Heaven Sent (2 page)

His smile died when he saw the
applicant. Before he could stop himself, he barked, “Who on earth
are you?”

Callie Prophet had been staring at the
portrait of Anne Lockhart hanging over the fireplace, thinking the
artist had captured Anne’s fragile beauty and air of gentle
humanity very well. She didn’t hear the door open at her
back.

She heard Aubrey’s question, though,
loud and clear.

Wheeling around, her heart pounding
like a war drum, she saw him standing at the door, Mr. Figgins a
few feet behind him. Mr. Lockhart glowered at her. Mr. Figgins
merely looked aloof.

Aubrey’s brusqueness fired her temper,
as she’d done nothing to deserve it. “I,” she said in a cold,
dignified tone, “am Miss Callida Prophet. Didn’t you receive my
calling card?” She stared pointedly at the fingers of his right
hand, which had the card in a death grip.

“
Of course, I got your card.
Figgins said you came to apply for the job as nanny to my
daughter.”

She made herself smile. “Yes, I have,
Mr. Lockhart.” She narrowed her eyes and squinted. “You are Mr.
Lockhart, correct?” If he didn’t have enough manners to introduce
himself properly, she’d just ask him.

Aubrey jerked and appeared
disconcerted. “Er, yes. Yes, I’m Mr. Lockhart. Please be seated,
Miss Prophet.” He waved at a fatly stuffed, comfortable-looking
chair squatting beside an equally chubby, comfortable-looking
sofa.

Callie chose instead to seat herself
in a prim, straight-backed chair next to a piecrust table. She was,
after all, applying for the position as nanny to this man’s child.
She wasn’t a guest in his house.

Aubrey’s frowning gaze took in this
gesture. He turned to his butler. “You may leave us, Figgins. Tell
Mrs. Granger to bring some tea.”

“
That’s not necessary, Mr.
Lockhart.”

Callie could have bitten her tongue as
soon as the words left her lips. It wasn’t so much that Aubrey
scowled at her for countermanding one of his orders; it was because
she didn’t want any blasted tea and resented it being foisted upon
her. She also knew it wasn’t her place to say so. She waved a hand
in an airy gesture. “I beg your pardon. Bring on the tea, Mr.
Figgins.”

She’d known Figgins ever since he’d
moved with the Lockharts from San Francisco to Santa Angelica
almost ten years ago. According to people in the village, he’d
worked for the Lockhart family in San Francisco since Aubrey was a
boy. Also according to village gossip, Figgins looked a good deal
more stuffy than he really was.

Figgins bowed deeply and scooted off
on his silent butler feet. Callie watched him go and wished she’d
held firm on the tea issue. She didn’t really want it, and with
Figgins’s departure she felt as if she were marooned on a desert
island with a hungry shark lurking not far offshore.

But that was silly. She sat up
straighter, laid her little green reticule in her lap, and folded
her hands on top of it. She gazed with what she hoped passed for
serenity at Aubrey Lockhart.

His gaze was anything but serene. He
hadn’t yet stopped frowning at her. His elegant black trousers and
morning coat didn’t do much to relax her, either. He looked rich
and remote. And miles and miles above her socially.

With a mental smack on the side of her
head, Callie reminded herself that she lived in the egalitarian
United States of America, and that things like wealth and social
standing shouldn’t matter. The United States didn’t distinguish its
citizens by class or caste.

Unfortunately, the recognition of her
social equity didn’t help to calm her jitters. She knew her
appearance was at least adequate, and probably a good deal more
than that. While it was true she was rather young—a mere
twenty-four—it was also true that she was a mature, responsible
woman, who had been fending for herself for several years. Well,
three years, anyhow. She’d subdued her curly strawberry-blond hair
into a tight bun and covered it with a prim straw hat adorned with
one yellow flower. She’d worn her newest alpaca shirtwaist dress in
a sober dark green that brought out the green in her eyes. That
she’d chosen the fabric for that very reason needn’t be a
consideration. The color of a nanny’s eyes was a moot point, or
should be.

Her credentials ought to be adequate,
as well, if she could only stop being nervous long enough to relate
them to Aubrey Lockhart. She’d graduated from college in 1893,
thereby rendering her better educated than the majority of her
peers.

Thus, even though she was anxious in
the face of Aubrey Lockhart’s continued owlish and unfriendly
scrutiny, she knew she shouldn’t be. She was as good as anyone, and
better suited to be Becky’s nanny than most, since she not only
possessed a college degree, but she already knew—and loved—the
child. She lifted her chin to show Aubrey she wasn’t intimidated,
even though she was.

He paced the room for a minute or two,
not taking his gaze from her face. She wondered if he was trying to
disconcert her or if he acted like a rude bully to everyone who
came calling. He stopped pacing suddenly, right in front of
her.

Staring down at her with eyes fairly
radiating disapproval, he snapped, “Have you held paid employment
before?”

“
I certainly
have.”

He turned as abruptly as he’d stopped,
marched to the straight-backed chair on the other side of the
piecrust table and sat. Good heavens, the man was
precipitant.

Laying her calling card on the table,
he said, “What kind of employment?”

Callie cleared her throat. “I’ve been
the carrier on the Santa Angelica postal route for three years, Mr.
Lockhart. I handle the rural route. Mr. Phi1pott delivers mail
within the village limits.”

“
You’re a postman—er,
woman?” Aubrey’s sooty eyebrows arched like rainbows above his dark
brown eyes.

“
Yes, sir.” She wondered if
she should tell him she’d met his daughter while driving her route,
but decided to save this piece of information until later. She
might need a weapon.

“
Do you have any
education?”

“
I do. I graduated with
honors from the Brooklyn, New York, Teaching Seminary for Young
Ladies in June of 1893.”

His eyes narrowed further. “Why’d you
go all the way to New York to attend school?”

As if that were any of his business.
However, Callie replied to his question calmly. “My uncle is the
dean of students. He recommended the college to my parents. I
applied, and was granted admission.”

“
Hmm.”

“
I was not,” Callie added,
feeling defensive, “granted anything else. I mean, I was given no
special consideration, but was admitted on my own merits and my
academic record. I earned a scholarship based on my academic
achievements, as well.” She was darned proud of that
scholarship.

“
Hmm.”

Callie wanted to jump out of her
chair, dash over to Aubrey Lockhart, and batter the hmms out of
him. They were rude, and they made her edgy.

He squinted narrowly. “Why aren’t you
teaching, if you have a degree in it?”

That was none of his business, either.
She said, “My family lives in Santa Angelica. Santa Angelica didn’t
need any teachers when I returned home from college. I needed some
type of employment, and since there was an opening for a mail
carrier at the post office, I applied. I would, of course, rather
be teaching, but I do enjoy my postal route.”

So there.

“
Do you have written
references?”

“
No, sir. You may feel free
to call upon Mr. Wilson, the postmaster in Santa Angelica. He can
vouch for my dependability and moral character. Miss Myrtle Oakes,
the Santa Angelica schoolmistress, is a good friend of mine and can
also vouch for my character. I can supply verification of my
employment and education. I have a diploma, of course.”

“
Hmm.” He stared at her some
more, his brows drawn straight over his eyes. He looked formidable;
cold, aloof, annoyed, and unfriendly. Callie stared back, doing her
best not to frown.

“
Have you ever cared for
children in your vast work experience?”

Oh, so he was going to be sarcastic,
was he? Well, Callie would just show hint who was capable and who
wasn’t—and she wouldn’t have to resort to sarcasm, either. “I not
only possess a teaching degree, I’ve also had a good deal to do
with my sisters’ and brother’s children, Mr. Lockhart. I care for
them often when my family needs help.”

“
That’s far from the same as
being a nanny to a six-year-old girl.”

She inclined her head a quarter of an
inch. “Perhaps you don’t know as much about six-year-old girls and
their needs as you think you do.”

His head jerked up so fast that Callie
was surprised not to hear his neck snap. “Is that so?”

She hated to do it, but she
apologized. “I beg your pardon, Mr. Lockhart. I have had abundant
experience caring for children, but I shouldn’t have been
impertinent.”

“
Indeed.” He squinted at her
again. “How old are you?”

Well! In any other circumstances,
Callie would have told Mr. Aubrey Lockhart what he could do with
himself if he were sufficiently dexterous. However, she cared
enough about Becky to hold her tongue. “I shall be twenty-five
years old in May, Mr. Lockhart.”

“
You don’t look
it.”

Whatever did that mean? Did he mean
she looked like a crone, or that she looked like a
child?

“
You’re too young,” he
announced after several pregnant seconds, during which it was all
Callie could do to keep from kneading her hands in anxiety. His
frown deepened. “You’re too young, too immature, and you have no
experience with this kind of work. What the devil do you think
you’re doing, applying for a job for which you’re clearly
unfit?”

That was enough of that.

Callie stood up, straightening her
frame to show off her whole five feet, five inches. “I am fully fit
to be a nanny to your daughter, Mr. Lockhart. I love children, I’ve
cared for them many times, and if you think an older woman could do
a better job than I, you’re mistaken. Your daughter, Mr. Lockhart,
needs someone in whom she can confide. Someone who will take care
of her and who will make her feel special. She needs someone to
love her! You certainly seem to have abdicated from the
position!”

“
What?”

If Callie hadn’t been so
angry, Aubrey’s roar might have demoralized her. As it was, she
stood her ground indomitably. “You heard me. You’ve abandoned your
own child, Mr. Lockhart, and you ought to be ashamed of yourself.
That poor little girl needs you. If she can’t have you, she
needs
someone
!”

“
Why, you—”

The door opened, and Becky Lockhart
barreled into the room, rushing right past her father and over to
Callie, who barely stooped in time to catch her up in her arms. She
straightened and glowered at Aubrey, whose mouth hung open as he
stared at Callie and his daughter, her arms around Callie’s
neck.

“
What the—?”

Becky’s blue eyes twinkled happily,
“Oh, Papa, isn’t it wonderful that Miss Prophet has come to be my
nanny? She’s ever so nice!”

“
Wh-what are you . . . ?” He
stared at his daughter. Callie was pleased to note that his
expression softened considerably.

“
Oh, Papa,” Becky went on,
evidently not worried about her father’s frown. “I’m oh, so fond of
Miss Prophet. Please say that you’ll let her be my
nanny.”

He fastened his attention on Callie.
“And how, pray tell, did you get to know my daughter?” His voice
cut like a knife.

Becky’s smile faded. Callie, sorry to
see it go, made sure she didn’t sound as furious as she felt when
she answered Aubrey’s question. “Becky and I met while I drove my
mail route, Mr. Lockhart. We’ve become quite good
friends.”

“
Yes,” Becky confirmed, “Oh,
please hire Miss Prophet, Papa. She’s my best friend.”

Callie felt like crying.

Aubrey, plainly irate and also clearly
believing that Callie had somehow hornswoggled him, opened his
mouth and shut it twice before anything came out of it. Callie knew
how much he wanted to snatch his daughter from her arms and then
kick her down the Lockhart mansion’s grand marble front porch
steps.

She was pleased when he did neither,
but only sucked in a breath and held it for a moment. When he let
it out, he looked calmer. Thank God.

“
Becky, would you please
leave Miss Prophet and me alone for a minute? We won’t be
long.”

Becky looked doubtful. “But . . .
isn’t Miss Prophet going to come live with us, Papa?” Her eyes were
so eloquent, Callie wouldn’t have been able to deny her anything.
She feared Becky’s papa was made of sterner stuff,
however.

“
We’re going to talk about
it now, sweetheart,” Aubrey said. ‘We won’t be long.”

“
All right.” Becky nodded
somberly at her father, then gave Callie a quick hug.