Courting Susannah (8 page)

“I've been giving some thought to the child—”

Aubrey managed, at last, to break whatever inertia had overtaken him. He frowned. “And what conclusion have you reached?”

“She must have a name. We can't keep calling her ‘she' and ‘the baby' and ‘the child.' She should be properly christened in any case. I've spoken to Reverend Johnstone, and—”

The frown intensified to a glare. “Do as you like,” he snapped, and started past her, moving toward the dining room, where Maisie had laid a spectacular table, complete with silver candlesticks, fine china, and sterling utensils.

“But
you
are her father,” Susannah persisted, following close on his heels. “You should be the one to decide—”

“Call her anything you like. Except Julia, of course.”

Susannah felt a stab of pain. “Did you hate her so much?” she asked quietly.

“Yes,” he replied without hesitation or kindness. “I did hate her. And kindly remove those earrings. They were a gift from one of her lovers, and I can't stand the sight of them.”

“If you hated Julia,” Susannah pressed, pulling off the ear bobs at the same time, “why do you
care
if she took lovers?”

“Because I loved her once,” came the answer.

Susannah was silenced by his admission, though only briefly. When the doorbell chimed, she followed Aubrey across the entry hall. She couldn't resist a little barb. After all, it wasn't as though he had been a model husband to Julia. “Perhaps we could name your baby—let's see—Delphinia?” she chimed.

“I would advise you not to plague me, Miss McKittrick,” he warned in a harsh whisper. “I am not a patient man.” With that, he wrenched open the door, and in those few seconds, his aspect changed from one of anger to one of smiling good humor.

A handsome gentleman with chestnut-colored hair and a waxed mustache stood on the porch, bowler hat in hand. It seemed to Susannah that the visitor's eyes narrowed slightly when Aubrey made his introductions. Clearly, John Hollister was as curious about her as the neighbors had been during her walk earlier that day, even though Aubrey had already explained that she was his late wife's childhood friend, come from far-off Nantucket to look after the child.

“We're considering names,” Susannah said cheerfully as the three of them retired to the parlor to await the other guests and Maisie's eventual signal that supper was ready. “For the baby, I mean. I suggested Delphinia.”

Aubrey sliced another warning glance in her direction, and Mr. Hollister smiled almost imperceptibly. It was obvious that he knew about Aubrey's illicit affair with Mrs. Parker—no doubt the whole city was enjoying the scandal. On Julia's behalf, Susannah felt a flash of fury. She was behaving shamelessly, she knew, and yet she couldn't seem to help herself. The whole concept of Mr. Fairgrieve keeping a mistress galled her.

“Don't tell me you haven't named the poor little mite after all this time,” Hollister scolded. Aubrey had given him a snifter of brandy, and he gestured with the glass as he spoke. “I declare, Fairgrieve, that's downright negligent of you. Personally, I've always favored Elisabeth. That was my mother's name.”

The doorbell chimed again, and Aubrey hurried off to answer it. When he returned, he was accompanied by two more gentlemen, both older, with balding heads, large bellies, and heavy gold watch chains. Susannah guessed before the introductions were made that they were bankers. No doubt both of them had names to suggest, but the topic had changed to the situation in the gold fields and the “Chinese problem,” whatever that was.

After fifteen minutes or so, the last guest arrived. This one looked more like a cowboy than a businessman, and Susannah liked him immediately. His eyes were a mischievous blue, his fair hair sun-streaked and slightly too long, lending him a rakish appearance. He presented himself to her without waiting for Aubrey to do the honors. “I'm Ethan Fairgrieve,” he said, taking her hand briefly. “My brother probably hasn't mentioned me.”

“No,” Susannah said, almost stammering the word. Julia had, of course, but it didn't seem like a good time to bring that up. There were a lot of undercurrents flowing through that house, too many for her comfort.
“I'm Susannah McKittrick—Julia and I were at school together. It's—it's good to meet you.”

“Likewise,” Ethan replied, his eyes twinkling with a merriment that made Susannah want to know him better. “If I weren't already taken, I swear I'd come courting you, Miss Susannah.” He glanced at his brother, who was taking in every word of the conversation and, at the same time, doing his best to look disinterested. “My Rosa,” Ethan went on with mock solemnity, “weighs three hundred pounds and packs a pistol. If I dared to stray, she'd have my hide nailed to the barn door quicker than you can say so long.”

Susannah laughed. “And where is Rosa tonight? I would like to meet her.”

“She's keeping the home fires burning. I'm only here because word got back to me that Julia's favorite correspondent had arrived. I wanted a look at you.”

“What was your mother's name?” Susannah whispered, leaning close.

Ethan barely missed a beat, though it was plain that the question had caught him off-guard. “Jenny,” he said. “Why?”

“Jenny,” Susannah repeated, savoring the name. “That's lovely.”

Just then, Maisie rang the fancy supper bell, and Aubrey started toward Susannah. Before he reached her, however, Ethan offered his arm, and she took it, allowing him to escort her into the dining room.

Maisie was a gifted cook, and the meal was one to savor. Susannah said very little but listened instead, sorting and assimilating what she heard. It soon became obvious that Ethan and Aubrey were not on the best of terms, brothers or not. Every time Ethan flung one of his taunting grins in Aubrey's direction, Aubrey glared as though he'd been formally insulted.

The bankers were Aubrey's business associates rather than his friends, Susannah quickly discerned, but Mr. Hollister was harder to place. Despite his remarks about the baby going unnamed for so long—that certainly indicated some degree of familiarity on both his part and Aubrey's—he didn't quite fit into the pattern of things. While the conversation swirled around him, he ate sparingly and watched Susannah whenever he thought she wouldn't notice. Because his manner was thoughtful and not unfriendly, she was not troubled but rather intrigued.

The meal ended, and the gentlemen retired to Aubrey's study, ostensibly to smoke cigars and drink brandy. Susannah was tremendously relieved when Maisie bustled into the dining room and began to clear the table.

“You didn't tell me Aubrey and his brother were barely speaking,” she challenged.

Maisie gave her a level look. “I don't tell everythin' I know,” she retorted. “And put down them dishes. You ain't dressed for clearing up.”

“Nonsense,” Susannah protested, scraping and stacking plates.

“Mr. Fairgrieve won't like it if he sees you doing that.”

“He doesn't mind my changing diapers. I hardly think it would disturb him to find me helping you with a routine household task. I'm only a nurse, after all.” A maiden aunt, she added to herself. A poor relation who wasn't really even a relation. “Frankly, I don't even know why he wanted me to join him for dinner tonight. He didn't say one word to me.”

Maisie smiled. “But his visitors had plenty to say, didn't they? Especially young Ethan. Did he tell you his wife weighs three hundred pounds and carries a pistol?”

“Yes,” Susannah said.

That time, Maisie laughed outright. “Well,
he
ain't changed since he was here last, anyhow.”

“What's wrong between those two?” Susannah ventured, heading toward the kitchen door with an armload of plates and silverware. “Ethan was cordial enough, but Mr. Fairgrieve was downright bristly. If he didn't want him here, why issue the invitation?”

“I doubt that he did,” Maisie said. “They've had their differences, Aubrey and Ethan,” she went on when the two of them were standing side by side in front of the sink. Maisie elbowed Susannah deftly aside, poured steaming water from the kettle on the stove over the soiled dishes, and pushed up her sleeves. “Now that Miss Julia's gone, God rest her soul, I reckon they might just start in to mendin' fences.”

Susannah sat down, suddenly weary. “What did Julia have to do with it?”

Maisie turned and looked at her over one sturdy shoulder. “You want to know that,” she said, “you're gonna have to ask either Mr. Fairgrieve or his brother. It ain't my place to say.”

Susannah felt a sick sensation in the pit of her stomach, recalling parts of Julia's letters, parts in which she'd described Ethan as a gentleman with the heart of a poet. She'd recounted buggy rides in the country with Ethan and picnics by a lake, though at the time the interludes had sounded innocent. Julia had merely said that Aubrey was too busy with his store—he'd gotten rich selling picks and shovels to miners headed north, she liked to boast—and Ethan had “taken pity” on her.

She let out a long sigh.

Maisie set a cup of tea in front of her. “Don't be frettin' about what can't be changed now,” she said. “That makes a body crazy.”

“Y
our brother is quite charming,” Susannah remarked to Aubrey the next morning, when by accident rather than design they endedup in the kitchen at the same time. Perhaps it was because she was unprepared for the encounter that she spoke without thinkingfirst.

Seated in Maisie's chair near the stove, the sleeping child resting against her shoulder, she watched as his jawline tightened.Resentment flashed fierce in his eyes, like lightning striking in some far-off and inaccessible place, and was quickly quelled.

For her part, Susannah was utterly content, there in the warmth of the fire, the child warm and sweet-smelling in her arms.

Aubrey went to the stove, coffee mug in hand, and poured a full cup. “My brother,” he answered in his own good time, “hasa way of barging in where he doesn't belong.”

While Aubrey was absorbed in the task, Susannah took the opportunity to admire the fine muscled breadth of his shoulders,the way his powerful back tapered to a lean waist. All of this was highlighted rather than hidden by the crisp fabric of hiswhite linen shirt. In addition, he wore suspenders, tweed trousers, and highly polished boots and no doubt would don a proper coat before leavingthe house.

Guilt struck her with the impact of a charging bull. Whatever their problems might have been, Aubrey had been her best friend'shusband. What had possessed her to think such untoward thoughts?

She tried to make light conversation. “Do you have other family?”

Aubrey turned after a moment's hesitation and regarded her over the rim of his cup. His expression revealed precisely nothing,and so did his tone of voice. “You are a meddlesome creature,” he said, and suddenly she glimpsed that light kindling in hiseyes again, just before he smiled. “Why should you care whether I have one relative or a tribe of them?”

“I was merely attempting to be pleasant,” Susannah said in a stiff tone. His rebuff, framed in good humor though it was, hadstung her, for all that she should have expected it, and she could only hope the hot ache in her face was not accompaniedby a vivid blush. “You needn't be so rude, Mr. Fairgrieve.”

He raised the coffee cup in a sort of mocking salute. Susannah wondered just then why Julia had never picked up a gun andshot him. “Not rude, Miss McKittrick,” he countered. “Blunt. There is a difference.”

“If you say so,” Susannah allowed ungenerously. Then she sighed and stroked the tiny, flannel-covered back with one hand asthe child stirred fitfully against her bosom, perhaps sensing the discord. It seemed only prudent to change the subject. “Thereare things I need for little Victoria,” she said. “I should like to visit the store later today, if that is convenient.”

“Nothing in my life is convenient these days,” he replied, “but I'll send a carriage for you around ten
o'clock. Of course, you may select whatever you feel
little Victoria
requires.”

“Thank you,” Susannah replied primly. What she felt was nothing so noble as gratitude, and she suspected Aubrey knew that,but there was no use in their jibing at each other. What was needed was some sort of arrangement between them. “I believewe can—tolerate each other, Mr. Fairgrieve, if we simply make a civilized effort toward that end.”

She thought she saw a smile dancing in his eyes again, however briefly, though it did not reach his mouth. “A civilized effort,is it?” he retorted, straightening his string tie. “I must say I thought I was already doing that, simply by not showing youthe road.” He set his empty cup in the iron sink and headed back toward the inner door. “Good day, Miss McKittrick. I'll letthe clerks know you'll be visiting the store later.”