Yankee Wife (4 page)

His charcoal gaze kept shifting to the ceiling as the spare bedrooms were directly overhead. Finally, he gave up trying to work, wiped his pen and returned it to its stand, carefully closing the bottle of black ink he'd been using.

He crossed the room to the double doors of the study, opened them, and was startled to find a small, feisty-looking blonde woman standing there, one hand poised to knock. Her eyes were a dark, velvety blue, almost purple, and a fetching blush pinkened her high cheekbones. Her chin was set at a stubborn angle, and Brigham found himself hoping against all good sense that this was not Polly, the woman his brother had chosen for a bride.

The violet eyes widened, the small fist descending slowly to her side. She was wearing a prim gray dress with plain sleeves and collar. “Mr. Brigham Quade?” she inquired, with all the dignity of a princess who's lost her way among peasants.

Brigham was holding his breath, feeling as though he'd just stepped onto a rapidly rolling log in a treacherous river. Still, a stern and solemn countenance came naturally to him, even when he was feeling cheerful. He was sure the wench could not guess from his sober nod of acknowledgment how she'd unnerved him.

“I am Miss Lydia McQuire,” she announced, putting her chin out as though she expected to be challenged on the matter.

Relief Brigham would never have admitted feeling rushed through him with the force of a prairie wind. “I believe you,” he replied.

The lovely eyes widened, then narrowed, but her color was still high. It was some consolation to Brigham to know she also felt the strange and dangerous dynamics at work between them, that he was not the only one to be stricken.

“You wanted something?” he asked, with exaggerated politeness, putting his hands on his hips because he was afraid he would lay his palms against her soft cheeks, or the gossamer cloud of her hair.

The query seemed to befuddle her for a moment. Then, summoning up every inch of her strictly average height, she gave him another regal assessment. “I will not marry you, Mr. Quade, under any circumstances,” she informed him. “I would, however, like to discuss your objectives concerning the education of your daughters.”

Brigham smiled indulgently. “I don't recall proposing, Miss McQuire,” he replied.

Again, rich color flooded her face. “Very well,” she said briskly, after a moment of obvious grappling for composure, “that's settled, then. We can discuss what is to be done about your children's schooling.”

The master of the house leaned indolently against the doorjamb, arms folded. He was more comfortable now, feeling that he had the upper hand. “Aunt Persephone has taught them to read, write, and cipher quite nicely. To be forthright, Miss McQuire, neither Millie nor Charlotte possess any aspirations that set them apart from other young ladies. To my way of thinking, the practical thing would be to teach them to run a household.”

For one delicious moment Brigham actually thought his luscious house guest might kick him in the shins. Wisely, she reconsidered. “Naturally, your daughters would not have aspirations, Mr. Quade. Children tend to regard themselves as their parents do, which means Charlotte and Millie probably feel about as capable as a pair of long-haired lapdogs.”

Instantly furious, Brigham leaned down so that his nose was within an inch of Lydia's and practically snarled, “I will not have my daughters taught to be ambitious! I won't see them hectoring politicians for the vote and making speeches in public places!”

She didn't retreat, even though he was leaning over her, deliberately trying to make her take a step backward. No, she stood her ground, like a small soldier, evidently unable to speak for her fury. Her chin quivered and tears glistened in her eyes, and somewhere in the far, far distance, Brigham could have sworn he heard a bugle blow a call to battle.

L
YDIA'S DISLIKE OF
B
RIGHAM
Q
UADE HAD BEEN BOTH ARDENT
and instantaneous, and her cheeks pulsed with the anger he'd stirred in her as she turned, sped up the stairway in high dudgeon, and took refuge in her room.

It was a moment before she noticed the child sitting cross-legged in the middle of her bed.

The girl was about ten, and beautiful, with familiar coloring—dark hair and gray eyes, like Brigham's. Her tresses fell in ribbon-woven ringlets well past her waist, her fragile cheeks glowed with good health, and her gauzy white dress with its yellow satin sash made her look as though she'd just stepped out of some sentimental French painting. All she needed was a hat with a floppy brim, and a small dog to rest in the crook of her arm.

“Hello,” she said. “My name is Millicent Alexandria Quade, but you may address me as Millie.”

Lydia's mouth curved wryly and she executed a half curtsy. “I am Lydia McQuire,” she replied, “and you may address me as ‘Miss McQuire.'”

Millie frowned, tugging at one of the golden ribbons in her hair. “I had quite expected to call you ‘Aunt Lydia,'” she confided, bemused. “But I'm ten, after all, and I realize Uncle Devon couldn't have brought home two wives. Are you to be second choice, just in case the other one doesn't suit?”

Lydia might have been insulted, were it not for the guileless puzzlement in the child's eyes. “I'm to be your governess,” she answered, regretting the words a mere instant after she'd uttered them. For all she knew, Mr. Brigham Quade intended to put her on the next outbound ship.

The little girl sighed. “Oh, fuss and bother. I've already learned quite enough from Aunt Persephone,” she said.

Lydia had heard that name before, from Brigham, and she anchored it in her mind by repeating it silently.
Per-seff-any
.

“I can read grown-up books,” Millie went on, “and do sums as well. I know how to play the spinet, too.” She extended one foot, which was shod in a small velvet slipper, and wriggled it. “I'll be better when I can reach the pedals, though,” she speculated, with a frown. Her face was bright, however, when she looked up at Lydia again. “Do you know how to fish, Miss McQuire?” she asked hopefully.

Lydia laughed and sat down on the edge of the bed. “Yes,” she answered. “When I was a child in Massachusetts, I used to fish for brook trout sometimes, with my father. I always caught more than he did.”

Millie looked very pleased, but then her smile faded. “Did your father like you?” she asked in a small voice.

The pang of anger Lydia felt then was, of course, directed at Mr. Quade and not his daughter. “Yes,” she replied forthrightly, but in a gentle voice. “I believe he did. Does your father like you?”

“Papa is very busy making lumber,” Millie said with resolve, sitting up straight and smoothing her small skirts. “And I don't imagine he finds me especially interesting. Not like that woman he visits in Seattle sometimes.”

Lydia felt mild heat touch her cheeks from the inside. She reached out and took Millie's hand lightly in her own. “I think you're very interesting indeed,” she said. Millie Quade was by all accounts one of the brightest children she had ever encountered. “Perhaps you and I can be friends.”

“Perhaps,” Millie agreed philosophically. “I have my sister Charlotte, of course, but she can't precisely be called a friend because there are times when she hates me. And Aunt Persephone's bones hurt when it rains, so she spends a lot of time in her room.”

A tiny muscle deep in Lydia's heart twisted. It wasn't difficult to imagine how lonely the vast, gracious house could be, set square in the center of this wild and unsettled country the way it was. “Aren't there other children in Quade's Harbor?” she asked, stricken.

Millie shrugged one small shoulder. “Only Indians, and Aunt Persephone won't let us socialize with them because they have lice.” She leaned closer to add in a confidential whisper, “And they
don't
use chamber pots.”

Lydia held back another smile. “Mercy,” she remarked, because the daring information Millie had imparted called for some comment. “What about the lumbermen? Don't any of them have families?” She recalled the row of sturdy saltbox houses she'd seen from the mail boat when she and Polly and Devon had arrived in Quade's Harbor earlier that day. She'd been struck by how much the town resembled long-settled villages in the East.

Millie shook her head. “Most of them don't have kinfolks to speak of, and if they do, they don't want to come here.”

Lydia was about to offer a reply when there was a rustle of sateen at the open doorway of her room. She looked up to see a tiny white-haired woman standing there, gazing at her with energetic, speculative eyes. This had to be Aunt Persephone, she thought Despite Millie's earlier statement that the woman often suffered from painful bones, she didn't look as though she'd ever spent so much as an hour reclining on a sickbed.

Lydia rose, straightened her skirts, and extended a hand. “Hello,” she said. “I am Miss Lydia McQuire—the governess.”

The gracious lady in the dark blue dress inclined her head slightly. “Yes,” she agreed, in a thoughtful tone. “The governess. My name is Mrs. Persephone Chilcote. Brigham and Devon are my nephews.” The sweetly imperious gaze swept to the child sitting on the bed. “Millicent, get down from there at once. One does not invade another person's chambers and muss their coverlet with one's feet.”

Millie obeyed readily and fled the room in a sudden and quite staggering burst of energy, shouting, “Charlotte! There's a ship in the harbor and it's going to take you all the way to China because Papa's sold you to a tribe of bandits with long mustaches!”

Mrs. Chilcote rolled her eyes, but her expression was gentle. “I do what I can,” she sighed, “but I'm afraid my grandnieces have become too unruly for an old woman to handle.”

Lydia privately thought that a whole brigade of whooping Confederate raiders probably wouldn't prove “too unruly” for Mrs. Chilcote, but of course she didn't voice this conclusion. Devon and Polly were newlyweds, concerned wholly with each other, and the master of the house was hardly civil, let alone companionable. Lydia needed an adult friend.

She indicated the two straight-backed chairs near the window, and Mrs. Chilcote took one.

“This town, this house,” Lydia marveled softly, sitting across from her welcome visitor. “It's as though some genie lifted them whole from some coastal village in New England and set them down here, in the woods of the frontier.”

Mrs. Chilcote smiled, and Lydia had no doubt that the woman had been a significant beauty in her youth. “Quade's Harbor doesn't have the raw look of Seattle, does it?” she agreed. “My nephew—it's Brigham I refer to now—had a vision of how he wanted this place to be before he ever staked claim to his first stand of timber. Things tend to take shape the way Brigham imagines them.”

“Yes,” Lydia said.

Mrs. Chilcote leaned forward in her chair, hands folded serenely, eyes dancing. “Am I wrong in guessing that you've already met Brigham and found him difficult?”

It would have been impossible to lie to the woman, Lydia concluded, even if she'd been so inclined. “He's very officious and overbearing,” she allowed, looking away.

The Quades' elderly aunt laughed, the sound soft and rich, like the patter of summer rain on the roof. “Brigham is strong-willed,” she agreed. Her look became more solemn. “But please don't judge him too harshly. His life has not been easy, despite a fortunate birth, and he's built the beginnings of an empire in these woods, with more hindrance from the fates than help, I'm afraid.”

Lydia was puzzled by this last remark, but she didn't pursue it. The excitement and drama of recent events had finally begun to catch up with her, and she wanted nothing so much as a warm fire on the hearth, a pot of strong, sweet tea, and a long, blissful nap.

“You must be very weary,” Mrs. Chilcote said pleasantly, and Lydia added astuteness and perception to the qualities she'd already ascribed to the lady. “Would you care for some refreshment?”

“Tea would be wonderful,” Lydia answered. “Thank you.” Her hostess rose resolutely and left the room, and Lydia went to the marble fireplace, where small bits of dry bark and sticks of kindling rested on the grate. She found matches on the mantelpiece, in a porcelain box with violets painted on the lid, and lit the fire. When the blaze had caught properly and she'd adjusted the damper to her liking, she added several small, seasoned logs from the brass basket at her side.

She was warming herself, hands outspread, when Mrs. Chilcote returned with a tray. This she set on a sturdy table of highly polished, ornately carved pine, and Lydia caught the wondrous scent of tea. There was also a dish of cinnamon pears, a small sandwich with the crust cut away, and a bowl of savory-looking stew.

“I'll leave you to get settled,” Mrs. Chilcote said, her voice as warm as the crackling fire on the hearth. “Dinner is at seven, as uncivilized as that seems. Brigham declares he'll starve if he has to wait until eight, as would be proper.”

Lydia measured the man in her mind; he seemed as tall and burly as a bear, though in truth he had the same lean grace and broad shoulders as his brother. She'd sensed a controlled energy about him, as though there were a furnace burning in his spirit, growing hotter and hotter, threatening to burst free in an explosion of molten activity.

She nodded her thanks to Mrs. Chilcote, and when she was alone, settled down on the side of the bed to consume the food. When every crumb was gone, she fed the cheerful fire more wood and then stretched out to nap, covering herself with a rightly patterned quilt.

When she opened her eyes again, hours later, the room was in shadows and she could hear rain whispering at the window glass. There was a dank chill in the air, and the fire had reduced itself to a few forlorn embers.

Rubbing her arms in an effort to warm herself, Lydia sprang from the bed and went to the hearth to add kindling, then another log. In the glow of the resultant blaze, she found the kerosene lamp on her bedside table, turned up the wick, and lit it.

She was just replacing the beautifully painted globe when there was a knock at her door. Expecting Mrs. Chilcote, or perhaps Millie, Lydia smoothed her hair and crumpled skirts and went smiling to admit her company.

A slender young woman, just into adolescence, stood in the hallway, where two lamps burned at either end of a long cherrywood table. She was as beautiful as Millie, though in a different way, for her hair was maple-colored and her eyes a soft brown.

Lydia felt an unexpected twinge, surmising that her caller had to be Charlotte Quade, Brigham's older daughter, and she was somehow certain that the child resembled her mother.

Unmistakable hostility glinted in the wide, fawn-soft eyes. “Papa says you're to come down to dinner or we'll eat without you,” she said.

Inwardly, Lydia sighed. If she hadn't been so hungry, she'd have sent Mr. Quade an equally rude message via this irritable little messenger. Instead she simply said, as though having a pleasant encounter at a tea party, “How do you do, Charlotte? I'm Miss McQuire, and I'll be most happy to join you for supper, if you'll just lead the way to the dining room.”

Charlotte tossed her lovely head, narrowed her eyes for a moment, and turned on her heel. “I don't understand why Uncle Devon had to bring you here in the first place,” she said, without looking back, as she progressed toward a rear stairway in long strides. “We certainly don't need you.”

Lydia made no reply, since any comment she might make would certainly be met with more of the thirteen-year-old's brutally direct logic.

They started down the stairs, passed through a kitchen where a man in overalls, suspenders, work boots, and a plaid woolen shirt sat at the table. Dirty pots and pans were everywhere, and he was perusing a thin, crumpled issue of the Seattle
Gazette
.

“That's Jake Feeny, the cook,” Charlotte said idly, as though Mr. Feeny were inanimate and unaware of their passing. “Papa hired him after the Indian woman left.”

Lydia nodded at Mr. Feeny, and he smiled at her, bright, wry eyes twinkling.

In a dining room as tastefully ostentatious as the rest of the house, the Quade family had gathered at a long table. A blaze chattered on the hearth of a large brick fireplace, and Devon rose at Lydia's appearance, followed reluctantly by Brigham.

She took the only open place, at Brigham's left, and felt unaccountably self-conscious when he drew back her chair before returning to his own.

The conversation resumed, a merry flow of laughter and talk, and the food was delicious. Lydia concentrated on putting away her share of chicken and dumplings and canned green beans cooked with bacon. She wanted to put on a few pounds of insulation in case her fortunes took another unexpected divergence and she found herself out in the rain.

“I think we should send Miss McQuire back wherever she came from,” Charlotte proclaimed suddenly, and the tide of happy interchange dried up instantly.

“Let's send Charlotte instead and keep Miss McQuire,” Millie countered, pausing to put out her tongue at her sister.