son, and the moment he realized it, his charming nature toward her would vanish. The bright admiration would dim from his eyes. She may as well brace herself for it.
She broke from his touch and carried the tray straight to the table beside Mary’s rocking chair. The china clattered; the tea sloshed. As hired help, she tried not to listen to the con-
versation between parents and son. She lifted the teapot with wooden fingers and poured.
“…what luck Clara came instead,” Mary was saying.
Her face heated. She was not ashamed to work as a maid for her living; it was a far better job than her last one, which for all the long hours she worked barely paid the rent. Stubborn pride held her up as she set down the pot and carried the full cup, without sweetener as ordered, to the older Mr. Brooks, who gazed over the top of his newspaper, listening to the story.
“Come all the way from Illinois, did you?” he asked, peering at her through his reading spectacles. He was a man who worked hard for his living with callused hands, a burly frame and a weathered face.
“Yes, sir,” she murmured, trying not to listen to Mary’s final explanation. She returned to her tray and stirred two sugars into the woman’s tea.
“So that’s how Miss Woodrow has come to work for us.” As quietly as those words were spoken, they thundered like dynamite in Clara’s mind. “She will be a fine addition. You mind your manners, Joseph. We haven’t had a young lady on staff for quite some time.”
“Yes, of course, Ma.” His baritone sounded strained and hollow.
Was that his disappointment she felt, or simply her own? And why was she disappointed? She did not come here looking for a charming man to romance her. She served Mrs. Brooks her tea, careful to keep her back to the man standing near. Was it her imagination or could she feel his gaze scorching her?
It’s your imagination, Clara. It has to be. Now that he knew who she was, he would not be trying to charm her. She stirred honey into the final cup, per Mary’s orders, hurting strangely. She was not interested in a courtship. Love had not treated her well. It was certainly not a consideration here. So, why was her heart aching? Why couldn’t she keep her head down and her attention fixed on the cup and saucer she served him, instead of meeting his gaze?
Because a tiny, forgotten part of her wanted the fairy tale. Deep down, there lived a kernel of hope that there might be a true love meant only for her, a man who could see something special in the plain girl she was.
That man could never be Joseph, she reasoned. Surely, for now all he saw was a serving girl.
That’s what she was, and she was proud of it. She grasped the empty tray, curtsied and padded out of the room. Glad for this job, she closed her ears to the rising conversation behind her. Sure, she liked Joseph. He was a likable man. But she had to be practical. She could not believe in impossible and foolish fairy tales.
She gladly left the room and bustled into the kitchen, ready to help with the rest of the meal preparations. It wasn’t disappointment eking into her like frost in the night. She wouldn’t let it be.
Joseph couldn’t get over his shock. As he blew on his tea to cool it, his mother’s words taunted him. “After all the letters I wrote to her mother, you’d think the woman would have shown more courtesy. That poor girl, with a mother like that! I’m sure Clara will suit us just fine.”
So that’s what all the writing and mailing of letters was about. A slight wind could blow him over. Stunned, he retreated to the sofa and settled on a cushion, stretched out his feet and took a swallow of hot tea.
“Seems like a girl in need,” Pa said as he set down his paper with a crinkle. “I noticed three patches on her dress, and I was hardly looking.”
“That’s why I hired her on the spot, the poor dear. I didn’t even check her references.” Ma took up her embroidery hoop from her lap and began to stitch. “Can you believe she came the entire way by herself? And just eighteen years old.”
“A shame she has no one to look out for her.” Pa shook his head from side to side. “You did right in hiring her. She has an honest look. She’ll do fine.”
“I think so, too. She makes an excellent pot of tea.” Ma squinted at her needlework, fussing with thread and needle before fastening her all-seeing gaze on him. “You will behave yourself, Joseph? Don’t think I didn’t notice you speaking alone with her.”
“I will be nothing but a gentleman.” His vow was a sincere one, but he wasn’t sure if he had masked the disappointment weighing on him. Gosh, but he had been sure Clara had come to marry him. Well, the joke was on him. He had leaped to the wrong conclusions—him, and no one else.
“I hope you didn’t leave my package in the barn again.” Ma glanced up at him, censure still on her face, but a smile, too. “I have need of the embroidery thread I ordered.”
His ma was a softy. Which was good luck for him. “I’ll go fetch it from the kitchen. I—”
“No need.” Clara’s melodic voice surprised him. She padded nearly soundlessly into the room and set the small box on the table next to Ma’s chair. Her skirts swirled at her ankles as she turned neatly. “Your cook said supper is ready for the table.”
“Excellent. Thank you, Clara.” Ma’s needle dove through the fabric. “We’ll be right along. Joseph, go—”
He knew that his mother was speaking to him, but could he make his ears work? No. They had seemed to malfunction right along with his eyes. His every sense felt harnessed to Clara as she waltzed from the room. The rustle of her petticoats, the lamplight turning her hair to spun gold, the remembered feeling of her in his arms and protecting her from the brunt of the arctic winds. He knew her skin smelled like freshly budding roses.
“Joseph!” Ma’s admonishment was pure warning. “What did I say about that poor girl?”
“My thoughts were gentlemanly, Ma. Honest.” Gee, a guy couldn’t win. Was it his fault he was already sweet on her? He pushed off the sofa. “What did you want me to do?”
“Go fetch your brother. He’s in the library.”
“Figures.” When he was in the house, Gabriel was hardly ever anywhere else. Joseph strode from the room, just as his father muttered, “Five patches, Mary. That girl is in hard straits.”
Why hadn’t he noticed the patches? And why was it bothering him? He couldn’t accept that Clara wasn’t meant for him. The steely devotion in his heart was real. The lightness he felt from her smile was no fabrication. Instead of heading down the hall, he back-trailed and pushed open the kitchen door. The clatter of pots and the clink of dishes met him, along with a lot of steam as the cook poured the water off a kettle of boiling potatoes.
“Hurry, girl!” Mrs. O’Neill, the cook, screeched. “I’ll not get blamed if the potatoes are mealy!”
“Yes’m.” Clara was a flash of pink as she raced toward the basin with a bowl for the potatoes.
He let the door swing closed. He doubted she’d noticed him. Doubted she would appreciate an interruption. Pa was right. Judging by the look of things, she needed the work. He remembered how anxious she’d been when she’d asked about his mother and the letters of
