Love on Assignment (16 page)

“Can you tell us who you're working for?” Becky asked. “Aunt Amelia and I can keep a secret.”

Charlotte looked from her sister to her aunt. Amelia stood by the range, her arms folded across her chest. “You look troubled, Charlotte.”

Charlotte paused. “Yes, a bit. I'll tell you the story if you promise not to breathe it to a soul.”

“You can trust your family,” Becky said. Aunt Amelia nodded as they gathered around the scarred kitchen table.

“I'm working as a governess for Professor Daniel Wilmont's two children. He writes a religion column in the
Newport Gazette
.”

“And a mighty fine column it is.” Aunt Amelia's surprise quickly turned into a suspicious frown.

“Mr. Phifer believes the professor is engaging in”—she looked first toward her young sister then shifted her gaze to her aunt—“inappropriate behavior with a student.”

Becky frowned. “What does that mean?”

“Never you mind,” Aunt Amelia said. “But make sure you don't repeat a word of this conversation.”

Becky nodded, her expression wounded.

“Do you think there's any truth to Mr. Phifer's suspicions?” Aunt Amelia asked.

“None whatsoever. The professor is the most moral man I've ever met. But I can't be positive until I investigate further.”

“I know you've wanted to be a reporter for years, but are you quite sure this is the right way to prove yourself?” Aunt Amelia's bony fingers gently pressed Charlotte's hand. “What I mean is: you're not being aboveboard with the professor. That's not right. You know, I read his newspaper column every once in a while and I most often agree with him. He thinks the rich people should treat their workers right because it's what the Bible says. Now I don't know much about the Bible except for the stories I learned at my mama's knee, but what he says makes sense. Rich people have no right to cheat poor folk out of what belongs to them fair and square.”

Charlotte bit her lip. “Do you think Mr. Phifer defends abusive employers?”

Aunt Amelia bobbed her head. “Yes. And your Professor Wilmont has shown a great deal of courage, addressing their abuse.”

For some strange reason Charlotte's chest filled with pride for the professor.

Aunt Amelia leaned forward. “Did you know that Arnie Phifer and his brothers own a woolen mill in Fall River? They pay no more than a pittance, I hear. And they practically let their workers starve while they live in their fancy mansions with servants and fine carriages parading around town.” Aunt Amelia inhaled a deep breath and poured more tea. “I get carried away when I think of all the people I know who slave away and never get ahead. Look at you. At that newspaper for years now, working sixty hours a week. For what? A pittance, considering what the paper earns.”

“It's far from working in a mill, Aunt Amelia.”

“Different than a mill. But I'd wager it's not as different as you think.”

Charlotte took a sip of the strong, hot brew, then spooned in more sugar. “

Aunt Amelia rose to wash the luncheon dishes. “Arnie's family always had money, but they weren't millionaires like they are now.”

“They have a good reason for wanting Professor Wilmont silenced,” Charlotte said.

Aunt Amelia snorted. “The strongest reason you can have— pure greed.” Aunt Amelia uncovered a pie plate sitting on the counter. “Would you care for some cherry pie? I made it this morning.”

Charlotte shook her head. “No thank you.” She'd lost her appetite. Aunt Amelia cut a generous piece for Becky. “I have some hard thinking to do. I'm afraid this assignment could bring me more trouble than it's worth.”

“Before you leave, Becky and I have birthday gifts for you.” Aunt Amelia retrieved a parcel tied with ribbon and handed it to Charlotte.

“Thank you so much.” Charlotte pressed her wiry aunt into a hug, careful not to squeeze too tightly and hurt her arthritic back. And then she leaned over to kiss her sister on the cheek. She'd forgotten about her upcoming birthday—the first one she'd spend by herself. But a birthday without a celebration was the last thing on her mind. “Shall I open them now?”

Aunt Amelia shook her head. “Why don't you wait?”

“All right.” Presents would make an ordinary day much more special.

“If you'll excuse me, girls, I have to work in the garden.”

Once Aunt Amelia left, Charlotte turned all her attention to her sister.

“What's it like living in a mansion?” Becky asked as she finished her pie.

“It's very different from Bridge Street, I'll tell you that. Summerhill is a rambling old house with big, airy rooms. Twenty-two of them, in fact. It's got wide, shady porches that catch the sea breezes, lush green lawns, and even a beach of its own.”

Becky's face shone. “It sounds lovely. I hear the cottages need a staff the size of an army. And they all eat roast beef and fancy chocolate éclairs and tortes. I'd love to try one of their fancy desserts.”

“The food is delicious, and Chef Jacques cooks simple dishes for the staff as well as fancier meals for the family. And there's always plenty. So much food, Becky! I don't think all the millionaires treat their servants so nicely.”

Becky sighed. “It must be grand living at Summerhill—especially if you're the lady of the house. I'd so like to see the mansion someday.”

“I wish you could. But I won't be there much longer. And after I leave I won't be invited back.”

She choked on her last words. No, once he knew the truth, Daniel Wilmont would never want to see her again.

NINE

T
he following morning Charlotte met the children in their playroom just before breakfast arrived on the dumbwaiter. She served them their toast, soft-boiled eggs, and juice.

“Are you coming to worship with us, Miss Hale?” Ruthie asked between bites of toast.

Church? That was the last place she wished to go. She still hadn't reconciled her unsettled conscience, and she certainly didn't want quiet time to listen to its nagging voice.

“I'm afraid I have a slight headache, so maybe next Sunday would be better.”

Ruthie nodded. “I do hope you feel well soon.”

“I'll put a cold compress on my forehead and I'll be fine.”

Later, when the family returned from services, Charlotte helped the Wilmont children wrap welcome-home gifts for their grandmother. With Charlotte's assistance, Ruthie added a red satin ribbon and a great big, lopsided bow.

“Lovely,” Charlotte proclaimed.

Ruthie shook her head and the sausage curls Charlotte had created with a curling iron bounced behind the girl's ears. “Why did you fix my hair like a doll's?” she asked as she wrapped a corkscrew around her index finger.

Charlotte spun Ruthie around and retied the loose sash on her dress. “I'd like to please your grandmother and make a good first impression.”

Ruthie snorted. “She's dreadfully hard to please, but you'll find that out soon enough.”

“Do stop smirking at me. I'll try my best to make friends with her.”

“Miss Hale”—Ruthie gave an exaggerated sigh—“Grandmother has friends. What she wants is another servant she can boss around.” She covered her mouth with her hand and giggled. “That wasn't kind, was it? I shall try to keep my opinions to myself.”

“Go find a clean pinafore, if you please. You've gone and spilled cranberry juice all over this one.” She pointed to a small stain that a sharp eye would spot instantly. “I want you to look clean and fresh for your grandmother.”

Ruthie rolled her eyes and trooped to her bedroom, dragging her feet across the parquet floor and pulling on her curls to straighten them. Charlotte sighed. Maybe she shouldn't try so hard to impress Mrs. Wilmont. From all accounts, she was a tyrant. Yet, if she wanted to stay at Summerhill until she discovered the truth, Charlotte suspected she'd better bend over backward to satisfy her.

When Ruthie returned, she carefully carried a fancy pink dress with ruffles and lace. Holding it in front of her, she grinned. “I'm to be a bridesmaid for my cousin Eloise. Isn't this the loveliest gown you've ever seen?”

Charlotte touched the delicate fabric. “Indeed, it is. You'll look like a grown-up young lady when you wear it.”

Ruthie grinned. “I can't wait for the wedding.”

“I'm sure you'll have a splendid time and look like a princess. But right now we should pick some flowers for your grandmother's homecoming.” Ruthie returned the costume to her wardrobe. Together they hurried to the garden and chose the most perfect red roses and placed them in a crystal vase.

“Beautiful.” Charlotte sniffed the delicate fragrance. “Would you please put them on your grandmother's chiffonier? I'm going to find Tim and choose some nice clean clothes so he won't look like a ragamuffin.”

Within ten minutes she'd scrubbed Tim's freckled face and found short navy blue pants and a starched white shirt in his wardrobe. Once he dressed properly, she stood back and examined her charge.

“Much better.” Charlotte brushed the boy's mop of red curls as he squirmed. “I know you want to look like a young gentleman for your grandmother. No playing outdoors before she arrives.”

He shrugged. “I don't understand why neatness is so important.” But he looked so genuinely puzzled she couldn't help but smile.

“Shall we go downstairs and wait for your papa and grandmother to return from the hospital?” Charlotte asked as she led the way.

Once on the front veranda, Charlotte settled in a wicker chair. Ruthie pushed back and forth on a rocker while she waited, and Tim played jacks in the corner.

The
clip-clop
of a horse's hooves and the grinding of carriage wheels soon caught their attention. The enclosed brougham halted in front of Summerhill. The professor alighted and the uniformed coachman in a silk top hat assisted the older woman down from the carriage. The professor and his mother slowly made their way up the shallow porch steps.

Heading toward the door opened by Mr. Grimes, Vivian Wilmont clung to her son's arm and leaned into him. Tall, angular, and strong featured, she tilted her chin upward.

“Welcome home, Grandmother,” Ruthie and Tim said, almost in unison, before the regal lady bent down to receive their awkward pecks to the cheek.

Mrs. Wilmont ignored Charlotte as she passed her and then shuffled through the foyer and into the drawing room. Everyone followed. With a grateful sigh Mrs. Wilmont sank into the white brocade sofa patterned with gold thread and edged with gold fringe. She looked in need of a nap, though she arrived home dressed for visitors. She wore a silk blouse, lacy ecru skirt, and a single strand of pearls. Charlotte thought she retained a vestige of beauty, and despite her sixty-odd years and her frailty, she obviously liked to keep up appearances. Blue eyes held the same intelligence as Professor Wilmont's, but hers glittered like ice chips without a drop of warmth. They swept a chill over Charlotte.

“How do you do?” Mrs. Wilmont's grimace cracked her alabaster face into a web of fine lines.

Charlotte braced herself as the woman muttered to her son, “I expected an older woman, Daniel, one with more experience. Definitely not a young girl.”

“I'm really not so young, ma'am. I'm twenty-two.” Charlotte squeezed out a smile.
Almost twenty-three
.

Ruthie, sitting primly on a chair near the marble fireplace, spoke up. “That's quite old, Grandmother. She's awfully nice and we like her a lot. And so does Papa.”

Mrs. Wilmont arched one thin brow. “Oh?”

“Well, Papa wouldn't hire her if he didn't like her, now would he?”

“I suppose not.” Vivian Wilmont frowned. She pulled a velvet and satin throw over her long legs and narrow hips. “But please watch your tone, young lady. I won't tolerate insolence.”

Ruthie's head bowed, almost hiding her unrepentant face.

Charlotte caught the professor's amused look and struggled not to roll her eyes.

Tim dangled a piece of yarn at the cat. Goldie's paws grabbed the end and pulled in a tug of war.

“Would you like some tea or coffee, Mrs. Wilmont?” Charlotte asked as pleasantly as possible through gritted teeth.

The older woman gave a curt nod. “Tea with cream and sugar will suit me fine, and a few oatmeal raisin cookies. Send for the maid, if you please.” She turned toward Tim. “And remove that cat, Timothy. He doesn't belong in the cottage.”

Tim scooped up Goldie and sprinted across the room.

“No running indoors. Really, Timothy, where are your manners? I've only been gone for two weeks and you're already acting like a ruffian.”

Mrs. Wilmont looked pointedly at Charlotte. “You must stress impeccable manners.”

Tim stopped at the French doors. “Chef Jacques made a few batches of cookies. I think they're mostly gone, except for one or two.”