An Improper Situation (Sanborn-Malloy Historical Romance Series, Book One)

by Baily, Sydney Jane

  “Eventually, it has to be prepared,” he mentioned dryly.

  She nodded at that. “Well, then, Mr. Malloy, help yourself.” She crossed her arms. He blinked at her.

  “Please,” she continued, “since you already seem to consider my home yours and the children’s, consider my kitchen your kitchen as well. Besides, about the only thing I can make is Indian pudding, and I doubt you bought molasses. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got work to do.”

  Not waiting for an answer, she headed down the hall quickly, her face feeling flushed and her ears perked waiting for the sound of his steps behind her. They came but went right past her study door and up the stairs.

  There was silence for a moment followed by Reed Malloy’s voice in what Charlotte could only describe as a bellow: “Miss Sanborn, would you please come up here a moment?”

  She sighed. It was beyond the pale. What had happened now?

  “Yes,” she began as she entered the room that used to be her parents’ bedroom, but stopped short at the sight of the children, still in their clothes sitting quietly on the bed looking, if possible, even more miserable than before.

  Just then a yawn split open Thomas’s mouth, and Lillian stifled one of her own with her small, white hand. There were circles under their eyes and a slight paleness to their skin.

  Charlotte frowned. “I thought they were going to wash up and take a nap. They look positively peaked,” she added.

  Reed looked at her as if she were the stupidest person he’d ever met. “Did it not occur to you that they need assistance with their clothes, with the hot water, with turning down the bed? Miss Sanborn, even you must be able to see that they are small children in need of some kindness and consideration, if not motherly tender love and care.”

  He finished on a harsh tone and Charlotte pursed her lips. “I will do my best to assist you, in taking care of them,” she said pointedly, “for the time that you are all here. What do you want me to do?”

  She avoided looking at the children, whom she was sure would be staring at her as if she were a monster from one of their fairy tales. Her brother had been like a marten or a gopher—always grubby but able to do for himself. It simply had not occurred to her that they would want a hot bath rather than just washing their hands and faces.

  With her small offering of help, however, the tension eased, and Charlotte soon was working side-by-side with Reed Malloy. The children seemed to have more intricate layers to their clothing than she and Thaddeus ever had, and she could see why they needed help to undress.

  Meanwhile, Mr. Malloy heated water downstairs and in a moment, transformed himself from a well-dressed Boston lawyer into a regular washerwoman, rolling up his sleeves and preparing to bathe the boy.

  Not that he could ever be considered regular or ordinary, Charlotte thought, not with his striking profile. And then there were his well-defined muscles, which Charlotte was seeing evidence of as he wrestled Thomas into submission with one strong arm while scrubbing him with the other. She sat on the bathroom rug with Lillian while Reed soaped Thomas all over.

  There were many stray suds flying around the bathing room, a few slips in the claw-foot tub, and even some laughter. Charlotte noticed Reed’s gentleness that shone through his strength, as he tried to keep the whole affair from dissolving into chaos.

  Once Thomas was out of the tub, Reed picked him up and vacated the room. Charlotte pushed her worry over her deadline into the back of her mind and then gingerly helped the girl with her bath. When they were done, she put Lillian into the bed next to an already-sleeping Thomas and followed Reed out of the room, closing the door behind her.

  “Nothing will do them better than that nap,” Reed said without turning. Charlotte looked at his broad, muscled back. Unfortunately, his tone was once more one of irritation. A sigh escaped her. Being with people was downright draining.

  His face as it turned to her held none of the tenderness she’d witnessed for the children. Instead, the coldness had reentered his sharp glance despite her assistance with their bathing.

  “I’ll let you get to your work, Miss Sanborn, and I’ll see about the supper.”

  She hesitated. “Do you really know how to do that?”

  He looked surprised, his expression softening. “What? Cook?”

  “Well, yes. Most men . . . that is, I don’t think I know of any around here who could do for themselves. But then, my circle of male acquaintances isn’t that large. Still . . .,” she shut her mouth to stop the babble.

  “I assure you, Miss Sanborn, I can cook—not a great number of dishes, but a limited repertoire learned at the insistence of my mother, two aunts, and three sisters who were determined to enlighten me when I would have preferred to spend my whole day playing outside. Shall we go down?” His tone seemed to have softened, too.

  She nodded and swept past him feeling foolish for having questioned him. As for his “limited repertoire,” she had no doubt that it was wider and better than her own. At the bottom of the stairs, she hesitated again, but he simply went past her into the kitchen without inviting or asking for her help.

  She shrugged. Well, it was what she wanted. She returned to her study, closed the door, and forced herself to concentrate. Despite the distractions, the piece on the farmers’ recent political gatherings was going well. She dove into it and forgot all else.

  That is, until the grandfather clock in the hall chimed, letting her know that nearly two hours had passed. She heard Reed Malloy call up the stairs, “Supper, you sleepy heads. Last one at the table does the dishes.” She heard his step outside her door, but he paused only a moment before continuing to the kitchen, followed moments later by what sounded like a herd of bison coming full chisel down her stairway.

  So, she was not to be invited to this repast in her own home. And the smells coming from the kitchen made her stomach start to pang with hunger. Her last real meal had been noontime the day before at the Fuller Hotel dining room in town. This morning she’d had nothing more than a tinned biscuit. She looked hopefully into the tin perched on the edge of her desk. Empty, as was she.

  Charlotte could hide in her study and starve to death or go out and ask to join them. After all, it was her kitchen. The alternative was to drive into town—but that would look ridiculous to her visitors.

  She pushed aside the strand of hair that was always falling out of the knot and stood up. Land sakes, she hated being humble.

  She didn’t bother going to the kitchen. Charlotte could hear them in the dining room, her dining room. Not that she minded, not that she ever used it. In fact, it made her think of being very young and of adults and white lace tablecloths and fine china.

  She remembered her mother making her and her brother be on their best behavior, even though their father sat with his nose in a book and, much to her mother’s annoyance, didn’t even notice when Thaddeus dropped his peas on the rug.

  Charlotte pushed the door open quietly, trying to shake off those old thoughts. Her glance quickly took it all in: Reed Malloy at one end of the table, her mother’s end, still in his shirt sleeves, and the children on either side now dressed more casually for having dressed themselves.

  He was serving them mashed potatoes from her grandmother’s pink-flowered china bowl; it looked absurdly feminine and fragile in his large hands. Thomas was talking animatedly about the animals he’d seen from the train window during the trip.

  Reed looked up after a second and saw her. Thomas froze mid-word and his sister turned around to see what could have caused the disruption. Charlotte felt as though she were an intruder and would have turned around and fled, but Reed stood up and smiled at her.

  “Won’t you join us, Miss Sanborn?” He gestured to the chair opposite him as if he were inviting her to his table.

  “Yes, thank you, if you’re sure there’s enough.”

  She was painfully aware that she hadn’t helped cook the food, nor had she paid for it.

  “Certainly. I would have a
sked you earlier, but I didn’t want to disturb your work.” He sounded genuinely gracious to Charlotte’s ears. “Please, sit down. Will you have some baked ham and succotash?”

  She did, and helped herself also to a cool glass of ginger beer from the pitcher on the table. Reed’s culinary abilities were unquestionably beyond her own.

  “This is a huckleberry above a persimmon,” Charlotte told him honestly.

  He froze with his fork halfway to his mouth. “Thank you, I think.” When she smiled warmly, he shrugged and remarked, “It’s plain New England fare,” leaving Charlotte to wonder what fancy fare might mean to him.

  “Well, thank the Lord it’s not calf’s head,” she returned into the silence that followed. Reed broke out laughing, while Charlotte blushed at her own outspokenness—some locals might say blasphemy—at denouncing a local favorite. A loud “ugh” came from Thomas, who forgot to close his mouth as he chewed.

  As for the company, Charlotte was pleasantly surprised. The children were well-behaved and interesting, after they got over their initial shyness. Thomas even offered to tell her about his room in Boston.

  “Oh, how boring for Aunt Charlotte,” Lillian cut him off. The little girl had already taken to calling her that sometime between the dishing out of the mashed potatoes and the passing of the bread. Charlotte found it startling but not altogether unpleasant, and considered, as she chewed thoughtfully, that these children were actually her flesh and blood.

  “Nonsense, Lily, let your brother tell me about his room. I’m sure you had a lovely home in Boston.”

  “Oh, yes, Aun’ Charlie,” Thomas said, trying out her name for himself, “much bigger and prettier than this.”

  Lily gasped, appalled as any eight-year-old little girl could be at her younger brother’s manners, but Charlotte only laughed, having never had delusions of grandeur concerning her parents’ homestead. Also, there was the odd warmth in her chest when Thomas inadvertently used the nickname her own brother always called her.

  Catching Reed Malloy’s glance, she received a friendly wink from him. Charlotte felt a blush creep up her face, and was pleased that Reed excused himself to fetch the dessert of fresh berries and cream.

  In truth, she couldn’t remember when she had enjoyed a meal more, but didn’t think it prudent to say this to her guests lest they decide that was enough to make them all stay permanently.

  Supper over, Charlotte helped stack all the dirty plates in a pile and carry the leftovers to the kitchen. Then she started down the hall to her study.

  “Excuse me, Miss Sanborn,” Reed Malloy began, coming out of the kitchen after her, “there is the matter of the dishes.”

  She opened her mouth to protest, but then Thomas came out, too.

  “Last at table,” the little boy said, pointing at her.

  Charlotte looked from Reed to Thomas. She could hardly refuse in front of the little boy and she could tell by the slight smile on Reed’s face that he knew it.

  Reed shrugged. “It’s only fair,” but his look told her that he was enjoying her dismay. Soon, she was in the kitchen, up to her elbows in soap suds scrubbing the dishes and the pots. She’d forgotten how much preparation a seemingly simple meal could take by the look of all the dirtied dishes. She turned at Reed Malloy’s footsteps.

  “Do you want me to finish?” he offered, but Charlotte thought it was without much enthusiasm. It was perfectly fair that she do something for benefiting from the delicious food and she told him so. He gave her a genuine smile and she though it quite effective at making the heat rise in her cheeks.

  She shook her head and turned to the sudsy water, hearing him take a seat at the kitchen table. All her nerve endings seemed acutely aware of his presence behind her, making her all-overish again.

  “Where are the children?” she asked into the silence, hearing him pour himself a cup of freshly brewed coffee.

  “In your parlor, reading. I’ve started a fire.”

  “Reading?” Charlotte echoed, somewhat surprised. She went on scrubbing thoughtfully.

  “Yes, Miss Sanborn, they do read. At least Lily reads and Thomas follows along. Though they’re not yet ready for your articles.”

  “Speaking of which,” she said, suddenly feeling hurried, “I’d better get to it or my editor’s going to have something highly disagreeable to say to me at the end of the week.” She rinsed off the last dish and stood it on the counter with the rest before reaching for a towel.

  “Here, I’ll dry,” Reed offered, smoothly taking the towel from her grasp, their fingers touching for the briefest second. She looked up into his face, startled by the energy in this one man, not only glittering in the depths of his blue eyes but almost—she would swear it was true—sparking off his fingertips where they touched her. Charlotte moved away quickly.

  “Pour yourself some coffee,” Reed suggested, picking up the first dish, “and tell me about your work before you go.”

  He propped his lean hips against the counter and began to rub the plate with the small white tea towel. For the first time that Charlotte could remember, instead of feeling sure about her ability and proud to discuss her work, she felt awkward. All she knew was that she didn’t want to appear foolish in front of this man who was obviously interested and waiting.

  She dropped her eyes from his, grabbed herself a mug, and poured a steaming cupful. “Hmm, chicory,” she said as the coffee’s aroma reached her nostrils. He nodded.

  “Well, the story as I know it and as I’m telling it is that the farmers’ small gatherings are becoming larger and more political. Are you aware of the Grange, Mr. Malloy?”

  “I’ve heard of it, The Patrons of Husbandry, but they’re not exactly active in the heart of Boston.”

  “No, I don’t suppose they are, but they might just start to make their impact felt as far as your fair city. They seem to be gaining power in regulating railroad rates, and it is my opinion that it’s about time. After all, you, in the east, need their crops; they need to get them to you; the railroad needs to survive but by fair rates, not by gouging and abusing the farmers.”

  Charlotte went on reeling off facts and figures until Reed had finished all the drying. He had the grace to look impressed and Charlotte realized she was still standing by the door.

  “I hope you won’t think it rude if I close the study door again. I’ll leave you to see to Lily and Thomas,” she added.

  “We won’t disturb you anymore tonight.” It didn’t sound to her as if there was any condemnation in his words.

  “Well, then, Mr. Malloy, I’ll bid you goodnight. Thank you for the fine meal, and for the coffee,” she saluted him with her mug.

  “Anytime, lady writer,” she heard him murmur as she left the room. She should be annoyed, but, in truth, she felt a little thrill run through her at his words. From someone else, she would think them patronizing, but Reed Malloy seemed to offer them as a genuine tribute.

  As she settled in behind her desk, Charlotte mused on the fact that the warmth she felt was not just from the coffee. It came as well from the innate feeling of peace and security of having another living being—three of them—in the house with her.

  She had missed this feeling when Thaddeus left and then forgotten it, but now that it had returned, she welcomed the sweet remembrance and thought perhaps she’d try to make the most of this unexpected visit from Reed Malloy and his two charges.

  That was what she thought until all hell broke loose around one o’clock in the morning.

  Chapter Three

  Charlotte was out of bed and on her feet before she was completely awake. Her heart was pounding uncomfortably and her hand shook as she fumbled to light her bedside lamp, before covering it with its glass chimney. Then she heard the scream again, followed by Lily’s voice, yelling.

  Charlotte threw open her bedroom door and bounded down the hallway, colliding with Reed Malloy. She felt herself bounce off of his hard chest, and she nearly dropped the oil lamp.

  �
�What in blazes is going on?” she asked, as they responded to the commotion coming from the children’s room. “The children are waking snakes!”

  “Thomas has nightmares,” Reed explained, as he threw open the children’s door. Charlotte took the scene in instantly over Reed’s shoulder, her lamp illuminating the children. Lily was kneeling on the bed, yelling at her little brother who was thrashing around in the bed clothes. He screamed again.

  Reed was beside him in an instant. He took hold of both of Thomas’s shoulders and raised the boy to a sitting position. He shook him gently. Before long, the little boy was awake, blinking with large, startled eyes. Then Lily hugged her brother.

  “Was it the same?” Charlotte heard the little girl ask. Thomas nodded, and the two of them curled together, snuggling down in the sheets. It tugged at her heart. How much harder it must be for them to lose their parents than it had been for her. She had been six years older than Lily and had not been carted halfway across the United States to a stranger’s house. Only to find themselves unwanted, she thought, the guilt welling up in her at once.

  They seemed all right on the surface, but, of course, inside, they must be vulnerable and bewildered. And they looked so small in the middle of the four-poster bed.

  “Is there anything I can get you?” she asked, still clutching the light in front of her as if it were a beacon. Thomas yelled ice cream and Lily giggled. Charlotte was amazed at their resiliency.

  “I was thinking more along the lines of warm milk,” she offered.

  “I think that would be a good idea,” Reed agreed, turning to strike a match, which he held steadily to the wick of their bedside lamp. A soft, amber glow filled the room.

  Reed followed Charlotte out into the hallway.

  “You might catch cold going downstairs dressed like that,” Reed said as she reached the top of the stairs.

  She turned to him, saw where his gaze was falling and looked down.