“Ja.” The plump woman turned, lifted the small pile of filthy garments off the floor and plunged them into the tub of Ben’s bathwater.
James’s frown deepened to a scowl. Mary gave him another pinch. “Shall we go into the parlor and chat while Ivy prepares our dinner, James?”
His gaze fastened on hers. “That is an excellent suggestion.”
This time he yielded to her pressure against his arm and stepped back. She sailed past him, hurried to the small parlor and turned to face him. The scowl was still on his face.
“All right, Mary. Why is our cook’s son wearing one of my shirts?”
“Our cook’s son?” She laughed and relaxed into one of the Windsor chairs. “Ben is not Ivy’s son, James. He is a boy from the streets who carried my basket home from the market. And as for your shirt…what else had I to dress him in while his clothes are being laundered? I could hardly give him one of my gowns.”
“An unknown, dirty boy from the streets is wear—”
“Hush, James! He will hear you.” Mary surged to her feet, then closed the parlor door and whirled to face him. “And Ben is not dirty. I had him bathe as soon as we fed him and he agreed to stay awhile—Ivy even scrubbed his hair clean.” She glared up at him. “And shame on you for your lack of compassion! What—”
“Whoa! Hold on.” James held his hand up palm forward. “Before you castigate me for my attitude, I think you should at least tell me what is going on. How that boy got into our house and—”
“I have told you, James.”
“No, you have not. You told me that he carried your basket home.” He frowned at her. “I cannot believe the grocer would have a boy that dirty and unkempt working for—”
“James!” Mary launched herself through the intervening space into his arms. “James, you are a genius! What a wonderful idea.”
She planted a kiss on his cheek and spun out of his grasp. “I have been trying to think of what to do to help Ben. He is such a proud young boy, and you—” She stopped, frowned. “Of course, Mr. Simpson will not care for your idea. At least, not at first.” She paced the short distance across the room, turned and headed back. “But Mrs. Simpson…Yes, I am almost certain she—”
He reached out and caught her by the shoulders. “Mary, what you are talking about? What idea? And who are Mr. and Mrs. Simpson? What have they to do with this boy from the streets? And what has he to do with us?”
“Nothing. And everything.” She locked her gaze with his. “Ben is an orphan, James. And half-starved. Would you have let him be arrested and taken to jail for stealing bread to eat?”
Her words were soft, but challenging. James released his grip on her shoulders and straightened.
“You ask that question of me, Mary? You know I would not.”
She placed her hand on his arm. “I do know, James. And I meant no offense. I asked only so you would place yourself in my position.” She gave him a wry smile. “Neither one of us would be able to face Aunt Laina again if we allowed such a thing to happen in our presence.”
He nodded, and his lips curved in a smile that matched her own. “True. Nor Mother and Father, either.” His smile faded. “But you still have not told me how you met Ben. Or—”
“Or what?”
He shook his head. “My questions will wait until after I hear your story.” He draped his arm around her shoulders, then led her to the settee and sat down beside her. “I am all ‘at sea.’ Begin.”
“Yes, of course.” She tucked a wayward strand of hair in the loose knot on the crown of her head and looked over at him. “You know I had marketing to do this morning—food stores and such?”
He nodded, then grinned at her. “It will take some time for me to get used to the idea of you doing household tasks, but…yes, we discussed that last night, Miss Housekeeper.” His grin widened.
She gave him her “big sister” look. “If you wish to hear the story, James, be serious!”
He tamed his grin to a smile and dipped his head in agreement. “I shall be.”
“Very well, then.” She angled her body toward him. “I was nervous about going to the levee alone—because of the Indians and mountain men—so I decided to go to your office and ask you to accompany me.”
His levity fell away. He frowned. “Goodwin did not tell me that you came to see me.”
“Because I did not.” The memory of Captain Benton’s grinning face flashed. Warmth crept across her cheekbones.
James stared.
Bother! Mary lifted her chin and gave him a look that dared him to comment about her blush.
He passed on the challenge. “Go on.”
“At the front door, I chanced upon Captain Benton, who had called and found you busy in a meeting with some other gentlemen.” She looked down at her hands. “He inquired as to my dismay at your unavailability and, when I explained, offered to accompany me to the grocer’s.” In spite of her effort, there was a tinge of defensiveness in her voice. She looked up.
James grinned. “So the captain is the cause of that heightened color in your cheeks. I shall have to remember to thank him for his kindness to you when next I see him.”
She gave a little huff. “Stop teasing, James! It was duty, not kindness that prompted the captain’s actions. Now…as I was saying. The captain and I were walking along Front Street when Ben came running toward us, with the grocer giving chase. He caught the boy and told Captain Benton to throw him in jail with the rest of the thieves.” She paused, taking a breath.
“And you intervened?”
“Well, of course I did! It was obvious the boy was half-starved and frightened out of his wits. I thought surely the captain would show mercy, but when I protested the arrest, he said the boy was guilty of theft and he had no choice but to take him to jail.” She jutted her chin into the air. “So I told him I would pay for the roll, struck a bargain with Ben to carry my basket and informed Captain Benton I had no further need of his services!”
She expelled her breath in another huff, then gave him a smile of pure satisfaction. “And that is how I met Ben and enticed him to come home with me. I suspected from his condition he was an orphan. On the way home I managed to get him to talk about his past.” She sprang to her feet.
James rose. “And did you find out about his parents? Is he an orphan?”
“Yes. Ben’s mother died two years ago. And last fall his father sold their farm and made plans to come west in the company of some friends. They started their journey this spring. Ben’s father was killed fighting river pirates on their way down the Ohio.”
“Poor Ben!”
“Yes. Poor Ben. The friends brought him downriver with them to St. Louis, took his father’s possessions as payment, then told
