The Nanny Solution. Barbara Phinney
a good introduction. Not to mention how the poor child is in pain. I simply used some common sense.” Realizing that she had some wisdom, and yes, some initiative, she lifted her chin. “I actually found teaching the other four scratch cradle to be rather enjoyable. Before you woke up, we’d had quite a laugh trying to figure out what shapes we’d produced. They got sillier the more we played.” She blinked and turned away. “I’m sorry if you feel you’ve made a mistake in hiring me.”
His answer was clipped. “I just find it irrational that you sold an expensive outfit to avoid work you’d been assigned.”
Victoria was sure that wasn’t his reason. His tight words told her there was more to it.
Though, what he said made sense. It was irrational to sell an expensive outfit on the spur of the moment. Mercy, was she as foolish as her mother, who’d sold her expensive mourning outfits for a train ticket that would have cost a quarter of what the clothes were worth?
Victoria bit her lip. She’d been hurt by her mother’s departure from Boston without her. Abigail’s decision to sell her clothes had then epitomized the strained situation. For the cost of a train ticket, her mother had destroyed Victoria’s hope that they could work out their dire finances together.
She stole a look at Mitchell. And for the cost of a wet nurse, Victoria had destroyed Mitchell’s belief in her. Her empty stomach flipped. Yes. She was as foolish as her mother. Someday, she might need him as a reference, especially if she was to seek employment in Proud Bend. What would Mitchell tell a potential employer? That she’d sold a fine outfit to avoid work?
Tears sprang into her eyes. Suddenly, she was an impoverished girl who’d probably never secure employment. Everything was falling apart.
“I’m hungry.”
Which boy said it, Victoria couldn’t guess. But when she turned her attention to the three children sitting on the bench seat in front of them, plus the one still on her lap, Victoria didn’t need to know. They all stared hollowed-eyed at their father.
“At the next stop, I’ll purchase some food for you,” Mitchell growled.
His frown deepened, despite the children appearing satisfied at the promise. She leaned close to Mitchell. “Is there a problem?”
Mitchell consulted his pocket watch. It was a basic model, nothing like the elaborate one Charles had owned. Victoria’s heart tripped up. Had her stepfather purchased his with some of her inheritance? She hadn’t seen the watch for some time. Had he then sold it to finance his gambling?
“According to the schedule, we aren’t expected to make another water stop until after dark.”
“Water stop?” she asked.
“For the train. Steam is lost and they need to refill the boiler in the locomotive. I’m sure they’ll replenish supplies in first class and take on more coal if necessary, but these stops are mostly for water. There aren’t many track pans to scoop it up as we pass.”
She had no idea what he was talking about. “So how is that a problem?”
“I’m afraid the general store won’t be open then, which means I must rely on the local roadhouse. Except anything I buy will be wasted, for the children won’t eat what those people pass off as food. And to purchase something here from the porter will cost a ridiculous amount, I’m afraid.” He grimaced. “I saw to the baby’s needs, and purchased the bedding we’ll use, but I didn’t have time to get any food.”
Victoria sat back, then bolted forward, and not from her ingrained habit of sitting upright in a corset and bustle. Ralph clung to her as she cried, “Wait! I can help!”
She squeezed Ralph into the opposite seat between his siblings and stood. With a wave, she called the porter over. Several passengers, including the woman now wearing her beautiful outfit, peered up at her, obviously looking for any distraction from the boredom that was their trip. Victoria asked the young man to retrieve her portmanteau, the one she’d asked to have available.
“What are you doing?” Mitchell asked.
The porter returned and after opening her case on the seat, she began to rifle through it. It was an appallingly gauche act, one she would have never expected she’d do, but she was glad her housekeeper had the wisdom to pack what Victoria was now searching for.
Victoria hauled out a wicker box. “Found it!” She plunked it onto Mitchell’s lap, and then closed the case. The porter took it away again. Victoria sat down and took back the box.
“Treats and sweets from my housekeeper,” she declared.
Immediately the children clamored around her. Victoria couldn’t help but smile. It was like Christmas morn to them, she was sure. With great fanfare, she removed the lid.
Her maid had hugged her one last time before Victoria had left for the depot, whispering in her ear that the housekeeper had tucked into her portmanteau some treats for the long journey.
“Whatever for?” Victoria had asked her.
“So those men Mr. Charles owed money to don’t get all the good stuff in this house,” her maid had hissed fiercely. “That’s what Mrs. Handelson said. She said she won’t have their filthy paws snatching up all the fine food she’d made and saved.”
Victoria now blushed at the memory. Her mother would have never told the staff the reason for their predicament, but the walls had ears. Everyone in the household, from the housekeeper down to the errand boy, would have known. It had been an embarrassing moment for Victoria, to hug her maid goodbye and at the same time learn the staff knew all about their dire situation.
What else did they know? That her mother had sold expensive outfits for little more than a pittance? They would, for Abigail’s maid had conducted the sale.
Shoving away the humiliation, Victoria smiled brightly at the children. “What do we have in here?”
She didn’t know herself, but found a Jaffa orange, so big and bright and firm it surely must be the first of this year’s harvest. Several mince tarts covered in sturdy, honey-glazed pastry sat beside it. Sugared almonds and a few boiled eggs were tucked all around them, along with multiple crisp-looking biscuits, although some had broken. Deep down was a wedge of old cheese wrapped in a fine linen napkin. Victoria lifted the tarts to discover two meat pastries underneath. She recognized Mrs. Handelson’s signature decoration on the tops. She let out a silly squeak of delight, more for the children’s sake, when she spied some bricks of precious chocolate in one corner.
“We have a feast here!” she whispered to the children, thankful for the provisions. “But what should be first?”
“To give thanks?” Matthew suggested.
Victoria smiled. The boy would make a fine gentleman someday. After they said grace, during which she was sure the children kept their eyes open for fear the food would vanish, she dug back into the box.
“Let’s start with the two meat pastries.” She pulled them out and carefully broke them, a half for each child. They were gone as fast as she handed them out. She gave them each a piece of cheese and as equal a portion of broken biscuit as possible before handing the orange to Mitchell.
“Perhaps you could peel this?”
Her face fell. His expression was anything but thankful.
* * *
Mitch begrudgingly began to peel the orange. “Where did you get an orange this time of year?”
“It’s a Jaffa orange. They come from Palestine, but usually just before Christmas. My mother has a fondness for them because they are so sweet.”
Nothing about this woman made sense, Mitch thought. When had she planned to pull out this treat box? The other day, when they’d first met, she’d offered his children biscuits in open defiance of her mother’s scathing look, giving him hope that she liked children, but she’d then pawned off Emily