Always in My Dreams (9 page)

Baileyboro, New York

Walker Caide poked his head into the hallway from the parlor. There were three women sitting on padded benches in the foyer. Only two of them looked up. The third, the one whose bonnet could not quite hide a beacon of startling red hair, kept her eyes on her lap. Was she daydreaming? he wondered, or merely shy? Uninterested, or deaf? Perhaps she had given up hope. The women who were staring at him had anxious eyes, fidgeting hands, and uncertain yet eager-to-please smiles.

It was the same posture, the same nervousness, the same hint of desperation that he had witnessed all morning. Until now, the parade of women seeking a position with Jonathan Parnell had seemed endless. Walker couldn't recall specific faces or fashions. Neither did he remember particular women for their age or experience or marital status. What he could not forget was their common need for work. Thus far, none had left the old mansion with any promise of it.

Ducking his head back into the parlor, he turned on Parnell. "You've three left to choose from. You do plan on hiring someone today, don't you?"

"I thought I would," he replied. He fanned the resumes and letters of reference in his right hand like playing cards and studied them. "None of the applicants seems quite as right in person as she does on paper. I'm not so hopeful as I was this morning."

"Perhaps if you told me what it is you're looking for," Walker said. He tried not to sound impatient. He'd asked the question earlier and received no concrete answer. He didn't really expect one now. "There hasn't been one woman interviewed who wasn't qualified for the position."

Parnell nodded. "That's true. But no one's really stood out, has she? Each one's like the next. And we have to think of Mrs. Reading. The housekeeper has to be able to work with her."

Corina Reading was Parnell's cook. She didn't come with the house, but one could be forgiven for thinking so, such was her proprietary nature. "If you didn't want to disappoint Mrs. Reading, you should have let her conduct the interviews."

"But then she might have disappointed me," Parnell said gravely. "It's very much a two-way street, don't you see?"

Walker didn't see much of anything. He held his thoughts in check. There was nothing to be gained by taking his employer on. It was, after all, a concession on Parnell's part that Walker was permitted to sit in on the interviews. It took only a brief reminder of the threats on Parnell's life to make Walker's argument a convincing one.

A lock of tawny brown hair fell across Walker's forehead. He raked it back and waited for Parnell's directions.

"Bring in Miss Staplehurst first," Parnell said, making a sudden decision. "Let's see what she's about."

* * *

Skye Dennehy knew she didn't want the position any longer. She'd known it almost the minute she'd taken her seat with the other hopefuls in the foyer. A single glance at her rivals for the job told all she needed to know about who really needed work and who didn't.

She considered getting up and leaving right then, but several of the women began talking among themselves and Skye could not think how to excuse herself gracefully. So she stayed and listened... and learned from the snippets they shared that it would have been criminal to vie for the position they were seeking. Jay Mac had obviously not given much consideration to that aspect when he'd suggested Skye apply. She couldn't believe her father would condone taking work from someone who needed it just to teach her a lesson—and Skye was thoroughly convinced that a lesson was what Jay Mac had in mind when he put her on the train to Baileyboro. She tried to get him to say as much at station, but he was being particularly inscrutable and she did not press hard for an answer.

Skye leaned back against the wall just as Annie Staplehurst was taken in for her interview. She felt the back of her bonnet being crushed, but she didn't lift a hand to correct it. Even knowing the entire thing was resting askew on her head didn't prompt her to remove or right it. She yawned widely and shut her eyes. It was only after the pocket doors were closed and Annie was safely inside the parlor that she permitted herself a small smile. She was perfectly aware she was under some scrutiny from the man who'd come to fetch all the applicants. Skye wasn't certain she knew how to get the job at the Granville mansion, but she was fairly certain she knew how
not
to get it. If the man was Jonathan Parnell himself, so much the better. He'd looked at her for a moment as if she had three heads.

* * *

"I thought she was fine," Walker said, speaking of the last woman. "And the one before her... Miss Staplehurst... she was also quite good. Mrs. Reading wouldn't find her too pushy."

"I'm uncertain," Parnell said. "She may not be able to manage the others. It's hard to know what to do. I actually considered offering her the position, but I thought it would be better to meet everyone. Didn't you tell me before you brought her in that there were three left? That means there's one more—unless she's bolted."

"She's still there. Sleeping, I think."

"Sleeping?" Parnell asked. He gave a short laugh. "That doesn't do her much credit, does it?"

Walker stretched as he rose to his feet. He wasn't used to so much inactivity. A day spent sitting, even in the comfortable confines of an overstuffed armchair, had cramped his muscles more than a day of riding ever had. "I'll send her on her way."

Parnell shook his head. He leaned toward the marble-topped table at his end of the sofa and quickly sifted through the resumes. "No," he said. "This is someone I want to meet. She once worked for Logan Marshall."

"The publisher of the New York
Chronicle?"

"Apparently so. That's impressive, don't you think?"

Impressive, Walker thought, and from what he'd seen, unlikely as well. He wondered if she had lied on her resume, as he suspected several others had. "It makes you wonder why she'd seek a position here," he said.

Parnell had dropped the resume back in the pile and was lighting the tableside lamp. He paused just as the wick caught. Flickering light licked at the shadows on the wall behind him and cast an orange glow on the platinum threads running through his hair.

"No," he said deliberately, "it makes
you
wonder why she'd seek a position here. You're suspicious of everyone. But then, that's why I hired you, and that's why you're sitting here now." He seemed to remember what he was doing suddenly and blew out the matchstick in his hand before it burned him. He replaced the glass globe on the lamp. The indigo centers of his eyes darkened and widened. His assessment of the man he employed to guard his back was frank. "You've suspected every woman I've interviewed today of doing me in with a feather duster. I think you've earned your wage." Parnell's slight smile was condescending. "Now relax a bit and bring this last one in."

Walker Caide nodded once. "Her name?"

"Miss Mary Schyler Dennehy." He chuckled, shaking his head. "It's quite a mouthful, isn't it?"

Walker repeated only the surname, then went to the door and called Skye in. She wasn't sleeping, as he'd suspected she might be. That would have been an improvement on what he witnessed. Instead, she was lying over the padded bench, her bustle tilted toward the ceiling as she fished for something under the seat. If she sensed him behind her, she gave no indication of it. She wasn't modest as she twisted this way and that, trying to retrieve whatever it was that had been lost.

Walker cleared his throat. His palm itched to lay a well-placed thump on the bustle and the behind it decorated. "Lose something?" he asked.

Skye twisted around and bolted upright. Her right hand was a closed fist around the object of her search. "Hatpin," she said triumphantly.

"Yes," he said drily. "I see that."

Since she'd opted to play the fool, Skye could hardly take exception to being laughed at, even when the tone was delicately edged with sarcasm. Still, she had an urge to stick the hatpin into the pompous ass and deflate him on the spot. She quelled the impulse with some difficulty. Adjusting her bonnet, she secured it with the pin and stood. "My turn, I see."

"Very good."

It wasn't what he said, but the way he said it. Skye's green eyes narrowed briefly as she studied his still, calm features. She had always imagined her own father played his cards very close to the vest. This man wasn't even showing the deck. Suddenly Skye felt very young, very gauche. There was something here she didn't understand and wasn't certain she wanted to.

Walker knew the moment she had been put firmly in her place. A hint of rose stained her cheeks and her eyes slipped away from his. He almost regretted it because he'd found something both amusing and admirable about her. "This way, Miss Dennehy." He gestured with his hand for her to precede him into the parlor.

Jonathan Parnell stood as Skye entered the room. "Please," he said, and introduced himself. "Won't you have a seat? And some tea, perhaps?" He glanced past Skye's right shoulder to Walker. "You'll bring Miss Dennehy some tea, won't you, Walker? Enough for all of us, I think."

This was different, Walker realized. Parnell hadn't offered amenities to any of the other women. He hadn't even stood before or offered his name. Walker assumed he just didn't think it was necessary. For some reason Parnell thought it was important now. The change in Parnell bothered him. He wanted to protest about getting the tea, then thought better of it. Hoping he could make it quick, Walker stepped back into the hallway and slid the doors closed behind him.

Skye didn't particularly want tea but it seemed that since entering the room her mouth had gone dry and her tongue cleaved to the roof of it. She must have made some sort of murmur, which had been taken for an assent. She was peripherally aware of the doors shutting behind her and of being left alone with Jonathan Parnell.

He was not the fusty old inventor she had imagined.

During the past three weeks, while waiting to hear for some reply to her letter of inquiry, she'd given some thought to the man her father had described as intense and brilliant. Nothing she'd imagined had come close to the reality of the man before her. Certainly his blue eyes, with their deeper indigo centers, were intense. And the way his pale yellow hair caught the lamplight and highlighted strands of platinum could be called brilliant. She just didn't think her father could have meant
those
words in
that
context.

She realized she was staring and remembered herself. It was rather startling to discover that in spite of the difference in their ages, she felt nowhere near so young or awkward with this man as she had with the one who'd hovered by the door. Parnell was formal but gracious. Skye found herself sitting at Parnell's second suggestion that she do so. The chair was warm. Belatedly she was aware she'd taken the seat that recently had been occupied by the other man.

"No, stay where you are," Parnell said. "On his return Mr. Caide will be comfortable over there." He pointed to a narrow wing chair a few feet from where she sat.

The chair looked stiff and unyielding, a place where one could perch but never relax. She imagined that Mr. Caide had not been asked to give up his chair to anyone who had come before her. Skye wondered anew if her father had made some arrangement with Mr. Parnell.

She made a point of looking around the parlor. It was difficult not to be aware of the clutter that fairly seeped from all corners. Every surface was covered with fringed shawls and clusters of ornate figurines. Chubby porcelain cherubs crowded brass candlesticks for space on the mantel. The burgundy brocade drapes were heavy enough to ensure that no amount of sunlight faded any of the fabrics on the chairs or sofa. They were even closed against what little sunlight remained in the late winter afternoon. Oil portraits and landscapes of the Hudson covered the walls on either side of the piano. Sheet music lay haphazardly on the upright's top and bench. The metronome had been turned on its side.

A tower of papers littered the table on Parnell's left and other documents were precariously stacked near his feet. There was a tray of partially eaten biscuits under the sofa. Coffee stains marred the antimacassar on one arm of her chair and both of his. The apron of the fireplace was covered with a fine dusting of ashes and the delft tiles were streaked with soot. None of the fireplace tools were in their rack; they were all leaning against the hearth, waiting to be used or toppled.

In spite of the rush of heat from the fireplace, there was still the cloying odor of dampness in the room, a mustiness that a brigade of maids might find too challenging.

"Shall we begin?" Parnell asked.

Skye noticed that he seemed oblivious to his surroundings. Perhaps this room was a test of sorts, she thought. The applicant who didn't blanch at the work confronting her got the job. Skye felt very certain she was blanching.

Watching Schyler carefully, Parnell sat back in his chair and crossed his legs casually. From the table beside him he picked up Skye's letters of introduction and reference. "You're younger than I would have imagined from your experience."

It was a comment for which she was prepared. "I was fourteen when I began working for the Turners," she said. "I was employed first as a companion for their young daughter. Dr. Turner was away a good deal at the hospital and his wife had many responsibilities with the auxiliary. I lived in for several years and by the time Amy was too old to need someone to stay with her, I was indispensable."