Heaven Sent

by Duncan, Alice

  Eyeing Callie sideways, Aubrey felt indignation swell within him. It wasn’t right. And it wasn’t his fault, either. He couldn’t be called to blame if Callie Prophet got herself all dolled up until she looked good enough to eat.

  Or, if not to eat, at least to bed.

  The worst of it was that, if he were called to say exactly what he found in Miss Prophet’s appearance this evening that might be calculated to make a man salivate, he couldn’t name it. She was dressed in a sober gray evening dress, perfectly appropriate for a nanny escorting a charge to a formal evening party. She was neat as a pin and perfectly fashionable, but there not a thing about her that might lead an impartial observer to think she was casting out lures with the intention of reeling Aubrey Lockhart into her creel.

  He felt lured anyway, and he resented it.

  Fortunately for him, the Harriott home was not far from his San Francisco mansion, so he was able to worry about something besides his libidinous feelings toward Callie Prophet after a very few minutes of fretting over them. After that, he only had to field obnoxious comments from Old Bilgewater once or twice. The rest of the Harriotts liked him just fine.

  As well they should. After all, it had been Aubrey Lockhart who had saved the entire clan from bankruptcy when he’d married Anne and redirected their investments onto a profitable path.

  Anne’s aunt Glenda was a lovely, good-natured woman, too. She’d taken Amalie under her wing when Anne and Amalie’s parents had died. Aubrey found himself talking to Glenda a lot during the evening, and blessing the woman for being as unlike Old Bilgewater as a blood relation could be.

  “Becky is such a darling, Aubrey. You must be very proud of her.”

  Aubrey sighed. “I am. She’s the image of Anne, isn’t she?”

  Glenda eyed him speculatively. “Yes, she is. How are you getting along, dear?”

  “All right.”

  “I’m sure you both miss Anne.”

  “Yes.” Aubrey’s lips tightened. He knew Glenda only wished for his happiness, but he couldn’t bear talking about Anne. Glenda didn’t press the issue.

  The two of them watched Becky dance with Mark Henderson, who had kindly led her out onto the floor. “Mr. Henderson is an awfully nice man, isn’t he?” Glenda asked with a smile.

  “Yes.” Aubrey discounted the times when he’d felt like whacking Mark for being infatuated with Callie Prophet, because he sensed those times weren’t really Mark’s fault.

  “And Becky’s nanny is a delightful young woman. She seems to have done Becky a world of good. She’s quite pretty, too, isn’t she?”

  Aubrey stiffened. “Is she? I hadn’t noticed.”

  Glenda eyed him more closely. “She’s more than merely pretty, Aubrey. She’s a blessing for Becky.”

  “Mmm.”

  He didn’t appreciate Glenda’s knowing chuckle, but when he turned to offer her a glacial and suppressing glance, her grin was so broad and so wise that he had to look away again immediately.

  Later on in the evening, and against his better judgment, Aubrey asked Callie to dance a waltz with him. His state of mind was not eased by the discovery that she felt nearly perfect in his arms.

  The only thing she could have done to ease his mind, in actual fact, was to have been Anne. And even Aubrey, no matter how much he wanted to, couldn’t blame Callie Prophet for not being Anne.

  Chapter Eleven

  Aubrey didn’t know about this.

  Two weeks had passed since Amalie’s engagement party, and his mind hadn’t been quiet once. It was in more of a turmoil than usual this morning at he gazed out on his small kingdom in Santa Angelica. At least it used to be his kingdom.

  Right now, the rolling lawn on the north side of his house had been turned into another world. Miss Prophet had installed a huge open tent, under which rested two long tables, what looked like a million chairs, untold yards of colorful bunting, and perhaps a billion balloons. Aubrey couldn’t recall ever seeing a more festive side lawn anywhere.

  Worse than that was the specter of approximately ten matrons, all dressed to the teeth, and all exhibiting various degrees of formidability and fascination. Aubrey imagined they’d all come to Becky’s party in order to say they’d visited the Lockhart mansion and seen for themselves the reclusive owner thereof. He felt rather like the protagonist of a Gothic romance novel.

  The very least pleasing aspect of the arrangements was that of Great-Aunt Evelyn Bridgewater, who was at present holding court in the middle of the flock of mothers. Aubrey had resisted inviting her, but Callie had prevailed. She always prevailed, a fact that Aubrey didn’t understand.

  But when she’d said, “Mr. Lockhart, Mrs. Bridgewater is Becky’s great-aunt, and she’s sure to find out about the party. If you don’t invite her, her doubts about your fitness as a parent will be reinforced in her own mind.”

  “And can you tell me why I should care what she thinks?” Aubrey had inquired frigidly.

  “You should care,” Callie had responded promptly, “because she’s your late wife’s aunt. I’m sure you don’t wish to have the late Mrs. Lockhart’s family believe you wish to sever communications with them, and you know full well that Aunt Glenda can’t come because she’s involved with Amalie’s wedding plans.”

  Damn it, she was right. He’d never admit it. “I don’t want to sever communications with them, and they know that! For heaven’s sake, I went to that infernal engagement party, didn’t I?” Aubrey had bridled. He’d even bristled. “It’s only old Bilgewater I don’t want hanging about.”

  With a smile she couldn’t suppress, Callie had said, “Yes, but she seems to have been elected—or, more likely, she appointed herself—family spokesman. You know it as well as I do. Even the late Mrs. Lockhart knew it.”

  Aubrey had stared at her, befuddled, and she’d blushed. He’d been on the verge of asking her how she knew Anne had acknowledged Mrs. Bridgewater’s status, but decided it wasn’t worth the breath it would take to ask the question. Instead, he’d agreed, without any enthusiasm whatsoever, to invite Old Bilgewater to Becky’s birthday party.

  He guessed it was a good thing he’d done so, although he still had his doubts about how pleasurable the day was going to be for him. He had enough trouble dealing with one child, and that one his own daughter, whom he loved. He couldn’t imagine getting along with a couple of dozen other children whom he didn’t know at all, plus their mothers. Add Bilgewater into the mix, and it sounded toxic to him.

  Callie had told him not to worry about any of the arrangements, that she’d take care of everything.

  He didn’t doubt it for a minute. She was exceptionally adept at organizing things. Not to mention people. After scarcely three months of tenure as Becky’s nanny, she had the entire Lockhart household adhering to schedules and rules of her making. What astonished Aubrey was that, while he’d noticed her managing ways and faintly disapproved of them even as he became more closely attracted to her physical person, no one else in his household seemed to mind them in the least.

  Whatever unique quality Miss Callida Prophet possessed, he’d concluded several weeks earlier that it was dangerous and not to be trifled with. He wasn’t exactly sorry he’d agreed to host this party, however. He wasn’t yet ready to give it his approval, either. Several days earlier, he’d adopted a wait-and-see attitude toward the thing.

  He was waiting and seeing this particular Saturday morning, when the party was about to start. As he stood on the front porch of his mansion, waving at incoming carriages and wagons, steeling his nerves to join the herd of matrons under the tent and wondering if he looked as skeptical as he felt, he noticed himself growing grumpier and grumpier. A birthday party. Who ever heard of such a thing?

  Callie Prophet, that’s who.

  “Isn’t it wonderful, Mr. Lockhart? The only child who didn’t accept Becky’s invitation was Gloria Hurst, and that’s only because she had to have a tooth pulled yesterday, and her jaw is sore and swollen today. Her brothe
r, Billy, is here, along with their mother.”

  Callie waved a folded sheet of paper under his nose, which only served to irritate him further. He snatched the paper from her hand. “Yes. Thank you. I can see that we’re going to be overrun with children and their mothers.” He pitched his tone to sound as ungracious as he felt.

  “Oh, stop being an old fusspot,” Callie told him. Then, when he stared at her, she blushed. “I beg your pardon. I shouldn’t have said that.”

  Aubrey could tell her apology was less than sincere.

  “Well, never mind,” she said into his silence. “1 think this will be a wonderful party!” And she ran down the porch steps and into a cluster of children.

  Aubrey watched her with mingled annoyance and fascination. For some reason, the notion of remarrying had been niggling at his conscious mind ever since they’d all attended Amalie Harriott’s engagement party last month. He didn’t seriously consider the prospect, because he couldn’t imagine loving anyone but Anne.

  Still, the prospect kept bothering him. And, really, when he thought about it rationally, it might be a good idea for him to remarry. For Becky’s sake. She deserved two parents. A daughter, in particular, needed a mother.

  Who are you trying to fool, Lockhart?

  The truth of the matter was that Aubrey himself wouldn’t mind a warm body in his bed every now and then. He was still a young man, and he possessed a young man’s needs and desires.

  Remorse stabbed him as effectively as if the god of guilt bad heaved a lance and pierced his heart.

  Dash it, remarrying would be a betrayal of Anne and of his marriage vows to her. So what if she was dead? Aubrey had loved her with his whole heart and soul. He couldn’t imagine loving anyone else.

  Not that marriage necessarily had to include love. Plenty of men remarried after their wives died because they needed mothers for their children. And, while it was true that Aubrey Lockhart could afford to hire people to look after his daughter, it might be better to have a wife to see to things. More secure, and all that. After all, wives were more or less permanent. Nannies and so forth were subject to the vagaries of employment.

  Callie and several of the young matrons who had accompanied their children to Becky’s party started singing a song that evidently went with a well-known children’s game, since all of the assembled children grabbed hands and started walking around in a circle. Aubrey watched with interest. It seemed that there was an entire culture devoted to the rearing of children about which he was ignorant. This game, for example, seemed to be known by one and all. Except him.

  And Old Bilgewater. Aubrey saw her lift her lorgnette—he presumed she’d chosen lorgnette over her spectacles today in order to appear festive—to her bulging eyes and watch the party game. It looked to him as if she disapproved, which was only to be expected. Bilgewater disapproved of everything. His attention returned to the children.

  He stared when Callie, laughing merrily, picked up a little boy and whirled him around. Aubrey supposed this was part of the game, but it wasn’t a decorous one, Callie’s skirts flew up, revealing her plain cotton drawers. Squinting and wishing he had a lorgnette like Bilgewater’s, he could make out that the bottom ruffle was not lacy, and that there seemed to be a blue satin ribbon as trim. Otherwise, they were as plain as dirt, and a far cry from the frilly underthings Anne used to wear.

  Which brought his mind back to the matter of wedlock, and the benefits that could accrue to a man through the age-old institution of marriage. Damn, but Callie Prophet had a spectacular figure. She was built on more buxom lines than Anne, who had been tiny and ethereal.

  So ethereal, in fact, that she hadn’t been able to withstand the rigors of life on this earth. Aubrey, a pain in his chest, imagined her in heaven. Anne would fit into heaven without causing a ripple in the firmament.

  Callie, on the other hand, wasn’t the least bit ethereal. It was Aubrey’s opinion that she was as sturdy as an ox. But more appealing.

  “Appealing? Get a hold on yourself, man.”

  How long had it been since he and Anne had made love? He shook his head as he counted up the months. More than twenty-four of them, as Anne had been so terribly ill for so long.

  When I’m gone, please don’t grieve forever, Aubrey. Find a nice woman to be a wife to you and a mother to Becky.

  Anne’s words, as clear as the day she’d said them, entered Aubrey’s head like the wind, fairly knocking him over with the recollection. He shut his eyes, remembering.

  “Ah, Anne,” he murmured, wondering why he’d forgotten.

  The doctors had just rendered their verdict. All the doctors. Even the ones Aubrey had imported from Europe and back east. Anne’s illness was a cancer, it was inoperable, and it was killing her. Aubrey and Anne had just returned from their last fruitless trip to San Francisco. That night, he’d sat by her bedside, holding her hand, his heart throbbing with grief and the knowledge of impending loss.

  Anne had accepted the news with much more fortitude than Aubrey had—probably because she’d known her illness was fatal from the beginning. Anne had been like that. Perceptive. Realistic. Aubrey had wanted to fight the disease, but Anne had known that fighting would only exhaust them both, and eventually come to naught. She’d begged him to accept her approaching death with peace and grace.

  Then she’d told him to remarry. For his sake and Becky’s—and her own. I’ll die happy if I know you’ll take care of yourself Aubrey. Take care of yourself and Becky. For me. Please. I want you to be happy.

  He’d forgotten that. During the past couple of years, he’d managed to forget everything but how awful it had been to watch her waste away. And suffer. She’d suffered agonies from the pain. At the end, she’d probably been addicted to morphine, but Aubrey didn’t care. Better morphine than frightful torture from the cancer eating her up.

  He shut his eyes for a moment, unable to bear the pictures memory was dredging up and presenting to his mind’s eye. Damn it, he didn’t want to remember Anne as that fragile, fading flower. He wanted to remember Anne as she’d been in the beginning: beautiful, lithe, graceful, full of gentle humor and boundless love.

  And she’d told him to remarry. With a sigh, he opened his eyes and looked out on the lawn where the party was proceeding with vigor and energy. Callie spotted him, put her fists on her hips in a mock-serious manner, and shouted, “Come down from your throne, Mr. Lockhart! You can help us pin the tail on the donkey!”

  “Yes, Papa!” Becky called out to him—and Aubrey couldn’t recall the last time he’d heard her sound so ebullient. “I want you to play with us!”

  Good God. Aubrey couldn’t imagine a worse fate than being in the midst of—how many were there? fifteen? twenty?—little children with whom he had no sympathy or ability to deal. And with Bilgewater looking on and censuring him, no matter what he did.

  So why did he find himself waving back, smiling, and calling out, “All right, sweetheart. Where’s this donkey of yours?”

  “It’s on the treeeee!” Becky had shouted with glee.

  He was probably only crazy.

  If he was crazy, he decided later, insanity might not be as terrible as he’d always heard it was. He actually, really and truly, had a good time playing with the children and Callie. Callie was the one who tied the blindfold over the children’s eyes, but she appointed Aubrey to spin the children around so that each would lose his or her point of reference and head any which way with the donkey’s homemade tail in hand.

  Once Aubrey had to scamper out of the way or get the donkey’s tail pinned on his own backside. Becky had squealed with delight. Instead of feeling foolish, he’d laughed as loudly and genuinely as everyone else present. Everyone except Bilgewater, that is.

  He did, however, refuse to have himself blindfolded and spun around and then try to find the donkey’s hind end. He might be crazy, but he wasn’t that crazy.

  Following pin the tail on the donkey, roller skates were passed around. Aubrey had give
n Callie free reign to purchase whatever she chose for the party, and, she’d chosen roller skates. She’d said they could serve as party favors.

  Rather cumbersome party favors, he thought now, although the children didn’t seem to mind. Actually, to look at them and listen to them, the children were ecstatic. Their mothers were interested. Bilgewater disapproved, of course.

  Aubrey, unwilling to put on roller skates and make a total fool of himself, retired to a bench under a tree. From this vantage point, he watched the proceedings with fascination.

  Of all the women present, only Callie dared don the skates herself, although she offered skates to anyone who wanted them. She’d even smiled brightly at Bilgewater and held out a pair of skates in invitation.

  “Don’t be absurd,” the old hag had said tartly.

  Callie hadn’t pressed the issue, but only smiled sweetly.

  Watching from under his tree, Aubrey had to give her credit. She wasn’t intimidated by Becky’s great-aunt. Bilgewater hated her for it, too. Her detestation was as plain as the huge beaked nose on her face.

  It seemed that Callie didn’t care an iota what Bilgewater thought of her. “I haven’t done this since I was twelve years old,” she announced with a laugh as she sat on a bench and plied her skate key.

  “That’s almost twice as old as I am,” Becky told her.

  Aubrey grinned, cheered to discover that a child of his loins could do her sums so well. Becky was good with her numbers and her letters, and she made Aubrey proud. Imagine that. For months, he’d been ready to vow he’d never be happy about anything again—but he was happy about Becky. And he was even sort of happy about this nonsensical birthday party, except for Bilgewater.

  Callie, wobbling a little on her skates, lined the children up. “We’re going to practice before we hold any races. I don’t want anybody getting a skinned knee or a broken arm.”

  The children laughed, although Aubrey was pretty sure he heard a couple of horrified gasps from the mothers and Bilgewater sitting under the tent. He eyed them and thought how pleasant it was to have Callie in charge of Becky. Callie never succumbed to fits of the vapors or irrational fears.