Her head ached, and Callie felt about as much like reading as she did climbing an Alp, but it was the least stressful way she could think of to amuse Becky. “Um, can you think of a book you’d like me to read to you?”
Becky plopped on the bed and started petting the cat. “How come his coat’s wet?” she asked.
Callie felt her lips tighten. “I don’t know, sweetie. About that book . . .”
Becky’s cherubic face took on a worried cast. “I don’t know. Maybe we can find one in Papa’s liberry.”
If there was anything Callie wanted to do less than she wanted to read to Becky, it was to see Aubrey Lockhart again this day. She said cautiously, “Um, is your papa there, do you know?”
Becky shook her head, looking troubled. “He said he had to go out for a while.”
Aubrey never just went out for a while. Callie didn’t wonder that Becky was worried. “Did he say where he was going?” She’d never known him to visit the village saloon. She hoped he hadn’t gone out to drink.
But no. It was she who was upset by the afternoon’s events. Aubrey had no stake in her acceptance of his proposal—except that he’d have to find somebody else to propose to. He most assuredly wasn’t heartbroken. Not like, for instance, Callie herself, whose heart felt as if it were being hacked at by several crazed woodsmen with dull axes. At the notion of his marrying someone else, that same heart suffered such a terrible spasm she pressed her hand over it in an attempt to soothe herself.
Becky went on, “He said he just wanted to ride for a while and think.”
“I see.”
If her blasted heart would stop aching so terribly, Callie might be able to think, too. Her heart didn’t seem to want to oblige her, so she stopped trying to think and said, “Let’s go downstairs and find a book, shall we?”
Nodding, Becky got off the bed. She didn’t look very cheery, and Callie’s heart gave another spasm. “Is something the matter, sweetheart’?”
Becky heaved a sigh that was a good deal bigger than she was. “No. But you don’t feel good, and Papa doesn’t feel good, and it makes me not happy.”
“Oh, Becky.” Wounded to the soul, Callie stooped and picked up the little girl. “Let’s see if we can make you more happy, shall we?”
Becky snuggled her head against Callie’s shoulder and nodded. “Thank you, Mama. I mean Miss Prophet.”
The slip of the tongue was so unexpected,, it made Callie gasp involuntarily. A swelling of guilt shot through her, pausing to wrap its tendrils around her already battered heart. Offhand, she couldn’t recall when she’d been more miserable.
Once they got downstairs to the library, Becky selected a copy of Little Lord Fauntleroy from Aubrey’s bookshelves. Callie wondered if Aubrey would be rereading this book any time soon.
She told herself to stop thinking about Aubrey and concentrate on her reading. In this endeavor she was successful for seconds at a time, but her mind, like a bee seeking its hive, headed back to Aubrey. Fortunately for her, Becky was content to be read to for the remainder of the afternoon. The two of them had a simple supper in the nursery, and Becky didn’t object when bedtime came.
It almost killed Callie to read to the little girl from one of Aubrey’s letters to Anne that night.
*****
Callie expected herself to toss and turn for hours, and she did. The overwrought emotions of the day had exhausted her, but her buzzing brain didn’t allow her body the comfort of sleep.
She wondered if she should have accepted Aubrey’s proposal after all. Wouldn’t it be better for her to be married to the man she loved, even if he couldn’t love her back, than to pine away and die an old maid? A spinster?
Spinsters were often held up as laughingstocks. They were considered odd and unworthy. Spinsters were women who’d never captured the love of a man.
Telling herself to be honest, Callie admitted that there were exceptions. Miss Beadle, for instance, had been engaged to a man who’d died during the last days of the War Between the States. Tragic, that, and obviously not Miss Beadle’s fault. Miss Beadle had captured the love of a man, but the love had been blighted,
Callie hadn’t so far in her life captured the love of a man, unless one counted a couple of puppyish bouts of adoration, one from Michael Perry and the other from Sidney Hammersmith, through which she’d suffered several years ago. Michael and Sidney had been adolescents at the time, and Callie a bright, pretty young girl who never thought she’d one day be languishing, unloved, and on the brink of becoming an old maid.
Oh, very well. She supposed Mark Henderson might have paid her particular attention recently, but he was a child.
Callie didn’t want to marry a child. She wanted to attract the love of a man. She wanted to be cherished, as Aubrey Lockhart had cherished Anne Harriott.
Fat chance of that ever happening,
On the other hand, even if he couldn’t cherish her, Callie had no doubt that he would treat her with respect. And perhaps they could be friends. Friendship was a good thing. Friendship, from all Callie had read and observed, was a generally more solid foundation for a lasting relationship than mad, passionate love. That sort of love had a tendency to burn out rather quickly, according to all the sensible people she’d ever met.
The poets, of course, never said so, but poets were notorious for being an eccentric and unstable group, and for exalting the emotions and leaving common sense to languish, scorned. As she contemplated everything, Callie decided there was a lot to be said for common sense.
And then there was the fact that Aubrey had told her he wanted more children. Callie remembered him saying so. He’d even blushed as he did so, so she was certain she wasn’t mistaken about that aspect of the afternoon’s dreadful confrontation. It would be splendid to have her own children to shower her love on. And Becky. If Callie married Aubrey, she’d always be close to Becky. The mere notion of Aubrey marrying someone else and taking Becky away from her made Callie want to cry with anguish.
When she thought about it, since Aubrey didn’t want her love, it might be comforting to be able to shower it on innocent children. Children’s hearts were pure and open; they didn’t know Callie wasn’t worth loving.
*****
Aubrey rode for hours after Callie refused his proposal of marriage. He was furious with her and with himself. But, dash it, when he considered his proposal, he couldn’t put a finger on any part of it that had been disrespectful or unkind. He’d even complemented the woman, for God’s sake.
And yet she’d rejected him. There had to be a reason for her to have done so. The only one that made sense to Aubrey was that she’d formed an attachment elsewhere. And, since he’d never seen Callie in the company of a man other than Mark Henderson, and since he’d never heard her name spoken of in connection with another man, Aubrey presumed the man she loved was Henderson.
His hands tightened on the reins, and he told himself to calm down. Just because Callie loved another man didn’t excuse Aubrey’s hurting his horse’s mouth.
“Damn and blast,” he muttered as he rode through the woods. He came out onto the dirt road leading to Santa Angelica, and he decided he might as well ride through the picturesque little village. Perhaps he’d see someone there who didn’t hate him, as Callie seemed to.
Memories of Callie and of how she’d expressed her low opinion of him, as a father and as a man, flooded his mind as he rode. His mood alternated between fury and black despair.
“Damnation, why should the woman be so blasted attracted to Mark Henderson and not to me? What does he have that I don’t have?”
His horse, the only one present to whom he might have been speaking, since there was no one else around, gave him no answer. Aubrey brooded on Mark Henderson versus himself as a possible husband for Callie Prophet, and he couldn’t figure it out. Aubrey was Mark’s employer, for God’s sake. Aubrey was richer than Mark and just as good-looking.
He felt silly when the last notion crossed his mind. Au
brey had never dwelt on his looks, even though Anne had told him over and over that she considered him the most handsome man in the world. But Anne had loved him. Love colored one’s perspective of life in all of his variations. Aubrey knew it, because he’d loved Anne with the same fervor.
“Damnation, man, stop dwelling on love. That part of your life is dead and gone.” He braced himself for the pain that always followed thoughts of Anne and was surprised when it didn’t come.
It was when he thought about Callie Prophet that the pain stabbed him. He didn’t understand it. He did, however, greet the outskirts of Santa Angelica with relief. How pleasant, he thought bitterly, to be among people who didn’t loathe him.
In fact, as Aubrey rode through the village, he was the recipient of several cheerful waves from those of his neighbors who recognized him. He smiled and waved back, and was sorry their overt approval didn’t make him feel significantly better.
“Ah, Anne,” he whispered when he cleared the village limits and was once again alone with his horse and his thoughts. “I don’t seem to do anything right, now that you’re gone.”
He brooded about all the things he was no good at as he rode back home. He’d have liked to stay out longer, but it didn’t seem fair to torment his horse just because he himself was making a hash of his life.
Mrs. Granger jumped with alarm when Aubrey came through the kitchen door. He glowered at her. Dash it, did the whole world hate him? He’d thought it was only Callie who did. “It’s only I, Mrs. Granger,” he said coldly.
“Oh, Mr. Lockhart.” Mrs. Granger pressed a hand to her heart as if trying to pat back a fit of apoplexy. “I didn’t expect you to come through the back door, sir.”
She smiled at him, and Aubrey wondered if he’d been the least little bit irrational in assuming she’d jumped because she hated him. He decided to give her the benefit of the doubt. “Sorry, Mrs. Granger. My boots are all muddy, and I didn’t want to track it through the front hall.” He gestured over his shoulder. “I left ‘em next to the back door.”
“Good, good,” Mrs. Granger said, sounding complacent.
Aubrey took heart. Perhaps he’d overreacted. Perhaps it was truly only Callie who hated him. “Sorry I missed supper. Is there a chance of getting a sandwich or something?” He smiled, trying for one of the smiles he used to offer people with no trouble at all. His smiles used to be second nature to him, in the days when life was good. It occurred to him that he had to stretch to reach for them these days.
“Don’t be silly, Mr. Lockhart.” Mrs. Granger laughed. It sounded like a genuine, honest-to-goodness laugh, but Aubrey didn’t feel competent to accept anything at face value today. “I have a plate of cold supper for you. There’s a couple of sandwiches. If you don’t want both of them, I’ll just put one away in the icebox for tomorrow. And I fixed a fine salad and pickles, too.”
“Thank you.” Aubrey felt humbled in the presence of such goodness. “I didn’t expect such bounty after I missed the supper hour.”
She looked at him as if he’d lost his mind. “But you told me you were going out, Mr. Lockhart. It wasn’t a surprise when you weren’t here for supper.”
“Oh.” He’d forgotten that part of his. afternoon. He’d been too busy fretting about Callie, he guessed.
Rather than dining on his sandwich, salad, and pickles in solitary state in his big dining room, Aubrey made himself comfortable at the kitchen table, after making sure he wouldn’t be in Mrs. Granger’s way.
She gave him another odd look. “Good heavens, Mr. Lockhart, you’re never in my way.”
Really? Glancing at her closely, Aubrey detected nothing but honesty on her kindly face. “Thank you,”
Maybe, he thought, he was allowing his problems with Callie to color the way he viewed the rest of the world, Maybe it was Callie’s fault, and not his, that she’d rejected him.
As he munched his sandwiches, he contemplated Callie, life, marriage, Becky, and remarriage. He’d come to no conclusion about anything by the time he’d finished his meal, thanked Mrs. Granger once more, and wandered to his office.
Chapter Sixteen
Thank the good Lord the following day was a Monday,
and Callie could resume her household chores—sewing for Becky, mending, tidying up the nursery, and planning educational opportunities for her charge—and try to forget about not becoming Aubrey’s wife. And of having been asked to many him in such an unromantic way.
“Convenience,” she muttered as she brushed Becky’s hair out in preparation for braiding it. “Bah.”
“What’s convenient?” Becky wanted to know.
What, indeed? Callie knew good and well she wasn’t, no matter what Aubrey Lockhart chose to think. “Oh, nothing,” she said airily. “I was just . . . talking to myself.”
“But I’m here,” Becky pointed out. “You don’t have to talk to yourself. You can talk to me.”
Callie laughed and leaned over to give her favorite child a quick kiss on her golden head. “You’re right, sweetie. So, what do you think Miss Oakes has in store for you today?”
Becky took a deep, anticipatory breath and grinned. She adored school. A good deal of her enjoyment, Callie suspected, lay in her having been deprived of social contacts with children her own age for so long. Which was all Aubrey’s fault, drat the man to perdition,
But no. She must stop thinking things like that. Aubrey had been laid flat by Anne’s illness and death. If he hadn’t been a perfect father during that agonizing period of time, he had at least eventually recognized his shortcomings in regard to his daughter’s welfare and sought to correct them. Why else would Callie be here, brushing Becky’s hair?
“I think we’re going to start mem’rizing poems today.”
“Aha. Miss Oakes and I used to loved memorizing poems when we were in school. Do you know which poem you’re going to memorize?”
“Not yet. She’s going to read us some, and then ‘she’ll probably have us go to the liberry or home and memorize one we choose for ourselves.”
Callie didn’t, fail to notice that Becky had picked up on the proper pronunciation of the word “memorize.” It made her heart ping every time she saw another indication of Becky’s eagerness to please the adults in her life. Some children would have resorted to disruptive behavior in order to secure recognition if they’d endured Becky’s losses, It was probably only pure luck that had given Aubrey so compliant and pleasant a child.
Luck or human nature. With parents like Anne and Aubrey, how could they fail to produce a practically perfect child? Callie reminded herself that cynicism was unbecoming in a young woman, and she told herself to stop being cynical instantly.
Convenient, my foot.
“I’ll help you choose and listen to you recite, if you’d like, sweetie pie.”
“Thank you!” Becky all but jumped up and down on her chair, so eager was she to get to school.
Breakfast was a less uncomfortable meal than it might have been, primarily because Aubrey had eaten before Callie and Becky came downstairs, and then taken himself off.
“Business matters,” Mrs. Granger informed the two of them. “He’s gone off to San Francisco for a couple of days.”
“Oh.” Becky sounded disappointed. “I wish he’d said good-bye.”
The rat. The selfish, cowardly, daughter-deserting rat. Callie mentally gave herself a good whap upside the head and told herself she was in no position to judge another human being. That was God’s job, and He was assuredly better equipped to handle it than she was. “Perhaps he . . . had to catch an early coach,” she said, straining to find something nice to say about a father who could run out on his child merely because something rather embarrassing had occurred the day before.
“That he did,” supplied Mrs. Granger, handing Becky a plate containing a flapjack in the shape of a bunny rabbit, alongside two small sausage patties. “He left notes for the two of you. A wire came from Mr. Henderson, you see.”
“Oh.
” Startled, Callie looked at the housekeeper. “Did something bad happen?”
Becky glanced up from her flapjack, and Callie wished she’d kept her apprehension to herself.
“Oh, no,” Mrs. Granger said, and Callie released a breath. “But Mr. Henderson had some questions, according to Mr. Lockhart, and Mr. Lockhart thought it better that he go to the city to take care of them.” She flipped another pancake. “I don’t recall the cable coming, but I napped yesterday afternoon.”
“I see.” So it had been cowardice after all, Callie thought unkindly. There had been no cable from Mark Henderson; she’d bet her teeth on it.
Then again, cowardice might have played some part in Aubrey’s defection this morning, but when she considered the matter, he might have been right to remove himself. By the time he came back in a few days, perhaps the awkwardness inherent in the situation would have faded.
Maybe. As Callie ate her own flapjacks, in plain old-fashioned rounded shape, she decided she’d have to make up her mind about that later.
*****
Aubrey felt a little silly when he showed up in his San Francisco office late that Monday morning. Mark Henderson glanced up, registered his shock, and rose to rush over to him, fawning as if Aubrey had been a hundred and ten rather than a sprightly thirty-five. He frowned at his secretary.
“No need to pamper me, Mark. I’m not in my dotage yet.”
Mark leaped back. “Good God, no, sir! I didn’t mean to—that is to say, I only—”
Taking pity on him, Aubrey relaxed. “I’m sorry, Mark. Didn’t mean to snap at you. Sorry I didn’t let you know I’d be here this morning.”
“I’m sure it’s quite all right, Mr. Lockhart. There’s no need for the owner of the business to apprise his subordinates of his every move.”
Oh, Lord, now he’d gone and done it. He’d offended Mark Henderson, a superior employee, because he was embarrassed about having run away from home. Aubrey sighed.
“Take a powder, Mark. I’m not conducting a spot inspection or anything. I just needed to get away from the house for a while.”
Heaven Sent Page 23
