The Nanny Solution (22 page)

She smiled through her tears. Mitchell loved her! Suddenly, that love gave her the strength and courage to look to the future. A future that included all her family.
Lord, save Rachel and Aunt Louise. Keep them safe.

She repeated that same prayer often as the night wore away and morning finally came. Victoria waited impatiently for the doctor to stop rushing back and forth between the two other bedrooms.

Finally, he closed Rachel's door and walked into Victoria's bedroom. “They're both going to be fine.”

Victoria sagged and offered a new prayer, a silent one of thanks. Mitchell took her in his arms as the doctor explained his care.

“I administered an emetic and then gave them charcoal. Miss Smith is awake and talking, but Mrs. Smith is still groggy. They had been given large doses of laudanum, far more than I prescribed.” His expression sobered. “I'm told it was Clyde Abernathy who prepared their doses. I sent a note to the sheriff that Abernathy be found to answer to the charges of attempted murder, for he then turned them on their stomachs and their faces into their pillows. If the laudanum hadn't killed them, they would have smothered.”

Victoria shivered, and Mitchell held her tight.

The day drifted by slowly as she spent her time checking on her aunt and cousin, so much so that Rachel ordered her from her room. Downstairs, and trying not to be miffed by her cousin, Victoria met Mitchell in the front room. He'd disappeared for some time and had returned.

“Did the sheriff find Clyde?” she asked.

“He was caught boarding the train for Denver. Clyde would have been gone but the train had hit some of my heifers and had been delayed. He had a ticket to San Francisco. He knew he had been caught and was running.” Mitchell led her to the settee, where they sat beside each other. “I also went to the bank today. They will extend my payment date, but it comes with a hefty penalty that has to be paid first. It's going to be rough for a while, Victoria.”

“Yes,” she answered practically. “But after all we've endured, and nearly losing Rachel and Aunt Louise, I've learned I can handle anything. As long as you help me start the occasional fire in the stove.”

Mitchell laughed just as the maid entered with a silver server. On it was a letter that had arrived with the train.

“For me?” Victoria asked as she took it. Who would be writing her? Her mother? She opened it and read quickly. Then gasped. “It's from Mr. Lacewood. He sold my house and the summer home. They belonged to me, not my mother, but were to be in my mother's care.”

She read further. “It sold for more than anticipated. Francis bought the property only one day after I left. He's engaged now.”

After reading more, she looked up in wonder, holding out a check she'd pulled from beneath the letter. “All of Charles's debts have been paid and Lacewood has sent me the balance.” Victoria bit her lip. “After all I've learned these past few days, it feels as though I don't deserve this money. I'll send this check back.”

“No.” Mitchell's hand stilled hers as she began to slip it back into the envelope. She could feel the warmth of his palm press comfortingly against her knuckles. “Your father left you his estate because he wanted you to have it. This is what's left of it. Don't send it back just to absolve any guilt you might have. This money is yours, Victoria. It's neither a source of pride nor contempt. It's just money. Give it away to charity if you must, but don't make any rash decisions because you've learned a hard lesson.”

“But—”

“No buts. You have a lot to consider. We both do. I have my mineral rights, and plan to lease them. It's the only way to rebuild my ranch. I know of several men starting new mining companies who are interested in them. It's good to diversify, but I won't decide anything quickly, and nor should you.”

Mitchell was right, Victoria thought, her heart swelling with love for him. She should be neither proud nor in contempt of the money she now had. She smiled suddenly. “I know what I should do with this money. I want to invest it first thing in the morning.”

“That soon?” Mitchell lifted his eyebrows and a small smile hovered over his lips. “Were you paying any mind to what I just said?”

“Of course I was. I'm taking it to the bank.” As Mitchell began to speak, she lifted up her hand to stop him. “Even though I will follow you anywhere, Mitchell, and I will live anywhere you live, I'm going to pay off your mortgage here and now. I'm going to invest in your ranch. Maybe we can also raise sheep or grow more vegetables for the church to distribute.” She boldly leaned over and kissed Mitchell on the lips. “But most important, I want to invest in our future, as husband and wife. I expect to get a good return.”

He laughed out loud and pulled her close. “Yes, ma'am. You will get the best return. I promise.”

Epilogue

Five months later

J
ust inside the church vestry, Victoria completed one last check of her wedding gown. It was white, even though white wasn't the current choice for brides. Victoria didn't care. She'd seen it in a shop window in Proud Bend, where it had apparently been for several years, and she loved it.

“You look perfect.”

Victoria looked over her shoulder at Rachel, her maid of honor. Behind her stood Clare, her only bridesmaid, who straightened her own pale green gown with nervous fingers. Thankfulness swelled in her for the friendship of these two women, not to mention gratitude that Rachel and Aunt Louise were all right.

Rachel turned and took hold of Mary's hand. The little girl held a basket of early flower petals in her other hand.

“Aunt Rachel, I want to throw the petals on the floor like Miss Walsh promised. I can't do that if you hold my hand.”

Victoria looked up to Clare, who shrugged. “I read in a recent periodical that it's all the rage.”

From deep in the church, Emily wailed, her tiny voice reaching through the closed door. She was sitting up on her own now and grabbing everything in sight. Aunt Louise held her, no doubt having removed her fine feather hat so it would not be torn to shreds. Mother had arrived last week, having moved here and the two older women were sharing the responsibility of caring for the active baby.

“Let's go. We're late as it is,” Rachel announced with her usual briskness.

On her signal, Matthew, having been waiting patiently, opened the door into the sanctuary just moments after Victoria stepped out of the way so she would not be seen until it was appropriate. Mary slipped free of Rachel to walk first, tenderly, up the aisle, just as she'd been instructed. With a cheeky smile, she left a trail of early spring rose petals in her wake as she passed her siblings and the townspeople in attendance.

Clare stepped out next. Victoria saw Mr. Livingstone from the recording office offer his arm to her. The young woman smiled up at him, but his solemn manner refused anything but the most sober of expressions.

Rachel leaned over and kissed Victoria on the cheek as she passed her cousin to enter next. “This is your special day. Take your time walking up the aisle.” She slipped out to allow Jake to take her hand and place it on his forearm.

Then, finally, it was Victoria's turn. A year ago, she had been dreaming of a perfect Boston wedding at the height of the season in Boston's finest cathedral, a wedding to rival any in New England.

Now she was in a tiny Western church on an early spring day, the only flowers in her bouquet those that bloomed on the south side of Mitchell's barn. And her home would be a three-room house up in the mountains.

It was going to be perfect.

Matthew opened the door wider to allow her gown a full, worthy entrance. Victoria smiled to herself.
Worthy.
She wasn't worthy of the happiness she felt but was grateful to God for it just the same.

And grateful for the man standing tall at the altar. Her husband. He turned, and with his loving gaze, he drew her closer.

Closer to a life full of love and learning, a life in which pride was kept only for their faith and for the children, all of them and any more that might come.

Her heart swelled.

* * * * *

Read on for an extract from COUNTERFEIT COURTSHIP by Christina Miller.

Dear Reader
,

Thank you so much for taking the time to read my book.
The Nanny Solution
certainly laid out what pride can do to us, and what the Bible thinks of it.

Have you ever allowed pride to prevent you from doing what is right? I think we all have to some degree. I think that's why my book's theme rang so clearly for me. We all have pride, and for some, it will be their downfall.

At one point, Victoria learns that her love for her mother is more important than pride and that's a valuable lesson.

If you're struggling with some matter of pride, especially when dealing with a loved one who's hurt you, ask yourself this: What is worth more in the long run—your love for this person or feeding your stubborn pride? I can tell you one thing. Pride is never satisfied. It's a terribly hungry beast. Don't feed it.

I hope you enjoyed this book and I hope you will check out other Love Inspired titles. These books are filled with warmth, encouragement and, of course, love!

Blessings today and always,

Chapter One

Natchez,
Mississippi
June, 1865

C
olonel Graham Talbot slid from his mare and eased the reins over a live oak branch, the need for stealth and silence driving him. He crouched low to the ground and prayed that Dixie wouldn't whinny and give away his position.

As he surveyed the surrounding area, a gang of five appeared from behind the stable. How had they gotten there without him seeing them? And how had they known when he would arrive?

Crossing toward the imposing structure in the open air would make him vulnerable, but if he stayed where he was, they'd be on him in moments. He had to take the chance that they wouldn't look his way. Staying low, he rushed for the next oak. Just a hundred more yards and he'd make it—

“Colonel Talbot, is that you? Sneaking through your own backyard?” The shrill, syrupy voice brought him to a halt. “We've been waiting for you for days.”

He stood and raised his hands in surrender. Just as he'd feared, he'd been captured by a force he dreaded more than a platoon of Yankees: a mob of husband-hunting Natchez girls.

As the gaggle of simpering females emerged from the side yard of his stepmother's town house, Graham held in a groan. Their exaggerated giggles and faded finery didn't improve his mood.

The girl who reached him first snapped shut her yellow-fringed parasol and leaned in close, taking possession of his arm in a way that made him want to head back to the army camp. She was pretty, even charming in her own way, but when had the hometown girls become so bold?

And why couldn't they have stayed away until he got a bath and a shave?

He sneaked a glance at the Greek Revival manor next door and caught a glimpse of Ellie Anderson waving out an upstairs window. Her honey-blond hair gleamed in the sun as brightly as her mischievous grin.

Ellie. His childhood chum, the instigator of most of his youthful calamities—and the reason he'd entered West Point, leaving behind his rejected heart. Even at this distance, the belle of Natchez brought back memories he'd worked hard to forget.

He stopped the thought cold. That had been eight years and a war ago. He'd been only seventeen at the time and still more boy than man. Things had been different in those days...

Ellie continued to smile in that maddening way of hers, a sweet, guileless smile, nothing like the cloying grins of the misguided maidens surrounding him—

“Our own war hero is home at last.” The girl next to him interrupted his thoughts, and that was probably good since, as he now realized, he'd been staring at Ellie with his big mouth open. “You remember me, don't you, Colonel? I'm Susanna Martin, but an old friend like you can call me Susie.”

“We've heard all about your war exploits,” the redhead next to Susanna said. She looked vaguely familiar, but he couldn't place her. Then again, after eight years, he probably looked different too.

“What is General Robert E. Lee like? Is he as handsome as they say?”

Handsome?

“General Lee is a brilliant soldier and a fine Christian man. I was proud to serve under him.” He started toward the house, wanting nothing more than a hot bath and a long visit with his stepmother.

But they sailed along with him, their giant hoopskirts swaying as the women jostled into each other, vying for position next to him. He was surprised they wanted to get that close. Having ridden all day yesterday and all night last night, he was bound to smell as ripe as fresh manure.

This sure wasn't the homecoming he'd looked forward to, but he extended an arm to each girl closest to him and let them carry him along. The South may have lost the war, and Andrew Johnson, the Yankee president, may have stripped Graham of his citizenship, his plantation and all his property, but he was still a Southern gentleman. And a gentleman didn't offend a lady. Not even five ladies who'd disrupted his plans and wearied his already-troubled mind with their chattering.

And with the war's end, being a gentleman was all he had left.

Climbing the stone steps to the breezy front gallery with its white columns and comfortable outdoor rockers, Graham hesitated. Surely these girls didn't expect him to invite them in—not in his filthy condition. But Noreen, like the lady she was, would welcome them into her home—his childhood home—and so should he.

“We haven't had many parties this year, so we can't wait for tonight. Miss Ophelia started planning your homecoming when Lee met with Grant.” Susanna spoke in low, intimate tones, as if four other women weren't hovering about her, taking in every word.

“A party—tonight?” How was he going to get out of that without hurting Aunt Ophelia's feelings? Now that she was a war widow, she'd likely mother—and smother—Graham more than ever. Starting tonight, apparently. “Would you care to come in and tell me about it?”

Say no, say no...

“We'd rather hear about the war. All of Natchez knows about the hundreds of Yankees you captured.” Susanna's drab green eyes turned hard as an artillery shell. “Although I don't see why you didn't just shoot them.”

“I spared as many lives as I could.” They reached the front door, and he saw it was shut. He hesitated. As hot as it was, why would Noreen not have all the doors and jib windows flung wide open to catch a breeze?

He grasped the brass doorknob. Surely his stepmother would entertain these girls and let him escape upstairs to a bath. Graham opened wide the cypress door painted to look like mahogany, and followed them inside the too-quiet center hall. He gestured toward the parlor. “Please be seated while I find my stepmother.”

He barely had them in the parlor before he took off down the hall to the library. The room was empty. Where was she? It wasn't like her to leave the house unattended. Anybody could have walked in that door...

Something seemed amiss in the room, but he couldn't discern what. He ventured farther inside, toward the collection of poetry Noreen kept on the shelves between the windows on the east wall, and then he saw it. A nearly full teacup and a half-eaten slice of bread and butter sat on the table next to his stepmother's favorite fireside wing chair.

Food and dirty dishes sitting out—in Noreen Talbot's home? Something had gone wrong. He could sense it, just as he always could in battle.

Graham turned from the library and checked the dining room. He stepped through the breezeway to the kitchen dependency—nothing. He charged up the stairs. “Noreen?” Upstairs, he headed for her room at the end of the hall.

As he'd suspected, it was empty too, with both bed pillows fluffed and in place, Noreen's hairbrush and mirror at perfect right angles to each other as always—and the third drawer of Father's lowboy flung open.

The drawer where he hid his revolver.

Graham hastened to search the drawer. As he'd feared, Father's Colt Dragoon was gone, and the lid lay beside the open box of bullets.

What could this mean? He glanced down at his dirt-caked boots and the clumps of dried mud he'd left on the Persian silk and wool carpet. Noreen could have moved the gun, but she didn't leave drawers and ammo boxes open.

A wave of soprano giggles pierced the air around him, interrupting his thoughts. The girls.

He dashed into the hallway and toward his own room. He had to find out what had happened to Noreen, a mother to him since shortly after Mama and Graham's baby sister died in childbirth. But first he had to get rid of those girls. The thought of doing that made his stomach sick.

He could think of only one way to get them out.

* * *

Ellie Anderson pulled her head back inside the window of Uncle Amos's second-story bedroom, unsure whether to laugh at the scene below or feel sorry for Graham Talbot. For a moment, she fought the urge to send him their old childhood signal: a shrill whistle from between her teeth. But from the looks of things, he had enough noise in his ears as it was.

Would he even remember that signal, or had his war years erased the memory? It was such a childish thing, like the handkerchiefs they used to attach to wires and dangle out the windows of their rooms. A blue handkerchief was an invitation to an adventure, red for a picnic, and a white one was a distress signal. They had worked fine until Uncle Amos caught Ellie trying to fly hers from the weather vane.

She watched until Graham and the debutantes entered his home. Then she turned from the window in time to see Uncle Amos tip a spoonful of grits onto his lap.

She hastened to the bed, where he sat propped up by three pillows. “I'm not getting the hang of this,” he said, the slur in his speech still unfamiliar, even two months after his stroke of apoplexy.

Reaching for a napkin, Ellie tried to smile some encouragement into his drooped face. “You will. Keep practicing.” She wiped his chin and nightshirt front, and then she loaded more grits onto the spoon she had built up with a length of inch-thick dowel.

Uncle Amos reached for it, grunting as he spilled the grits again, and tried to dredge the spoon through the bowl.

“Grab it like you would an ax handle, not with your Natchez table manners.”

A twinkle appeared in his eye—the first one she'd seen since he took to his bed. “When did you last see me holding an ax?”

Ellie breathed a prayer of thanksgiving for this smidgen of humor. Surely it was a sign that he would recover. It had to be. Because if he didn't get better—

Light footsteps tapped down the hall, interrupting her thoughts. Within seconds, Ellie's maid poked her head in the doorway, a fringe of tight, gray-streaked black curls escaping her red kerchief. “That spoon you made working?”

“Better, Lilah May,” Uncle Amos said in a loud voice of optimism—as always when anyone other than Ellie was around.

“Let me help him. Colonel Graham just got home. You best get over there and rescue him from all them women.” Lilah May sat next to Uncle Amos on the bed and lifted a cup of no-longer-steaming coffee from the tray. “Besides, this man needs some coffee.”

“Graham Talbot?” When she raised the cup to his lips, Uncle Amos held up one hand, stopping her. “What women?”

“Maiden women, that's who, from all over town. They got designs on him, for sure. One of them is going to wiggle her way right into that big mansion of his.”

Her uncle's good eye widened, making the droopy one seem even worse by comparison. “Get over there, Ellie.”

She glanced out the window, the hot midmorning sun streaming in and heating up the room, bringing only a breath of a breeze with it. At least today her uncle remembered who Graham was. “I'm driving out to Magnolia Grove to check the west cotton field this morning before it gets too hot. I want to see how well the plants are squaring.”

“All you ever do is work. You're the best plantation manager a planter could ask for, but you're also a young lady. Go see Graham.”

From the look on Uncle's face, this was an argument she was going to lose. “Make sure he gets more than coffee, Lilah May. If he had his way, that's all he'd take.”

With Uncle Amos's snort ringing in her ears, Ellie headed downstairs. Her maid and uncle could imagine her running to Graham's side if they liked. But she had no intention of joining the fuss and flurry over the war hero's return. They'd been friends too long, and she knew him too well to think he would enjoy the festivities this town had planned for him. A Confederate colonel who'd served under General Lee was worthy of celebration, to be sure. But Graham would rather entertain General Grant in the parlor than attend all the parties, balls and dinners that were in his future—starting tonight.

The poor man. Surely all he wanted to do was rest after traveling all the way from Virginia.

Someone ought to warn him. He might need her help.

She hastened to the library and rummaged in her desk for stationery, then she dipped her pen in the ink.

Graham, old friend,

Maybe your welcoming committee has already told you this, but your aunt Ophelia has been at the ready for weeks, prepared to give you a coming-home party the night you arrive. If you need a quiet evening instead, I'll be at our old hideout and will bring you home for some of Lilah May's good cooking.

Your friend, Ellie.

As she put away her pen, she noticed a letter addressed to her, propped against her walnut whatnot box where Lilah May always left the mail. Ellie pulled a pin from her hair and slit the envelope, then drew out the single thick sheet. Only three lines of large, bold handwriting scrawled across the page.

After my father's demise, I must put his accounts in order. May I call at your home Friday next at 8:00 p.m. to discuss the business he left behind?

As always, Leonard Fitzwald.

As always?
Surely that didn't mean Leonard intended to loiter here at their home as he had before the war. Honestly, if the neighborhood hadn't known better, they'd have thought Ellie and Leonard were courting.

The thought sent a cold chill down her back. Although not necessarily bad-looking, Leonard had an almost frail demeanor and, worse, some undefined, underlying peculiarity that made her uneasy. She'd have to find a polite way to discourage him from visiting, especially now that the cotton fields were squaring. Between supervising her new workers, keeping track of cotton prices and watching for the right time to sell the portion of last year's cotton harvest that she still had stashed away, she had no time for Leonard. However, since his father had been their cotton broker, Leonard no doubt had legitimate business to discuss.

But for now, Graham needed her help, so she tossed Leonard's letter onto her desk and headed for the back door. Maybe her old friend would take her up on her offer of escape from the party, and maybe he wouldn't. Either way, she'd have an excuse to miss it too. Some girls never grew up, like that silly Susanna Martin, who'd all but thrown herself at Graham in the yard. And Miss Ophelia, who seemed as excited about Graham's return as the debutantes were. As much as Ellie loved Miss Ophelia, she'd welcome a chance to forego the festivities.