by Ginny Aiken
Yes, she could go east in search of work, but that would mean she’d have to live far, far away from her family and all she held dear. Growing up in a new town like Bountiful, where everyone was intent on building the region, making it flourish, she knew no one who’d gone into service. The prospect, while it might be her final decision, made her middle tighten into a hard knot.
It had to be her last resort.
She only saw two immediate possibilities. On the one hand, she could continue to live at home, consume the family’s meager resources, and drain their provisions, since she couldn’t contribute a thing in return. On the other hand, she could gather up her gumption, seek out Mr. Whitman, and offer her services as a nanny.
“Those three ladies came highly recommended.”
She could let the banker’s words intimidate her. That would mean her faith was too weak for words. She could instead choose to see God’s hand in everything that had happened after church, no matter how absurd, and take courage from the Father’s presence in her life.
The worst that could happen? Mr. Whitman could laugh her right out of his office.
The best that might happen? He might offer her the position, even if on a trial basis.
What a relief that would be for Mama and Papa.
Olivia sighed. Her choice was made.
But… had she ever really had a choice in the matter? It seemed as though the Lord’s hand had been there guiding her the whole day long. Only the Almighty could have worked in such an unconventional fashion. Only the King of Kings could have turned a mad encounter with a runaway pig into a bright, shining opportunity.
All Olivia had to do was trust.
And obey.
Chapter 3
“But, Olivia, dear—”
“No, Mama. Please don’t ask me more questions right now. Do believe me, though. I must go to town today. That’s why I need the wagon, and I’m sorry I won’t be here to help you this morning. I expect to be back by early afternoon. I’ll tell you everything then.”
She didn’t reckon Mr. Whitman’s clear and resounding “no” would take too long to convey. But even though she had no lofty expectations for the meeting, she knew she had to do it, she had to ask. She had to follow through with what every corner of her heart said her heavenly Father was leading her to try.
She trusted the Lord for the outcome, whatever that would be.
Mama sighed, then wiped her hands on her apron, a sign of nerves on her part, something she did to steal the time to gather her thoughts.
For a second, Olivia wished she could wear an apron to her meeting with the banker. She had no doubt many spells of nervous anxiety would strike as she pressed Mr. Whitman for the opportunity to care for his daughter and son.
Her mother shrugged. “I suppose I must trust you. You’re no longer a child, Olivia, and you’ve always had a good head on you. Go ahead, dear. Go tell your papa what you’re planning—or as much of it as you’re willing to share.”
After a quick kiss to her mother’s cheek, Olivia hurried outside, tugging down on the waist of her blue jacket. Papa and the boys were likely in the barn. She didn’t much like going in there wearing her jacket and other good skirt, this one a lightweight flannel in a lovely deep plum. The barn offered too many chances to soil nice clothes. But it couldn’t be helped. She needed to be on her way if she was to catch Mr. Whitman early in the day, and then return home before too much of the afternoon was gone.
Papa’s response to her request was similar to Mama’s. While he wanted details, and to that end asked myriad questions, in time he decided to trust her. Before long, Olivia was on her way into town.
After she left Maizie and the wagon with Josh Tucker at the livery stable, Olivia hurried down Main Street, her every thought on what lay ahead. Her gaze, too, was focused on the next step before her, and then the next, as well. She feared if she let herself stray one whit in thought or action she might chicken out, run back to the stable, gather horse and wagon, and beat a hasty retreat home.
That would honor no one. Certainly not her Lord.
Every time her thoughts turned to the many arguments why she should not do this, she shoved them away, determined to obey what she felt to be the Father’s call.
At the solid and attractive oak and glass door to the Bank of Bountiful, Olivia paused one moment to breathe a final prayer for courage and favor and dry hands. She missed that apron a whole lot already.
“May I help you?” a red-haired gentleman in a black suit and rimless spectacles asked as Olivia stepped into the bank.
Lord Jesus, help me, please. “Yes.” Her voice wobbled only a touch. “I… ah… I’m here to see Mr. Whitman. The president. Of the bank, that is. Not of the nation, of course.”
Hush, Olivia. You’re blathering.
She straightened her spine and held her chin high, waiting for the gentleman’s response.
Skepticism colored his expression. “Do you have an appointment to see Mr. Whitman?”
The doubt in the man’s face told Olivia he knew quite well the answer to his question. Nonetheless, she responded. “No, sir. But Mr. Whitman knows I’m due to meet with him, just not when. He knows we have something to discuss. About his son. Please let him know I’m here.”
He drew his brows together, shuffled his feet, and wrung his hands. “Just who might you be?”
“Miss Olivia Moore, sir. The lady who handled yesterday’s swine situation.”
She could have bitten her tongue when blinking and blatant disbelief—a mite of horror, too—blossomed on the man’s face. She didn’t blame him. Embarrassment seared her cheeks.
“I see.” The man’s spectacles dropped down to the end of his thin nose and he shoved them up with an ink-smeared finger, which left a streak all the way to the bridge.
“Please, Mister…?”
“Colby, madam. Mr. Lawrence Colby, at your service.”
She gave a tight nod. “Mr. Colby, then. Please let Mr. Whitman know I’m here. Let him decide if he’ll see me.”
In the meantime, she would pray and pray and pray that he did.
With abundant distaste on his features, Mr. Colby nodded, then stepped to a door at the back of the large lobby of the bank. He knocked, entered, and closed the door, leaving Olivia to study her surroundings. Papa always attended to business matters and she’d never been inside the bank before.
The main chamber spoke of serious responsibility and abundance. A spot for each one of the two tellers was located on either side of the room, the openings protected with thick brass rods. The gentlemen behind the bars wore neat white shirts with black sleeve garters, proper black ties, and smart-looking green-billed visors over their foreheads. Olivia wondered why they’d wear hats indoors, but she didn’t think her curiosity was important enough to satisfy that day. Maybe she’d ask Papa once she went back home.
A muted conversation caught her attention. One customer stood before the teller to Olivia’s left, patiently watching the teller count bills into separate, tidy stacks. She took note of the man’s crisp gray trousers and well-tailored coat, gleaming black boots, and fine-looking slate-hued hat held loosely in his left hand. From where she stood, she thought it might be the recently arrived German shoemaker, Herr Schmitz.
Moments later, she verified her guess as Herr Schmitz strode past her and nodded respectfully in greeting, a spear of light from the nearest window catching the gleam of his blond hair. At the door, he donned his elegant hat before stepping outside.
As she looked around again, Olivia found plenty to admire. The two windows, tall and ample, graced each side of the generous-sized chamber, and the brilliant August sun poured in, brightening the mood of the otherwise solemn business establishment. The scent of wax polish rose from the gleaming floor, and the tang of lemon oil told Olivia that someone cared enough to make sure the abundant wood wainscoting on the walls and all the desks’ surfaces were as well tended.
Olivia grew more nervous by the minute, as
she continued to wait for Mr. Colby to return with the verdict. After what seemed a minor eternity, Mr. Colby emerged from behind the door, followed by Mr. Whitman.
“Miss Moore,” Luke’s father said, a question in his voice, curiosity in his gaze. “To what do I owe this pleasure?”
Olivia tugged down on her navy jacket, wiping her nerve-dampened palms against the fabric at the same time. “If you don’t mind, sir, I would prefer we speak in your office.”
Mr. Whitman’s eyebrows shot toward his hairline, and he and Mr. Colby traded glances. “Very well,” he said. “If you’ll follow me, please?”
Olivia did so cautiously, unwilling to trip over her own feet because of her anxiety. The most important thing to remember was the worst that might happen, and making a fool of herself as Mr. Whitman refused her offer wouldn’t be too horrid an outcome. Embarrassing? Yes. Devastating? No.
Well, embarrassment was the immediate worst that might happen, but in reality, the worst that would happen was her inability to help Mama and Papa in their hour of need. She couldn’t bear that thought. So she pressed on.
When she and the banker stood on either side of the solid desk in the center of the room, Mr. Whitman turned his brilliant blue eyes on Olivia. “I must admit, Miss Moore, my curiosity is quite piqued. Is this about Luke’s discipline?”
She took a deep breath. “In a way, but not exactly. If you’ll allow me, sir, I have an offer for you.”
Again, surprise overtook the man. “This should prove interesting.”
“I hope so.” She set down her purse on an upholstered brown chair, then faced the banker, her gaze direct, her back straight, her chin tipped up. “It would seem you’re in a pickle of sorts. When it comes to your children, that is.”
“Ah… the nanny situation.”
“Precisely.” Go on, Olivia. Get it over with. “I don’t know of many candidates for that position in Bountiful or the surrounding area.”
He nodded, his head tilted a tad to one side.
That was when it struck Olivia. Goodness. She was outgunned when it came to negotiating with this man. Not only was Mr. Elijah Whitman a respected pillar of the community, a prominent businessman, and well-to-do, but he was also a very handsome specimen of a man. On the other hand, she knew nothing of business and she didn’t know much about men. At least the subject she wanted to discuss was one she understood. By virtue of who she was, she knew more than a bit about youngsters, an ordered household, and family matters.
Still, she had to face those eyes. They glowed with the intensity of the clear August sky outside, and even the black lashes that fringed them didn’t do a thing to dim their radiance. “Miss Moore?”
She blushed—yet again. This just wouldn’t do. She couldn’t let herself be distracted by his stature in town or his good looks. If she did, she would surely make a mess of her attempt to seek employment, something she very much needed to manage well. She needed the job he had to offer. She had to make him see she was the woman he needed just then, not a weak girl who would fold at the first sign of trouble from his two rambunctious youngsters.
She gave another tug to her jacket’s hem. “Very well, Mr. Whitman. I came to speak to you about an idea that occurred to me last night. As your son said yesterday, he and his sister haven’t been charmed by your choice in nannies thus far. Am I right?”
He gave a wry laugh. “I doubt any choice in nannies would please those two. How they’ve come to believe they’re ready to manage themselves, I don’t know.”
Thinking of her brothers and sisters, Olivia smiled. “Adolescents see themselves as more capable and wiser than they really are.”
He crossed his arms, a touch of skepticism in his expression. “You have the kind of experience with adolescents that would lead you to say that?”
His piercing gaze made her warm and twitchy all over. As unexpected and unfamiliar as her response was, Olivia had to believe it came from nerves. She squared her shoulders. “Why, yessir, I do. I’m the oldest of five children, and I’ve always helped Mama with the younger ones. My two brothers and two sisters have put me through my paces when it comes to coping with youngsters.”
A spark of interest caught fire in his gaze. “Do tell.”
“Indeed.” She smiled. “That leads me to my suggestion. Since I have the experience already, and your son Luke was so daring as to suggest that I might be an adequate nanny—”
“I was afraid you might have overheard that. If I remember correctly, Miss Moore,” he said, amusement in his voice, “my son is certain you’re the right nanny for him and his sister.”
While he’d barely leashed his laughter, Olivia sensed no malice in his humor. She went on. “As I was saying, since Luke is already well disposed toward me, and since we agree”—she hoped—“I have the experience needed to cope with children his age, I would like to offer my services as your next nanny.”
As soon as the words left her lips, she felt her middle do a colossal flip, her knees grow weak, her palms dampen again. A sensation that felt suspiciously like a swoon was taking over. Well, she’d never fainted in her life and was not about to try it now. Who would have thought she’d prove such a coward in a situation of such importance? Or so bold as to create a situation that revealed her weakness to begin with? Mercy. What could she have been thinking?
Dear Lord, please…
Although she tried, Olivia couldn’t quite come up with a petition that would express to God what she needed right then.
Silly! What you need is for Mr. Whitman to hire you. And your Almighty Father knows that well enough.
The silence in the room seemed to take on a life of its own. Like a blanket, it surrounded her, covered her, threatened to smother her as she stood before the scrutiny of those blue, blue eyes.
A scrutiny that continued to make her more aware of herself than she’d ever been. What must Mr. Whitman think of her?
And why was he taking so long? Why didn’t he answer?
The longer he took to think, to stare, the closer Olivia came to that threatening swoon, just like one of those weaker women she’d looked down on moments earlier. But she wouldn’t. She couldn’t. No one would hire a swooner to chase after two unruly children. If Luke was anything to go by, she doubted his sister would be the shrinking sort. Olivia had to present a strong, competent front to her potential employer, a man of substance.
“Well, I suppose I would be the nanny, but what I’d like to do is call myself your children’s companion, since it seems they’ve developed quite an aversion to the title itself. I’d like them to see me more as an older acquaintance who has their best interests at heart rather than another of their much-despised nannies. That is if you wouldn’t object. And if you decide to hire me.”
Still, he continued to stare but didn’t respond.
“I suppose…” he said when she was about to explode with anticipation, his words slow and deliberate, drawn out, “you couldn’t do much worse than the ones who came before you.” Olivia breathed yet another prayer, this time aware of the spark of hope in her heart. She thought it best to let the banker think things through without further comment on her part. She doubted he would like to bring a chatterer into his household.
If he hired her.
Before too much longer, he seemed to come to a decision. “Very well, Miss Moore. We can give your suggestion a try. How about if we agree to a trial period? Say… three months?”
Her heart soared. “Oh my, yes! That would be”—she stopped herself before she scared him off with her enthusiasm—“that would be quite appropriate, sir. We should know by sometime in November whether this arrangement will work for all of us.”
“That’s what I think.” He gestured for her to take a seat in the chair across the desk from him, and then pulled up his own large leather chair. “Now, about the details. Let’s begin with your starting date. How soon can you join us?”
“Join you?” Olivia hadn’t dared to dream he would ask her to live
with his family. The arrangement would offer greater relief for her parents.
“Yes, Miss Moore. If you’re to care for the children, you’ll be needed at all hours of the day. I never know when a business meeting will delay me well into the evening hours or when I might need to leave town for a few days… or weeks. You do need to live with our family.” He held out a hand to stop any possible comment. “Please don’t worry about proprieties. I have a housekeeper and cook who also lives with us. You will not be alone in an unmarried man’s home.”
Although she hadn’t thought that far ahead, Olivia felt a great deal of relief at the notion of female companionship in the Whitman home. “That sounds acceptable, sir. I’ll only need a few days to gather my belongings and move into town. How soon would you want me to start?”
“Tomorrow?” The word seemed to burst out unbidden, since as soon as he said it, Mr. Whitman’s eyes widened and he shook his head. “I’m sorry. I’m afraid matters at home have reached the point where I cannot even think clearly. Of course, tomorrow is impossible. How about if you join us in a week or two?”
“A week from today, next Monday, will be fine.”
“Excellent. That would be excellent, indeed.”
Now he seemed as enthusiastic as she had been moments earlier. Olivia took it as a good sign, but until he repeated his agreement, she refused to let her heart soar on just the possibility. “Then we’re agreed, right?”
“Yes, Miss Moore.” Their agreement seemed to bring him a measure of relief. His shoulders relaxed and the fine line across his forehead was no longer visible.
“You have no idea what a blessing your words are, sir. Now that we’ve agreed, I must be on my way. I have a great deal to do before I can come next Monday and take over Luke’s and—” She drew up short. “I’m afraid I don’t know your daughter’s name.”
“Miranda, but we have called her Randy since the start.” His lips took on a wry twist. “Although, since she’s about to turn the ripe old age of thirteen in a few months… well, she’s decided Miranda’s far more appropriate.”
