Whirlwind (13 page)

A few minutes later, Arthur wiggled and whined, “Anny.”

“Yes, Nanny’s right here.” She quickly took him back and gave him a searching look. “After you left, it occurred to me that we’ll not be able to keep this a secret.”

“No, we won’t.” Daniel watched his son slump against the bib of his nanny’s apron. “I’ll have Tibbs get the captain. They must have a protocol for such things.”

Miss Fairweather let out a small laugh. “Of course there is. We British have a proper way to do everything.”

“How’s the lad?” Mr. Tibbs brought in a tray of tarts and tea.

“Napping.” Millicent gave him a weary smile. “You’ve been most kind, Mr. Tibbs.”

A sad smile crossed his features. “Turnabouts, miss. Back during the ’73 epidemic we all got the pox—the bad kind. Me mum and da both died, so a woman down the lane come and took me home with her. Wouldn’t be fair for me to turn my back on a wee lad when someone nursed me, now would it?”

“I’m grateful for your help. I daresay, had you not been so reassuring that it’s merely the chicken pox, the captain might well have nailed the door to the suite shut or tossed us all overboard.”

“I can’t take any credit. Mr. Clark made quite a convincing argument.”

The door to Mr. Clark’s chamber opened. “I overheard my name.”

“Mr. Tibbs brought tea. He was crediting you with being the voice of reason when the captain paid Arthur a visit.”

Mr. Clark sauntered across the parlor. “Your promise, Miss Fairweather, to remain quarantined with Arthur for the remainder of the voyage was the turning point.” He gestured toward the delicate china tea service. “We’ll need an additional cup, Tibbs. Henceforth, I’ll be taking my meals here with my son.”

“Yes, sir. Of course.” Mr. Tibbs scuttled away.

It took every scrap of self-control for Millicent to wait until they were alone to speak. “Truly, sir, that’s entirely unnecessary. You needn’t trouble yourself.”

“One might think you don’t want me here.”

“I don’t!” As soon as she blurted out that reply, heat flashed through her. “I beg your pardon, sir, but you needn’t hover. I’ll take excellent care of him.”

As if to make his point all too clear, Mr. Clark pulled out a chair. The stubborn man was going to sit there and let gravity win his argument. “Miss Fairweather.” He gave her an excessively patient look, then indicated the chair.

She gasped. “You can’t do this. I’m merely a nanny and—”

“We’re immigrating, so British propriety no longer holds sway.”

“We aren’t in the States yet.” Millicent slapped her hand over her mouth. Wishing he’d take the hint, she stared longingly at the door.

“If wishes were horses, Miss Fairweather, we all would ride.”

“Feel free to ride—I mean, go free.”
I didn’t just tell him to feel free to go free. I’m a blithering mess. It’s his fault, too. If he’d just go off and let me do my job, this would be so much less awkward.

“Freedom allows me to choose what I wish. I wish to have tea here.”

Mr. Tibbs entered and approached the table carrying another cup and saucer in one hand and a plate in the other. “I belatedly recalled that you have an affinity for shortbread, Miss Fairweather. This is fresh out of the oven.”

“Excellent. Miss Fairweather was just about to take her seat.”

Unable to devise a gracious retreat, Millicent accepted the chair and murmured her thanks as Mr. Clark slid it closer to the table.

“I take my tea plain.” Mr. Clark took a seat.

Millicent waited for Mr. Tibbs to fulfill her employer’s request, but the steward left the suite. Manners dictated she pour . . . then she’d find an excuse to slip away from the table. Even though the shortbread smelled heavenly.

Mr. Clark accepted his cup. “You were so busy with Arthur, you barely ate anything at breakfast or luncheon. You must be starving.”

“I’m far from languishing for want of sustenance.”

“Let’s keep it that way.” He passed her the plate of shortbread.

Temptation sat on that plate, beckoning. Just one tiny bite . . .
No. No, I’m not going to have anything.
Setting down the plate, she straightened her shoulders and opened her mouth.

“One might guess from your expression that you had all lemon and no tea.” Mr. Clark helped himself to a tart.

“I need to—”

“Eat some of that shortbread and have yourself a nice cup of tea.” He gave her an entertained look over the rim of his own cup. “Without lemon.”

“Was that an order or a suggestion?”

“Both.”

It wasn’t until he answered that she realized she’d spoken aloud. Millicent moaned. “Now if you will please excuse me . . .”

“You’re not excused.” He had the nerve to chuckle as he reached over and took the largest wedge of shortbread. “Has it not occurred to you that I’ll partake of meals with my son?”

“Yes, of course you shall.”

He nodded. “Precisely. And do you consider me such an ogre that I’d expect you to go hungry rather than to share our table?”

Thoroughly disgruntled, Millicent stared at him.

His deep brown eyes sparkled. “What are you thinking?” “You shouldn’t ever ask me that.” Dear mercy. The moment she said the words, Millicent wished she could take back her comment. Mr. Clark undoubtedly would take that as a challenge.

“You’re the woman in whom I lay my trust. Nothing is more important to me than my son. Of course I should know how your mind works.”

“You adored debate in school, didn’t you?”

The right side of his mouth slid up slowly, giving him a rakish air. He set the shortbread on her plate. “You should take it as a compliment that I engage in such banter with you. I don’t waste my breath on nitwits.”

“Plenty of other people waste their breath on gossip. Prudence dictates I conduct myself in such a manner that safeguards my reputation and that of my employer.”

He scoffed. “Under the circumstances, Miss Fairweather, allowances must be made. Out of respect for the other passengers, I plan to spend most of my time sequestered in the suite. You gave your word that you’d remain in quarantine with Arthur for the remainder of the voyage. As there is but one table, logic dictates we share it.” He paused for effect, then stated, “Now let’s address the dressmaking venture.”

“Isabelle should really converse with you about that. After all, it will primarily be her business. I’ll—” She started to pop up, then plopped down. “I can’t go fetch her.”

“I’ll send Tibbs after you’ve enjoyed your tea.”

She muttered to herself.

“I beg your pardon. I didn’t understand you.”

“You weren’t supposed to.” He gave her a searching look, and she fought the urge to wiggle in her chair. “Oh, all right. I said I want a minute alone with my sister to warn her about you. She thinks I have a stubborn streak, but I need to warn her about yours. Then she, in turn, will warn you that I possess the perfectly horrid ability to speak out of turn at inopportune times.” She paused. “Now that you know the full truth, it’s only honorable for me to allow you to back out of the deal. I’m sure you want someone biddable as your son’s nanny.”

“You’re wrong, Miss Fairweather. I want you.”

Ten

I
want you.
Oh, he’d said a mouthful. And the words echoed in Daniel’s head all day.

It was true in more ways than bore scrutiny. He hadn’t had much contact with Miss Fairweather until now, and she’d turned out to be quite a surprise—a pleasant one. Beneath that pretty exterior lay a sharp mind and a quick wit.

She was every inch a lady, though she sometimes slipped up in the tact department. It was downright entertaining to hear what she’d say next.

Even so, Miss Fairweather exhibited grace under pressure with his little boy. That admirable quality shone from her. Ignoring Arthur’s crankiness, she patiently got a dose of honey-laced willow bark tea into him. She sponged him, rocked him, sang to him. Clever as could be, she popped tiny socks onto his hands so he couldn’t scratch himself. As the day progressed into night, his fever didn’t go any higher, but the rash continued to spread.

“Poor mite.” Miss Fairweather laid Arthur down for bed. “He’s more speckled than not.”

Daniel touched his son’s forehead. “But at least he’s no longer burning up.”

“From what I gather, his fever will come and go. You mustn’t fret overly much about that. It’s just part of the malady.” She leaned over, murmured a sweet little prayer, then crooned, “Sleepy-bye.” Her lips grazed Arthur’s forehead.

Even with his hands enclosed in socks, Arthur reached up and cupped her face. “Mmm-ah!” His baby kiss glanced off her cheek.

“That was lovely. Now you go sleepy-bye with Buddy.” She tucked the makeshift toy into Arthur’s grasp.

Daniel didn’t mind waiting to kiss his son. He relished the tender care Miss Fairweather lavished on Arthur. Arthur certainly sensed her comfort and compassion; a father couldn’t want more for his son. A fortnight ago, he would have scoffed at the notion that a simple, ordinary pillow slip could be a child’s most prized possession. Now he couldn’t imagine Arthur going to bed without Buddy. Little loving touches—Arthur deserved all he could get.

And Miss Fairweather gave unstintingly.

When she slipped to the side, Daniel leaned over the cot. It seemed she’d created a bedtime ritual for his son, and if it helped Arthur slumber more peacefully, Daniel resolved he’d unashamedly tuck in his son with baby talk for as long as necessary. “Sleepy-bye, son.” He pressed his lips to Arthur’s forehead.

“Buddy mmm-ah.” Arthur held up the bunny.

“He wants you to kiss his bunny,” Miss Fairweather whispered.

Tending his son was one thing; kissing a pillow slip . . .
It’s the same thing. It matters to Arthur. If it makes him feel better
. . . “Sleepy-bye, Buddy. Mmm-ah!”

They left the nursery, and as he shut the door, Daniel noticed Miss Fairweather dabbing at her eyes. She shrugged self-consciously. “That was the sweetest thing I’ve ever seen a man do. Your son is blessed to have a father who loves him so deeply and freely.”

“That I do, Miss Fairweather. But he’s also been most fortunate to gain you as his nanny. You’ve been a great comfort to him.”

“We’ve only just begun the battle. He’ll keep breaking out with more of the rash for another few days, and it’ll be a week before everything is scabbed. It’s not until all of the pox have scabbed that he’ll be safe for other children. Do you think we’ll reach land before then?”

I’ve been in a hurry to finish the voyage, but now I want it to lag awhile. It’ll let Arthur recover, and it’ll give me the chance to learn more about this woman. She’ll be a huge influence on my son; I need to know her better.
Daniel picked up the plate of shortbread. He’d ordered Tibbs to keep a supply of the nanny’s favorite in the room in addition to tea biscuits for his son. Daniel extended the plate to her. “It depends.”

“Upon what?”

“If you are the only Fairweather the Lord chooses to grant us.”

Eight days later, as she opened the nursery door, Daniel informed the nanny, “We’ll be in New York by noon.”

“Do you think I’ll be able to see the Statue of Liberty from the porthole?”

“I’m not sure which side of the ship it’ll be on. If you don’t see it, I’ll be sure to arrange for you to view it. It’s my son’s fault you’ve been cooped up.”

“It’s no one’s fault!” She lifted Arthur and sat him at the breakfast table.

“Goo food. ’Men.” Arthur parted his hands and reached for his bacon.

Miss Fairweather took her seat. “He does love bacon, doesn’t he?”

“I have yet to find a food my son won’t eat.” Daniel smiled.

As breakfast ended, a strange silence filled the air. Daniel identified it at once. “We must be in the harbor. They’ve taken down the sails.”

“We’re in New York?” Miss Fairweather’s eyes shimmered with excitement.

“In a manner of speaking. We’ll be processed, then released into New York.” His own heart raced, but for an entirely different reason. Ever since Arthur broke out in his rash, Daniel knew the Americans could use that as a reason to deny them entry into the United States. He’d said not a word to Miss Fairweather, not wanting her to worry. Besides, her cheerfulness had made what might have been an utterly miserable time bearable. In fact, bearable didn’t do credit to the sweet days she’d devoted to helping him and his son.

Daniel couldn’t think of another soul who would have remained with someone else’s child in that first hour when they’d questioned if his son might have smallpox. She’d shown rare courage and loyalty, and even after they’d ascertained it was merely chicken pox, Miss Fairweather had cared for Arthur with loving-kindness.

And what would her reward be? If the port authorities disagreed with their diagnosis and rejected Arthur, they’d undoubtedly send Miss Fairweather back to England, as well. He’d made up his mind: If the worst happened, he’d pay for the Quinsbys to return to England with them—first class. Because they wouldn’t be eligible to reenter America for a full year, he’d rent a place and employ them all, and after the year lapsed, pay for first-class passage to America again. It would be costly, but it was just.

Unaware of his thoughts, Miss Fairweather disappeared into the nursery. Not long afterward, she called Arthur. She reappeared with her valise. Arthur toddled after her, clinging to the exquisite skirts of an off-white outfit that made her look ready to attend the queen’s garden party. “I’ve just changed Arthur. He ought to be fine for a while.”

Before Daniel could comment on her finery, a knock sounded. The captain opened the door. “Quarantine officers, Mr. Clark. They have to examine your boy.”

A dark-suited man and a younger one carrying a clipboard entered. The elder peered through his spectacles around the room. “Where . . .”

“Arthur, let’s show this nice man your polka dots.” Miss Fairweather sidestepped to reveal Arthur’s location. Smoothly, she knelt and lifted the hem of Arthur’s gown.

“No.” He wiggled.

She pulled the hem clear up to his little nose. “Peek-a-boo!”

“Boo!” Arthur giggled.

One of the doctor’s brows rose a notch. “That’s one way of gaining a tyke’s cooperation. He’s got a crop of lesions, doesn’t he?”