Heaven Sent (28 page)

“
I should say
not!”

“
No, indeed. I’m honest. I
prefer to call a rotten apple a rotten apple. And you, madam, are a
rotten apple.”

“
I shall retire now.” Mrs.
Bridgewater’s voice shook violently. She turned and started
tottering toward the door.

“
I’ll have Mrs. Granger send
you up a tray,” Aubrey told her back.

“
That won’t be
necessary.”

“
I’ll do it anyway, on the
off chance you can manage to take some nourishment,” Aubrey said
dryly.

“
I’m sure I shan’t be able
to eat a bite. I have never been so—” But, perhaps recalling
Aubrey’s reaction to the last time she’d told him she’d never been
so insulted in her life, Mrs. Bridgewater didn’t finish her
sentence.

She also ate everything on the tray
Mrs. Granger had Delilah carry up to her. Aubrey, not accustomed to
calling a spade a spade, felt shaky after Mrs. Bridgewater left him
alone in the dining room. He conducted a spirited dialogue with
himself on the issue, and twice started to rise from the table and
pursue Mrs. Bridgewater in order to apologize.

He didn’t do it. Not only did he know
he’d spoken the truth—perhaps a trifle brutally, but it was no more
than the old harridan deserved—but he even received unexpected
confirmation that he’d done the right thing from an unusual
source.

Figgins, who came in to remove the
soup plates, and who looked this evening more like a treasure from
a taxidermist’s shop than usual, paused with two soup plates in his
gloved hands and turned toward Aubrey. He bowed his head for a
moment before lifting it again and looking straight at his
employer.

Such a breach of orthodoxy was most
uncommon in this ancient retainer. Aubrey didn’t know if there was
a school for butlers, but if there was, he imagined Figgins could
give lessons therein. Alarmed—he hoped to God Old Bilgewater hadn’t
suffered an attack of apoplexy or, more important, that nothing had
happened to any of the servants—he said, “What is it, Figgins? Is
something the matter?”

“
No, sir. It’s only—” He
stopped talking abruptly.

Good God. Aubrey rose from his chair.
“What is it? What’s happened?” Fear roughened his voice. Had
Delilah upturned the soup pot on herself and been burned? Had Mrs.
Granger suffered some kind of attack? Good God, if any catastrophe
had befallen Becky—

“
It’s not my place to say
this, Mr. Lockhart, but I believe you should know that the
household staff is delighted that you gave Mrs. Bridgewater a piece
of your mind, sir.”

His hands braced on the table,
intending to shove himself away from it and race off to the nursery
or the kitchen, Aubrey paused, blinking at Figgins. He wasn’t sure
he’d heard correctly.

Figgins straightened, something Aubrey
wouldn’t have believed possible before it happened, since he’d
looked about as straight as a man could get before he did it. “As I
say, sir, it’s not my place to say so, sir, but . . . well . . .
hooray for you.” Figgins swallowed.

So did Aubrey, who still wasn’t sure
he’d heard correctly. “Er . . .”

“
That’s all, sir. I
sincerely beg your pardon if I’ve given offense.”

Aubrey sat with something of a thud.
“Offense? Good

God, no, you haven’t given offense. In
fact—” The humor of the situation struck him suddenly, and he
grinned. “In fact, thank you, Figgins. And Mrs. Granger, too. And
Delilah. And anyone else who’s been made unhappy by Mrs.
Bridgewater.”

For perhaps the first time in his
career as an ever-so-proper butler, Figgins smiled. “Very good,
sir.”

He left the dining room with a spring
in his step. He was back to being his austere butlerish self when
he returned with the main course.

That settled the matter for Aubrey. He
wasn’t going to apologize to Bilgewater. Let the witch suffer.
Aubrey hoped she’d choke on his scold.

In the meantime, Aubrey planned what
he needed to do in order to assure Miss Callida Prophet’s continued
residence in his home. For Becky’s sake.

He didn’t leap to the conclusion that
he should marry her. Indeed, he pondered the matter all through the
chicken casserole, taking his time and thinking hard.

She was good with the staff. Would the
staff resent someone in her position becoming their
mistress?

“
Hell, she already rules the
roost,” Aubrey mumbled around a mouthful of chicken. He grinned as
he swallowed.

An odd thing about Miss Prophet: She
took over without anyone’s being the wiser. For nearly three months
now—ever since Callie’s arrival in his home—Aubrey hadn’t been
troubled by servants’ queries regarding what to do with the sour
milk or whether or not to wax the parlor floor. The servants all
went to Miss Prophet when Mrs. Granger had no answers for
them.

Mrs. Granger herself consulted Callie
whenever anything needed to be discussed. She never bothered Aubrey
with anything anymore.

It was a relief, in fact, how much
household nonsense Callie had lifted from his shoulders.

So. He could relax about the servants.
Aubrey didn’t think any of them would mind if he married Becky’s
nanny.

And then there was Becky. She adored
Miss Prophet. Becky would probably be overjoyed if her papa were to
marry her nanny.

By the time Aubrey finished the baked
apple in cream Mrs. Granger had prepared for dessert, he’d made up
his mind. He was going to march upstairs to the nursery and ask
Miss Prophet to be his wife.

As he laid his spoon beside his apple
dish, Aubrey frowned. He didn’t want to offer the woman false coin.
Although it wasn’t terribly flattering to her, Aubrey sensed that
he ought to be honest with her.

“
Anyhow, she’s too smart not
to figure it out on her own,” he reminded himself.

Ergo, he would not declare an undying
passion for her.

Perhaps he ought not use the word
“passion” at all, come to think of it. Truth to tell, he’d been
harboring passionate feelings for Miss Prophet for weeks
now.

Lust and love were two different
things, however, and Aubrey vowed, that he would not give her the
chance to misunderstand him. He’d loved Anne. He could not,
therefore, love Callie Prophet, who was so different from Anne that
they might be members of different species altogether.

Callie was boisterous and exuberant,
healthy and hardy. Anne had been quiet and reserved, frail and
fragile. Callie was buxom. Anne had been tiny. Aubrey’s heart hurt
when he recalled their lovemaking. He’d always been so gentle and
careful.

It might actually be a relief to bed
someone who didn’t look like she might break every time he touched
her.

Instantly, he felt he’d been unfair to
Anne.

Because his emotions were in such an
abysmal turmoil, he decided to postpone any proposal until he got
them under control. It wouldn’t do to rush into something as
permanent as marriage and discover after he’d tied the knot that
he’d made a hideous mistake.

Therefore, he went to his library
office in order to mull over the matter. He must have paced in
front of his desk for miles before he decided he was going to do
it. Before he dared trot upstairs and confront Callie, however, he
thought he’d better practice. He hadn’t had much experience with
this sort of thing.

“
Miss Prophet, I have come
here to ask you to marry me.”

No. That sounded stuffy and too
dutiful. Even if he couldn’t offer her love, he ought at least to
sound as if he wanted to do the thing.

“
Miss Prophet, would you do
me the honor of becoming my wife?”

Gad, that was even worse. He had to
say something that would get across the point that, while his heart
had been Anne’s for years and would continue to reside with her, he
intended to do Callie justice. If justice was the right
word.

He couldn’t think of another one at
the moment and didn’t want to get distracted, so he dropped the
subject.

“
Miss Prophet, I know we
haven’t always seen eye to eye.” An understatement at best, but
true. “However, I believe that you would make a good mother for my
little girl.” Good. Play on the woman’s sympathy. Aubrey had no
idea what Callie thought of him, although he had his suspicions,
but he knew full well that she loved Becky. “Therefore, I would be
honored if you were to agree to marry me.”

Better. Not perfect, but better.
Aubrey practiced several more variations on that theme before,
after delaying as long as he dared, he told himself to brace up and
get on with it. He sucked in a deep breath, decided it was now or
never, and marched out the door and up the stairs.

Pausing before Becky’s door, Aubrey
raised his hand and would have knocked, but he recalled the
possible lateness of the hour before he did so. Pulling his watch
from his vest pocket, he squinted at it and took note of the time.
“Eight forty-five. She’s probably asleep.”

He released a gust of relief before he
reminded himself that his duty was not just yet done. Blast. Why
was Becky asleep? It might have been easier to propose in front of
his daughter. At least Miss Prophet couldn’t have berated him if
Becky were there. Unfortunately, Becky was undoubtedly dead to the
world by this time.

It had, after all, been a tiring day
for a newly turned seven-year-old. A smile flicked across his mouth
as he tucked his watch away. Then he stood and pondered some
more.

If Becky was asleep, it was probable
that Miss Prophet had gone to her own room next door. Would it be
proper for him to knock at her door?

Stupid question. Of course it
wouldn’t. After berating Mrs. Bridgewater for spreading false and
malicious rumors, he couldn’t very well go and prove the demon
woman right and barge in to Callie’s bed chamber, could
he?

No, he could not.

Damn it, so what now? A quick glance
down the hall reconfirmed Aubrey’s impression that no one else was
about. Fortunately, Bilgewater’s room was in the other wing of the
house. Therefore, unless she was snooping, she wouldn’t show up in
this wing any time soon. He sucked in a deep breath, held it for a
few seconds, and let it out with a whoosh.

“
Nothing ventured, nothing
gained,” he muttered as he turned away from his daughter’s bedroom
and walked to the next door down the hall. He squared his
shoulders, tugged at his vest and coat, made sure his tie was
straight, and lifted his fisted hand, intending to knock
softly---very softly—at Callie’s door.

Callie sealed the envelope, addressed
it to Becky, and sat on her bed with a thump. Her head ached and
she felt drained and exhausted. And guilty. She must never forget
the guilt that was her ever-present companion these days, This
evening, however, she was especially tired.

“
Too much excitement,” she
murmured, glancing around her room seeking Monster. But Monster
wasn’t there. Apparently, he’d taken her sharply spoken words of a
while ago amiss; she didn’t see him anywhere. “Blast the
cat.”

She was so weary after supervising
Becky’s birthday party and dealing with her tumbling emotions that
she didn’t feel like searching for the stupid animal. Instead, she
undressed, scarcely finding the energy to hang her dress in the
wardrobe. Then she donned her flannel nighty, brushed out her hair,
and crawled between her sheets. For about a minute, she
contemplated conducting a more thorough search for
Monster.

“
Bother Monster, Let him
sleep wherever he wants to. What can happen to him indoors,
anyhow?”

She was so tired, she later couldn’t
even remember rolling over and plumping her pillows before sleep
claimed her.

*****

“
Dash it,” Aubrey mumbled.
He’d been tapping at Callie’s door for what seemed like hours. It
had probably only been a minute or two, but it was a nerve-racking
business, attempting to propose to a lady. The least this one could
do was answer her dashed door.

But did she? No. In true Callida
Prophet form, she did not offer the least assistance to him in the
matter. She let him stand out here in the hallway, in full view of
anyone who cared to walk by, knocking at her door. “Damn her,” he
growled under his breath. Every other second, he peered around to
make sure he was alone in the hallway. He was.

Being alone in the hallway, however,
didn’t solve the problem of the recalcitrant Miss Callida Prophet
not answering her dashed door. He knocked slightly more sharply.
Damn. This knock, which had felt rather timid when he did it,
sounded like thunder in the silence of the huge house.

Tension was making him twitch. “One
more time,” he grumbled. “Then quit for tonight.”

He feared that if he didn’t accomplish
his purpose tonight, he’d lose his nerve.

Damnation, he never used to be a
coward.

He’d never asked anyone but Anne to
marry him, either, though, and his nerves were quivering as if they
were attached to electrical wires. He and Anne had understood each
other from the first moment they’d met. Proposing to her hadn’t had
this unsettling effect on him.