A Place to Belong (West Meets East Book 2)

by Merry Farmer

  Which was what he wanted.

  Wasn’t it?

  The knock sounded again, and Arthur’s panic rose. At least, it did until Clara’s voice called out, “Hello? Arthur? I can hear James crying.”

  Joy more powerful than any Arthur had felt before burst through him. He could have cried in relief—or perhaps that was just lack of sleep—as he ran to the door and threw it open.

  And there she was, in all her beautiful, Amazonian glory. Clara wore her maid’s uniform from Winterberry Park, which made her look far more washed out than someone of her unique charm should. But as drab as the uniform was, it couldn’t take away from the light that radiated from her as she burst into a smile.

  Of course, that perception might have been lack of sleep on his part too.

  “Clara,” he came close to shouting for joy.

  “Arthur,” she replied. She could have shouted his name in a moment of ecstasy and it wouldn’t have filled him with as much emotion as it did right then. She stepped into his house. “Mrs. Musgrave said that I could come down to check on you and James. Of course, I suspect she only said that to get rid of me since I was—” She stopped, her mouth dropping open at the state of his house.

  “Sorry,” he said, helpless to think of anything better.

  He expected her to be disgusted by the mess—and the smell—but instead of frowning at him and taking him to task, she straightened her back and marched right into the heart of the whirlwind.

  “I should have come sooner,” she said, immediately gathering as many dirty nappies as she could and putting them in the basket where James had been sleeping. The fact that she mistook the makeshift bed for laundry didn’t say much about his homemaking skills. “I would have if I’d had any idea.”

  “You have your duties at Winterberry Park,” Arthur said, following her as she crossed into the kitchen, still gathering nappies.

  She stopped and set the basket on the kitchen table, then turned to take James out of his arms. “Oh, dear. What seems to be the problem here?”

  James instantly settled as soon as he was in Clara’s arms, nestled against her bosom. Arthur was reasonably certain that he would calm down considerably in the same position.

  He shook himself as soon as he recognized where his thoughts had been going. It must have been the exhaustion. “We had a nappy—a diaper emergency just before you arrived,” he said. “Aside from that, I was trying to sterilize James’s bottles and nipples.” He flushed hot at the word ‘nipples’ and rushed to say, “Sorry. I shouldn’t use such language in mixed company.”

  Clara laughed. Actually laughed. The sound was heavenly. “Believe me, I’ve heard much worse.” She glanced past him to the sink. “Um, it looks like you might have to start over.”

  She was right. From where he stood, it looked like some of what he’d washed off James’s backside had ended up in the basin he’d boiled the bottles in. He muttered another oath, remembered too late that Clara was standing right there, then felt his spirit soar like an eagle when she laughed at his curse instead of chastising him.

  “When was the last time James ate,” she went on, still giggling.

  “Before his nap,” Arthur told her. He nodded to the pantry. “There’s one last clean bottle and the formula powder in there.”

  “Good. I’ll get James dressed and fed while you start in on cleaning things up in here. After that, we’ll tackle the rest of the house together.”

  What had seemed like a mountain of work just minutes before felt entirely conquerable with Clara there, working by his side. It was easier to summon up the will to sort through the chaos once James stopped crying too. Clara had him tidied up and dressed faster than he could have imagined. She even figured out how to fashion a threadbare old blanket that he’d pulled out of the back of a closet into some sort of sling that left her hands free while still cradling him. She danced around him, mixing formula and warming the bottle as he set the other bottles on the stove to boil once more and wiped down the table and counters. More than just feeling like they could work around each other, Arthur had the wonderful feeling that they were working with each other.

  By the time Clara moved back into the parlor and sat to feed James his lunch, Arthur almost had the kitchen sorted. He left a few things to clean up later so that he could move to the parlor with them.

  “I had no idea such a small child would take so much work,” he said, gathering up the last of the soiled nappies and clothes—his own as well as James’s—and moving the basket to the back door.

  “The less a child is able to do for themselves, the more care they require,” Clara said, smiling down at James in her arms. “And babies James’s age can’t do anything for themselves.”

  “I’m beginning to think that I can’t do anything for myself either.” Arthur straightened up the table, carrying his abandoned dinner plates back into the kitchen. He checked on the bottles to see if they’d boiled yet, and when they hadn’t, he walked back to the parlor and flopped on the sofa by Clara’s side. “University did not prepare me for fatherhood.”

  Clara laughed, then her expression brightened. “You went to university?”

  “Oxford,” he said with a lop-sided grin. “I keep imagining what my classmates would say if they could see me now.”

  “What about seminary?” Clara asked.

  Arthur shook his head. “I don’t know how it works in America, but in the Anglican church, you don’t actually have to have a single theological qualification to be appointed vicar of a parish. I only went long enough to fulfill the most basic requirements.”

  “Really?” Clara blinked at him. Her tranquil, curious expression gave him the cozy feeling of a man and his sweetheart spending a quiet afternoon at home.

  Not that they were sweethearts, he corrected himself, sitting straighter. It wouldn’t be proper for them to be sweethearts. He was the vicar, from a distinguished family. She was…well, she was a blank slate now, but what she had been wasn’t…usual.

  He cleared his throat and went on. “Livings like this one are given to whomever the landowner chooses,” he explained. “The Croydons have been lords of this patch of wilderness for hundreds of years, and since the Fallons have been friends of theirs for almost as long, it was a natural thing for them to grant one of us the living.”

  “One of us?” Clara asked, her brow still knit in confusion.

  Arthur shrugged. “My father is a baron, but I’m the youngest of five sons. It was the church or the law for me, and frankly, I don’t care much for cities.”

  “But….” Clara took a moment to move the bottle way from James’s mouth. The little rascal had fallen asleep in her arms. Lucky bugger. “But you are religious?” Clara asked.

  Arthur sent her another lop-sided grin. “More or less. I believe in God and the scriptures. I also believe in doing good to others, no matter what their circumstances.”

  She blushed at his words and turned half away from him. A powerful wave of feeling washed over him—fondness and pride and, yes, lust lumped along with it. He could have sat on that sofa with Clara for the rest of his life and counted himself a happy man.

  At least, if it weren’t for the nagging sense of duty that poked at him, trying to warn him against developing romantic feelings for the remarkable woman next to him.

  “I think he’s asleep,” Clara said at last. She glanced up at him, her dark eyes doing things to his insides that blew all of the warnings to bits. “Do you have a crib for him? We can let him sleep while we do a little more cleaning up.”

  Arthur sent her a sheepish smile. “I had him sleeping in the laundry basket earlier.”

  Clara laughed. Her movements shook James, nearly waking him. The two of them shared a silly, panicked look and held perfectly still until he settled once more.

  “Where’s your bedroom?” Clara whispered. “He can sleep on your bed until we get the laundry sorted and set up the basket again.”

  “It’s upstairs,” Arthur said
, standing.

  Clara stood and started for the stairs to one side of the room.

  “Clara,” he stopped her, chasing after her. He rested a hand on her arm. His heart fluttered. “Ah, perhaps it would be best for you not to go into my bedroom.”

  “Oh?” She blinked at him.

  Why it should strike him at that moment that he liked how tall she was baffled him. There was something reassuring, equalizing, about talking to a woman at his own level, like he could say things to her without fear that he would make a mess of things and she would fall apart, or laugh.

  “I think,” he went on, slowly, “that perhaps we should make a few things clear.”

  She turned to face him fully. “What things?”

  Her expression was so innocent that he suddenly felt like a heel for saying what needed to be said. “This has nothing to do with you,” he started, holding up both of his hands. “But I think it would be wise if we start out on the right foot.”

  “Yes, of course,” Clara said, still confused.

  Arthur swallowed. “And by that, I mean that we should be upfront with each other.”

  “I agree?”

  Arthur wanted to kick himself. He was being as clear as a muddy pond. “We shouldn’t entertain the idea of any sort of romantic attachment while James needs us,” he blurted out. “Any such thing would be an inappropriate distraction.”

  Clara’s cheeks flared pink. “Oh, I see.” She glanced down, her dark lashes brushing her cheeks.

  The last thing Arthur wanted to do was hurt her, so he rushed on with, “For James’s sake, you understand. Our focus should be on his welfare. And if there should come a time when he is able to find a better, more permanent home….” He stopped himself from going on…as much as he wanted to.

  Clara slowly raised her eyes to meet his. His whole body and soul reacted to the deep understanding and wisdom in her eyes. “I do understand, Arthur,” she said. “And I think you’re right. Let’s just focus on James for now. He’s the one who needs us.” She shifted the sleeping baby into his arms. “I’ll see to those bottles while you lay James down upstairs. Then we can face the challenge of the diapers together.”

  In a flash, everything was back to normal between them. The awkwardness was gone, and they were allies in battle once again. But as he headed upstairs to his bedroom, Arthur was certain that his heart would never be the same again.

  CHAPTER 6

  C lara suspected there was something unusual in Mrs. Musgrave’s leniency when it came to allowing her to spend the better part of her afternoons helping Arthur care for baby James. It couldn’t possibly be a normal thing for a maid in a large, country house to only do morning chores and then leave the house. Mary and Martha looked downright rebellious at first, until the evening that Clara returned to join the rest of the household for supper with spit-up stains on her bodice and suspicious brown smudge on her apron. Neither of them so much as looked at Clara resentfully after that.

  But it wasn’t until several days after her first visit to the vicarage that Clara suspected Mrs. Musgrave had some ulterior motive in mind by shooing Clara out of the house.

  “Are you still here?” she asked with a start when she walked in on Clara attempting to polish a set of porcelain figurines in the morning parlor. “And what in heaven’s name are you doing?”

  Clara blinked up from her attempts to rub linseed oil on the face of a jolly shepherdess. “Mary insisted that these figurines needed the shine put back on them.”

  Mrs. Musgrave sighed and rolled her eyes. She marched over to the cabinet where Clara was working and plucked the polishing rag out of her hands. “Those two are having a laugh at your expense. Porcelain isn’t polished, merely dusted. And you’re needed far more down at the vicarage than you are here.”

  Shame for being so gullible made Clara’s cheeks burn hot, but a relieved smile tugged at the corners of her mouth all the same. “Yes, Mrs. Musgrave,” she said with a quick nod.

  “Well, what are you waiting for?” Mrs. Musgrave went on, gathering up the polishing things Clara had left scattered throughout the cabinet where the porcelain was on display.

  “Don’t you want me to clean up here?” Clara asked.

  “Good heavens, no. There’s no telling what sort of damage you would do.” The housekeeper made a horrified face. “Be gone with you.”

  “Yes, Mrs. Musgrave.” Clara fumbled through a curtsy, then turned and left the room. She was tempted to feel upset that Mrs. Musgrave had so little faith in her abilities as a maid that she was trying to get rid of her, but as long as it got her out of the house and someplace where she could do some actual good, she wasn’t about to complain.

  By the time she made it down to the vicarage, whatever curiosity or suspicion she had about the reasons Mrs. Musgrave let her go had given way to a deep happiness. The very sight of the vicarage’s cozy ivy-covered stone walls and slate roof made her heart light. She let herself into the yard by the gate, but instead of knocking at the door or walking straight into the house, she followed the sound of James crying and Arthur trying to soothe him around the side of the unkempt yard and into the back garden.

  The sight she was met with had her heart flipping in her chest. James sat in the laundry basket, surrounded by blankets, but doing a fair job of sitting up on his own. Arthur was in the middle of filling the large washtub that had seen almost constant use since Clara had first come to the vicarage. His shirtsleeves were rolled up and his collar was unbuttoned. He looked as though he’d managed to shave that morning, but his hair was tousled. Somehow, he’d managed to splash water on his black trousers, but overall, he looked every bit the picture of domestic bliss.

  “One minute, Jimmy,” he called over his shoulder to the baby. “Just one more minute and I’ll give you all the snuggles you can stand.”

  Clara clapped a hand to her mouth to keep from giggling out loud over the sweetness of the promise. Arthur must have heard her anyhow. He straightened and glanced her way, his whole face lighting up with a smile. Clara felt that light pour through every part of her.

  “You’re here,” Arthur said, swaying on his spot for a moment as if he wanted to rush over and greet her. With more than just a polite handshake.

  “I am,” Clara replied. “Cook sent this parcel of scones.” She held up the cloth bundle Mrs. Carlisle had thrust into her arms as she was heading out the door, then carried it over to the table Arthur had moved outside. The table was stacked with dirty laundry, both James’s and Arthur’s. As soon as the scones were deposited, Clara moved to pick James up.

  “He always stops crying the second he’s in your arms,” Arthur laughed, returning to his work of filling the washtub.

  “That’s because he’s a very intelligent young man,” Clara said with a smile, giving James a thorough once-over. He was in surprisingly good shape, all things considered. Arthur had been much more on top of things since she’d helped him dig out from under the pile of responsibilities that first day she’d come over.

  “He is at that.” Arthur finished pouring the steaming water from his bucket into the washtub. “Though I suspect any man would be happy in your arms.”

  Clara wasn’t sure she actually heard the last, whispered statement. Her cheeks went pink all the same, and she exchanged an excited look with James. James gazed back up at her with a toothless grin, as if confirming that he’d heard what Arthur said too. But it wouldn’t do to dwell on what she thought she’d heard. Arthur had made it clear that the two of them were banding together for James’s sake only at the moment, and she intended to honor that agreement.

  “Well, young man,” she said to James as she surveyed the pile of laundry on the table. “It looks as though we’re doing the washing today.”

  “If we don’t get it done now, I’m afraid the house will be buried in soiled linens,” Arthur said, stepping away from the washtub. He wiped his brow with the back of his sleeve. “That one needs a bath too, I’m sure.” He sniffed and picked
at the front of his shirt with a teasing grimace. “So do I, for that matter.”

  Clara giggled. “I can’t help you wash up, but I can certainly make sure this little man gets clean.”

  Although the image of Arthur in a bathtub, all slick and shining with soap and water, was a tempting one. She could see herself rubbing a washcloth over the strong muscles of his back and shoulders, spreading her hands down his chest, reaching even lower to give him something that would really relax him. By the time her imagination conjured up what he would sound like as he sighed with completion, her whole body was carried away with longing. She had to clear her throat and escape into the house to cool down.

  Which became next to impossible when Arthur followed her.

  “This is the last of the hot water,” he said, refilling his bucket from the large pot boiling away on the stove. “Do you think we should fill it again and boil more for baths?”

  “Not necessarily.” The kitchen was small, and it was more than the heat of the stove that made Clara sweat as she and Arthur moved around each other in their tasks. “As long as the water isn’t ice cold, it should be enough to bathe James.” She deliberately left out any mention of Arthur taking a bath. “But hot water is always handy to have.”

  “I’ll refill the pot as soon as I get this out to the washtub,” Arthur said with a nod.

  Clara exchanged another look with James as Arthur headed outside. “This could prove to be a challenge in all sorts of unexpected ways,” she told him softly.

  Since Arthur was using the washtub for laundry, Clara had to search for something else to use for James’s bath. She ended up finding a large roasting pan that looked as though it hadn’t been used for decades on the bottom shelf in the pantry. When she took it outside and set James down so that she could clean the rust and dust out, Arthur laughed.

  “We must be the least prepared parents in all of Wiltshire.”