Love on Assignment (22 page)

A groan escaped from Charlotte's throat. “I can't speak for Professor Wilmont, but I can speak for myself. He's my employer, nothing more. Why would the professor be interested in me? I'm just a governess. He could court any number of rich ladies. He's a fine, well-connected gentleman.”
And handsome, to boot
. Still, they had a point. The professor didn't need to take her along.

“I just wanted you to know the staff likes to gossip. Professor Wilmont hasn't shown interest in any lady since his wife passed away, so this is causing quite a stir. They believe he's interested in you romantically. They watch everything he says and does. So do take care, because they'll be watching you as well.”

Charlotte nodded. “Thank you for warning me.” She'd be extra vigilant from now on.

Once Grace departed, Charlotte dropped into bed, tired yet filled with nervous energy that wouldn't let her sleep. Professor Wilmont's smile filled her mind. He liked her, she felt sure of that, but of course he didn't have romance on his mind. Mrs. Wilmont would burst all her buttons if she thought her son even noticed anyone in their employ. Charlotte had heard that sometimes wealthy gentlemen paid undue and inappropriate attention to their maids, but she wasn't that kind of girl and the professor wasn't that kind of man. It was all too ridiculous.

ALL THE NEXT day Charlotte's mind churned as she searched for a plausible excuse to venture into town again without eliciting questions from Vivian Wilmont. She had to relay the news of the professor's innocence as soon as possible. But nothing turned up, so she spent the morning riding bicycles with Tim and Ruthie and later enjoying a few sunny hours at Bailey's Beach, the only beach set aside exclusively for the rich. In the afternoon they each took turns reading aloud
The Legend of Sleepy Hollow,
followed by arithmetic lessons and piano practice.

The following morning, Mrs. Wilmont summoned Charlotte to the drawing room. She hurried to the matron's side lest she accuse Charlotte of malingering.

“Yes, ma'am?”

The professor's mother glanced up from her needlework. Seated in the morning room on her favorite chintz-covered chair, she looked wrinkled as a prune with all the life sucked out of her. But her voice rose in a commanding tone designed to send servants scurrying.

“I want you to purchase some blue thread at Nancy's Notions on upper Thames Street. I can't continue until you return.” She waved Charlotte out the door. “I have an account, so you will not need any money.”

“Yes, ma'am.”

“I'd send Simone, but she's adding a bit of lace to my dress for the dinner I'm hosting for the Grails. See that you buy the right shade of thread. Royal blue, not navy.”

Charlotte winced at the woman's insulting manner, but how fortunate she finally needed something right away and Simone was too busy to fetch it. When Mrs. Wilmont required an item, it was always immediately, never “later, at your convenience.” Her manner made Charlotte pity the legions of girls and women who endlessly toiled in the mansions of the privileged with little compensation or thanks. At least she'd return to her own home in a matter of days.

“I'll be back as soon as I can, ma'am.”

“See that you don't dawdle. And ask Mrs. Finnegan to watch the children.”

Charlotte bit back a retort, nodded, and left. If she sassed Mrs. Wilmont, the old gargoyle would happily dismiss her.

Within minutes she drove off in the gig, anxious to accomplish her errand before facing Mr. Phifer.

Once in town she purchased the correct shade of thread and hurried the two blocks to the
Rhode Island Reporter
. Her heartbeat clicked faster than the sound of typewriter keys that greeted her as she entered the main newsroom. Several reporters smiled and waved as they continued to work.

Mr. Phifer, dressed in a light gray suit, came out of his office and turned his attention to Charlotte.

“Ah, Miss Hale. I was wondering when I'd hear from you again.” He rubbed his hands together in anticipation as he led her into his office and shut the door. “I'd like you to report more often, but I suppose that it's difficult to get away from Summerhill.”

“Yes, sir, it is.”

“Tell me your news.”

Charlotte swallowed hard but stood straight and tall, unwilling to cower, though her news was mixed. “My investigation is progressing well.” She breathed deeply. “I met Miss Melissa LeBeau.”

“You did? That's splendid.”

Charlotte heard the glow in his voice. He directed her to take a seat in front of his desk. Gratefully, she sat on the edge of the hard chair. She took a few seconds to calm herself before she began her report.

“Miss LeBeau is definitely enamored with Professor Wilmont, but I'm convinced the feeling isn't mutual. Not at all.”

Mr. Phifer stood between the two open windows with his head down and hands clasped behind his back. His long pause signified displeasure. When he looked up, he glared with such ferocity Charlotte's breath caught in her lungs. Just as she feared—he expected her to discredit the professor. How could she have ever thought him fair and impartial?

“That doesn't sound right to me. You must have misread his reaction to the girl,” he said.

Intimidated but not crushed, she squared her shoulders and lifted her chin ever so slightly. “No, sir, I assure you I did not.” His frown warned her to tone down her report, yet she had to tell the truth. “I'm convinced he's not guilty of any impropriety.” She met his gaze, but her throat went so dry she could hardly swallow.

Mr. Phifer gave a condescending chuckle. “He's trying to throw you off track. I'm disappointed in you, Miss Hale. I was sure you were a shrewd judge of character. That's why I sent you on this crucial assignment.”

Charlotte bit back a sarcastic reply. “I'm an excellent judge of character, sir.”

“I'm not so sure.” He paused, drew his brows together, and inhaled the aromatic tobacco from his clenched pipe. After a while he placed it in his ashtray. “I'll tell you what. I'll give you a bit more time to redeem yourself. You stay put for a while longer and search a whole lot more thoroughly for some real evidence. Don't give me your opinion. Give me facts. Incriminating facts. I know they're ripe for the picking.”

“All right, sir, as long as you realize the rumor about Professor Wilmont and Miss LeBeau isn't credible.”

His snowy eyebrows met in a scowl. “Why are you so insistent? I know considerably more about human nature than you do, young woman. So keep an eagle eye on those two and don't let the man trick you into believing he's a white knight. Do you hear me?”

“I do, sir, but—I still believe you're mistaken.” Charlotte trembled at her boldness and clutched her hands to keep them from shaking. Why was she provoking her boss?

He grimaced. “I don't appreciate an employee contradicting me, especially a flighty inexperienced female.” His face turned brick red while his eyes bore into hers. “I expect you to report back to me in three days with information I can use. I'm depending on you.”

“Yes, Mr. Phifer.” She tried to sound enthusiastic and confident, but her voice faltered as she stood.

“I'll be out of the office most of the beginning of the week, but I can squeeze you in at one o'clock on Monday. I'm having lunch at O'Neill's Cafe at noon, so meet me there at one sharp. You won't have trouble getting away, will you?”

She might with Mrs. Wilmont suddenly running her life, but she'd manage to conjure up a reason to come into town. “I'll be there.”

Mr. Phifer nodded. “Good day, Miss Hale. I expect you'll hand me some solid news on Monday afternoon.” He wagged a finger. “And remember to follow up on Missy LeBeau. I'm sure she's the key to all of this.” With a wave of his hand he swatted Charlotte away as if she were a fly.

“I'll continue to search for the truth.” She struggled to lace her voice with optimism.

His stare drilled into her. “And while you search make sure you find some useful evidence, Miss Hale.”

“Yes, sir.” Charlotte gulped.

She turned on her heel and headed out the door, stifling a sigh that arose from deep inside. Mr. Phifer chose to ignore the facts when they contradicted his opinions. Nothing she said could convince him the professor wasn't corrupt or immoral. She'd always considered Mr. Phifer to be fair-minded, but he didn't seem to be so anymore. As a secretary she hadn't been aware of his strong biases, so she'd undoubtedly given him more credit than he deserved.

Charlotte descended the staircase to the first floor. Perhaps she should quit her job on principle, though she'd never known anyone to resign because of Mr. Phifer's tactics. Given her circumstances all she could do was accept the world's injustice. She couldn't fight it alone and it was certainly easier to adjust to its flaws than confront it head on. Hardly an attitude to boast about, but common enough.

Charlotte returned to Summerhill, gave Mrs. Wilmont the thread, and found the children who were more than ready to put away their grammar lessons. Together they headed for the boulders that edged most of the back lawn. Tim and his toy soldiers fought a valiant battle on the rocks, staying distant from the sea. Charlotte and Ruthie sketched sailboats riding the surf as squawking seagulls skimmed through the bright blue sky. Charlotte's pencil flew across the paper, forming shapes created by nature itself. No, created by God. She'd never thought of it quite that way before, but it was true.

She watched Ruthie draw a rock formation with its crevices splashed with salt water and seaweed. Only a few feet away, a fiddler crab scrambled over the stone toward the damp sand. Charlotte turned around and drew Summerhill with its wide veranda and mansard roof. She'd always enjoyed drawing, though she'd seldom had time to indulge in a hobby.

“Sketching is such fun, Miss Hale. Can we do this every day? Fresh air is good for us, isn't it?”

“Yes, indeed. And since art is an academic subject, we can classify our drawing as genuine schoolwork.” Charlotte flashed a smile. “Do you think your grandmother would agree?”

“I don't believe so, but she seems too busy with her friend Mr. McClintock to worry about us.”

When they returned to the cottage, sun-warmed and a bit less pale despite their hats and long-sleeved clothes, Charlotte went up to the playroom while the children joined their grandmother in the drawing room. A laundress delivered several of Ruthie's dresses, washed and pressed. Charlotte hung them in the girl's wardrobe, careful not to wrinkle the fabrics.

Her mind returned to her predicament. Her prospects of a journalism career and security for her family would end soon unless she satisfied Mr. Phifer's obsession to ruin Professor Wilmont. Apprehension slithered through her, spreading tentacles of panic. No, she wouldn't let fear defeat her. Maybe God would help if she prayed—a novel idea, but worth a try.

Lord, I never bother You with my troubles, but this time they're so serious, I can't handle them myself. Please help me find a solution— by Monday. You know I can't maintain this pretense much longer. I want to go home and return to my old life. And I need to flee from the professor before I grow to care for him. A little too much
.

She didn't know if the Lord listened to prayers, but she did feel somewhat better. So maybe He did care, just as the Bible said. Every night she read a few more chapters, intrigued by the possibilities of a God who loved His children with a passion she could scarcely comprehend. It pricked her already troubled mind, yet the words of Scripture also brought a growing sense of hope. She couldn't explain it, but she felt her heart slowly opening like a rose, one petal at a time.

Lord, I need to find a new job and I don't know where to look. I doubt the
Newport Gazette
would hire a former employee of Arnie Phifer's, especially if they discovered I'd spied on Professor Wilmont. How shall I support Aunt Amelia and Becky? The professor counts on You. Can I do the same?

Charlotte hung up the last of Ruthie's gingham frocks in her pink-and-white bedroom just as the professor strolled into the children's playroom.

“Have you seen Ruthie and Tim? I can't seem to find them.” He leaned against the doorframe. His glasses slid down his nose, giving him a scholarly yet boyish appearance. His longish hair glinted with golden highlights and slipped down across his tanned forehead.

Charlotte cleared her throat. “They're playing dominos in the game room with your mother and Mr. McClintock, I believe.”

The professor smiled. “Ah, Mr. McClintock again. My mother really enjoys his visits. And speaking of my mother, how are you two getting along?”

Charlotte tried to keep a straight face, but a sardonic smile escaped with a turn of her lips. “All right, I suppose. She doesn't seem to like me very well, but when she asks me to do something, I serve her as best I can.”

“Excellent. In time she'll grow to appreciate you just as I do.”

Charlotte sputtered, “Thank you, sir.” She turned away as a blush scorched her face. Surely she was misinterpreting his remarks and letting her imagination carry her away.

“What's troubling you, Charlotte?” he asked. “I'm sorry. Miss Hale.”

“Please, sir, call me Charlotte. It's quite all right.”

He nodded, looking pleased. She let his question hover in the warm summer air unanswered. A sudden urge to confess swept through her, but thank goodness, the words strangled in her throat. He seemed to have a way of disarming her, leaving her vulnerable to his empathy.

“My life is too complicated to explain, so I'll not even try. But thank you for caring enough to ask.” She caught her breath.

He nodded and frowned in confusion. “I didn't mean to pry.”

Charlotte looked down at the cabbage-rose carpet, which probably had less color than her cheeks. She felt his gaze rest upon her, but she couldn't look at him directly without pouring out her confusion. So much was changing in her life and in her heart.