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“Am I going to get doused with something every time I see you, Miss Martin?”
Annie cringed. “I didn’t mean to frighten you.”
“I wasn’t frightened,” he insisted, swiping at his chin with his shirtsleeve. “What the devil are you doing down here?”
Remembering the book, Annie looped her arm behind her, hiding it.
“Well? I asked you a question,” Josh said, setting the glass aside and frowning at her.
Instead of cowering, apologizing and begging for her job, as she probably should have, Annie felt her spine stiffen. “Mr. Ingalls, in the future I’ll thank you not to speak to me in that manner.”
His hand stilled on his shirt. But the outrage she’d seen budding in his expression melted as his gaze dipped, taking in her trousers and shirt, her braid hanging over her shoulder.
Annie’s skin burned, even through the fabric of her clothing, as his gaze raked her in a long, hot sweep. Her heart banged in her chest. Heat tingled in her cheeks.
Annie wished desperately she could think of something to say, wished her feet would move so she could run out of the room. But she could only stand there gazing at Josh, who seemed equally paralyzed.
Finally he pulled his gaze from her and looked around the room, wall to ceiling, floor to desk.
Annie lifted her hand to his face. “You have a little drop of milk on your…”
With her thumb, she wiped the droplet from his jaw. But, somehow, she couldn’t pull away. His flesh was hot, his beard rough. Heat spread up her hand, through her arm, warming her.
Their gazes met and held for an instant before Josh stepped back. “This is my private study,” he said softly. “No one comes in here without good reason.”
His words jarred Annie, reminding her why she’d come here in the first place. She knew she looked guilty because Josh’s eyes narrowed.
“What’s that behind you?” he asked, leaning sideways to see.
Caught dead to rights, she couldn’t claim, “nothing,” as her instincts screaming at her to do.
Annie pulled the book from behind her. Josh’s frown deepened.
“I was reading it, of course,” she told him.
He raised one eyebrow. “Of course.”
“And I wanted to look up a word in your dictionary,” Annie said, waving vaguely in the direction of the bookshelves.
His frown deepened as if he were judging whether or not her claim was believable. Finally, he stepped around her and went to his desk.
“The children are in bed,” Annie said. “Do you want to come up and tell them good-night?”
“No,” Josh said. He shuffled through the stacks of papers on his desk, not looking at her.
“You don’t tuck your children into bed at night?” Annie asked. “Why not?”
He looked up at her. “Because, Miss Martin, that is your job.”
Annie pondered his response while he continued to sort through his papers. “You don’t eat supper with them, or see them at bedtime. Why is that, Mr. Ingalls?”
Josh stopped fumbling with the papers and looked at her as if he didn’t understand why she’d ask such an odd thing. “Because that’s the way it’s done,” he explained simply. He turned back to his papers. “Good night, Miss Martin.”
He was dismissing her. Sending her on her way, telling her politely to mind her own business, reminding her of her place in his household. Annie wouldn’t let it go.
“But don’t you miss them?” she asked, taking a step closer.
Josh’s gaze came up quickly and landed on her with a force than shook her. Yet his expression wasn’t one of anger or irritation at her continued prying. Something else shone in his face.
Maybe it wasn’t his children he missed, Annie realized. Maybe it was his wife.
A knot jerked in Annie’s stomach. She should have kept her mouth shut. Should have minded her own business. Kept to her place.
He picked up a single sheet of paper, forcing his attention on it. “Good night, Miss Martin.”
Still Annie didn’t want to leave. She wanted to stay, to do something to make him feel better. The urge overwhelmed her.
But what could she possibly say?
“Good night,” she mumbled. At the door she looked back and saw Josh hunched over his desk; from the expression on his face she doubted he saw a single word written on the papers there.
As she climbed the stairs, Annie reminded herself that Josh’s feelings for his dead wife were none of her business. Yet, for some reason, her heart ached a little thinking he still grieved for her after all these months.
But what about his feelings for his children? Weren’t they her business?
Not if she wanted to keep her job.
At the top of the stairs, Annie peeked into the children’s room again. Three little bulges under the covers slept soundly. She checked on the baby, as well, and found Hannah sleeping.
In her room, Annie undressed, washed at the basin, and slipped into her pink nightgown. The cotton fabric seemed coarse, not nearly fancy enough for the room she’d been given. She sat in front of the mirror, unraveled her braid and combed out her hair.
As she climbed into bed, footsteps sounded in the hallway. Annie froze, pulling the quilt over her. Josh. The heavy, measured steps could only be his.
For an instant, Annie thought he stopped outside her door. She shook her head, sure it was her imagination. The footsteps faded and she heard a door down the hallway close softly.
With a sigh she leaned back on her pillows, relaxing on the feather mattress. The book on child rearing rested on her bedside table, and Annie considered reading it. Surely she’d need all the help she could get taming the Ingalls brood.
For her first day as nanny, things hadn’t gone so well, Annie was forced to admit. The children had rebelled at the sight of her. A food fight had erupted. She’d forgotten the book her employer had given her, invaded his private sanctum and splashed milk on him—not once but twice.
Annie settled deeper against the pillow, sure tomorrow would be a better day. After all, they were only children.
And tomorrow she’d do a better job of minding her own business. Somehow.
Chapter Six
Dressing like a girl took forever.
Annie lamented her decision as she closed the last fastener on her dress and turned to the mirror.
The green gown—her second favorite—looked nice, she decided, even if climbing into hoops, corset and petticoats took three times as long as dressing in her trousers. She’d coiled her hair atop her head, adding to the ordeal.
But she looked like a nanny, or at least what she guessed a nanny should look like. Mrs. Flanders certainly couldn’t peer down her nose at her when she got downstairs this morning.
Annie heard a voice in the room next door and found Georgia tending to little Hannah.
“Slept all night, did she?” Georgia asked as Annie walked in.
“Not a peep out of her.”
Georgia lifted Hannah into her arms; the baby yawned and stretched her chubby arms.
“I brought up her bottle for you,” Georgia said, nodding toward the table beside the rocker. “Mrs. Royce gets it ready first thing.”
“I’ll feed Hannah, then wake the other children,” Annie said. It seemed a reasonable, organized way to start her day, even if she hadn’t read it in a book.
Georgia shook her head. “They’re not in their room. I was just there.”
Annie was mildly surprised. “Oh. Well, then they’re having their breakfast already.”
Georgia uttered a short laugh. “I was just down there, and there’s not hide nor hair of those children anywhere in this house.”
Mild surprise edged toward panic. Her first full day as nanny and Annie didn’t even know where the children were.
She resisted the urge to utter a curse. “Could you start feeding Hannah while I check on the others? I don’t want to get you into trouble with Mrs. Flanders, but if you could just—”
“Oh, never mind about that Mrs. Flanders.” Georgia gave the baby a hug. “Me and little Miss Hannah know a few places to hide out where that cranky ol’ woman won’t never find us.”
“Thank you, Georgia. Thanks so much.” Annie hiked up her dress and rattled down the stairway.
“Miss Martin!”
Annie jerked to a stop in the downstairs hallway as Mrs. Flanders barked her name. Hands folded in front of her, the older woman stood in the center of the parlor, glaring at her.
Annie’s first instinct was to tell Mrs. Flanders she had no time for her, and to hurry on about her business. But Mrs. Flanders ran the house. Being rude to her wouldn’t improve her employment longevity.
“Yes?” Annie asked politely, forcing a smile, feigning interest.
“I want to make it clear to you, Miss Martin, that you are to take charge of the children. Georgia is no longer available to assist with them in any way.”
Annie pressed her lips together, sure Mrs. Flanders couldn’t possibly know that Georgia was taking care of the baby at this very moment.
“A proper nanny would know that,” Mrs. Flanders told her, indicating by her tone that Annie was just the opposite. Her lips turned down even more sharply. “I understand a girl of your…background…isn’t accustomed to living in a fine home such as this.”
Annie’s cheeks flushed in the face of yet another insult.
“Mrs. Ingalls devoted countless hours to decorating her home.” Mrs. Flanders waved her hand about the elegantly furnished parlor. “Do you recognize the workmanship of that cabinet, Miss Martin?”
Annie reined in her impatience to find the children, and eyed the mahogany cabinet with its slender tapering legs, carved feathers and oval, brass drawer handles. “Well…”
“Hepplewhite, the renowned cabinetmaker in London. Many of the tables in this house are Sheraton’s, also from London. The wallpaper? Imported from France. The finest crystal, china, silver and linens from Europe.” Mrs. Flanders drew herself up and looked pointedly at Annie’s dress. “Mrs. Ingalls’s clothing was made for her by the finest dressmakers in the East and abroad.”
Annie kept her chin up, fighting the instinct to explain her circumstances and shield her simple dress with her hands. Fighting, too, the instinct she hadn’t experienced since she was ten years old—to make a fist and pop Mrs. Flanders in her arrogant nose.
Instead, she plastered on the closest thing to a smile she could manage. “I’m sure Mrs. Ingalls had exquisite taste. Now, if you’ll excuse me?”
“One more thing, Miss Martin. The children aren’t to play in the house. You are to confine them to their room upstairs.”
Annie frowned. “But this is their home.”
Mrs. Flanders raised a haughty brow. “That’s the way it’s done, Miss Martin.”
“I understand,” Annie said, though really, she didn’t.
She left, forbidding herself to hurry away, but unable to shake off the sting of Mrs. Flanders’s words. Had she heard the gossip about Annie’s family? Or did the older woman simply not like her?
Either way, Annie intended to show Mrs. Flanders—and everyone else in the Ingalls household—that she was, indeed, worthy of the job entrusted to her.
In the cookhouse, Mrs. Royce and her helpers were busy at the worktables. Steam rose from boiling pots on the cookstove.
There was no sign of the three little Ingalls.
“Did the children have their breakfast already?” Annie asked, trying to sound casual.
The three cooks all looked at each other and rolled their eyes.
“Down early, they were, before I got up,” Mrs. Royce muttered. “Fixed themselves a meal of jam and cookies, and a few other things, from the looks of the place.”
A vision of the mess the cooks must have walked in on this morning sprang into Annie’s mind. She threaded her fingers together. “Do you know where they went?”
“I’ve no clue,” Mrs. Royce said, and seemed relieved that she didn’t.
“Well, thank you,” Annie said, trying to smile.
It was only her first full day on the job and not only had she lost the children, she discovered they’d invaded the cookhouse and left it in a shambles.
A shudder passed through Annie. What else might the children be up to at this very moment?
Annie hurried out the back door. Shading her eyes against the morning sun, she gazed at the barns and outbuildings, the meadows and fields stretching into the distance. She circled the house twice. No sign of the children.
Sighing, she considered the probability that they would come back home once they got hungry. Sooner or later, her charges would reappear. She could simply wait them out.
Annie wasn’t willing to do that.
Muttering under her breath, she trudged back into the house and up the stairs. Mrs. Flanders might look down her nose at her. The cooks might wonder about her competence. Josh Ingalls could resent her nosy questions.
But those children—those three little children—were not going to get the best of her.
“What the…?”
