the proper parameters.” Then she waved a hand. “Are these last few bags yours?”
He swallowed his response and accepted her change of subject. “That brown duffel is mine and the trunk contains my tools. The smaller trunk belongs to Miss Fredrick.” He furrowed his brow thoughtfully. “It seems pointless to cart the heavy tool trunk up two flights of stairs, especially since I’ll need most of the tools down here if I’m going to do some work on your place while I’m here. Is there somewhere down here where I could store it?”
She hesitated a long moment—so long that he thought about withdrawing his request.
But then she drew her shoulders back and nodded. “Of course. Follow me.”
He couldn’t quite pinpoint what it was, but something in her demeanor made him wonder if there was more going through her mind than simply finding him some storage space.
Without a word, she led him down the hall and around a corner. They went down another shorter hallway until she finally stopped in front of a closed door. Taking a deep breath, she threw the door open and indicated he should precede her inside.
He stepped into a darkened room that, from the musty smell, hadn’t seen use in some time. It had a definite masculine feel to it and was dominated by a massive desk.
She crossed the room and pulled open the curtains, letting in some much-needed light. It was only then that he noticed that the only piece of furniture in the room was that desk, which he could now see was finely crafted and graced with some fine parquetry work.
The walls were bare, although there were indications that several large paintings had hung in here at one time. The built-in bookcases that flanked the fireplace were also empty. And there was a thin layer of dust over everything. But the paneling and richly carved woodwork spoke of bygone elegance.
“This was my husband’s study,” she said, “but as you can see, it is no longer in use.” She folded her hands lightly in front of her, and he thought he detected a slight tremble, though it might have been only his imagination. “You may store your things in here for as long as you are in residence.”
It seemed a bit grand to be used as a storage room, but it wasn’t his place to question her choice. “Thank you. I’ll get one of the boys to help me carry the trunk in here later.” He could also store Miss Fredrick’s things here.
She looked around. “I apologize for the state you find it in.”
Other than a bit of a musty feel, he didn’t see anything that required an apology. “No need. And I certainly don’t expect you to go to any trouble on my account.”
She nodded and continued to stare at the room as if picturing it differently. Was she remembering her husband seated in here? Did she still mourn him? The temptation to move to her side to comfort her was strong. He’d actually taken a step forward when she suddenly straightened.
“If that is all,” she said, “I have a few matters to attend to.”
Not sure if he was more relieved or bothered that she’d unknowingly forestalled his impulse, he gave a short bow. “Of course. I’ll get the last of the baggage cleared from your entryway.” As they shut the door behind them, he added. “I’ll encourage the children to either nap or entertain themselves quietly in their rooms for the next hour so you shouldn’t be interrupted by any of them.”
She gave another of her regal nods and they retraced their steps in silence. When they arrived back at the foot of the stairway she excused herself and headed into the parlor. Was she still thinking of her deceased husband?
Simon watched her go—elegant posture, graceful movements, unhurried pace. He should have told Molly that yes indeed, a queen did live in this palace-of-a-home.
But he had the feeling that Eileen Pierce was a very sad and lonely ruler of her faltering domain. The question was, did she realize it, and if so, did she want to change things?
Eileen sat in the parlor, working on a bit of embroidery. Stepping into Thomas’s study had conjured up memories not only of her husband but also of all her past sins. How could she have been so blissfully blind to what she’d been doing to him, of how much her extravagances had cost him, not just in money, but in his integrity and sense of honor? He had paid with his life. Her justly deserved penance was to have been brought low.
The house had grown quiet at last—there’d been no sounds from upstairs for the past ten minutes and even Mr. Tucker and Dovie had disappeared into their own rooms.
So far, things appeared to be working out moderately well. It had been hectic for a while but the children had responded appropriately to her authority. Now that she’d set the proper tone, perhaps the worst was behind them. As long as Dovie and Mr. Tucker took most of the responsibility for actually dealing with the children, and she was left to just play hostess, she was certain they could get through these next few days just fine.
She stilled. What was that noise? Had Mr. Tucker decided to come back down? This unexpected zing of anticipation she felt whenever he was near, or she even believed he was approaching, was new to her. And it was affecting her ability to maintain her impassive facade.
Then she heard the sound again and she realized it had to be one of the children. Ignoring the little stab of disappointment, she set her sewing aside. She couldn’t have the children roaming around her home unattended. Then again, what if the child needed something? Would she be up to handling whatever it was on her own?
But she was the lady of the house and she had responsibilities to her guests. Rising, Eileen moved into the hall and stopped when she saw the youngest child—Molly, was it?—coming down the stairs. The little girl was dragging her doll forlornly behind her and had her right hand on the banister.
As soon as she saw Eileen, she stilled.
Eileen stared at her uncertainly. “Shouldn’t you be taking a nap?” she asked.
Molly pulled her doll forward and hugged it tightly. “Gee-Gee always rocks me before I go to sleep.”
Why did the child think it important to tell her this?
“But Gee-Gee is sick,” the little girl added in a mournful tone.
Eileen felt her heart soften. “That’s right. And I’m certain, when she gets better, Gee-Gee will be happy to rock you again.”
The little girl studied her with disconcerting intensity. “Will you rock me?”
Eileen was both touched and thrown off-kilter by the child’s request. What did she know about such motherly activities? But something inside her ached to try. Then common sense reasserted itself. “I’m sorry, but I don’t have a rocking chair,” she told the child. “Why don’t you just go on back up to your room and lie down. I’m sure—”
“I want to be rocked.” The little girl’s mouth was now set in a stubborn line.
Eileen looked around. Where were Dovie and Mr. Tucker? They were so much better equipped than she to handle an obstinate child. “I told you, I don’t have a rocking chair. But—”
“I want
