Heaven Sent

by Duncan, Alice

  Becky laughed, too. “Oh, it’s ‘cause I am! I ‘member the fireworks. They were so pretty. But loud.”

  “They were very loud.”

  This, from Aubrey, who had joined the fray, Callie noticed, after shooting Mark another malignant glare. She didn’t know what the man had against his secretary. Mark Henderson seemed to be a very nice person, and he must be a good secretary or Aubrey Lockhart wouldn’t keep him on his staff. Callie had learned by this time that Mr. Lockhart, the businessman, did not suffer fools gladly.

  “I don’t suppose we’ll see any fireworks this time, Becky,” Aubrey went on to say. “The Chinese celebrate their new year in late January or early February, I think. This is September.”

  “Oh.” Becky looked disappointed, but she perked up almost immediately. “But can we go to Chinatown, Papa? I want to see the pretty lanterns Miss Prophet told me about.”

  Callie fielded one of Aubrey’s grumpy looks, and gave it back to him with interest. “We’ll have time for a little sightseeing, won’t we Mr. Lockhart?” she said, knowing as she did so that she was courting a rebuff from Aubrey. He, after all, was the one in charge of this trek.

  After seeing Callie’s black look and raising her one, he said, “We’ll see. We might have time, provided the Harriotts don’t have plans for us all day tomorrow.”

  “I really do want to see Auntie Amalie,” Becky said. “She’s nice, and she writes me letters and sends me things.”

  Becky’s aunt Amalie was the youngest of Anne’s sisters, and the one whose engagement they were on their way to celebrate. “She seems to be a very nice lady,” Callie put in before Aubrey could say anything.

  “She is.” Aubrey frowned out the window for a moment and added, “I’m glad she’s found a husband. I think the family was beginning to worry about her ever settling down.”

  Instantly, if not sooner, Callie took umbrage. “Do you believe the only successful life a woman can have is that of being a wife to some man, Mr. Lockhart?”

  His head whipped around, and he scowled at her. Out of the corner of her eye, Callie noticed Mark Henderson giving the both of them a puzzled stare. She stuck to her ground, unwilling to give an inch in the issue of women’s careers.

  “I don’t believe I said that, Miss Prophet.” Aubrey sounded like he’d iced his words before flinging them at her.

  She sniffed. “It sounded to me as if you thought there might be something wrong with Miss Harriott that she hadn’t snared a husband before this time.”

  “Nonsense. I said the family had begun to worry, not I.”

  Callie gave him a “Hmm,” and didn’t elaborate.

  “My word, Miss Prophet, you sound quite ferocious. Are you an adherent of Mrs. Anthony’s cause, by any chance?”

  Callie had almost forgotten Mark was in the carriage with them, but she glanced at him now, trying to soften her expression for his sake. “I believe women deserve the opportunity to make their ways in the world, Mr. Henderson, So many of us are obliged to seek employment and I think it’s a shame there aren’t more avenues open to women.”

  Mark nodded judiciously. Callie got the impression he was afraid to open his mouth for fear she’d slap it shut, and she silently chided herself. Just because Aubrey got her goat every living moment—and she feared she allowed him to do so for reasons unworthy of her—that didn’t mean all men were beasts who wanted to hold women captive to their power.

  She said gently, “I didn’t mean to snap, Mr. Henderson.”

  Aubrey huffed, “He’s not the one you snapped at. It’s I to whom you ought to be apologizing.”

  Callie sniffed. “Nonsense. I didn’t snap at you.”

  “Could have fooled me,” Aubrey muttered.

  “Fiddlesticks.” She noticed Mark Henderson watching them with interest, and so swallowed the rest of her retort.

  The remainder of the trip continued along the same lines. Callie was glad when, several hours later, the carriage pulled up in front of a grand house on Nob Hill in San Francisco. She stared at the edifice, which looked even more like a castle than the Lockhart mansion in Santa Angelica did.

  “My goodness. Is this where the Harriotts live?” Anne’s family must be monumentally wealthy.

  The coachman opened the door and flipped the stairs down. Without glancing at her, Aubrey lifted Becky, who had fallen asleep a couple of hours earlier. “This is my house, actually. We’re stopping here while we remain in San Francisco.”

  “Your house?” Carnes eyes widened as she took in the full glory of the Lockhart’s San Francisco abode.

  “Imposing edifice, isn’t it?” asked an amused voice at her back.

  Callie jumped when Mark took her elbow to assist her out of the coach. “Er, yes. Yes, it’s quite imposing.” Since Aubrey didn’t seem inclined to speak to her, she decided to talk to Mark, who was much more kindly disposed. “Is the house empty? I mean, do any of the Lockharts live in it? If there are any other Lockharts, I mean.”

  “No. Mr. Lockhart’s grandfather built it with the money he dug out of the gold fields. Mr. Lockhart keeps it in case he ever decides to move back to San Francisco. I guess the place is of sentimental value to him.”

  “Sentimental value. I see.” Callie could appreciate sentiment as much as the next person, but to maintain such a huge mansion in an expensive city for the sake of sentiment was going a bit far. She gazed at the huge house as she stepped from the coach, holding Mark’s hand for balance.

  “Does he keep the place staffed when he’s not here?”

  “Oh, yes, of course. You’ve got to keep places like this occupied, at least by a skeleton staff, or they go to rack and ruin in no time flat.”

  “Ah. Of course.” Mercy. Callie couldn’t imagine having the good fortune to be able to afford a single maid to help her keep up her own family’s home in Santa Angelica. Staffing an empty house in the metropolis was beyond her comprehension.

  “Of course, I expect he wants to keep it for Becky’s sake, too. And in case he ever remarries.”

  Callie, whose feet had barely touched the ground, spun around and gaped at Mark. “Remarries? Remarries?” The possibility of Aubrey remarrying had never occurred to her. It made her insides crunch up painfully. “But—but— Well, his wife. I mean, he’s so brokenhearted.”

  Mark shrugged. “You never know about these things.”

  Every feeling inside her rebelled. The notion of Aubrey Lockhart with a woman other than Anne—or herself—made Callie feel positively ill. Restoring her composure with some difficulty, Callie supposed Mark was right. She swallowed around a big lump in her throat. “Yes, of course.”

  “Besides, it would probably be good for Becky if he did Marry one of these days. A little girl needs a mother.”

  “Of course. Yes. Of course, you’re right.”

  That being the case, Callie knew she shouldn’t entertain the urge to scratch out the eyes of the mythical future Mrs. Aubrey Lockhart. It took some willpower to force her fingers to relax from the claw-like spasm Mark’s words had precipitated in them. Unless the future Mrs. Aubrey Lockhart was Callie Prophet, Callie didn’t want even to think about it.

  She did, however, rather enjoy her stay in the Lockhart residence that night. She allowed herself to pretend, even though she knew she shouldn’t, that the house was hers. Hers and Aubrey’s. After they’d wed.

  Oh, God. When had she fallen in love with him? And why? At first she hadn’t even liked him. How had this happened? Was it because of the letters? Was it because her mind had begun to reconcile the Aubrey of the letters with the Aubrey of today?

  “You’re an idiot, Callie Prophet,” she told herself right before she climbed into bed. She feared she’d hit the nail square on the head, too.

  *****

  Aubrey and Anne had visited San Francisco quite often after they moved to Santa Angelica. He used to love the city and all the hustle and bustle abounding there. Anne had loved visiting her family and showing off Becky to them.
However, since Anne’s illness, Aubrey had only wanted to bury himself in the country.

  He assuredly wasn’t looking forward to spending this weekend in San Francisco, although he was willing to endure it for the sake of Anne’s favorite sister, Amalie. And Becky. Becky deserved to know her Harriott relations, most of whom weren’t at all akin to the bulldozer Bilgewater, and they deserved to know her.

  Nevertheless, he wasn’t feeling awfully chipper when Becky bounced down the massive stairs of the old mansion on Saturday morning, full of energy and glee, chattering away like a magpie about visiting Chinatown. Miss Prophet, he noticed, was busily abetting her in this desire. And, unsurprisingly, so was Mark Henderson, who had eyes only for Miss Prophet, except when he was forced by courtesy to pay attention to someone else.

  Suppressing the irrational compulsion to kick his, secretary down the front steps of his lavish townhouse, Aubrey forced a smile for Becky. “Ready to see the sites, sweetheart?”

  “Oh, yes, Papa! Miss Prophet says we can have lunch in Chinatown!”

  “Does she?” Aubrey eyed Callie with disfavor.

  Dash it, he didn’t understand why the woman should look so blasted appealing all the time. Nannies were supposed to be elderly, gray-haired ladies with canes and hearing trumpets. Aubrey’s sense of ill-usage grew each day that he was faced with the young, pretty, bubbly, and—worst of all—competent Miss Callida Prophet.

  “It’s not a long walk to Grant, Mr. Lockhart,” Mark said cheerfully, patting his topper in place and twirling his walking stick. It seemed to Aubrey that Mark had arrived with the sun that morning, jolly as an elf, eager to join in the fun. “Becky told me she’d enjoy a good brisk walk.”

  “Oh she did, did she?” Aubrey sucked in a breath and told himself to stop taking exception to every blasted thing anyone said to him. A glance at Callie, who was drawing on her gloves, an operation that required her to bend her head so that he could only see three-quarters of her face because of the hair and hat, made him grind his teeth.

  It wasn’t fair. Nannies weren’t supposed to make a man think of beds and silken sheets and dim lighting and so forth. They weren’t supposed to make a man want to undress them—slowly and seductively, tasting the sweet, exposed flesh as they went about it. They weren’t supposed to make a man want to remove the pins from their hair, run his hands through it, and watch that glorious strawberry-blond mass spread out over his pillows.

  “You don’t mind, do you, Papa?”

  Aubrey started when Becky tugged at his coat sleeve. He glanced down at her, noticed the worried expression on her piquant face, and his heart melted. He dragged his mind away from what he’d like to do with Callie, and stooped to pick up his daughter. “Of course, I don’t mind. Do you want chop suey?” He tweaked her nose.

  Becky giggled. “That’s a funny word. I want whatever that Chinese dinner is that comes with the crunchy noodles. You remember, Papa. You brought some to me a long time ago.”

  “It was a very long time ago,” confirmed Aubrey, his mind boggling. “I’m surprised you even remember it.”

  It had been Anne’s last trip to visit a doctor in San Francisco—before they’d given up and accepted everyone’s mortal verdict. Aubrey, his heart aching and his world crumbling around him, had thought to bring Becky a treat. And she’d remembered it. His heart gave a spasm now, in reminiscence.

  “I ‘member it, Papa. Mama and I ate the noodles and laughed.”

  Aubrey felt like crying. His astonishment nearly overwhelmed him when he glanced at Miss Prophet and found her discreetly wiping away a tear. His heart hardened immediately. Dash it, he hated it when the woman showed herself subject to human sympathies. He preferred thinking of her as an unruly bumpkin. It was much easier to keep his urges under control that way.

  Nevertheless, their sojourn in Chinatown wasn’t at all unpleasant. Aubrey was happy to learn that Miss Prophet could behave in a subdued and ladylike manner when put to the test, and that she could control Becky’s behavior with gentle hints. Of course, that was primarily because Becky was a practically perfect child. But, still . . .

  He didn’t like the way Mark seemed to fawn over Miss Prophet, but he had to admit that Miss Prophet didn’t encourage him. In fact, if Aubrey had been Mark, he believed he’d have been quite discouraged.

  Oddly enough, the more Aubrey watched Miss Prophet treat Mark like a younger brother and not like a potential lover, the more cheerful he himself became. By the time the four of them toddled into a Chinatown restaurant for a restorative bowl of soup and some chow mein, complete with crunchy noodles, he was in a remarkably good mood.

  He’d expected this first trip to San Francisco since Anne’s death to be one of wrenching memories and depression. But he discovered that it was difficult to be depressed when one’s almost-seven-year-old daughter was in such a sunny mood. And, while he wasn’t sure it was a good thing that he’d noticed, it was difficult to be prey to wrenching memories when one was accompanied by a lovely young woman with strawberry-blond hair, a rosy disposition, and a smashing figure, who seemed to be able to win the hearts of everyone with whom she came into contact.

  She’d certainly won Becky’s heart. And poor Mark was totally infatuated, even though Callie gave him no encouragement whatsoever.

  It was while Becky was giggling over the piece of paper she’d discovered in the crispy rice cake bestowed on her by a fawning Chinese waiter that the notion of a possible second marriage started worming it way into Aubrey’s consciousness.

  At first he was appalled. A second marriage? After Anne? Impossible. His marriage with Anne had been perfect in every respect. They’d loved each other wholly and absolutely. Aubrey couldn’t imagine loving another woman as he’d loved Anne. Theirs had been a match that had been, if not literally, at least figuratively made in heaven. He could never remarry. The very idea was absurd.

  “Oh, look, Papa!”

  His attention jerked back from the thorny tangle, Aubrey glanced at his daughter. “What is it, sweetheart?”

  “I got a fortune!”

  “Aha. And what does your fortune say?”

  Becky squinted at the small print. “I can read it,” she announced as Mark reached to take the slip from her fingers.

  Grinning, Mark withdrew his hand.

  “It says, ‘You will soon be happy.’ ” Becky looked up at her father, her cheeks glowing with health and good cheer. “It’s right, Papa. I’m happy right now.”

  Aubrey’s heart hitched. “I’m glad, Becky. Very glad.” He couldn’t stop himself from glancing at Miss Prophet. He knew she was the authoress of his daughter’s happiness, and he appreciated her for it, even if she did cause him many pangs and disconcerting moments.

  Miss Prophet looked away quickly, leading Aubrey to surmise that she’d been staring at him during his interchange with Becky. Hmm. What did that mean? he wondered. Perhaps she didn’t find him as repulsive as her sharp tongue might lead a fellow to believe.

  He was undoubtedly only being fanciful.

  Nevertheless, that evening, he made it a point to go to Becky’s room in order to escort his daughter and her nanny to the cab he’d hired to carry the three of them to the Harriotts’ party. He gave a soft rap on the door and called out, “Becky? Are you two ready in there? It’s about time to be off.” He kept his tone jovial to forestall Miss Prophet, who seemed an exceptionally defensive young woman, from taking his prompting amiss.

  “All ready, Papa!” Becky sang back. She sounded cheerful, and that made Aubrey glad.

  As for himself, he wasn’t looking forward to the evening. Not only was it going to be difficult to meet Anne’s family, most of whom he hadn’t seen since the funeral, but he didn’t anticipate anything of a jovial nature from old Bilgewater. With a sigh, he stood back, drew on his evening gloves, and waited.

  The door opened at last, and Becky popped out. “You look as fine as anything, sweetheart!” Aubrey exclaimed, heartened by his daughter’s spiffy appearan
ce. She’d make a huge hit with the Harriotts.

  “Miss Prophet made me this dress, Papa,” Becky told him as she twirled in front of him.

  “Good for Miss Prophet.”

  She did look darling. Callie had sewn her charge a blue taffeta confection, full of frills, flounces, and ribbons, with a deeper blue satin sash at the drooped waistline. It suited Becky to a T. The blue of the satin sash was almost the same color as her eyes. She also wore pristine white stockings, frilly drawers that Aubrey could see when she twirled, and black patent-leather Mary Janes.

  Not even Old Bilgewater could take exception to her appearance. Her hair, Aubrey noticed with satisfaction, gleamed, and was braided neatly and tied with blue ribbons.

  As if reading his mind, Becky said perkily, “Miss Prophet washed my hair and rinsed it with vinegar, too.”

  “Did she?”

  Becky nodded. “She says vinegar takes away the soap res—res—something. It’s a nice word for scum.”

  Aubrey nearly choked. “I see. I believe the word is ‘residue.’ ”

  “That’s the one!” Becky confirmed.

  “I see.” He squinted at the open door. “And is Miss Prophet planning to join us anytime soon?” He regretted the acidic tone in his voice as soon as he heard it. He really didn’t want to rile Becky’s nanny this evening. He wanted the night to be as pleasant a one as it could be, under the circumstances.

  “Oh, yes. She said she just had to grab her evening cloak.”

  “I see.”

  “Here I am,” Callie said, out of breath. She barreled through the door, buttoning a glove and almost bumping into Aubrey. She drew herself up quickly and blushed. “I beg your pardon, Mr. Lockhart. I couldn’t find my reticule, and then I couldn’t get this silly glove buttoned.”

  Aubrey took a hasty breath and forced himself to be calm. “Think nothing of it, Miss Prophet.”

  This was bad. Very bad. It might even be terrible. Something was definitely wrong with him. He ought not to be having these improper impulses, and especially not toward his daughter’s nanny.