“Not yet. But I plan to see her today. If she has written, I will bring the letter directly to you.”
“Thank you,” Miss Thatcher said. “You are far too kind to us all.”
Samuel scoffed. “There is no such thing as too much kindness.”
Miss Thatcher made no response to this, and again Samuel was left wondering if he had said something wrong. He remembered her being shy during their few, previous interactions, but never so quiet as she was now. Their meal continued in uncomfortable silence. He asked himself why it was he’d felt the need to invite her to join him.
Because Grace continuously asks of news about her family. Samuel could not yet tell Grace of her siblings’ presence here. Her situation with Nicholas was still tenuous at best, and Samuel had promised himself that he would allow their relationship to develop without providing Grace a way out — yet.
But he’d thought he could at least look after her sister for her and perhaps learn something that would ease Grace’s mind about the girl’s welfare. So far, all he had discovered this morning was that Miss Thatcher did not care for conversation. Or she did not care for him. Or possibly both.
“I hate porridge. I won’t eat it. I won’t! I won’t!” Beth came screaming into the room right on schedule.
Samuel sent a silent plea heavenward as she launched herself at him, not quite clearing the corner of the table and sending the platter of eggs tumbling to the floor.
Miss Thatcher gasped. Beth clapped her hands over her mouth, then buried her face in his shoulder and sobbed, just as her distraught nanny appeared in the doorway, out of breath and looking rather disheveled with her cap tilted to one side.
“Can we not have one morning of peace around here?” Samuel asked, uncertain whether he felt more exasperated with his daughter or her nanny.
“I’m so sorry, sir,” the latter said between gulps of air. “She got away again, and once more, she’s refused to eat her breakfast.” She thrust a filled bowl forward, evidence of her charge’s disobedience.
“It’s mush again, Papa. Why must I eat it?” Beth placed her little hands on his cheeks and looked at him directly, her large, blue eyes imploring him to understand. Samuel felt himself wavering. How could he deny her anything when he had already denied her a mother? Yet something must be done. Her behavior was becoming entirely out of control.
“Beth, look at this mess you’ve made.” He spoke in the sternest voice he could muster, which sounded rather soft to his own ears.
Her face crumpled. “I’m sorry, sir.” She climbed down from his lap and began gathering the eggs from the floor.
He was at once suspicious of her contrite behavior. Generally Beth was only apologetic or agreeable when she wanted something.
“That will be all, Mary,” Samuel said wearily. “I’ll return her to the nursery shortly. Thank you.”
Mary gave a curt nod and stepped forward to place the bowl of mush on the table, then turned on her heel and exited the room. Samuel leaned back in his chair and sighed, only then remembering his guest.
Miss Thatcher was smiling at him — the first smile he’d seen from her all morning. He frowned, displeased at being the object of her amusement. He opened his mouth to excuse himself and put an end to their awkward breakfast, when she surprised him again by speaking without prompting.
“May I?” She stood and reached for Beth’s bowl of porridge before he could answer. She pulled it toward herself and poked the spoon around in it a moment “Mmm. The very best kind.”
She wishes to eat Beth’s mush?
“You may have it if you’d like,” Samuel said, taken aback by such atrocious manners. Grace had said her sister was extremely shy, but she’d failed to mention anything about her being odd. Perhaps she had something amiss in her mind.
Unfortunate.
Like her sister, she was very pretty and might have made a good match.
Miss Thatcher scooted her chair back slightly, leaned forward, and ducked her head under the table. “Your name is Beth, isn’t it?”
Samuel glanced down to see Beth drop the handful of squished eggs she had been collecting. She looked curiously at their guest and nodded.
“Would you like to play a game?” Miss Thatcher’s voice came muffled from beneath the table.
Beth nodded again.
“Will you come and sit by me?” Miss Thatcher patted the chair beside her.
Without so much as a glance in her father’s direction to ask permission, Beth crawled beneath the table to the other side and climbed onto the chair beside Miss Thatcher, who herself was sitting properly again, though, with her hair somewhat in disarray, having brushed it against the tablecloth.
“I like your dress,” Beth said, running her fingers over the beads adorning Miss Thatcher’s sleeve.
“Thank you.”
Samuel noticed that Miss Thatcher did not shy from Beth’s touch or seem bothered by it.
Spying the bowl of porridge, Beth made a face and pushed it far away from her.
Miss Thatcher took the bowl and pulled it close to her own plate, out of Beth’s reach.
“When I was a little girl, we ate mush like this every morning.”
“Every morning?” Beth asked, sounding properly horrified.
“Except on those days when we had no breakfast at all,” Miss Thatcher said, as if not having breakfast had been an ordinary occurrence.
Beth’s eyes grew large. “None?”
“None,” Miss Thatcher said dismissively. “But I wish to tell you about the game we played when we did have breakfast.”
“What was it? Tell me,” Beth demanded. She sat up on her knees and leaned toward Miss Thatcher with rapt attention. Samuel relaxed in his chair, finding that she had captured his interest as well.
“Every morning, we pretended that an evil king had sent us the porridge. Some mornings, we had to eat it quickly before he returned, took it from us, and threw us in a dungeon. Once in a great while, the king was careless, and there would be jewels in our bowls. If we were very careful, and ate very fast, and found the jewels before he returned, then we could keep them.”
“Real jewels?” Beth asked, moving closer still. Samuel worried she would fall from her chair if Miss Thatcher’s story went much longer.
Miss Thatcher shook her head. “Pretend jewels,” she whispered. “But you have them too.” She took the spoon and fished a raisin from Beth’s bowl. “Right here.” She pointed at the raisin. “I think this one is a ruby.”
“It’s a raisin.” Beth giggled, obviously enthralled with the game — and with Miss Thatcher. Samuel was too.
“You must use your imagination,” Miss Thatcher whispered. “The evil king —” she inclined her head toward Samuel — “has fallen asleep at the table, but his naps are very short.”
Samuel closed his eyes, lolled back in his chair, and pretended to snore loudly. Beth’s resulting laughter warmed his heart. He peeked through half-closed eyes as the game continued.
“Dear Miss Beth,” Miss Thatcher spoke in a distressed voice, “we must hurry to find the jewels before the king awakens. If he finds them first, he will surely take them from us, and we will be punished. But if we discover them all before he awakens, we shall be able to buy our freedom.”
Beth reached for the bowl and eagerly grabbed the spoon.
“Wait,” Miss Thatcher whispered, glancing at Samuel. “We must eat with care, ever so quietly, if we do not wish to awaken the king. We must take small bites and chew with our mouths closed, or he will hear us.”
Samuel watched in astonishment as Beth nodded. “But what will you eat?” she whispered to Miss Thatcher. “You haven’t got a bowl of jewels.”
“No,” Miss Thatcher said sadly. “The king has only given me this large rock.” She poked at her roll with her fork. “He has commanded that it be gone before he wakes, or I shall be in a great deal of trouble.”
“If I finish finding the rubies, I’ll help you,” Beth offered.
A few times during their meal, he snorted or shifted in his chair and pretended to be talking in his sleep. “Jewels. Someone has stolen my jewels.”
Beth’s whispered admonition for Miss Thatcher to hurry reached his ears.
“You’ve done it,” Miss Thatcher whispered at last. “The king still sleeps, and you’ve found all the jewels. You are free.”
“Oh no, she’s not!” Samuel jumped up from the table, arms outstretched. Beth shrieked and leaped from her chair, running from him. He chased her around the table twice before capturing her and tickling her mercilessly. “Where are my rubies? Give me my rubies.”
“Papa. It was just a game.” She laughed and shrieked, but he refused to put her down.
“You’ll never be free. You’re mine. Forever.” He smothered her face with kisses, and she threw her hands around his neck.
“Can we play this game every day? Can she come to breakfast every day? I like her.” Beth looked at Miss Thatcher still seated in her chair, and Samuel realized that his daughter did not know their guest. He’d never felt so remiss; he’d also never been so happy to introduce his daughter.
“Beth, this is Miss Thatcher. She and her brother are visiting for a while.”
“Miss Helen, if you please,” she said, head bent slightly, looking up at him through long eyelashes, as if she was afraid of his reaction to her request. “Miss Thatcher is my older sister.”
“Of course. My apologies.” Becoming acquainted with Grace as he had, it seemed his manners had slipped with regards to her sister. “Miss Helen, this is my Beth. Mine forever,” he added in his growly king voice as he held her tight. She giggled again, then squirmed out of his grasp and ran to stand beside Miss Helen.
“Will you come to breakfast every day?”
Miss Helen’s face flushed red, and she looked down at her lap. “I —”
“Miss Helen has a great many responsibilities.” Even as he said the words, Samuel wondered what those were. What did she do all day? “But perhaps we can arrange for the two of you to play sometime.” An idea formed as he spoke, and he felt the first hope regarding his daughter’s behavior that he’d felt for some time. “Run along now and apologize to Mary.”
Beth leaned forward, gave Miss Helen a brief hug, then scurried off. Samuel watched her go and found Miss Helen watching his daughter as well. Before she could get all jittery or quiet again, he came around the table and sat beside her in the seat Beth had vacated.
He picked up the empty porridge bowl. “This is impressive. You have quite a way with children.”
“I find them easy to talk to,” Miss Helen said, her gaze once more directed at her lap.
Samuel wished she would look at him but guessed that doing so made her uncomfortable. For all the ease she had exhibited with his daughter, she seemed to feel none at all with him. “Have you ever considered becoming a governess?”
This got her attention, and she looked up at him with something close to despair.
“I did not mean to offend,” he rushed to say. How many times have I already apologized for that very thing this morning? Miss Helen was proving as impossible to converse with as her sister was easy to talk to. “I only meant that if your inheritance does not come through, if the court does not rule in your favor, such a position is something you may wish to consider. You have worked no less than a miracle with my daughter this morning.”
“She is a delightful child.”
“I am afraid that a few in this household would disagree with you. Beth has always been precocious, but lately, it has turned into headstrong stubbornness. I find myself at a loss as to how to handle it — to handle her. That was the very problem I was contemplating in the garden this morning when you came upon me talking to myself.”
“Not to yourself. You were talking to Elizabeth,” Miss Helen corrected, meeting his gaze directly. “And why shouldn’t you speak to her? She is Beth’s mother and was no doubt your dearest friend.”
“Yes,” Samuel said, somewhat astounded at her understanding. He smiled. “I knew I could trust you.”
“And am I to trust you by seeking a position as a governess?”
“Perhaps.” A young lady with her education ought to be able to get a good position. He wondered at what age children typically needed a governess instead of a nanny. “I could help you find a good family.”
The distress returned to her eyes, and her gaze flitted to her lap.
What did I say?
“Not right away, of course. So long as Grace is at Sutherland Hall and your inheritance remains undecided, you are most welcome to remain here. I hope you realize that.”
“Thank you.”
Samuel heard the relief in her voice. That’s it. She is frightened of leaving.
“Perhaps, in the meantime, you might spend part of your afternoons here — with Beth.”
“I would be happy to.” Miss Helen pushed her chair back and rose suddenly. “I should be going.”
He stood and moved aside to allow her passage. “Would you like an escort?”
“No, thank you.” She continued walking. “Good day, Mr. Preston. I thank you for breakfast.”
“Good day, Miss Helen,” Samuel said, surprised to realize that it might be good after all.
“I’ve bungled the whole thing,” Helen said to Harrison. “Mr. Preston believes that I am good for nothing but tending children.” She stood outside the stable door, her skirts held above the ground as she shared her woes.
“Did he say that exactly?” Harrison removed the bridle from the mare that had driven their buggy.
“He suggested I look for a position as a governess,” Helen said. “All because I played a game with his daughter. I was only trying to help.” She imagined what Miranda would say about her behavior this morning.
Ladies do not crawl under the table to play games at breakfast. Helen stomped her foot, angry with herself.
“Careful where you’re stepping,” Harrison warned. He scooped oats into the stall bucket, then backed out and closed the door behind him. “Come. Let’s get you out of here before you ruin your pretty dress.”
“I should change.” Helen continued to hold her skirts up as they left the stable and headed across the field. “Miranda was right. This gown was much too fancy to wear today. Whatever was I thinking?”
“What most women do,” Harrison said. “That looking your best is the way to a man’s heart.”
“Isn’t it?” Helen asked. “Isn’t that why women dress up in lovely gowns and curl their hair and use face powders?”
“Not being a female, I can’t say exactly,” he teased. “But I expect that is the reason. And it works — to a point.”
“What do you mean?” Helen asked.
“Appearances will get you only so far. They may capture a man’s interest, but it takes more to hold it.”
“What will hold it?” Helen asked. “What qualities does a man look for when seeking a wife?”
Harrison glanced at her askew. “A wife, eh? Perhaps Miranda was right to be worried about you. What happened to our little girl who didn’t want anything to do with men?”
“I don’t want anything to do with men,” Helen said. Just one man, and he is still in love with his deceased wife. “I am only trying to understand how this world works.”
“Mm-hmm,” Harrison said.
Helen knew he could see right through her, but she didn’t care. She’d had her one chance to impress Mr. Preston, but she’d done the opposite. Now she wanted only to know what she should have done differently, should the unlikely event occur that she ever met another kind man she need not fear.
“If a man is wise,” Harrison began, “he wants a woman he can respect and admire, one who will be a companion in many ways.”
“Do men not admire attractiveness?” Helen asked, trying to understand,
and wishing Harrison would speak more plainly. “What earns a man’s respect?”
“Could be many things,” Harrison said. “Take Miranda and me, for instance. We’re getting on in years, and neither of us is as attractive as we once were —” He stopped walking and turned to Helen. “Don’t you ever let Miranda know I said that.”
“I won’t. I promise,” she said solemnly. She could scarcely believe he was speaking of Miranda at all — she and Grace had attempted to broach the subject with him before, but never had he said so much as a word about their lady’s maid.
“A man and a woman at our age can still care for each other, and not many of those feelings will have anything to do with appearances. A man may be attracted to a woman because of the way she does something. He may admire her for her strengths, or her kindnesses.”
What did Harrison admire about Miranda? She was very strong — in will, anyway.
“I appreciate people for the way they treat others,” Harrison said. “These past years — especially these past months — no one has watched out for you girls more or cared more for you than Miranda has. She’d defend you to her last breath. I don’t mind saying that awhile back, I was worried that Miranda might be nearing hers. She was ill, yet still caring for your sister. A powerful spirit that woman has, and I respect her for it.”
“Harrison, that is the most eloquent speech I have ever heard,” Helen declared. “Why do you not tell Miranda that very thing? You know she cares for you too.”
Harrison waved her suggestion away, then coughed into his hand, looking down, but not before Helen caught his face reddening.
“It would seem that I am not the only one around here at a loss as to how to proceed,” she said.
“Why should you be at a loss?” Harrison said. “You know exactly what to do next. Mr. Preston has paid you a compliment and told you what he values.”
“He appreciates my way with children,” Helen said. “How is that romantic in the least?”
Harrison shook his head and grunted. “Females. Always making everything more complicated than it needs to be.” They reached the front walk leading to the guest house and stopped. He took out a handkerchief and blew into it loudly. Helen felt a moment of pity for him, with his nose red from sneezing and his nearly incessant cough. He didn’t take to this part of the country well at all.
Loving Helen Page 3
