Greyson,” the housekeeper sang out as she crossed the room to the bookcases. She set her basket on the small table near the armchair. “I hope you don’t mind if I invade your privacy for a little cleaning. I always polish the furniture on Saturdays, and there’s so much wood in this room, I fear I won’t be able to finish it while you’re having lunch.”
Nicole fiddled with the papers on her desk and reclaimed her pen, suddenly feeling guilty over her lack of attention to the task at hand. “Of course I don’t mind.” She dragged a logbook in front of her and dutifully opened it to the last page she’d transcribed. “You won’t bother me.”
At least not any more than she was already bothered.
Several minutes passed in silence, the soft sounds of a skirt rustling and the smells of linseed oil and lemon the only evidence of Mrs. Wellborn’s presence. Then a quiet hum developed, followed by an occasional flourish of the dustrag, which caught Nicole’s eye. The housekeeper’s white cap bounced up and down in Nicole’s periphery as the cheery woman fairly danced through her chore. It was so infectious, Nicole itched to twirl about the room herself. Instead, she smiled and bent her head over the logbook, trying to concentrate on deciphering another line of her employer’s cryptic handwriting.
“I understand you’ve been taking your lunches down by the pond,” Mrs. Wellborn ventured as her dust rag glided over the bookcase shelves nearest the desk. “It truly is a lovely spot. Arthur and I sometimes take a stroll along the banks in the cool of the evening.”
Her rag paused midstroke, and her gaze fogged over as a sigh escaped her. In a blink, clarity returned and the housekeeper shot Nicole a flirty smile. “He’s been known to steal a kiss under the branches of that big oak, too. You’d never know it to look at him, but my Arthur can be quite the man of passion.”
Nicole giggled, charmed by the idea of the staid butler sharing a passionate embrace with his wife in such a setting. “I can’t imagine a better place for a tryst. It’s a shame I don’t have a beau to share it with.”
The housekeeper’s expression sharpened an instant before the dust rag resumed its fluttering—a fluttering that seemed rather more frantic than necessary. “So you have no young man paying court to you? Hard to believe, as pretty as you are.”
Nicole blushed and became suddenly fascinated with the logbook in front of her. “Not yet,” she said, fingering the pages, “but my father has a few prospects in mind.” Prospects she was supposed to be considering at that moment in New Orleans.
“I’m so glad to hear that your father is involved.” The fluttering converged upon the desk. Nicole circled a protective arm around the schematics. “So many young people these days fail to see the wisdom in arranged marriages.”
“Oh, it won’t be arranged,” Nicole corrected as she carefully stacked the papers into a tidy pile and dragged them a safe distance from the overeager duster. “Papa promised to give me a choice. He just has a few . . . suggestions about where I should start looking.”
“Sounds like a fair compromise.” The dusting flurry ceased as quickly as it had begun. Mrs. Wellborn smiled her cheery smile before turning her attention to a lamp with a smoky chimney. “I wonder if you found someone acceptable on your own if he would approve.”
“If the man were truly acceptable, I don’t see . . .” Nicole’s brow furrowed. Somehow this conversation seemed much less hypothetical than it had a moment ago. “Goodness. Is it really almost noon?” It was actually only 11:35, but the housekeeper couldn’t see the clock face from her position by the lamp, and Nicole decided a liberal definition of almost was acceptable in this circumstance.
She pushed to her feet and backed away from the desk. “All this talk about the pond has me itching for a visit. I think I’ll head to the
Nicole fiddled with the papers on her desk and reclaimed her pen, suddenly feeling guilty over her lack of attention to the task at hand. “Of course I don’t mind.” She dragged a logbook in front of her and dutifully opened it to the last page she’d transcribed. “You won’t bother me.”
At least not any more than she was already bothered.
Several minutes passed in silence, the soft sounds of a skirt rustling and the smells of linseed oil and lemon the only evidence of Mrs. Wellborn’s presence. Then a quiet hum developed, followed by an occasional flourish of the dustrag, which caught Nicole’s eye. The housekeeper’s white cap bounced up and down in Nicole’s periphery as the cheery woman fairly danced through her chore. It was so infectious, Nicole itched to twirl about the room herself. Instead, she smiled and bent her head over the logbook, trying to concentrate on deciphering another line of her employer’s cryptic handwriting.
“I understand you’ve been taking your lunches down by the pond,” Mrs. Wellborn ventured as her dust rag glided over the bookcase shelves nearest the desk. “It truly is a lovely spot. Arthur and I sometimes take a stroll along the banks in the cool of the evening.”
Her rag paused midstroke, and her gaze fogged over as a sigh escaped her. In a blink, clarity returned and the housekeeper shot Nicole a flirty smile. “He’s been known to steal a kiss under the branches of that big oak, too. You’d never know it to look at him, but my Arthur can be quite the man of passion.”
Nicole giggled, charmed by the idea of the staid butler sharing a passionate embrace with his wife in such a setting. “I can’t imagine a better place for a tryst. It’s a shame I don’t have a beau to share it with.”
The housekeeper’s expression sharpened an instant before the dust rag resumed its fluttering—a fluttering that seemed rather more frantic than necessary. “So you have no young man paying court to you? Hard to believe, as pretty as you are.”
Nicole blushed and became suddenly fascinated with the logbook in front of her. “Not yet,” she said, fingering the pages, “but my father has a few prospects in mind.” Prospects she was supposed to be considering at that moment in New Orleans.
“I’m so glad to hear that your father is involved.” The fluttering converged upon the desk. Nicole circled a protective arm around the schematics. “So many young people these days fail to see the wisdom in arranged marriages.”
“Oh, it won’t be arranged,” Nicole corrected as she carefully stacked the papers into a tidy pile and dragged them a safe distance from the overeager duster. “Papa promised to give me a choice. He just has a few . . . suggestions about where I should start looking.”
“Sounds like a fair compromise.” The dusting flurry ceased as quickly as it had begun. Mrs. Wellborn smiled her cheery smile before turning her attention to a lamp with a smoky chimney. “I wonder if you found someone acceptable on your own if he would approve.”
“If the man were truly acceptable, I don’t see . . .” Nicole’s brow furrowed. Somehow this conversation seemed much less hypothetical than it had a moment ago. “Goodness. Is it really almost noon?” It was actually only 11:35, but the housekeeper couldn’t see the clock face from her position by the lamp, and Nicole decided a liberal definition of almost was acceptable in this circumstance.
She pushed to her feet and backed away from the desk. “All this talk about the pond has me itching for a visit. I think I’ll head to the
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