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

by Baily, Sydney Jane

  “Oh,” she gasped. She was in her shift of the softest white lawn. And with the light in front of her as she led the way, he’d been able to see clearly the shape of her figure from behind. Now he was no doubt getting a good look at the front of her. She blushed scarlet, thrust the lamp into his hands, and disappeared into her room.

  Of course, he had been perfectly respectable, wearing a set of black silk pajamas, even if they did emphasize the firm shape of his muscles when he moved.

  Hearing him go down the stairs, Charlotte leaned against the back of her door, feeling a strange tingling in her stomach . . . and lower. She wondered if she should bother to join him. In a moment, she groped in the dark for her robe and threw it on before heading for the kitchen.

  Reed was already stoking the fire in the wood stove when she entered. She went to the cold storage and took a bottle of milk from where it lay nestled in the ice and straw.

  “Has Thomas been having nightmares long?” she asked, measuring out two cups of the frothy white liquid into a pot. When no answer came, Charlotte looked up at Reed.

  He was taking in her new attire with a disconcerting glance from her head to her feet, which peeked out from beneath the hem. Charlotte wiggled her toes self-consciously until his gaze returned to her face.

  “You’re wearing a banyan,” he remarked, which she thought quite rude.

  “My father’s,” she muttered, smoothing her hands over the outrageous peacock blue silk of her Indian gown, as she called it. There was nothing subtle about the rich purple curlicues woven through the damask, but when her mother’s robe wore out, Charlotte had naturally decided to make use of her father’s morning gown. She had long forgotten such a thing might be considered improper.

  Reed shook his head abruptly as if to break up his thoughts and then addressed her question.

  “I found out about Thomas’s nightmares for the first time on the train. We had a sleeper car from Baltimore,” he continued, as he took the pot from her and set it on the stove. “Lily told me that he has been having them since they moved from their own home to their grandmother’s. Thomas barely knew his father, so his death wasn’t as traumatic.”

  He ran a hand through his hair, making it stand up on top. “Both feel the loss of their mother greatly. I think it’ll just take some time, and they need to feel secure—not as though they’re being shuffled around.”

  His pointed look made her flush again, not with embarrassment this time but with shame. This man had expected her to be that security for them, and she had let them down. Mutely, she pointed to the pot where the milk was starting to bubble, and he turned away. She sighed.

  “The sooner you take them home, Mr. Malloy, the better.”

  “Home!” he echoed, his voice harsh. “They don’t appear to have one at the moment. You know, I didn’t even hesitate when Ann asked me to put you down as their guardian should anything happen to her. In your writings, Miss Sanborn, you seem far more compassionate than you are in person. But perhaps you care more for the plight of unknown farmers than you do for your own family.”

  He poured the steaming milk into two cups and, with another scathing look at her that again took in her ridiculous outfit before resting on her scarlet face, he walked past her down the hallway.

  Charlotte was mortified. She was compassionate! She was just unsuited to . . . to what? she asked herself, leaning her palms against the work table. To being motherly? What about wifely? Couldn’t she love anyone? Couldn’t she reach out and be like other people? Didn’t she need anybody? She thought of her parents, of Thaddeus—her Teddy—and of the years she’d spent alone.

  She straightened. No, she didn’t need anyone. If she did, she would have been crushed years ago and would be a sad, lonely woman even now. And she was not. Not at all. Wearily, she climbed the stairs, pausing only to listen to the voices of Reed and the children. He was telling them a story. A lump rose in her throat. Teddy used to love it when she told him stories—it was something she’d always been good at.

  She hesitated only a moment before going to her bedroom. She was not welcome in the room with her guests, not while the condemning words of Reed Malloy still reverberated in her mind, not while he blamed her for causing Thomas’s nightmares to continue. It was an odd sensation, feeling estranged in her own home.

  *****

  “Mr. Malloy, this is intolerable.” Charlotte had waited until the children went out to explore their new surroundings after breakfast, but she could hold her tongue no longer. “It just caps the climax! You cannot simply show up unannounced—”

  “But we were announced,” he interrupted, moving to the sideboard to fill his coffee cup before sitting down at the dining room table. The remains of eggs, bacon, and potatoes were starting to stick to the plates.

  She sighed. “Granted, you sent me a letter informing me of the decision made by my cousin and telling me that you were coming. I still think it an odd and even unorthodox practice that I was not told of the guardianship when you drew up the will.”

  Reed shrugged. “Ann Connors had assured me that she’d asked you beforehand, which was why my letter may seem indelicate to you now. I suppose she was worried that you would turn her down. Be that as it may, these children are your relations. How can you think of putting them out?”

  His sapphiric eyes bore into hers as if he was personally affronted by her seeming callousness.

  Her fists clenched under the table in frustration. Was the man such a thick-headed coot? She knew she could tell him until she was blue in the face that she was not a suitable parent and he would just blindly carry on trying to enforce her cousin’s wishes. Even his words, attempting to play on her conscience and her sympathies, were nothing short of aggravating.

  “The Randalls thought nothing of putting my family out when my mother married my father,” she told him, thinking of Regina Randall Sanborn’s proud sorrow when she was cut off from her family.

  Indeed, her mother had referred to herself with bitter humor as an orphan on more than one occasion, all because she married “beneath her” according to some outdated class code. No one from the east had ever sent cards of congratulations on Charlotte’s and Thaddeus’s births, nor invited them to be a part of their world.

  “And so you repay the insult by shunning little children?” His eyebrows were up in exaggerated disbelief before forming that infuriatingly straight line of disapproval.

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” she countered. “I merely bring it up to show that . . . that I am not without understanding of their plight, though the circumstances are different. My mother was an adult, marrying a suitable man whom she loved and who loved her back.”

  That was perhaps a slight misrepresentation of the odd and somewhat tempestuous marriage of her parents. “But these are children coming to my care when I am neither skilled in parenting, nor willing to adjust my life for such a reason at this time.”

  “But you raised your brother,” Reed Malloy said quietly.

  Her eyes darted to his. How much did the man know about her anyway? His expression was closed now—no condemnation, no judgment.

  “I was forced to,” she said, her voice sounding dry. She smoothed her napkin between her fingers and swallowed. “We were poor as Job’s turkey, but I did the best I could under the circumstances. I will not be forced again.”

  A wave of melancholy washed over her, and she felt as if, against all reason, she might cry. Resentment over her parents’ death, the hardship she and her brother had endured for so long, the pressure on her at such a young age as she’d struggled to keep them both clothed and fed, and then Teddy leaving her all alone—it had been so difficult.

  Finally, she was moderately successful at the one thing that she cared about and that demanded all her time and concentration—only to find another horrible death had caused the cycle to begin again. Why did she always get the little end of the horn? Why must the lot fall on her to pick up the pieces? But then there was the very real dilemm
a of Thomas and Lily.

  She wanted to have a conniption fit right then and there! Instead, Charlotte stood up, not looking at Reed’s face, which she was sure would hold only contempt for what he thought was outright selfishness. “I have errands I must attend to.”

  She should have returned to her writing, but she couldn’t. Forgetting her bonnet until it was too late to go back for it, she headed to Spring City on foot at a leisurely pace to clear her head. She walked barely noticing where she was, sorting out what adjustments would have to be made if the children stayed, thinking ahead to when they came of age and left her, probably to head east. She knew how that would feel.

  Teddy had left at seventeen, and she had walked around the house for days wondering how she would cope with so much time on her hands, with no one to do for. She had already started writing by then, and she began to spend all her time at that endeavor, submitting to anyone and everyone who would read her work.

  Eventually the hollow feeling had gone away. But the little ones would want her to open her heart again, without reserve—she knew that instinctively.

  Without thinking about where she was going, Charlotte ended up on the opposite end of town, at the cemetery. There was a slight breeze blowing and she could smell the carefully tended grass and the fresh scent of wildflowers that bordered the area.

  Pushing open the white gate of the fence that encircled the grassy plots, she headed for her parents’ graves, buried side by side, as they had lived and died.

  John Sanborn, loving husband and father, and Regina Randall Sanborn, loving wife and mother. That was supposed to say it all, but it didn’t. It didn’t describe the happy times in their home with a fascinating father and a beautiful and elegant mother, a genteel lady from Boston’s highest society.

  Charlotte knew Regina had wanted more out of life than Spring City, for herself and her children, but had loved her husband so much she would make any sacrifice.

  Occasionally, there had been tense moments, Charlotte remembered, especially when her father became increasingly frustrated at his inability to find anything resembling a gold strike or when he secluded himself in his study for what seemed like days on end, reading and writing, until Regina had almost physically hauled him out herself—and even then, he brought a book along.

  But he was a loving husband and father, trying to share what captivated him in the only way he knew how—he read to them and told them stories. Every outing, when they could drag him out, was an adventure.

  And Charlotte had grown up early, as her mother’s only confidant, playing out their own version of society in their little parlor, and as her father’s helpmate, on the occasional times that he brought his young daughter into the study and explained his ideas to her. Those had been relatively carefree times.

  Quietly, Charlotte touched each headstone then hugged her arms around herself before moving a little way off to sit in the shade of a large fir. All around her face, tickling her cheeks, she felt the strands of hair that had fallen out of the untidy knot.

  She started to smooth them, then pulled loose the rest of her long chestnut hair, combing her fingers through the silken skeins to untangle them somewhat while she thought.

  Those times had ended far too soon, when she was just fourteen and Thaddeus only nine. There had barely been time to grieve at first, so great was the shock.

  The sound of hoofbeats brought her out of her morbid thoughts. The sinking feeling in her heart matched the downward curve of her mouth as she looked up and saw Reed Malloy approaching. Perhaps he’d simply pass by into town, she hoped, as she scrunched herself closer to the huge tree. But he looked over and saw her; obviously, he had been searching.

  Charlotte simply watched quietly as he tied up the horse that had pulled the wagon he’d rented only yesterday to bring the children. The next moment, he was striding into the cemetery.

  “Miss Sanborn, are you all right?” He stood close, looking down at her.

  His question surprised her and she lowered her gaze. She had expected him to rail against her for simply walking off, to yell at her that the children were hungry or upset, anything but to worry about her own well-being. It was almost her undoing, as emotions she couldn’t even identify washed over her.

  “I am feeling thoughtful this morning,” she told him finally. How could she explain to him about her anxieties, about the ghosts from the past, or how she feared letting the children into her life? He had already mentioned his own aunts and sisters and a mother when he talked about his cooking—his childhood sounded rich in love and protection and caring.

  She’d learned the previous evening over dinner that his father had also been a lawyer and Reed had naturally followed in his respected footsteps. Robert Malloy had passed away three years earlier. Reed was devoted to his mother, Evelyn, and his sisters. How could he understand that she had carefully created a world of safety in which she needed no one and no one needed her?

  Reed again surprised her by sitting down not more than two feet away.

  “You do look thoughtful,” he told her, “and a trifle sad.”

  She flushed at the gentle tone in his voice, similar to the one he used with the children. Charlotte had not discussed her feelings with anyone since her parents died. This was foreign to her. She looked to their graves and he followed her glance.

  “Your parents?” he asked.

  She nodded but said nothing.

  “I’m sorry if our arrival has brought up memories of your own parents’ deaths. I know you understand what Lily and Thomas are going through—better than I ever could.”

  His eyes were so brilliant and blue as they looked on her, and she knew they could bestow the gentlest of looks as well as the most scathing. Such intelligent eyes, behind which she knew he would reason that because she understood how the children felt, she more than anyone should want to take them in—unless she were cold and heartless.

  Yet his voice sounded anything but condemning. She took a deep breath.

  “My parents died of cholera when I was a young woman.”

  “Perhaps not quite a woman,” he offered.

  She shrugged, then added, “Fourteen years old. It is as clear to me now as if it had happened yesterday. The cholera epidemic swept through Spring City so quickly. My parents were in town when the quarantine was put in place. They had already been infected by a serving girl at the restaurant where they’d dined that night.”

  She took a deep breath so she could speak evenly. “It was their wedding anniversary. Doc Cuthins sent a message to me and to all the homesteads outside of town to stay away.”

  She looked toward the town, feeling as if she could see through the years. “The next message that came, just three days later, said both my parents were dead. They died within half an hour of each other.” She stopped, wondering at her own outpouring of words on a subject that normally stayed buried deep inside her.

  “I’m truly sorry.” He reached out and touched her—just a momentary brush along her hand, but it brought her out of her reverie and she focused again on his face.

  “It must have been terrible for you and your brother. I remember when the cholera epidemic swept through Boston. I was very young, but no one who lived through it could ever forget the summer of ‘54. I lost an aunt and uncle. I can remember all those treatments they tried: first the laudanum then the acetate, the morphine, even red peppers. Nothing helped.”

  “No, nothing,” she agreed. It had been a nightmare, but it was behind her now—except that the untimely death of Ann Connors was bringing it all up again

  The thought of becoming a surrogate parent once more reminded her of the struggles and the hard times and then, the inevitable loneliness, which she had coped with by developing a self-sufficient attitude to match her opinionated manner. And she would not put her writing on hold again; it was the only thing that had kept her sane.

  She looked him squarely in the eye. “I do understand Thomas’s nightmares and Lily’s quiet, solem
n stares,” she told him, her voice as soft as the slight breeze that lifted the strands of hair off her shoulders.

  Reed raised his hand—perhaps to take hold of hers or to touch one of those errant locks—Charlotte didn’t wait to find out. She flinched away in the same instant and then stood up abruptly. She turned her back on him, taking the few steps toward her parents’ graves.

  “I understand that what the children need is a warm, secure home and a heart full of love and generosity to make their own hearts the same way.” She clasped her hands, realizing that they were trembling and unsure of the reason why.

  “And can’t they find that here?” So silently he had approached from behind that she jumped slightly at his deep voice inches from her ear.

  She didn’t trust herself to speak for there again was that urge to cry. A lump sat solidly in her throat. A part of her cried out silently that it was her turn to be given a home and love. Didn’t she deserve that, too? In the end, she only shook her head.

  “I believe you are wrong, Miss Sanborn. I think you have a world of love to give.” She felt his hands on her shoulders—warm, strong hands that turned her to face him. He looked into her overly bright eyes, shining like green emeralds, and smiled. “I know you are capable of that love, even if you haven’t realized it yet.”

  The timbre of his voice was shaking her very soul, and the blue spark in his eyes seemed to have lit a fire deep within her in that instant of standing so close and of touching and speaking of love. For she felt a warmth start in the pit of her stomach, and it heated up as it spread through her.

  She knew in that instant that all the years of feeling proud of her self-sufficient isolation were a sham. She was a coward, afraid to love because of the pain that it caused. Afraid, indeed, of this exact feeling that encompassed her now.

  God help her—to love and be loved was what she wanted more than anything else in the world if only she could conquer the fear. She held her breath as the swirl of knowledge and sensations coursed through her mind and her body at his nearness.