to bake, or is baking a skill you expect from a housekeeper?”

  Ian returned the frown. “You do know how to cook, don’t you?”

  “Would it ruin my chances of having you offer me employment if I admit I don’t?”

  “How can a housekeeper not know how to cook?”