Love on Assignment (25 page)

Today she'd celebrate her birthday by herself. No one at Summerhill knew of it, so of course no one would make a fuss. Twenty-three years wasn't really special. But she did miss waking up to the aroma of Aunt Amelia's devil's food cake wafting from the oven.

With a sigh, Charlotte dressed in her plain, light blue uniform with white collar and cuffs, brushed her hair into a neat pompadour, and donned the silly cap with streamers that Mrs. Wilmont insisted she wear. She looked like a parlor maid minus the apron. She glanced toward the locked bureau drawer concealing Sarah's journal. Gulping in a big breath, she steeled herself for the day's most crucial task. At the first opportunity, she'd slip the diary back into Sarah's hatbox. The professor need never know she'd pilfered it, though she really ought to confess and clear her conscience. Easier said than done.

Charlotte headed for the bedroom door. She could kick herself for accepting such a dishonorable assignment, but at least she hadn't tattled to Mr. Phifer about the journal and made matters even worse. Yet nothing excused her.

From the corner of her eye, she spotted the birthday present from Aunt Amelia and Becky. Too curious to wait for evening, she tore open the wrapping with one quick rip. She lifted a fine lawn blouse with tucks down the bodice and pearl buttons! It was by far the loveliest shirtwaist she'd ever owned. Her aunt must have toiled for hours sewing this fine garment. How thoughtful, especially since the crippling in her fingers made handwork so difficult. Several linen handkerchiefs edged with crocheted lace came from Becky.

Her spirits restored, Charlotte roused the groggy children from their beds and served them breakfast in the playroom. All morning she looked for a chance to return the journal, but Ruthie stayed by her side. Then an hour of cross-stitch, a game of chess with Tim, and lessons in arithmetic and grammar swallowed up the rest of the morning and into the early afternoon. She couldn't squeeze in even a few minutes to replace Sarah's journal until well after lunch.

The fog burned off and the grass dried by early afternoon, allowing Charlotte and her charges to enjoy the outdoors. While both children read their favorite books under a maple tree in the side yard, Charlotte excused herself.

“I shall be right back. Do stay put. That means you, Tim.” The little boy's bad habit of vanishing when she wasn't looking often sent her in all directions in search for him.

“Miss Hale, may I get my book,
An Old Fashioned Girl
? It's in the playroom. I'm almost finished with
Jo's Boys
,” Ruthie asked.

“I'd be glad to fetch it,” she said, rising. “And I shall grab a book of my own. I'm about to begin
Life on the Mississippi
.”

Charlotte hastened up the backstairs, grabbed Sarah's journal, then hurried to the professor's bedroom. Fortunately the hallway was deserted. Her heartbeat throbbed in her eardrums. With shaking hands she yanked the oval box from the wardrobe, shoved the journal inside, and pushed it back on the high shelf. Relief rushed through her. Professor Wilmont would probably find the book and assume he'd overlooked it. Heading out the door, the heels of her sturdy shoes clicked softly against the floorboards.

Thud!
A crash loud enough to wake the dead assaulted her ears. She stopped short and glanced over her shoulder and back into the professor's room. A stack of textbooks lay on the floor beside the hatbox, its cover knocked off. Charlotte groaned, picked it up with shaking hands, and thrust it back in the box and onto the shelf once again. She piled the books beside it and raced toward the back staircase.

Tearing downstairs she paused at the landing, breathless.

Mrs. Wilmont looked up from the bottom of the steps, hands on her narrow hips.

“What was that noise?” the woman demanded.

Charlotte looked down, attempting to remain calm. Surely the professor's mother would notice the terror in her eyes and hear a squeak in her voice.

The cracks in Mrs. Wilmont's face hardened. “You dropped something in my son's bedroom right over the drawing room. What were you doing in there?”

“I was upstairs looking for one of Ruthie's books. I went to fetch her copy of
An Old Fashioned Girl
.”

Mrs. Wilmont's eyes widened with triumph as she stared at Charlotte's empty hands. “I see you didn't find it.”

Charlotte paused. “No. When I heard the noise I got distracted and forgot all about the novel.”

“Are you claiming you weren't in my son's bedroom?”

Charlotte took a deep breath and willed her heart to stop thumping. “No, ma'am. I was there for a few moments. The clatter seemed to come from the wardrobe, so I looked inside and found a hatbox lying on the floor beside several books. I put everything back on the shelf and left immediately. If you'll excuse me, I'll run upstairs and fetch Ruthie's book.” She tried to dash around Mrs. Wilmont, but the woman blocked her exit.

“You don't fool me, Charlotte Hale. You have no business in any bedroom except for the children's. Do I make myself clear?”

“Yes, ma'am.” Charlotte hung her head so her employer wouldn't see the guilt rising to the surface of her face.

“One more misstep and I shall dismiss you.”

Mrs. Wilmont's threat hovered in the stifling air. Charlotte nodded, turned on her heel, and climbed the back staircase to retrieve Ruthie's book and her own.

The afternoon slowly faded into early evening. Charlotte had a light supper with the staff while the family ate together in their spacious dining room. After the kitchen help cleared the table, Charlotte looked up at the sound of giggling on the basement stairs.

“Miss Hale, Papa would like to see you in the playroom.”

Oh Lord, please don't let this be about the journal. I don't have the strength to confess—if You think that I must. I need a little more time to muster the courage
.

“Miss Hale, do hurry.” Ruthie's face glowed with anticipation.

Charlotte followed the children up the back staircase to the second floor and into the playroom. Brightly wrapped packages were piled beside the table holding a bucket of ice cream and a two-layer cake, iced in pink, and resting on a crystal pedestal plate.

“Happy Birthday, Miss Hale,” the professor, Ruthie, and Tim shouted all together.

Charlotte's jaw popped open. “How did you know today is my birthday?”

Daniel grinned, happily smug. “The date was on the sheet you filled out when I interviewed you.”

Tears clogged her throat. “I can't believe you'd do this for me. Thank you so much.” Charlotte's voice cracked. “I'm overwhelmed.”

Ruthie spoke with authority. “Everyone should have a birthday party. And Miss Hale, you're practically family, so it's up to us to give you one.”

Charlotte grinned with pleasure tinged with regret. What kind of woman betrayed her family?

“Chef Jacques helped me bake the cake.” Ruthie gazed at her creation with unfettered pride.

Tim volunteered, “It's a little bit lopsided, but that doesn't matter. Ruthie put gobs of frosting on the top so you really can't tell.”

After making an appropriate fuss, Charlotte cut the cake and served it along with homemade vanilla ice cream. A real treat.

“Is it impolite to ask how old you are?” Tim asked between bites.

Daniel frowned. “Never ask a lady her age, even a young one.”

Charlotte laughed. “I'm twenty-three.”

“That's old. Shouldn't you be getting married soon?” Tim tipped his chair back precariously. “Is that a rude question too?”

“You know it is,” the professor said with mock sternness while Ruthie rolled her eyes. “Please excuse my son's bad manners. He knows better.”

Tim hung his head, but a mischievous smirk belied true repentance. “I'm sorry.”

Nothing could ruin Charlotte's unexpected happiness, certainly not childish curiosity. The Wilmonts' kindness meant so much. “You've made my birthday very special.” A few tears escaped and rolled down her cheeks. Dabbing with a handkerchief, she smiled ruefully. “Pardon me for getting carried away.”

“I've never seen a grown-up cry before,” Ruthie said, apparently perplexed.

“It happens sometimes.” Charlotte sniffed. “Please excuse me.”

Tim shook his head, his forehead crinkled in bewilderment. “I don't understand grown-ups either.”

“You shouldn't have done all this for me. I don't deserve such generosity,” Charlotte murmured.

If only they knew why she'd come to Summerhill in the first place, they'd toss her right out the door.

“Nonsense,” the professor objected, “of course you deserve a birthday party.”

When they'd all finished eating, Ruthie stacked the plates and silverware on the dumbwaiter while Tim spread their gifts in front of Charlotte.

“There's mine.” Ruthie pointed to a package wrapped in pink floral paper and tied with a rose ribbon. “Hope you like it.”

Ruthie's shining smile touched Charlotte's heart. “Of course I shall.” No matter what the child gave her, she'd appreciate it.

Charlotte ripped off the paper. “A prayer journal! Thank you so much. I'll write in it every day.” She hugged Ruthie and the girl squeezed back. Hers would be completely different from Sarah's.

Tim shoved his gift across the table. “It's okay if you don't hug me.”

Charlotte laughed as she opened the paper sack tied with a grosgrain ribbon. “Candy! Thank you, Tim. Would anyone like a peppermint stick or a lemon drop?”

Tim reached for some, but Daniel stilled his hand. “Thank you, but we've already had more than enough cake and ice cream. Isn't that right, Tim?”

With his mouth turning down, Tim shrugged but didn't reach again.

“Do let him have a piece,” Charlotte urged to the delight of the curly-haired boy.

Professor Wilmont acquiesced with a nod and a wince. He handed Charlotte a small package. “This is from my mother and me.”

She'd wager Mrs. Wilmont had nothing to do with the gift. Charlotte tore off the wrapping and found a Bible edged with gold, her name engraved on the black leather cover. “Thank you so much, Professor. I never owned a Bible of my own.” She wanted to throw her arms around him and kiss his cheek. But she smiled instead.

Ruthie's eyes narrowed with suspicion. “You've never owned a Bible? All Christians have Bibles.”

Ruthie, Tim, and Daniel stared at her with questioning faces. Swallowing hard, Charlotte couldn't speak. What explanation could she possibly give? No one said a word. The silence thickened.

Daniel rose. “Children, please run along. And no complaining. Miss Hale and I will drink our coffee on the front veranda.” His voice sounded so serious, Charlotte's pulse quickened.

The lighthearted atmosphere of the birthday celebration had vanished. With shaking hands, Charlotte carried her cup down the stairs and outside. She perched on the edge of a rocker and tried to quell the nausea rising toward her throat. Daniel leaned against the porch rail, his arms folded across his chest. A frown darkened his face. Was it sadness mixed with disillusionment or just plain anger that she'd been less than honest?

She cleared her throat, but a croak emerged nevertheless. “Thank you for the party and the gifts. I certainly didn't expect anything.”

He nodded. “I hope you enjoyed it. Charlotte, is there something you should tell me?”

Wiping away a thin layer of perspiration from her forehead, she hesitated. Should she confess now? Or try to finesse an answer?

“Yes, there's a lot I ought to explain.” Her voice quavered. “Is it a good time?”
Oh Lord, not now
. She wanted to flee to the safety of her home and her aunt's loving arms.
You're a miserable coward, Charlotte Hale
.

“Now is the perfect time,” he said softly, his grimness gone.

“All right.” She placed her coffee cup on a small wicker table and rose, her back touching one of the long windows. “Would you like to know why a good Christian never owned a Bible?” Her mouth twisted in an uneasy smile.

Daniel nodded.

She gulped a deep breath. “On the day you interviewed me, you asked if I was a Christian. It seemed like an offhanded question, so I said yes, of course. And I thought I was, though not truly committed. I believed in God, so I knew I wasn't a heathen. I assumed that made me a bona fide Christian. But since you needed a governess and I needed a job, I told you what I thought you wanted to hear. At any rate, I felt guilty for deceiving you— but I didn't know how to confess.” Throat dry, Charlotte paused and watched his inscrutable expression.

“Go on, please.”

“I began to read the Bible you left on my nightstand and for the first time I understood God's love. He became real to me. And that's made a world of difference.” Charlotte met the professor's gaze, hoping for reassurance, but she couldn't decipher his intense expression.

He leaned back against the porch rail, lost in thought. Slowly the tense lines in his face relaxed. “Have you sincerely repented?”

She nodded. “God knows my sins and, believe me, I'm so sorry I ever committed them. And I know in my heart He's forgiven me. He's lifted a heavy burden off my shoulders. Forgiveness is such a remarkable gift.”

“Indeed, it is.”

“Through your example you showed me the Lord was missing in my life. Thank you for helping me see that.”

His smile seared her conscience.
Tell him now
. “There's more, Professor. I ought to admit something else, but it's hard to find the right words because I'm so terribly ashamed.” She stumbled over the last words and paused to inhale another breath of cool evening air before she confessed what had brought her to Summerhill. A few words and he'd be lost to her forever.

He took her hand. “Charlotte, there's no need to bare your soul if you find it difficult. The Lord forgives you.”