The Nanny Solution (2 page)

He tried a hopeful, earnest expression. “Perhaps we can discuss this inside?” He knew little of this class, but he presumed socialites never chatted at the front door. He'd realized as he'd climbed the steps that he was taking a huge chance that this Victoria Templeton would accept employment, but Lacewood had seemed optimistic. Mitch glanced around as Victoria stepped back from the door to allow him entrance. They owned this house yet needed money? Could they be spendthrifts? Perhaps. Who was he to know this sex?

No one
, he thought, bitter pride blossoming on his tongue. He was a rancher, after all. Ranchers focused on their herd, not on figuring out fickle women.

Victoria led him, with his children in tow, into the front room. She marched straight to a small bell, which she rang. A woman in a uniform appeared, and refreshments were ordered. The mother stopped at the parlor entrance and looked down at his brood, as if noticing an appalling sample of vermin for the first time. Then, with a short sigh, she strode to the settee and sat down.

“Have a seat, Mr. MacLeod.” Victoria offered him a fussy chair while she chose to sit beside her mother. “Do you drink tea?”

“I can.” Mitch hadn't come to fiddle with dainty teacups and tiny biscuits, but if it was needed to secure help, so be it. He glanced over at his children, who hovered at the door to this fancy room, lost little souls that they were. With a short nod, he indicated for them to enter and sit, although Matthew, his oldest, remained standing, as if on guard. Mary shared a nearby armless chair with her brother, John, while the youngest in tow, Ralph, sat cross-legged on the floor in front of them, his dark brown curls bouncing as he looked around. Their eyes widened to saucers when the tea and biscuits arrived. But when the older woman offered them nothing, they thankfully stayed silent.

Following his gaze, Victoria looked over at the children. Mitch knew she'd caught the very small shake of his head that warned them not to beg. Her attention darted back to her mother, who, ignoring all else, supervised her maid as she filled each cup.

Clicking her tongue, Victoria snatched the tiered silver tray of sweets and marched over to the children. “Your hands.”

They gaped at her. “Hold out your hands,” she revised.

They all obeyed. Mitch shut his eyes. Ralph's grubby paws would need a good scouring. The boy could find dirt in heaven, he was sure. But, ignoring the state of the children's hands, Victoria dropped two biscuits into each outstretched palm.

In turn, each child whispered a polite thank-you.

“Miss Templeton, I need help,” Mitch said when Victoria returned the tray to the table between them and sat down again. “I have to return to my ranch, and as good as my children are, they need a woman while traveling out there, especially considering two of the five are girls.”

Victoria glanced again at the children. Even her mother, who'd been busy looking down her nose at the whole situation, also turned. It was Victoria who spoke. “You have four children, and only one of them is a girl.”

“The baby, Emily, is in the care of a nurse right now.”

“And your wife, Mr. MacLeod? Where is she? Is she still in her confinement?”

Mitch's jaw tightened. “She died in childbirth a month ago. September 4, to be exact. I'm hoping to take the children to our ranch, the one I've been building for my family.”

It was all he would say on the subject. For, no matter what, he would not reveal the truth about Emily's unknown paternity.

Your pride will be your downfall, Mitch. Don't go thinking it will serve you well. When pride cometh, then cometh shame.

The pastor of the church in Proud Bend, the town closest to his ranch, had spoken the warning before Mitch had left for Boston to collect his family, now that his new ranch was ready. Mitch had also boasted that he would pay off his mortgage within two years, and that he would then have the finest beef cattle within view of Castle Rock. What awaited him here—his wife's death, the unexpected child—had brought the pastor's words into sharp focus.

He pushed aside the memory. It would serve no good purpose to dwell on things that brought shame.

“No mother?” Her eyes widening, Victoria interrupted his thoughts. “Poor things.” Her brows then knitted together as she looked over at him. “My condolences.”

“Thank you. Yes, it has been difficult on them.”
And me, in a way you'll never know.
Mitch tightened his jaw, holding himself back from saying something that might reveal the betrayal still coursing through him. “Lacewood is seeing to my late wife's final affairs, for I need to return to my ranch. And I can't do so without a woman to assist me. Are you going out West, Miss Templeton? I can pay for your fare and a small stipend in return for your assistance.”

It sounded a foolish thing to say, but Lacewood had suggested those exact words. “The trip is broken up by switching engines and lines, but it's remarkably fast, only three days, two nights,” Mitch added, hoping the solicitor's optimism hadn't been misplaced.

Victoria's mother shook her head. “I'm sorry, Mr. MacLeod, but my daughter's fare is already taken care of.”

“I'll take it.”

Both her mother and Mitch looked to Victoria. She folded her arms. “My fare
hasn't
been purchased yet.”

The older woman looked aghast. “But you need to travel first class, Victoria. You need to look your best when you arrive. You won't get any rest helping this man.”

Knowing he was being ignored, Mitch spoke up. “I can't afford first class, but I'm told you'll get your rest. It's a second-class car, but it's a Pullman sleeper one.”

He couldn't guarantee rest. He just said that because dropping the fancy Pullman name might help his cause, although that company no longer made those second-class sleepers, he'd been told. They would travel in an older model.

The mother gasped. “Second class! That will never do!”

Victoria, however, smiled sweetly at him. Too sweetly. “I said I'll take the job. When do we leave?”

Chapter Two

T
he young porter hefted Victoria's bags off the damp platform. The early morning's cold drizzle reflected the mood of the day. Victoria looked sidelong at the four children staring at her from under the cover of the train depot's narrow overhang, each clutching one small bag. She cringed. Her maid had managed to pare her luggage down to four pieces, but they seemed huge compared to everyone else's. Yet she needed it all, and she hadn't even packed a mourning dress.

And why should she? She refused the convention of grieving the man who'd ruined her life. What she wore today was conservative in style and color and quite expensive. It was more than suitable.

Her mother had taken six bags with her. Her departure yesterday had been surprisingly difficult for Victoria, despite the discontent between them and the fact that Mother had come and gone in Victoria's life several times. With her need for the cool air of Portland in August or the warmth of the Carolinas in February, she was always leaving Victoria in the care of a nanny, but this time their parting was different. Their home must be sold. Discreetly, of course, the assets liquidated as per Mr. Lacewood's instructions, after consultation with an investor. The staff would be let go, each with a glowing letter of recommendation.

Victoria took one lamenting look down the platform, wondering if she'd see any friends. She recognized no one. A blessing, really, she told herself, all the while fighting disappointment. Mother had asked that this dreadful affair be completed as quickly and quietly as possible and such meant no one must know they were slipping out of town in disgrace.

Once she was settled in Colorado, she would write to the few women she called friends and explain everything. Perhaps by then, time might have softened the emotions roiling through her.

And Francis? Would he call before the harvest soiree that his mother was to host? Shouldn't she write to him, too? Abigail had not invited his family to Charles's funeral. Victoria clenched her jaw. Honestly, a funeral shouldn't require invitations as though it were some exclusive fete. All she could do now was hope that Francis would not call to an empty house.

Oh, who was she trying to convince? She and Francis had shared only a trio of engagements. Not one word in their conversations had ever suggested that he'd been interested enough to come calling. They owed each other nothing.

Which was what Victoria had right now, apart from a few small coins in her purse. Once the young porter had finished stowing all her bags save the one she'd asked to be made readily available, she dropped one coin into his palm as she thanked him. He nodded.

With an edgy exhalation, Victoria watched the porter disappear. What was she going to do when her money was gone? She had good secretarial skills, because of her education, but Walter was expecting her to trade his charity for a marriage to his partner. Mother had married Charles out of convenience. What had that done for her? It had turned her into a poor relation. Victoria firmed her shoulders. Marriage to a stranger? No. As soon as she arrived in Proud Bend, she'd start looking for clerical work.

Her heart lurched at the bitter humiliation.

A sturdy breeze rolled down the platform, bringing with it the foul, oily smoke from the locomotive and forcing Victoria closer to the children to prevent her lovely traveling outfit from catching the soot.

It was a dark green skirt suit in a quiet style suitable for the day. The bustle was small and the tailored waistcoat with its unobtrusive buttons could fit both mourning and traveling. She battled the filthy breeze that seemed determined to lift her skirt.

Victoria searched the platform again. It would soon be time to board. Mr. MacLeod had asked her to be here at 7:45 a.m. sharp, a good half hour before the train was to leave this Sunday morning. Indeed, his children were here, standing dutifully against the wall, staring at her as if expecting her to vanish in a puff of smoke.

“Miss Templeton?”

She turned and found Matthew holding out her small change purse. He was nearly as tall as she was. “You dropped this.”

She patted down the small hidden pocket in her skirt and found it empty. Then, accepting the coin purse, she smiled. “Thank you. I wouldn't want to lose this. It's all I have.”

The young boy's bland expression didn't change.

Poor mites. Their mother had entered a hospital and had not returned. Victoria couldn't blame them for expecting her to disappear, as well. She peered once more up and down the platform. Had their father decided that he couldn't handle the stress of caring for all these children? He hadn't struck her as that type when they'd met at the brownstone, but what did she know about men? They could all have a bit of that slick behavior her stepfather had shown.

“Where is your father?” she asked Matthew.

“He's gone to get the baby.”

“Oh.” She consulted the large clock that hung from the rafters. “The train leaves in fifteen minutes. Do you have the tickets?”

Matthew shook his head. Gripping her purse tighter, Victoria bit back uncertainty, torn between pulling those frightened little children into her arms and marching into the depot's office to ask for copies of the purchased tickets. Finally she said, “We may as well board and get you all settled in. Do you have any more bags?”

“No, ma'am.”

“Why do you have so many?” Mary piped up.

Feeling her cheeks color slightly, Victoria peered down at the little girl. How old was she? About seven? “A lady needs a lot of things.”

“Papa says I'm a lady, and all I have is this.” She hoisted a small drawstring bag. “One nightgown, a fresh pinafore and stockings. Why do you need more?”

Glancing around, Victoria drew the children toward the train. “The things a lady wears underneath are bigger, that's all. And some of them can't be crushed. Besides, I'm bringing soap, and all of you will need a good scrubbing. Now let's hurry. I don't want your father to have to deal with us should he be late himself.”

As they climbed aboard, the conductor asked for their tickets. Victoria felt the heat rise once more into her cheeks. She had no idea the conductor would demand the tickets so early. She'd taken the train when they'd traveled up to Portland last summer, but Charles had seen to those details. “I'm sorry. They haven't arrived yet. Are we assigned seats?”

“Yes, ma'am, but I have a list of the passengers. What is the name?”

“MacLeod. Mitchell MacLeod,” a deep voice behind her answered.

Victoria turned to find Mitchell climbing up with great ease despite the baby he held. Swathed in a simple white layette and a brown blanket, she nuzzled her cap, which had managed to cover half of her face. Her attitude was clearly deteriorating.

“She's hungry,” he said bluntly.

Victoria swallowed. “Do you have any milk for her?”

“Yes, but let's get settled first. Here, take her.” Supporting the baby's head, he shoved her into Victoria's arms. In that brief moment, panic swept through her. Until now, Victoria had yet to hold a baby. Ever.

Oh, dear, what was the child's name? Mitchell had told her, but she'd forgotten it in her haste to accept his offer.
Oh, yes, Emily.

For fear she might drop Emily, Victoria drew her close as Mitchell surrendered the tickets. Glass clinked in the cotton drawstring bag he held. She half expected the bottom of the bag to start leaking milk, but it didn't.

Hoping that Mitchell knew how to bottle feed the infant, Victoria smiled bravely at the rest of his children. They did not return it.

Goodness, she thought. This was going to be a long trip out West.

A porter led them to their seats, speaking as he walked. “I can show you where you can warm the milk, ma'am.”

Ma'am? Did he think that she was married? Regardless, Victoria thanked him before turning to Mitchell. “Am I expected to feed Emily? We didn't discuss the finer details of my employment.”

Mitchell removed his tall, wide-brimmed hat and slipped it into the compartment above them. Was it one of those Stetsons she'd read about in stories of the Wild West? He chose then to peer down at her, his thick, chestnut hair springing free into enviable curls. Her dark blond hair had only a light wave to it. Although slimly built, Mitchell had broad shoulders and arms that strained his jacket's sleeves. He was obviously a man used to hard work. “Have you ever fed a baby before?” he asked.

Reddening, Victoria glanced around. By now, the car was nearly full. A young woman carrying her own infant squeezed past, her wide, slightly dated skirt sweeping away everything in its path. She settled in a seat across from them. When Victoria returned her gaze to Mitchell, she shook her head. “Until this moment, I hadn't even held a child. I have no siblings nor friends with children. Mother thought they were messy and felt it unbecoming of a lady to fawn over them.” Her smile felt watery. “Do you know how? I presume we should warm the milk, and I can only hope that bag has everything we need.”

* * *

Mitch frowned at her. What on earth kind of woman had he hired? When he'd met Victoria a few days ago, she was genteel and seemed full of common sense, unlike that fretful mother of hers.

He'd assumed she would know about babies. Didn't all women? Grimacing, he realized that he should have asked that question when they'd first met. But by then, he'd been in Boston for a fortnight and at the time still reeling from his wife's passing two weeks before that—and of course from Emily's arrival. The hospital hadn't even contacted him about Agnes's death, he recalled grimly. They'd simply arranged for her church to bury her.

Mitch was thankful for their compassion. But by the time he'd terminated the rental agreement of her home and figured out how to set aside his anger at the situation she'd created, another week had passed. Only by the charity of the nurse who'd attended Agnes during her final hours did the baby get the care she deserved. The nurse had then instructed him to either find a nursing mother or purchase the bottles and baby's milk needed. The doctor had suggested the latter also.

By then, time had become even more precious. He'd needed to hire a woman to help him during the train ride out. Not just any woman, but a trustworthy one. Mitch had heard tales about women willing to care for babies, but once payment was given, the children often died mysteriously.

Mitch looked down at Emily, her nuzzling and fussiness escalating. A good screaming bout would soon begin and his heart wrenched. She may always represent the worst betrayal in his life, but he could not abandon her. He'd never be able to live with himself if he did.

He rubbed his forehead. “I'll show you what to do.” He turned to his oldest son. “Matthew, mind the young ones. We'll be back in a moment.”

He strode to the front of the sleeper car. He could only assume Victoria followed, because he couldn't hear a thing over the train whistle and the din in the car. The train lurched ahead and immediately, he spun, fully prepared to catch Miss Templeton and the baby. But all was fine. Miss Templeton's grip might have been a bit tight, but she'd kept herself steady.

* * *

The older porter tending the fire in the small stove of the train kitchen looked up when they approached. Victoria watched Mitchell thrust the cotton bag at him. “We need some baby's milk warmed, please.”

Still holding the baby, Victoria slipped in beside Mitchell, determined not to miss a thing. She had better learn all she could as quickly as possible.

The porter took the cotton bag and loosened its drawstring to peer inside. He nodded and told them he would deliver the warmed milk to their seats.

As they made their way back, Mitchell said to Victoria over his shoulder, “You do this each time. I'll see to the man's gratuity when we reach Denver. That's when we change lines.”

“Where will we store the milk between the feedings? It's already quite warm in here.”

“I expect the kitchen has an icebox, but each time we stop, I'll purchase more if need be, plus food for us.” He slowed. “I won't waste money on the food made at train depots, though. It's inedible and the children will only refuse to eat it.”

By the time they'd reached their seats, Emily's whimpering had become full-out wailing. Automatically, Victoria bounced her lightly. She wasn't looking forward to feeding her. Why, she hadn't even peered inside that cotton bag. What on earth did a baby's bottle look like?

“Would you like the window seat?”

She quickly shook her head. “I don't think so. If you expect me to feed and change the baby, I'll have to sit closest to the aisle.” She cringed. Oh, dear—change the baby? Another task of which she knew nothing.

Nodding, Mitchell slipped in ahead of her, stepping over the basket that he must have had delivered. Victoria took her seat beside him, glancing over at the young woman across the aisle. The baby in
her
arms rested comfortably, no doubt well fed.

The woman eyed her up and down, her interest far too blatant. Uncomfortable at her nerve, Victoria looked away, realizing she probably looked foolish, still with her gloves on, as though a child was something to avoid touching. She wasn't. The child was beautiful. Victoria suppressed a smile as she looked down at Emily. At least now she could see the baby's face, since she'd removed her small bonnet. She'd removed her own hat as well and slipped them both in beside Mitchell's Stetson before they'd strode up to see about warming the milk.

A few minutes later, after far too many screams from Emily, the old porter arrived with the bottle.

It was shaped like a flattened lemon, made of clear glass with a rubber nipple sticking up at one end. Victoria thanked the man, and after fitting the small blanket over her waistcoat to protect it, she eased the bottle down to Emily's mouth.

At least the baby knew what to do. Being careful not to tip up the bottle too much, Victoria awkwardly began to feed her.