Whirlwind (8 page)

Mr. Clark focused on the job and the last strap fell free. His big hands delved into the white life vest and curled around his son. Arthur wiggled and screeched with happiness.

“I fear your son is a bit too wound up to go straight back to sleep.”

Mr. Clark gave her an assessing look. “So you don’t hold with discipline and routine?”

“Indeed I do. Then again, when the extraordinary happens, one can scarcely expect ordinary behavior from a child so young.” She took Arthur from his father, then stooped to pick up the pillowcase. As she straightened up, her braid swung over her shoulder. Millicent tried to console herself with the fact that she’d managed to pull on her clothes. The best thing to do was ignore her inappropriate presentation and hope Mr. Clark would, as well.

But then he reached over and flipped the braid behind her. Just as he finished the action, Mr. Clark’s hand froze. Immediately shoving his hands into his pockets, he said in a brusque tone, “Sorry. Arthur pulls—pulled . . .”

She watched as embarrassment heated his face, revealing a chink in his usually reserved, composed nature. Wanting to rescue him, Millicent filled the silence. “It’s a wonder all adults aren’t bald from babies snatching handfuls of our hair. If babies weren’t so sweet, I’d suspect they do it on purpose because they’re jealous we have more hair than they. Only I can’t say that about little Arthur. I mean, he’s sweet. It’s just that he’s not jealous. He has no reason to be. Your son has a lovely head of hair.”
I’m babbling like a fool. What is wrong with me?

Pointing at what she held, Mr. Clark asked, “What’s in that?”

Millicent looked down. Oh dear mercy. The hem of her shirtwaist hung askew, having been buttoned unevenly. If that wasn’t bad enough, she hoped in the dim light her boss wouldn’t notice that she’d put her skirt on inside out. Jerking the pillowcase upward to cover those flaws, she said, “Lifeboats can’t possibly be supplied with nappies. Speaking of which, I’m sure Arthur needs a dry one.”

Mr. Clark took the pillowcase. Brows shot toward his hairline. “How many nappies did you put in here?”

“All of them. It isn’t all that many. Mr. Tibbs has most of them to launder. He goes through seven or eight nappies a day. I mean, Arthur does—not Mr. Tibbs.”
Oh, why can’t I just stop talking?

“Tibbs!” A man in the corridor called out. “I demand to know what’s happening!”

Taking advantage of the distraction, Millicent took possession of the bag. Mr. Clark’s fingers released the pillow slip and curled around hers for a mere breath. “Stop shaking. You’re safe.”

After he vacated the suite, she stayed right where he’d left her. He’d calmed her considerably; she had nothing to fear . . . so why was she trembling?

Pulling up the collar of his coat, Daniel stepped out onto the deck. With the sky barely tinted the peculiar shade of predawn lavender and nary a star left in sight, the ocean formed a vast menacing shadow all about the small vessel. Waves that just yesterday seemed friendly swells now pitched and rolled the
Opportunity
in a show of might.

Huge coils of rope and bundles of thick white canvas abounded on the deck. Two older men stood by the captain. One gestured grandly while the other bellowed at him in such a thick accent that Daniel couldn’t understand most of what he shouted. Then again, the words didn’t much matter. Clearly, the captain had ordered sails to be hoisted.

A well-attired passenger strode into sight. Heading for the captain, he stomped directly over one sail, then on top of another. “I hold you responsible for this!”

One of the old men swung about. “Get yer boots offa my 81 sails, else I’ll—”

“Mr. Fogarty.” The captain rapped out the name, and the sailor went silent. Not budging an inch, the captain then turned his attention on the passenger. “Mr. Haxton, until repairs are completed, we’ll continue on the voyage under sail.”

Huffing like a bull, Haxton didn’t move. “Time is money.”

“True.” Daniel sauntered out just a few feet. “Good thing we won’t be completely dead in the water. Captain, you’re to be commended for striking sail so rapidly.” He turned and served Haxton a jolly slap on the shoulder. “Haven’t had my coffee yet, so you just might beat me in a game of cribbage.”

Engaged in the game, Daniel missed his morning glimpse of Arthur. By midmorning, he sat in a deck chair and awaited his son’s stroll. Right on schedule, Miss Fairweather came into sight. Head turned and slanted downward, she was paying close attention to Arthur’s gleeful babble.

As she dropped Arthur off to play with Daniel, Mr. Haxton gave Miss Fairweather an assessing look. “With the ship delayed as it is, my wife and our maid and nanny are distraught. I should have thought of it sooner, having your nanny watch my child, too.”

Daniel bristled at the man’s rudeness. “Miss Fairweather has been hired to watch but one child. Staying busy with your children is undoubtedly the best cure for your wife and nanny’s anxiety.”

“You let the nanny rule your home?”

Daniel gave Haxton a cold look. “The Lord is the head of my home. As a man of honor, I set forth a contract that was fair and reasonable for both parties. I’ll not go back on my word.” Daniel didn’t want Haxton ogling Miss Fairweather or making any further comments. He gave Arthur a big hug. “Back to Nanny now, son. Be a good boy and have a happy afternoon.”

The day dragged on interminably. Daniel returned to the suite only to dress for supper, then for bed. By then, the parlor was silent. The “balls” Nanny had made by stuffing portions of his socks with beans each now boasted decorative zigzags of white and red yarn. Though Arthur’s toy box contained much finer playthings, Daniel knew his son would gladly ignore everything else in favor of the nanny’s creations. Straightening up, Daniel noticed the minuscule line of light glowing from beneath the nursery door. Pitching his voice so it would carry, he asked, “My son?”

“Sleeping, sir.”

“Very well.” At least he hadn’t frightened Miss Fairweather this time.

Retiring to his bedchamber, Daniel planned out the sliver of time he’d be in New York. Such a cosmopolitan city would have several suitable nanny candidates. He took a list from his pocket and set it on the bedside table. Throughout the day, he’d jotted down pertinent requirements and concerns. Organization would narrow down his prospects and permit him to hire the right woman in short order. A Christian topped the list. She needed to be older and of impeccable character. In the morning, he would add the latest consideration that had occurred to him: A nanny ought to be a light sleeper. Pleased with his sensible plans, Daniel opened his Bible.

“Mr. Tibbs, it is imperative you return Arthur’s laundry.” Millicent stood across the table from the purser. “Arthur’s got only two more clean nappies, and he doesn’t own any more gowns.”

Going a sickly shade of puce, Mr. Tibbs swallowed hard. “I’m sorry, miss. I tried. Maybe you could borrow from the Haxtons.”

“I rather doubt they have any to spare. Even so, you’d still have to launder and return any we borrowed.”

Removing the silver dome from the tray, the purser declared, “Breakfast is served, Miss Fairweather.” He raced out of the cabin before she could say another word.

She and Arthur prayed and ate. As she had for the past two mornings, Millicent set aside the third coddled egg. Small as he was, Arthur didn’t eat much. She often shared his plate so the food wouldn’t go to waste. Her own food fit into a handkerchief, which she dropped into Frank’s outstretched hands each day while on her morning walk with Arthur. Then they would saunter to the deck chair Mr. Clark preferred at the appointed time, as requested.

Determined to remedy the nappy situation, Millicent took the serviettes from the breakfast tray and went to the nursery. Once there, she folded them together and used them to diaper Arthur. Without a clean gown to put on the little boy, she took a tiny blanket and knotted it into a cape. “There! You are King Arthur. Let’s go get your horsey.”

Arthur rode about the parlor on his stick horse. “Gup! Gup!”

“Gup?” Mr. Clark lounged in the doorway to his bedchamber, a puzzled look on his face. “I rather expected it might mean cup, but Arthur’s not at the ta—” His voice halted abruptly.

“Arthur just learned ‘giddy up’ yesterday,” Millicent quickly stated. “He’s a very clever boy.”

“Just what,” Mr. Clark said in a disbelieving tone, “is he wearing?”

“His costume.” Millicent strove to sound nonchalant. “He’s King Arthur, of course.”

Hunkering down, Mr. Clark beckoned his son. Arthur rushed to his father, clumsily stepped free, and thrust the little toy at his father. “Dadda, gup!”

“It’s very nice of you to share, but you are King Arthur.” Mr. Clark adjusted the blanket around his son’s shoulders. “You ride. There you go now.” Pleased with the attention he’d received, the toddler climbed back on the “horse.” He didn’t care that it was backward; he rode away, dragging the head on the floor behind him.

Mr. Clark straightened up and sauntered over to the table. Casual as could be, he put the two rashers of bacon on the remaining piece of toast, folded it over, and took a bite.

Disappointment speared through her.
Poor Isabelle and Frank. I won’t have anything to give them other than the—

Her employer picked up a knife, tapped around the eggshell, and lifted the top. His brows knit. “Yolk’s runny. How did you manage to get any of it into Arthur?”

“I cut his toast into little pieces and pour the yolk onto his plate. He dips the toast whilst I feed him the egg white.” Afraid he’d reach for the serviette and find it missing, Millicent blurted out, “Did you see his new tooth? It came in yesterday.”

“So he’s not gnawing on your bracelet any longer?”

“I didn’t mind.”

Mr. Clark nodded sagely. He disappeared into his bedchamber and returned. “Son, come here.”

“No!” Regardless of his word, Arthur trotted back toward his father.

“Daddy made you a boat. See?” Mr. Clark set down a trio of connected rectangular blocks. Each rode on cork wheels, but the middle portion’s wheels weren’t connected from the center. The offset axle made that block—and the carved wooden boat upon it—rise and dip crazily as he tugged on the string.

“Me do!” Arthur grabbed the string and pulled. The toy undulated toward him, and he squealed with glee. “Me boat!” Arthur dropped the string and tried to step onto the boat.

“No, no.” Mr. Clark jerked the toy away from certain destruction. “You’re too big to ride this boat.”

His forehead creasing exactly like his father’s, Arthur lifted his foot again.

Millicent swept him backward. “Arthur, go get Buddy. Don’t you think Buddy wants to see your new boat?” While he went to fetch the rabbit, she smiled at her boss. “The toy is charming. Children don’t understand about size differences until they’re a bit older.”

“Then he’s too young for this.”

“Not necessarily.” Millicent seized the opportunity. Perhaps she could coax him into spending a little more time with his son. “As long as he’s supervised, Arthur will enjoy playing with it. Imagine how much fun he’ll have, tugging it along as he strolls the deck! I’m sure he’ll be very proud to show everyone his father’s handiwork.”

“There’s only one problem with that, Miss Fairweather.” Mr. Clark pressed the toy into her hands and headed for the door. As he turned the knob with one hand, he slowly withdrew his handkerchief from his pocket with the other. Studying the handkerchief, he asked in a blasé tone, “Do you know what that problem is?”

“Yes.” She couldn’t muffle her laughter. All this time, he’d pretended as if he hadn’t noticed his son’s makeshift nappy. “Everyone aboard might not have heard the story of ‘The Emperor’s New Clothes’.”

“Indeed, Miss Fairweather.” Arthur rounded the corner, without a stitch on him. His father nodded at him. “The king is wearing nothing at all.”

“This one. Isn’t it exquisite?” The Haxtons’ nanny showed Millicent a copy of a recent
Godey’s Lady’s Book
. “I adore the brightly colored puffy sleeves, don’t you?”

“They’re beautiful.” Millicent closed her drawing pad and rose. She’d been copying drawings and making notes about fashion. Being up-to-the-minute with the styles would help get Frank’s business off to a good start. “Would you mind allowing me to sketch it sometime?”

“You can take it with you as long as you promise to give it back tomorrow.”

The other two nannies and a pair of maids all rose and straightened their aprons. Whenever they had a few free moments, the servants gathered in an alcove near the stern. One sighed dreamily. “If I were you, Millicent, I’d be sewing a wedding gown. Mr. Clark is handsome and rich.”

“Nonsense.” Millicent slid the
Godey’s
atop her sketchbook. “I have other plans for when I reach America. This is just a temporary job.”

Waggling her brows, the maid said, “Plans can change. It’s not like you’re really one of us servants. Don’t think we don’t notice your fancy words and pretty ways.”

“Leave off, Jilly.” One of the others scowled at the maid. “You’re in the right of it, sayin’ Millie’s a lady. Her bein’ a lady means she wouldn’t imagine settin’ her cap for a man in mournin’.”

“But he’s got himself a poor, motherless son. Them’s the kind what aim to marry up fast again.”

Millicent shook her head. “Jilly, my dream is to start up that dressmaking shop with my sister and brother-in-law. I want an adventure, not an anchor. Who knows? Maybe someday you’ll see one of the fashions I design or an article I write in one of the magazines.”

“I never pay much attention to who writes the articles,” the Haxtons’ maid said. “I just read them. From now on, I’ll make it a point to see if Millicent Fairweather is below the title.”

“I want to make something of myself.” Millicent held the magazine and sketchpad to her bosom and stared off into the distance. “I’ve had to live by a schedule all my life. For the first time, I’ll be able to do as I want.”

Jilly huffed. “If you marry a rich man, you won’t ever have to do anything. You’d have servants to do it all for you. I know I’d rather wear those gorgeous gowns than have to sit and sew them for someone else.”