Love on Assignment (6 page)

“It's just a lot of junk.” Ruthie scrunched up her nose. “And it's probably dusty.”

“Perhaps we could clean it up a bit.”

The girl mulled it over and then gave a vigorous nod. “We could, but that sounds awfully boring.”

“Shall we go up? We might find some toys up there. Let's take a good look.”

Ruthie shrugged.

“I think I'll play with my trains,” Tim said, returning to the playroom.

Ruthie tromped up the stairs and shoved open the squeaky door to the left of the stairs. Charlotte glanced to the right and spotted a green baize door closing off the servants' quarters. The male servants would occupy part of the area, the female help the other, as they did in most other homes. Charlotte followed Ruthie into the attic. Except for light filtering through a few windows, the space lay shrouded in dimness. Charlotte waited for her eyes to adjust as Ruthie stepped aside.

“You go first.” Ruthie gave a sly grin.

“Would you mind fetching a light?” Charlotte asked.

A few minutes later Ruthie returned with a flickering oil lamp. But even with its glow, most of the area still hung in the shadows. Charlotte hesitated. Would the floorboards splinter and crack, then plunge her to her death? Her heart sputtered. No, of course not. This floor was rock solid. She took a deep breath, mustered her courage, and stepped into the gloom. Hand shaking, she shuffled toward the center of the room where she could better view the entire area.

Sagging sofas and rickety end tables littered the cavern. Probably the decrepit chair in Professor Wilmont's study would end up in this furniture graveyard. It ought to be here already. A few steamer trunks resting against the opposite wall might hold some promise. It could hide old letters of a scandalous nature or family secrets from the past.

“My goodness. You're right, this place is dusty. It needs cleaning out. Badly.” Charlotte ventured forward, tripping over a footstool. Off balance, she slammed to the floor, smashing her side against the corner of a table. Yelping with pain, she lay still, breathing hard as tears stung the back of her eyes.

“Are you all right?” Ruthie ran in from the doorway.

“No, but I will be in a moment,” Charlotte muttered.

She waited until the searing pain subsided in her shoulder and her breathing steadied before hoisting herself to her feet. Gingerly she plodded on until she reached an old wooden trunk. Bending down, she dusted off the lid and lifted it slowly.
Creak
. A musty odor assailed her nostrils. Inside, a face, dead white and porcelain, stared up at her with wide-open crystal blue eyes.

Her hands covered her mouth in horror. Every ounce of bravery drained from her body. Pressing her hands to her heart, she tried to calm the wild beat, but an eternity passed before its rhythm slowed to normal. Goodness, what was wrong with her? She was as jumpy as a cat with a dog about.

She stared at an old doll, no doubt discarded by a child of another generation. It lay prone on its coffin of rich satin that looked like the skirt of an old ball gown. Slowly she slid her fingers into the trunk, touching layer upon layer of woolen blankets and cotton quilts. Only fabric brushed her hand. Charlotte breathed deeply to steady her shredded nerves.

“It's too old to play with,” Ruthie said.

“What are you looking for?” A deep voice caught her off guard.

Startled, Charlotte jumped up. More pain engulfed her. Professor Wilmont loomed in the doorway, filling the space. His brows drew together in puzzlement. Should she run right past him, down the stairs, and out the front door?

She gulped and gave a weak smile.

“I saw Ruthie run by with a lamp, and I wondered what she was up to.”

Ruthie giggled. “Miss Hale wants to tidy up. She thinks the attic is one horrid mess. And I agree.”

“So now you've seen our messy attic. I suppose you've noticed we seldom throw anything out.” He looked rueful but not in the least bit sorry.

That should increase the odds of her discovering something pertinent to her investigation. Charlotte smiled. “Perhaps the children and I could give it a good cleaning out.”

A grin spread across Professor Wilmont's face. “But this is where I keep my treasures.”

His steady gaze melted Charlotte's legs to jelly. He'd caught her in the act of spying, but thankfully he didn't realize it. “Most of this stuff should be thrown in the trash or given to the poor,” she said.
No, the destitute.

The professor threw back his head and chuckled. “It's too big a job to tackle alone. Anyway, I like my things and I don't want to part with any of them just yet. Don't you keep souvenirs and memorabilia?”

Charlotte nodded. “Well naturally I do, but I strive to stay organized as well. I'd enjoy arranging your
treasures
. I wouldn't mind at all.”

Professor Wilmont ran his hand through his blond hair and pulled a frown. “All my paraphernalia could use a heavy dose of organization, but please leave it to Mrs. Finnegan and the maids. Your only job is to watch the children.”

Hands on her hips, Ruthie grinned at her father. “Now Papa, you know I'm quite grown up. Maybe Tim is an unruly child, but I'm not.”

The professor laughed. “I beg your pardon, young miss. I came upstairs to join the house tour, but it looks like you're finished. Shall we go downstairs?”

“Yes, sir.” Charlotte gritted her teeth as her shoulder continued to throb.

“Is something the matter, Miss Hale?” he asked as they headed to the hallway.

She sighed. “I stumbled and fell and wrenched my shoulder. But I'm better now, sir, at least slightly better.”

“Shall I send for the doctor?”

Charlotte shook her head, surprised by his concern. “That's not necessary. But thank you all the same.”

“Might I pray for you?” he suggested.

Pray?
Before she could decline, the professor and Ruthie grabbed her hands and bowed their heads. Amazed that someone would think to pray over something as inconsequential as a hurting shoulder, Charlotte closed her eyes and listened to words that were unfamiliar but slowly brought back vague memories of the few times she'd attended worship services as a child. Her parents had never been consistent churchgoers and neither was her aunt.

“Heavenly Father, we love You and praise Your holy name. I ask You to please use Your awesome power to quickly heal Miss Hale's shoulder and make it good as new.”

For what seemed like several minutes, Professor Wilmont spoke to God like He was a friend. His words blended in a soothing cadence that brought a strange rush of peace. Charlotte basked in the warmth, letting her mind focus on God as she'd seldom done before. Was she missing something that the Wilmonts possessed? Charlotte blinked to clear away her odd thoughts, then listened to Ruthie add a prayer of her own.

“Dear Lord, please make my new governess feel better so she can help my family and play with my brother and me.”

Tears welled up behind Charlotte's eyes. What was going on? Maybe the strain of deceiving this family was already taking its toll.
Get a grip on yourself, Charlotte. You're a professional journalist—almost—doing a job. Don't let the pressure throw you off balance
.

Silence hung in the air. Her eyes opened like blinds at half-mast. Professor Wilmont and Ruthie looked nearly in a trance and still grasped her hands. They must be silently praying. Or maybe she was supposed to follow their lead and pray aloud. Her hands perspired. What could she say that would end this session?

“Thank you, Almighty God,” she mumbled. She didn't think He'd look down from His heavenly perch and miraculously heal her shoulder, but anything was worth a try.

Professor Wilmont and Ruthie opened their eyes and dropped their hands. Charlotte breathed easier. “Well, thank you. I'm sure that will help.”

What if he took this opportunity to ask about her relationship with the Lord? As they descended the stairs, she chattered about the weather, the architectural features of the house, anything to keep his mind off of her spiritual condition. When she ran out of topics, she said, “Actually, my shoulder feels ever so much better. It must be the prayer.”
Or perhaps not
. But the pain had diminished, for whatever reason.

“Let's go down to the kitchen. I'd like an apple before dinner,” Ruthie said.

“I think I'll have one as well. How about you, Miss Hale?” the professor asked.

“No, thank you,” Charlotte said as she followed the Wilmonts down to the basement kitchen again. An apple would settle like a cannon ball in the pit of her stomach.

A short, rotund man in a tall toque and immaculate white apron staggered about the room and with grand flair sprawled onto a hard, ladder-back chair. The chef's Gallic face paled, and his features pulled downward like the droop of his luxuriant black mustache. Several servants hovered in the doorway, watching the drama unfold. “Ah, Mr. Wilmont. My supper for the staff was marvelous and up to my usual standards. But now I fear I've taken ill.” He gulped air as his body went limp. “Call for the doctor, Simone. What shall I do about the family's dinner?” He groaned and rolled his head from side to side and cradled his stomach and chest with soft, manicured hands.

Chaos ensued while the staff swarmed the kitchen and fussed over the chef. Simone, a dark little woman with worry lines around her eyes, muttered something in French and then scurried off to telephone for a physician. Two giant footmen helped the sick chef stumble off to his bedroom.

“Poor man,” Mrs. Finnegan murmured. Then she noticed Charlotte. She stepped closer and whispered, “It's probably dyspepsia. He overeats his own good cooking and every once in a while it doesn't agree with him.”

She took her by the arm and introduced her to the staff before they dispersed. More than a dozen uniformed servants greeted her with polite, but minimal, interest. It was just as well. They soon disappeared, chattering about Chef Jacques, leaving Charlotte alone with the Wilmonts, and the kitchen maids busy at the sink washing the staff's supper dishes.

The professor lowered his voice. “I'm sure the kitchen help is capable of preparing a simple dinner for my children and me, but they'll probably need some supervision.” He rubbed the small cleft in his chin. “Hmm. I don't know if they actually
can
cook or merely assist with the food preparation.”

“Might I be of some assistance?” Charlotte asked, hoping he'd decline her offer.

Relief crossed his face. “Yes, if you wouldn't mind. I know you were not hired to cook, but undoubtedly the kitchen maids would appreciate your assistance or direction—if you think you're up to it.”

“I'll be glad to pitch in,” Charlotte said with feigned cheer.

“Excellent. Something simple and easy would suit us.”

Charlotte hid a smile. She hoped simple and easy wasn't beyond her capability. And did his notion of a simple meal match her own?

Suddenly she regretted she hadn't learned to cook. Aunt Amelia always made all their meals, and given their funds, it was hardly anything fancy. But she was resourceful, wasn't she? She could read and follow directions. All she needed was a recipe and a few ingredients. There was no reason to alert the professor to her deficiencies.

She grabbed a tattered cookbook from an open shelf. Searching the tome for an appropriate recipe, she soon realized she didn't know an easy one from a hard one. With a sigh, she laid the book aside and glanced through the pantry. She looked up to discover Professor Wilmont watching her.

He reddened like a boy caught with his fist in the cookie jar. “I don't mean to stare at you. You just seem so intent. What were you thinking about, if I may ask?”

“Food. Is there anything you'd especially like?” she asked without considering the consequences. What if he expected a dinner with fancy cream sauces and all those other buttery concoctions French chefs were famous for? He might think the hardest of recipes were simple cuisine and easy to prepare.

“I'm partial to chicken, mashed potatoes and gravy, and biscuits. Uncomplicated fare.”

Her laugh twittered. “I like that too.”
But I can't cook anything except oatmeal
. “Why don't I look around and see what I can find?” There must be something edible in the large iceboxes on the far wall or in the well-stocked storage rooms.

Professor Wilmont slouched against the black coal stove as she tried to focus on her task. With the man staring at her, she couldn't concentrate—except on his kindly smile. Or was it a quizzical smile? Surely she looked like a complete incompetent. She took in a gulp of hot air and slowly exhaled.

“Are you all right?” he asked.

He regarded her with warmth. Blinded by his concern, she averted her gaze. “I'm fine, just a little uncertain about finding my way around a strange kitchen.”

“You do look a bit bewildered.”

Panicky
said it best.

“I'll get out from underfoot. I'll be in the library.”

She wanted him to stay for moral support, yet she wanted him to go.

The professor strolled off obviously confident he'd have his dinner. With the kitchen help in tow, Ruthie introduced the pair to Charlotte. She judged Fiona, the bigger one, to be around eighteen or so. Her bold stare stripped Charlotte of all confidence.

“So Fiona, what shall we cook for the Wilmonts' dinner this evening?” Charlotte asked in a chipper voice.

The hefty girl shrugged. “The chef won't let me near his stove, so I can hardly boil water. And Ellie, she does less than me.

We scrub vegetables and cut'em up, but we don't even put'em in a pot.” Her mouth pressed with stubbornness.

“Mostly we scour pots and pans.” Ellie raised red, rough hands as proof. Tiny and hunched, she might have reached fifteen years, certainly no more.

Fiona thrust her beefy arm into an icebox and pulled out a whole fish. “Maybe you can cook this fresh cod. We also have potatoes and summer squash. The professor likes plain food, not the fancy foreign stuff that his mother wants.”