Dad said, “Up the stairs and to the right,”
she reminded herself.
The man’s name is Kingsley. Arthur Kingsley—but I need only remember Mr. Kingsley—sir.
She forced another smile and squared her shoulders. It was indeed an adventure—just as her father had said. She cast a rueful look downward and determinedly climbed the last step and turned to her right.
Dad said there is a receptionist. I am to speak with her. Introduce myself and tell her my business.
She grimaced and moved the coat in an attempt to cover the front of her skirt. What would the lady think about her appearance?
“I do hope she has a sense of humor,” she muttered.
She found the room at the end of the hall and hesitated only a moment before entering at the sign’s invitation.
Arthur Kingsley and Associates. Please come in.
There were a number of people in the room. Desks lined one full wall, and at least a half dozen women were bent over typewriters as fingers beat out rhythms on the black-and-white keys. In a row of chairs near the door, other individuals waited, shifting impatient feet this way, then that, seemingly intent on catching the nearby receptionist presiding at the desk. The papers stacked about her nearly obscured the sign that read
Miss Stout, Receptionist.
The young girl breathed a relieved sigh, then could not hide another smile as she moved toward her. The middle-aged woman who bore the name of Miss Stout was as thin as a cattail reed.
“Yes?” said the woman without even glancing up from her papers.
The solitary word caused all heads in the room to lift and concentrate on the lone figure near the desk. The girl felt a moment of panic, then cleared her throat, managed a weak smile, and spoke with more confidence than she felt. “I am Christine Delaney. I have—” For a brief moment the word escaped her. Mentally she scrambled to save herself a great deal of further embarrassment. “I have an appointment with Mr.—ah—Mr.—” Another moment of panic while she tried to think of the name. “Mr. Kingsley. Mr. Arthur Kingsley” suddenly burst from her, and she drew in a relieved breath.
The woman frowned.
“But I do have a bit of a problem,” Christine hurried on, surprised at her boldness. “Just as I was crossing the street here”—she waved her hand in the general direction of the offending street—“this car swished by and splashed my skirt. Maybe Mr. Kingsley would prefer that I make another appointment—for later—when I look more presentable....”
Christine faltered to a stop as the woman’s frown deepened.
“Crazy drivers,” Miss Stout finally spat out. “They should have never been allowed on the streets. They don’t care how they drive.”
“Oh I—”
“I’ve had to jump out of their way two mornings in a row,” the woman continued, by now thoroughly worked up. “And it’s not just the puddles. You take your life in your hands. They never should have allowed them. Never. Autos and people just don’t belong on the same streets—that’s what.”
All the time she was talking, the woman was stacking and shifting papers with such vengeance that her desk fairly shook. Christine heard a tittering from one of the desks to her left. The woman must have heard it, too, for she sent a dark scowl in that direction. Typewriter keyboards began to clack with renewed energy.
“Come,” said the woman, nodding her head toward Christine as she rose from the desk.
“But shouldn’t I—?” she began, glancing down once more at her skirt.
“Mr. Kingsley is a very busy man. He doesn’t have time to set up another interview. He wants the matter settled—today. You’ll just have to make the best of it.”
Make the best of it.
Hadn’t she heard those words all of her life? Christine shrugged and turned to follow.
“And leave your coat and that umbrella over there. We won’t have them dripping on the carpet,” said the woman curtly, her frown expressing her attitude toward both items as she pointed to the coat-tree across the room.
Christine obediently hung her new coat beside four others, hoping it and her borrowed umbrella would be safe. She meekly followed the rather impatient woman through the massive oak door, glad to be out of sight of the curious eyes.
The room was a large one, filled with shelves and tables and file cabinets, all overflowing with papers and bundles and stacks of ledgers. In the middle of the room a large man occupied a big desk and chair. His head was bent forward, and straying strands of salt-and-pepper hair made him look like some strange creature with a shaggy mane. Oversized hands were busy tracing a line on the pages spread out before him. Christine could hear mutterings that included unfamiliar words and expressions she was sure her mother would never have allowed in her house. Judging from the tone and the dark scowl that creased his face, it appeared that Mr. Kingsley was displeased about something.
“Sir,” the receptionist began in a deferential manner.
The only reply was a growl of acknowledgment.
“Your last interview is here, sir.”
He did not raise his head. “I hope she’s better than the others,” he groused. “Can’t type. Can’t spell. I don’t know what they teach them in schools these days. I’d be spending my whole time—”
“Sir. I have her with me.”
The head came up. Two deep brown eyes peered out at Christine from beneath bushy brows. An even deeper frown made rutted folds from one side of his forehead to the other. Two large hands reached up to push the abundance of wild hair back from his face.
He did not speak. Nor did Miss Stout. Christine swallowed in discomfort—but she did not move. Who should break this awkward silence? Dared she?
She did.
“I am Christine Delaney,” she said in a surprisingly even voice. “I have an appointment—an interview—for a job. I must apologize. I ... I had a little mishap on the way here. This auto—”
“Fool drivers,” sputtered the man in echo of the receptionist’s sentiments. His gaze fell to her skirt as her hand gestured helplessly. “Have no respect for anyone on the sidewalks. You would think the streets were invented just for them to run their fool machines. Drive like Jehu. The whole lot of ’em. Don’t know what’s worse—the dust or the mud.”
He shifted his gaze back to Christine’s face. “So I suppose you need to rush home to change?” he queried, irritation in his voice.
“No, sir,” she responded quickly, a hint of amusement touching her respectful tone. “That is—if
you
don’t mind, sir.”
He looked surprised at her reply and leaned further to take another look at her. “Your shoes are wet,” he noted gruffly. “You’ll catch your death of cold.”
Christine merely shrugged. “If wet shoes were likely to kill one,” she said lightly, “I would have been gone long ago.”
This seemed to surprise him even more. He cleared his throat. Christine noticed the frown lines were not as deep. “Well, let’s get on with it then,” he said, his voice almost civil.
Christine heard the door close softly. Miss Stout had withdrawn.
He reached for a file the receptionist had left on the corner of his desk.
“Any previous work experience?” he quizzed before his eyes even scanned the contents.
“No, sir. At least not in typing,” responded Christine.
He lifted the shaggy brows. “What in?”
“Whatever my father or mother saw fit to assign,” she answered truthfully.
He looked amused at that. “So you’re telling me you can follow orders?”
“Yes, sir. I believe I can.”
“And you’re not afraid of work?”
She did not hesitate. “We were expected to do our share,” she replied. “Work was part of life. Survival depended upon it.”
He nodded.
“Well, that’s better than most these days,” he said grudgingly and gave his immediate attention to the file in his hands.
“Oh yeah,” he said after a moment, his head coming up. “You’re that Mountie’s kid. Spent your whole life up north.” His eyes turned back to her. “Bet this is some different, eh?”
Christine could not avoid a quick glance at her skirt. To her surprise, she heard him chuckle.
“Well, one thing you’ll learn fast enough is to watch out for those fool drivers. You take your life in your hands every time you walk the street. Should never have allowed autos in the first place. Now the whole city is overrun with ’em. Never get ’em off the street now. It’s gotten so you have to own one—just to hold your own against the rest of ’em.”
Christine smiled. She did hope he would soon get down to the interview. Her wet feet were uncomfortable, and she was still experiencing a case of nerves over searching for her first real job. What if she didn’t get it? What was she to do next? Her father had planned to stay on until she was well settled. Now she was alone. Alone and nervous. And totally out of her element.
He closed the file. She felt her heart sink. He had not given her a fair chance. Had barely read anything written there.
“Hand this to Miss Stout on your way out,” he said briskly. “You start Monday morning. Eight o’clock—sharp. She’ll fill you in on the details.”
Christine had the job. She had the job, and she had not even been interviewed. At least not as secretary school had led her to believe. She accepted the closed file woodenly, managed a mumbled “Thank you, sir,” and turned to go, still in shock.
“And, Miss Delaney,” he called after her when she was almost to the door.
She turned. So she had indeed misunderstood. Now the truth would come out.
“You best get on home as fast as you can and change those shoes—just in case,” he said, almost kindly. “Wouldn’t want you coming down with a cold, now, would we? Before you even start your first job.”
She smiled and nodded in agreement.
She had just shrugged into her coat and safely gathered up the umbrella when there was a bustle of activity at the door. She did not at first see who entered, but she did notice the arrival caused a great deal of stir in the room.
Christine saw that Miss Stout’s sour expression became even more grim as her lips pursed in disapproval. But in the row of desks forming the secretary pool, the response was much different. Heads came up and hands reached to tidy hair. Coy glances and soft fluttering of eyelashes accompanied knowing smiles. Christine turned to see who had brought such a startling response. And there he stood, dripping goggles dangling from a gloved hand, the long scarf carelessly flung about his neck and across one shoulder, an arrogant lift to his head as his eyes surveyed the row of young typists. He was unmistakably the driver of the auto who had splashed her so thoroughly and dismissed it with a careless shrug and a mocking grin.
She felt her back stiffen, her lips compress.
He swung around to look at her and their eyes met. She could tell he recognized her immediately. His glance fell to her splattered coat.
“Looks like you were standing too close to the curb,” he joked. His dark eyes crinkled in amusement.
“Apparently,” she responded stiffly, her voice cool and even. “Miss Stout and Mr. Kingsley have both assured me that I will soon know better. They say the city is filled with drivers who care little about others.”
One dark eyebrow rose. He obviously was neither repentant nor apologetic. In fact, he still looked amused. But his next words surprised her. “Just give me a minute and I’ll give you a ride home.”
His tone seemed to imply that he was bestowing a great favor. Christine could sense the whole room go still.
“No, thank you,” she said without hesitation. “It might be dangerous walking through the streets, but I prefer to take my chances.”
Without looking at him again, she gathered the materials Miss Stout had given her to read over the weekend and turned to the door. Everyone in the room seemed to have their eyes on her. She didn’t care. She hoped they did not think she knew this arrogant young stranger.
She was just about to open the door when she heard him say, “Is Father in?”
“This is a workday,” Miss Stout answered crisply. “Where else would he be?”
“Good” came the terse reply.
“He’s busy right now...” the woman began as Christine’s head swiveled around in shock.
“He’s always busy.” The young man totally ignored the outstretched hand of the receptionist. Without a moment of hesitation, he flung open the door to Mr. Kingsley’s office.
Christine’s heart nearly stopped as she realized she had just exchanged unpleasantries with the boss’s son. Before she could even catch her breath, she heard Mr. Kingsley’s loud voice. “There you are. And just in time. Give that young woman out there a ride home. Some idiot driver nearly drowned her in road muck.”
CHAPTER
Two
“Is something troubling you?”
Henry Delaney’s head swiveled toward the questioner, and his mouth opened to make quick denial. But as his dark eyes met the intense blue of those of the man who sat before the open fire, he closed his mouth without a word being uttered. He stopped his agitated pacing and brushed at the trim mustache covering his upper lip. It was the only habit he had never conquered in his effort to give nothing away.