by Ginny Aiken
“Shall we pray?” Olivia said.
The children bowed their heads while she asked the Lord’s blessing over their meal, but then, once they’d said their amens, neither one of the youngsters bothered to take a bite. Olivia didn’t follow their example, whatever the reason for their odd behavior. She ate.
Simple, true, but quite edible.
After slow minutes went by, Olivia broke down. “Is something wrong? Is there a reason neither one of you is eating tonight?”
Randy scraped her chair away from the table. “I can’t bear it! Not one more bite of this tedious, wearisome food. I’d rather… um… expire than be bored with this kind of meal again.”
While Olivia was pleased to see Bountiful’s teacher was earning her salary when it came to the children’s vocabulary lessons, she had a time controlling her amusement. Randy Whitman was nothing if not dramatic.
When she turned to Luke, his sly expression caught her by surprise. “Do you agree with your sister?” In her experience with boys his age, they weren’t picky about their food. They simply wanted plenty of it, and often.
He blinked, then nodded. “Sure. Cooky always makes potatoes and hard meat in soupy stuff and other mushy white things.” He scooped up a spoonful of hominy and let it plop back down. “Like this.”
She couldn’t argue with Luke or Randy’s assessment. The meals she’d shared with them had all been… well, bland and boring. Cooky seemed to lack inspiration in the kitchen, something Olivia had never experienced before, since Mama excelled at cookery. She’d have to give the matter some thought.
“It’s not bad enough to chase you away,” she said, stabbing a fork into a still-tough piece of beef. Or was it pork? She couldn’t tell.
Luke rolled his eyes again. “I s’pose.”
While this response echoed his earlier comment, he did start in on his meal. Before long, he swiped at his mouth with his napkin, pushed his chair back, and headed for the door.
“It’s polite to ask to be excused,” Olivia said in a gentle tone.
He shoved his hands in his pockets, that sly expression on his face again. “So, c’n I be?”
“Of course. I’ll stop by your room to see how you’re doing with your schoolwork.” But before she finished her words, he darted out.
Olivia took a final sip of water, dabbed her lips with her napkin, and pushed away from the table. Then she stood.
At least, she tried.
To her dismay, she found herself stuck to the chair. She twisted, turned, then braced herself against the table and pushed up. The chair came with her. A heartbeat later, it dropped to the floor with a loud thunk, throwing her off balance. She banged her knee, an elbow, and worst of all, her ribs and head against the table.
“Oooh…”
Refusing to let a chair get the better of her, Olivia blinked the tears from her eyes, grasped the chair with both hands, and pushed it away. It let go of her skirt with sticky reluctance. Once freed and fighting the stinging pain, she righted the chair to see what had caused her problems.
Sure enough, a thick gloss of what looked—and smelled—like honey covered the wooden seat. Fury threatened, but her bumped head hurt more than her bruised dignity, so she rubbed the spot, wincing when strands of hair stuck to the minuscule amount of sweetener her fingers had picked up.
A snicker sounded from beyond the door.
Another prank, of course.
No wonder the other nannies had fled this madhouse. After the unpleasant attitudes, the welcoming grasshopper, and now this, Olivia was hard-pressed to keep from heading for the door and running until she made it home in time to kiss her sisters before they crawled into bed. But she was responsible for these children. No matter what they did.
She followed the chuckles, her sore knee making her limp. There, she found Luke, arms around his middle, trying to muffle his laughter.
Before she could speak, Cooky stomped out of the kitchen, a tin pail in her plump hand. “And, pray tell, what have you done with this whole new pail of honey, Lucas, my boy? It’s a sweet tooth you’re after having, but not nearly half this bad ever before.”
Olivia’s knee gave way as she turned to face the cook. She groaned.
“Uh-oh,” Luke said.
“What’s wrong, miss?” the older woman asked, alarm in her voice, disapproval on her face. “I’ll be having you know, we don’t cotton with tipsy folks around here, we don’t.”
Drawing herself up to her full height in spite of the pain, Olivia donned a thin smile. “I’m so very glad to hear that, Cooky. I fully agree with you. I… had an accident with the… furniture.”
“Oh, dear!” She dropped the pail and stepped up to Olivia, wrapping an arm around her waist. “Here, child, and let me be helping you to a chair in the parlor, now. I’m thinking, and we should be a-fetching Doc, don’t you know?”
“Oh, no. That won’t be necessary. I’m sore, but I’m sure I’ll be fine soon.” She turned to Luke, whose eyes had widened in dismay. “I can’t take a seat anywhere until I change. I do seem to have found the missing honey.”
“Really, miss? And just how would that be?”
“It found its way from the pail onto the seat of my chair. When I tried to stand, my skirt was stuck in it.”
Cooky let go and plunked her fists on her rounded hips. “Lucas Whitman! Have you not learned yet, my boy? Your papa will be after switching you, I’m sure.”
“Before we let Mr. Whitman know about the traveling honey,” Olivia told the cook, “Luke has a mess to clean off that chair. Could you please see he has a soapy cloth, Cooky? A bowl of clean water and a dry towel, as well. In the meantime, I’ll go upstairs and change.”
“Aw… really?” Luke headed for the stairs. “Do I hafta? I didn’t mean nothing by it, Miss Olivia. Weren’t my fault your clothes stuck. Honey’s kinda sticky, you know.”
“As do you, Luke. I believe you need a reminder about actions and consequences. Please go with Cooky to fetch the things you need to clean the chair. I’ll be right down to check on your progress.”
“You won’t tell Papa if I clean the chair, right?”
“It depends on how well you cooperate from now until he comes home.”
“Aw…” He shuffled away behind Cooky. “Ain’t no fun at all.”
Perhaps cooperation wouldn’t be fun, but if she persuaded him to work with her, Olivia might find a bit of peace. And the boy might learn a valuable lesson.
She started her hobble up the stairs.
Please, Lord, just a bit of peace.
Chapter 7
On Friday afternoon, as Olivia walked the children home from school, she noticed a group of boys, among them Luke’s partners in pig rustling, following them down Main Street. Every few steps, one or another hissed at her charge.
When they were only steps away from the Whitman house, one of the ruffians called out in a sing-song voice. “Luke is a sissy.”
Another added, “Walks home with gurrrls!”
A quick glance revealed a mortified Luke, his face flushed, even to his ears. At the taunt, he ran into the house, slamming the door in his wake. Olivia and Randy followed at a more respectable pace.
Although she’d established the successful snack routine in the days since she’d come to the Whitman house, Luke didn’t show up when it came time to eat. Olivia felt bad for him, but she had agreed with his father to walk the children home from school to prevent any mischief.
Still, there had to be something she could do to ease the apparent disgrace he felt her presence brought down upon him. What should she do?
Thinking of her brothers, an idea took form. Every boy she knew loved the outdoors. Most of them also loved fishing. While she didn’t know if the season was right, she decided to take Luke and his band of would-be bandits to the nearby creek the next day. As a further bribe, she would bring along a fine picnic. How she would persuade Cooky to go along with her plans, she didn’t know quite yet. She prayed for inspiration.
At Luke’s closed bedroom door, she knocked, expecting no response. “I’d like to invite you to an adventure tomorrow,” she said. “How would you like to go fishing? You can bring your friends, too.”
“Fishing?” His voice came through muffled by the door.
“Yes. Have you gone before?”
“Nah. Not really.”
“Would you like to?”
“You go fishing?”
She hadn’t in a few years, but she knew her way around tackle and hooks. “Um-hm.”
He opened the door a crack. “And Jonny and Albert and Tommy and Daniel can come?”
Five boys. Was she up to the challenge?
It didn’t matter. She had to be. “I told you they could. Would you like to go invite them?”
Suspicion narrowed his eyes. “You coming with me?”
“I have some errands to run, so we can start out together, but as long as you stay close enough and don’t go looking for mischief, you can ask your friends on your own.”
He agreed, and while Olivia stopped at the Mercantile for string and hooks, Luke went from friend’s house to friend’s house. All the boys, clearly intrigued by the thought of a lady who would go fishing, accepted Luke’s invitation.
In the morning, she shocked the boy even more when she took him outside just after dawn to dig in the earth for worms. It wasn’t spring, so they only found two sad specimens, but they would do. In a pinch, so would small bits of bread.
Which led her to Cooky. Olivia still had to persuade the woman.
However, the episode with the honey must have had an impact on her, and when Olivia offered to prepare the lunch for the boys, Cooky offered no objection. She helped Olivia pack cold slices of last night’s fricasseed chicken, a hunk of cheese, thick slabs of bread, sweet butter, and six juicy pears. They also prepared a large bottle of tea, chilled and sweetened with the remaining honey. Pickled cucumbers found their way into another small jar, and together with the utensils, the women tucked it all into a large woven willow basket. All in all, a feast.
The outing proved a roaring success. Olivia stunned the boys with her lack of squeamishness around the worms, especially when she set them on the hooks. Then, when she opened the picnic basket and handed out the treasure, she had them all smiling and munching.
While they didn’t catch a single fish, everyone had a splendid time, and each boy thanked her for the afternoon when she herded them toward town. Buoyed by her success, Olivia led her new friends home to wash up and sit in time for dinner. As a fitting end to a successful day, Luke flabbergasted Cooky when he thanked her for the picnic lunch.
Then Sunday morning arrived. Olivia awoke, happy to head for church and thankful for the opportunity to greet her family after the service. She gathered clean bloomers, petticoat, her navy blue jacket and gray flannel skirt, and humming a hymn, she slipped her right leg, still sporting a nasty bruise from the chair, into her bloomers.
Her leg stopped when it reached the end of the fabric. It had become solidly shut at the bottom.
Dismayed, she checked the other leg and found it similarly altered. She turned to her petticoat, shook it out, and found the side seams neatly taken out. The pieces of fabric hung in flapping independence, quite useless to her.
With no alternative, she donned the garments she’d used the day before, even though they were less than fresh after the fishing expedition. While it seemed she’d thawed the air a bit with the cook, and appeared to have conquered one child, she still had a ways to go.
This was Randy’s doing. How would she win the girl?
Two weeks. Two long weeks away from home, and Eli had no idea how things were going. Although he felt the need to travel, to bring further investment to Bountiful, he feared what kind of trouble his two wild offspring might find in his absence. After all, they never failed to cause mischief while he was around, trying to control them. But when he walked into his house, trepidation in his heart, wondering what he’d find this time, the house echoed with the peaceful hum of normal domesticity. From the kitchen at the back of the home he heard the clanging of pots and kettles, the welcome sound of food preparation. Then, as he hung his hat on the hall tree, a merry laugh rang out upstairs. His son appeared to be in a pleasant mood.
As he often did after work, Eli stepped into the kitchen, drawn by the scent of food close to ready to eat. His stomach rumbled, even though he suspected he’d be served the same kind of plain, bland food Cooky prepared on a regular basis.
“Hello there, Cooky. I must say, the smells are a pleasant welcome home.”
The widow, who’d been a fixture in his household since Miranda was a babe in arms, blushed. “Ah, Mr. Eli! It’s but a joy to work for you. A widow-woman doesn’t have many choices, and you’re a decent man.” Cooky flapped a small white towel at him. “Get going and clean up now, Mr. Eli, sir. I have plenty to do yet, if you’re wanting me to serve your supper soon, that is.”
Eli chuckled on his way out of the kitchen. But as he ascended the stairs, a dervish barreled past him, a dervish with a strong resemblance to his son. He narrowly avoided the collision.
“Whoa, there! And where might you be off to in such a hurry, Lucas?”
The boy came to a complete stop. “Oh! Hello, Papa. I’m hungry, and I hafta see how long Cooky’s going to keep us waiting.”
“Did Miss Moore send you?”
Luke’s forehead crinkled. “Miss Moore? Why would she send me to the kitchen? Nah. I’m jist hungry.” He stepped down toward the end of the hall. “Um… it’s nice you’re home. And… well, I s’pose I’ll see you at the table.”
Before Luke disappeared into Cooky’s domain, Eli offered a word of friendly advice. “If you think you’re going to wheedle a morsel to tide you over until Cooky serves, then you’re mighty mistaken, son.”
Luke stopped then and rolled his eyes. “You jist don’t know how to do it right, Papa. I always get snacks from her. She says I’m hungry ’cuz I’m a growing boy, and need every bite she can get into me.”
Again, Eli laughed as he resumed his way to his room. “You’re one step ahead of me, son,” he said as Luke opened the kitchen door. “You are a growing boy. I’m not. Enjoy whatever you manage to cadge from her.”
There was a lot to be said for coming home to a happy child. Eli couldn’t remember the last time he’d returned after work and not found yet another complaint about Luke.
As he walked into his room, Eli whistled a lilting tune and allowed himself a smile. He hung up his jacket, loosened his tie, and then approached the washstand between the tall wardrobe and the window. As usual, Cooky had filled the pitcher with fresh water. Years ago, Eli had developed the habit of washing away the troubles of the day, and it never failed to help him relax upon coming home.
A short while later, when Cooky rang the bell to announce that the supper table had been set, Eli hurried down. To his surprise, he was the last one to arrive at the dining room. Miss Moore, lovely in a crisp, long-sleeved white blouse with a plum-colored ribbon at the throat, stood by a chair. Randy, still girlish in her yellow dress, and Luke, the image of mischief with his hair in its usual tousled mess, were already seated and waiting for him. The silence sat thick and tense over everyone, and the expression on Randy’s face was enough to curdle the glass of milk the cook had already set before her. Eli sighed.
He pulled out the chair at the head of the table, opened his napkin, and covered his lap. Turning to Miss Moore, who still stood by her chair, he gestured for her to sit. “It’s good to see you,” he said. “Please, join us.”
“Are you certain, sir?” she asked. “I… I can eat just as well in the kitchen.”
“I thought we’d covered this on your first day. I prefer for you to join us.”
She hesitated, then nodded and took her seat.
Moments later, Cooky bustled into the dining room and set a large white tureen on the table; Eli asked the Lord’s blessing; Miss Moore and the children said t
heir amens; and then he ladled up bowls of what appeared to be potato and dried beef stew, one of Cooky’s most frequent offerings. As he glanced around the table the tension assaulted him. He picked up a slice of Cooky’s excellent bread, and breathed a prayer. He asked the Lord to show him how to turn the situation around, since he didn’t have any idea how to do so.
The only thing he knew was that deep sense of certainty when he looked at Miss Moore. The way she’d taken charge of Luke before gave him hope. He sincerely hoped his faith in her wasn’t misplaced.
Hours after he’d gone to sleep, Eli was yanked awake by an earsplitting clang and clatter outside in the hall. He bounded out of bed, smoothed down his nightshirt on his way out, and struck a match to light the oil lamp on the table next to the door.
His lamp illuminated an unexpected scene. The door to Miss Moore’s bedroom stood partially open, a couple of tin pails littered the hall, and his new nanny lay on the floor propped on her elbows and wearing a frustrated expression. Utter silence filled the darkened house.
Which in itself said a lot.
No one could have slept through the din. His children were awake, he was sure. And yet… neither one had come to investigate.
While he knew he’d have to discipline Luke and Randy, he had to see to Miss Moore first. He knelt at her side, setting the oil lamp on the floor close by. Its golden glow illuminated her face, the even features pale at the moment, and her rich, golden brown eyes, wide with shock. Her lips, most often in a cheerful smile, were clamped tight, the edges white from the pressure.
In spite of all that, the most inappropriate thought crossed Eli’s mind. Miss Olivia Moore was indeed a beautiful woman.
Long seconds passed, and then, she began to move. Eli called himself all kinds of fool. The lady had fallen, and here he’d been admiring her instead of offering a helpful hand.
“Are you hurt?” he hurried to say.
She shook her head, her lips clenched tight. “As is often said, only my dignity.”
