“Excellent,” he said, standing. He’d settled Becky back into her bed. “You look lovely this morning, Callie.”
And, by gum, he walked over and gave her a quick kiss on the cheek. Callie felt herself blush. “I’m glad you made me take the time,” she muttered, feeling outrageously shy.
“Yes, well . . .” He turned and rubbed his hands in a gesture, Callie supposed, meant to instill confidence in and support to his sick child. “I’m going to town now, Becky, and I’ll be back as soon as I can be with Dr, Marshall. Do you remember Dr. Marshall, Becky? He came to our house when you had the measles.”
Becky, whose tiny flushed face looked pathetic against her sparkling white pillowcases, nodded. “Yes. He gave me awful-tasting medicine.”
Aubrey chuckled. “I expect he’ll do the same thing today, sweetheart. That’s what happens when we .get sick. We have to take awful-tasting medicine to get better.”
“I brought you some books, Becky,” Callie said. “Maybe reading a rousing tale of adventure will make you feel better.”
“Maybe.” The little girl didn’t sound precisely positive about it.
“Or,” Callie said, giving her a sly glance, “after your papa leaves, maybe I can read you another scary story by Mr. Poe.”
“Poe?” Aubrey looked startled.
“Oh, yes!” Becky said, sounding less than ghastly for the first time in two days. “I’d like that a lot!”
Aubrey frowned doubtfully at Callie. “You read the child Edgar Allan Poe stories?”
She beamed at him, although what she really wanted to do was throw her arms around his neck and kiss him silly. “Absolutely! I loved them when I was Becky’s age, and she loves them now. Children love to be scared, Aubrey. Don’t you know that by this time? That’s why they adore hearing ghost stories.” Because Aubrey’s bemused expression was making her heart palpitate, she turned back to Becky, trying to look cheerful and chipper—which wasn’t too hard, under the circumstances. “Isn’t that right, Becky? Don’t you and your friends enjoy listening to scary stories?”
Becky nodded, her blue eyes dull this morning, but her lips smiling at last. “Yes. I love a scary story. As long as Callie stays with me until I fall asleep.”
Callie was surprised when Aubrey said, “You call Miss Prophet ‘Callie’?”
“I told her to,” Callie told him quickly. In a whisper, she added, “She noticed when you called me Callie, you see.”
Taking her arm, he led her to the door and spoke softly, “Perhaps we should tell her about our upcoming nuptials. Perhaps she’d like to call you . . . Mother.”
Not, Callie noticed, Mama, but Mother. Well, that made sense, she supposed, although her heart hurt a little. “Why don’t we wait,” she suggested, thinking of those damnable letters looming in her conscience like a mountain. “After she feels better might be a more appropriate time.”
“If you say so.” He didn’t sound concerned, which suited Callie fine. Turning so that Becky could hear him, he said, “I’ll be back as soon as I can be, sweetheart.”
“Bye, Papa,” Becky said in her hoarse, squeaky voice.
Callie noticed the tears had started again by the time she got back to Becky’s bed. Poor baby. Even short, temporary abandonments were hard to take when one was a small child and feeling poorly. They were hard for grown-ups to take, for that matter, but adults were at least supposed to have better control over overt displays of their feelings than were children.
“Did you finish taking your powders, sweetheart?” she asked gently, brushing hair back from Becky’s hot forehead with her hand. She noticed the empty orange-juice glass on the night table.
Becky nodded. “Papa made me.”
“Has Mrs. Granger brought up your good juice yet?”
This time the little girl shook her head. “Papa told her to wait until you got back so your breakfast wouldn’t get cold.”
“That was nice of him.” It was unnecessary, however. Becky’s health was more important than Callie’s breakfast, although it was a consideration on Aubrey’s part that Callie hadn’t anticipated.
“I s’pose he’ll tell Mrs. Granger you’re back when he goes downstairs,” Becky added.
“I suppose he will.”
He did. It wasn’t long before Mrs. Granger entered the room with a tray loaded with good things to eat, Callie’s breakfast as well as morsels to tempt the invalid.
Callie made a good breakfast. Becky’s throat hurt too much to allow her to do much more than swallow a couple of bites of oatmeal with raisins, brown sugar, butter, and milk. The orange juice stung her ailing throat, but she seemed to crave it, so Mrs. Granger sent one of the stable lads to the Venable farm, where Mrs. Venable always kept a supply of fresh oranges on hand.
“We’ll give you all the orange juice you can swallow, Becky,” the housekeeper said. She looked worried.
Callie wasn’t. She figured it was only a bad cold. Maybe a touch of influenza. The powders and quinine would help, and with a lot, of rest and good, fresh fruit and juice she imagined Becky would be well in a week or two. One couldn’t rush these things.
Aubrey returned with the doctor in less than an hour. Dr. Marshall was a tall, thin, gray-haired man with a jovial manner and a way with children. He managed to tease a laugh out of Becky, prescribed fresh juice, salicylic powders every four to six hours, and a dose of quinine immediately.
“I’ll return this evening to check on the invalid. If she needs another dose, I’ll give it to her then, and I’m going to bring along a medicated salve to rub on her chest. We don’t
want her lungs to become infected.”
“Thank you, Dr. Marshall.”
The doctor smiled down at Callie, who was helping Delilah change Becky’s sheets since her fever had made them damp. “You’re certainly looking splendid these days, Callie. This job as Becky’s nanny, difficult as it must be, seems to agree with you.” He tossed Becky a wink to let her know he was teasing.
Callie grinned back at him. “It’s rugged, Doctor. Persuading this child to behave is a sore trial, believe me.”
“Is not!” exclaimed Becky hotly, but she grinned.
“Aye, I’ve heard about her wild ways.” He leaned over and deposited a kiss on Becky’s head. The little girl was seated in the overstuffed easy chair in her room and hugging a stuffed bear to her chest while the grown-ups changed her bed linen. Monster, who had been sharing her room, had vanished under the bed as soon as Dr. Marshall entered it.
“You rest, Becky, and you’ll be feeling better in a few days. You have a nasty cold, but it’s not fatal.”
“Thank God,” Aubrey whispered from a corner of the room.
As if he’d only then remembered such jests weren’t necessarily funny in this household, Dr. Marshall cast a swift glance at Aubrey, looked embarrassed, then cleared his throat. “Yes. Well, I guess I’ve done enough damage here for one morning. You sleep a lot, Becky, and take your medicine, and come back this evening to make you miserable again.” He shook his finger at her in a mock show of sternness. “And don’t forget to gargle with warm salt water. None of your shirking, Miss Lockhart, do you hear?”
“I hear,” Becky grinned at him again.
“Then I guess I’ll take my leave now. Got other folks to see. There’s a lot of this nasty cold going around.”
“Bye, Dr. Marshall,” Becky said, sounding as if she liked him even if he was the purveyor of awful-tasting medicines.
“Thank you, Dr. Marshall.” Aubrey came forward and shook the doctor’s hand.
“Yes, thanks a lot, Doctor,” Callie called from behind a flapping sheet.
“Thank you, Dr. Marshall,” said Delilah, making it unanimous.
As they left the room, Callie heard Aubrey say, “I think Mrs. Granger has a piece of cake for you in the kitchen, Doctor.”
The voices faded, and Callie thought how lucky she was be here, in this household. It was so pleasant to live in luxurious surroundings, not to ha
ve to handle everything all by herself, to be able to call the doctor any time one needed doctor, and never have to worry about money. It was to be her fate, and she was grateful to her Maker and to fate in general.
She’s love being married to Aubrey. She loved him. She loved Becky. Life couldn’t get much better.
The letters loomed like a high wall in her conscience, and she resolved to take care of that matter as soon as might be.
Chapter Nineteen
But Callie’s confession wasn’t made that day or the next, or the next after that. Becky’s flu got better slowly, but she was a mighty sick little girl for several days. Dr. Marshall continued to call twice a day, and Callie didn’t like to leave Becky’s room for any lengthy period of time.
Every time Callie left, even for a few minutes, Becky became fretful, and she herself worried. She even set up a cot in the room so that she could keep tabs on Becky overnight.
Monster shared Becky’s room as well, much to Becky’s appreciation. It seemed to soothe her misery to have a big, fluffy cat to hug.
Aubrey paid many tender attentions, both to Becky and to Callie. Callie appreciated them—and him—more than she could say. He was a genuinely kind man, so unlike the man she’d initially believed him to be that Callie’s conscience grew heavier and heavier as the days passed and she didn’t tell him about the letters.
Mrs. Granger bustled in and out of the room several times each day, bringing food, medicine, glasses of warm salt water, juice, sympathy, and platitudes. Aubrey had told her the good news about his impending marriage, and she was fairly bursting with pleasure, both for Callie’s sake and the sake of the Lockhart household.
“Because, you know, Callie, the poor man’s been in such a state during the past couple of years. You’ll be good for him. You’ve already been good for him and Becky. And for the household, as well.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Granger. I hope I’ll make him a good wife.”
“Nonsense, child. You’ll make him a fine wife. I know he loved his Anne, but he needs someone to take care of things for him, and he’s quite fond of you.”
Fond, Right. Exactly what Callie wanted to hear. She took the tray Mrs. Granger had prepared for the invalid. “Thank you.”
Not that she expected anything more from Aubrey. He respected and liked her. She’d known for ages that she wasn’t the type of woman a man could cherish. At least she’d be able to share Aubrey’s consideration and affection.
So why, she wondered, did her heart feel so heavy as she carried the tray up to Becky’s room?
*****
During Becky’s illness and convalescence, Aubrey had a lot of time to think about things. He thought about Becky, he thought about Anne, he thought about his life in general, and he thought about Callie. A lot.
Every time he saw her, a jolt of awareness and desire washed over him. At first, he chalked up this strange phenomenon to the fact that he and she had recently shared a very satisfying sexual liaison. It was the first sexual liaison Aubrey had experienced since long before Anne died, and he’d been more than ready for it.
As the days passed and he observed Callie and Becky, and Callie and Mrs. Granger, and Callie and Dr. Marshall, and Callie and Delilah, and Callie in general, he came to the slow and reluctant conclusion that it wasn’t mere sexual passion that so fascinated him about Becky’s nanny.
If he didn’t watch himself, he’d be falling in love with the woman.
The first time that idea struck him, the Saturday after he and Callie first made love, guilt followed so swiftly on its heels that he had to run away and hide in his library office.
For heaven’s sake, he’d loved Anne. He couldn’t possibly love Callie Prophet. She was nothing in the remotest degree like Anne.
Aubrey, dear, use your common sense for a moment, please.
Anne’s voice wafted through his brain as clearly as if she’d spoken the words herself. Aubrey stiffened. He even glanced around his library, wondering if someone might be playing a nasty trick on him.
But he was alone in the room. Anne’s voice had been a curious aberration in the atmosphere and nothing more or less than that.
Or perhaps it had been a particularly strong memory. But why would she tell him to use his common sense?
He’d remembered not long ago that Anne had told him to remarry. On her deathbed, yet. Was it possible that, had she lived, she also would have told him it was possible for a man to love two dissimilar women at different times in his life? Aubrey knew full well that his love for Anne remained as strong as it had ever been. Could he love another woman—Callie—as passionately as he’d loved Anne, even though they were as different as night was from day?
“Good God.” He paced to the window behind his desk, yanked the curtains aside, and peered outside.
Autumn had fallen, accompanied by the season’s first hard freeze, and the leaves had turned a couple of days ago. They were falling in waves from the trees today. Aubrey watched mulberry leaves catch the sun and drop like flakes of gold to the yellow grass. He employed a team of gardeners who raked the lawns daily, but they couldn’t keep up with the steady rainfall of autumn leaves.
The almonds and walnuts were ripening. A hard wind would come along soon and start knocking them down. Then Mrs. Granger would begin making fruitcakes and cookies for Christmas. Becky was particularly fond of a cookie Mrs. Granger made that featured both nuts and bits of chocolate. Aubrey liked them, too. Those cookies were a highlight of the entire year in the Lockhart household..
He sighed and forced himself to think about love. He hadn’t thought about love as an emotion removed from Anne and her life and death, for years. If ever. Perhaps he’d never thought about it.
What was love, anyway? Affection, certainly. And sexual desire. That was important in a marital relationship. Aubrey didn’t approve of men who kept mistresses, and he wouldn’t be one of them; he didn’t care how fashionable such affairs were in some circles. He liked to keep what was his; and he didn’t believe in double standards. Besides, he didn’t move in those exalted social circles, except peripherally, and he didn’t want to.
But what else was involved in love besides affection and desire? He thought hard, his hands clasped behind his back, and his eyes focused on the beautiful grounds of his home. Shared principles, he supposed. And complementary goals in life. He imagined he and Callie had those in common. What about need? Did need play a part in love?
He often felt as though he needed Callie Prophet, rather like a plant needs water. It bothered him some to admit it, but he did. If she left, it wouldn’t only be Becky who was devastated by her absence; Aubrey would be, too. In truth, if she left, he’d be crushed.
By God, losing Callie would hurt as much as losing Anne.
The realization stunned him, and he blinked into the autumn sunshine, almost afraid. He didn’t like knowing he needed her this much; there was too much that could be lost when a person began needing another person, and he wasn’t sure he was up to the perils. He tested his new understanding cautiously.
He’d been contemplating it for some time, and had reluctantly come to the conclusion that he really did love Callie and was almost willing to risk the need, when a soft knock came at his library door. He turned, saying, “Come in.”
His heart lit up when he beheld Callie, smiling at him from the doorway. By God. It really must be love. He smiled back at her and walked to the door, impelled by, well, love, he supposed, to touch her. He took her arm and said, “Come in, come in, Callie. How’s the patient?”
Not very loverlike, Aubrey scolded himself. He’d been much better at this sort of thing with Anne. But Anne had been a different sort of person. Receptive. Gentle. Callie was more prickly. She was self-sufficient and didn’t impel a man to pamper her. With a sigh, he told himself he’d learn how to express himself with her.
“She’s much better,” Callie said, gazing at him with what Aubrey was startled to recognize as adoration.
Cou
ld she love him? It seemed unlikely, given her opinion of him when they’d first met.
On the other hand, he vaguely recalled her saying something about loving him that night they’d made love. That night now seemed centuries ago. Given the state of his sexual arousal every time he saw her, he hoped they’d be able to remedy his deprived state soon.
“What’s that you have, darling?” he asked, noticing for the first time that Callie held a cardboard box that looked as if the lid didn’t fit very well from the box being overfilled.
“I need to talk to you about a few things, Aubrey. Including this.”
She didn’t meet his eyes when she sat. Faintly puzzled, Aubrey went behind his desk and sat as well. “Oh? What is it, sweetheart.” The endearments fell from his lips like the mulberry leaves falling from the tree.
Was be really becoming the besotted lover? Whereas not long ago—minutes ago, even—the notion would have brought with it feelings of guilt, now it pleased him. He sensed Anne’s approval, and began to feel even better.
“Um . . .” Callie stopped speaking and swallowed.
Aubrey tilted his head, bemused. Callie wasn’t generally at a loss for words. “What’s the matter, Callie? You can tell me.” He hoped his smile conveyed his newly recognized love.
He was startled at the tormented expression in her eyes when she finally lifted her head and gazed at him. “I have a confession to make, Aubrey.”
Good God. “A confession?” What in the name of heaven could she have to confess to him? Unsettled, but hoping she was only being dramatic, he tried to tease her. “I hope you’re not going to confess to murder or anything of that nature, Callie, because I won’t believe you.”
A smile flickered and died on her face. “No, I’m not a murderess.”
“I didn’t think so, although after experiencing your temper a couple of times I couldn’t be sure.” He grinned, hoping to lighten her mood.
Heaven Sent Page 28
