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Chapter Twenty
Little Falls, Minnesota, November 1918
John Orton stared at Anna’s portrait, his grief nothing compared to his pulsing guilt. How could a physician let his own wife die?
“Papa?” Charlie entered the office, his heavy gaze lifting to John’s face.
John put the photo in his desk drawer, wanting to spare his son the reminder of his pain. “Yes?”
“The new governess has arrived—”
A young woman stepped over the threshold without an invitation, her blond hair in a mass of curls under a wide-brimmed hat. She glanced around the neat interior before she dropped her bag on the floor and proceeded to take off her gloves in quick succession. Her bright green eyes found John and a smile lit her pretty face. “Where shall I begin?”
John stood, grappling for a foothold of familiarity. This was not the sensible woman he had expected his mother to send from Chicago. Standing before him, in layers of lace, and a cloud of flowery perfume, was a woman far too attractive and impractical to raise his children.
“Are you—?”
“Marjorie Maren.” She grasped his limp fingers in her right hand and lifted her left hand above her head in a great flourish, her gloves flapping in the air. “A governess by day—and an actress by night.”
John glanced at Charlie, whose eyes grew wide with interest.
It would be impossible to replace Anna, but surely there was a more suitable governess to take care of his children—one with the same gentleness and competence Anna had demonstrated.
This lady would not do—would not do, at all.
“You must be Charles.” Miss Maren dropped John’s hand and turned to the ten-year-old boy. “My, but you look like your mother.”
“You knew my mama?” Charlie asked.
Miss Maren offered a kind smile, and dimples graced her cheeks. “Your grandmother showed me her picture.”
“You know my grandmother?” Charlie looked even more impressed with Miss Maren.
“I know your grandmother and your uncle Paul. They are my neighbors in Chicago.” Miss Maren removed the long hat pin from her hair, and slipped off her hat. Her curls looked like golden silk and for a fleeting second, John wondered how they could look so disheveled yet perfectly arranged. “Were my neighbors,” the young lady amended. “I don’t expect to return to Chicago—I’m going to California to become a film actress.”
“You’re going to be in the movies?” Charlie’s face filled with awe.
It was time for John to take control. He rounded the desk, finally finding his voice. “Miss Maren, I think there’s been a mistake.”
She turned her gaze on John, and he was startled again by her pretty face. If she wanted to be an actress, she would be a charming one—but what reasonable woman wanted to be an actress?
“A mistake?”
“I expected—” How could he tell her he had expected an older woman, who wasn’t quite so...fetching?
“You expected what?”
When she looked at him with those big green eyes, he couldn’t recall what it was he had expected—but certainly not her.
“Your room is connected to the night nursery, on the second floor, with Lilly and the baby,” Charlie said. “Petey and I sleep on the third floor, next to the day nursery.” He picked up Miss Maren’s bag. “You can follow me.”
“Charlie, would you please leave for a moment so I can speak with Miss Maren alone?” John usually appreciated his son’s hospitality—but at the moment he needed Charlie to put down the bag until he knew what he would do with the young woman.
Charlie was a perceptive boy and he studied John’s face now. His grip tightened around the handle of Miss Maren’s bag. “I’ll just bring this up to the day nursery.”
Miss Maren ran her hand over her blond curls and smiled at the boy. “Thank you, Charles.”
The boy’s cheeks filled with color and he dipped his head. “You can call me Charlie.”
John lifted his eyebrows. The boy rarely gave people permission to use his pet name—and never so soon.
Charlie left the room—with the bag in hand—and Miss Maren turned her charming smile on John. “He’s a lovely boy.”
“Would you please have a seat?”
She lowered herself into the leather chair facing John’s desk. Though she had just spent a few days on a train, she looked as fresh as a bed of flowers after a summer rainstorm. “I’m eager to meet the other children,” she said. “Your mother and brother spoke of them so often, I feel as if I already know each one. How old is Laura now? Six months old?”
“Yes—six months.” He dropped to his chair and tried to pull himself together. He was a physician and he prided himself on staying calm in every situation. Surely he could manage something like this. He would have to be direct and honest—two attributes he appreciated in business dealings. “Miss Maren, do you have any experience with children?”
She tucked a curl into her bun with a great deal of nonchalance. “I’m afraid not—but your mother said the children are so well behaved I won’t have any troubles.”
“My children are well behaved, but they are still children—and my mother is a bit biased.”
Miss Maren laughed.
If he had been in a different frame of mind, he would have enjoyed the sound. It had been absent from his home for far too long. Instead, he cleared his throat. “I had expected someone with experience—and maturity.”
She shrugged. “How do you gain experience if you aren’t given your first job?”
That was fair enough. “What types of skills do you have?”
She waved the question away with her hand. “Oh, this and that... Who has been caring for the children since your wife’s passing?”
“My wife’s mother and sister.”
“Do they live
