Legacy of Love. Christine Johnson
on his property.
He flexed his hands, unsure what to do. Deep down he longed to take her in his arms, but he shouldn’t. In fact, they shouldn’t be alone together in his house. Youth might be ignoring convention these days, but he would not. Yet he couldn’t turn her out in this state. Where was Mrs. Simmons when he needed her? It was after six o’clock. Anna wasn’t supposed to be here.
What should he do? He couldn’t stand to hear her sob.
He absently picked up a glob of the brown gooey stuff. It smelled rather good as a matter of fact, rich with cloves and spices. He tasted it. The moist cakelike substance melted on his tongue.
“Whatever this is, it’s delicious.” He tasted another bit and then another. “Quite excellent,” he mumbled, mouth full.
She hiccuped and lifted her head. “It is?”
“It is,” he said between bites. “What is it?”
“Plum duff,” she sniffled, wiping her red swollen eyes on her dress sleeve.
Didn’t she even have a handkerchief? Brandon pulled out his and handed it to her.
She promptly wiped her eyes and blew her nose. “Thank you.” She then offered back the handkerchief.
He grimaced. “You keep it.”
She withdrew her hand and tucked his handkerchief into her apron pocket, her eyes downcast. “I’m sorry I made a mess of things.”
He hated to see her spirit crushed. She had stood up to the Neideckers. Why would a little cooking disaster set her spirits so low?
“No problem.” He cleared his throat. “None at all.”
That didn’t appear to appease her, for she continued to stare at the black-and-white linoleum floor.
“Well, then,” he tried again, “whenever I’m faced with a problem, I assess the situation, figure out what went wrong and determine a new course of action.”
At last she lifted her gaze. Though her lashes were dewy, her expression had narrowed in puzzlement. “Even if I understood what you just said, what does it have to do with my problem?”
He’d done it again. Without thinking, he’d taken charge as if he was still in the army.
“Pardon me,” he apologized with a flourish. “I meant, let’s figure out how to solve the problem.”
“Oh.” Her full pink lips made him want to think of something much more interesting than cooking. “I don’t suppose you know how to make plum duff in a few hours rather than a week.”
He had to acknowledge he didn’t.
“Or how to get it out of the mold.”
Again his knowledge fell short.
“Then you must know how to clean burned sugar out of an oven.”
It wasn’t a question, and he hated to admit he had no idea. “Hot water?”
Her hands went to her hips. “Just what I suspected. All thought and no action. If you can’t cook or clean, how exactly did you plan to help me?”
That was the Anna Simmons he’d liked so much that day at the mercantile, though he had to admit he wasn’t quite as keen that she’d directed her biting comments at him.
“I could help you clean if you tell me what to do,” he offered weakly.
She rolled her eyes. “In your business suit and coat?”
He looked down at his fine attire. Father would have been shocked to hear what Brandon had just offered. No Landers had ever done servants’ work. When Brandon was no more than five, he’d made the mistake of helping the housekeeper wipe down walls. After shaking him violently, Father had made Brandon say over and over that he would never do that again.
Brandon eyed the cobwebs in the corners of the old kitchen. Look where that thinking had got Father.
“I’ll change,” he said.
She filled a pail with hot water and grabbed the bicarbonate of soda from the cupboard. After hefting the pail from the sink, she set it on the floor in front of the oven with a heavy clunk.
“You’ll leave me alone,” she said, hands back on those lovely hips. “I have work to do.”
That was a command. A wise man would obey. Brandon had always thought himself wise. Until now.
* * *
After changing into clothes that were better than most people’s Sunday best, the man helped her clean the kitchen. He was worse than useless, but then Anna had to remind herself that she’d been a lousy housekeeper when she’d first started cleaning for Mariah at the orphanage. Still, when she told Brandon to scrub the table, he’d worked and worked at it until she thought he’d rub right through the varnish.
Before scrubbing he’d eaten the bits of her demolished plum pudding. At first she’d taken it as a compliment, but then she realized the poor man was hungry. She’d stuck his beef cutlet in the warming oven and forgot about it. By now it must be as dry as shoe leather. To his credit, he’d never once asked what had happened to his meal. Her boiling temper died to a simmer and then cooled.
She pulled the cutlet from the warming oven and set it on the table. “I’m afraid I ruined it.”
“Nonsense.” He sat down with knife and fork and attempted to hack off a bite.
“I’ll make something else.” She reached for a match, but he hopped to his feet and stilled her hand.
“I’ll cook something later.”
“You know how to use a stove?” She could not imagine Brandon cooking. Ever.
“I’m a bachelor. I have to do many things for myself.”
She doubted he had ever cooked or cleaned. Men of his social class hired housekeepers or ate at a club or restaurant. They did not cook.
Still, she kept her doubts to herself. It was pleasant working beside him. She kept glancing over to make sure he wasn’t making a bigger mess, and occasionally she found him looking at her. Their glances didn’t meet for more than a second, but each time it sent an unexpected thrill through her.
When he worked near her, she could smell that sagelike scent that was all his. She closed her eyes to drink it in, and jumped when he touched her.
“Are you all right?” He looked concerned.
Oh, yes, she was more than all right, though if she had to admit it, his nearness both excited and terrified her. And when she stuck her hand in her apron pocket and felt his handkerchief with his monogrammed initials, she ran her fingers over the embroidery and imagined what it would be like to be Mrs. B.L.
“Can we make another duff?”
Anna shook her head. “The fruit and nuts have to sit for a week.”
“A week? Why would you make such a difficult dish?”
“For Christmas. It’s like plum pudding.”
His gray eyes twinkled in the electric lights. “Like in Dickens’s Christmas Carol?”
She nodded.
“I’m sorry. Perhaps there’s something else you can make.” He stood and mopped his forehead.
She noticed he’d stopped using his cane a while ago, and though he balanced against the table when moving about, he could stand perfectly well without the aid of his cane.
“What happened to your leg?” she blurted out, and then, when she saw his expression tighten, instantly regretted the question. “I’m sorry.”
“No, no. It’s an honest question. It happened in the war.” He offered no further explanation.