Plum Creek Bride. Lynna Banning
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Название: Plum Creek Bride
Автор: Lynna Banning
Издательство: HarperCollins
Жанр: Историческая литература
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“Yes, move the babe upstairs,” he said, clipping his words short. And as for you, Erika Scharf, stay out of my sight.
To be honest, he wanted nothing to do with Tess’s child, or the young woman she had engaged without telling him. Women, he had learned, were devious and dishonest. Never again, he resolved, would he allow himself to love one. No woman would ever again enchain his heart.
And no child, either.
Erika frowned as she inspected the nursery. The small, stifling room next to her own chamber smelled of dust and dried lavender and obviously had never been used. A stack of clean diapers filled the laceruffled bassinet; on top of the broad, waist-high chest on the opposite wall lay a folded blue knit shawl. A cobweb looped from the garment to one drawer pull.
A rocking chair stood next to the single window. Erika noticed the layer of dust between the dark walnut slats. It looked as if no one had ever sat in it.
She lifted the diapers off the striped ticking mattress and set them on top of the chest. God in heaven, the infant’s bed had not even been made up!
Erika cocked her head to one side. The untouched state of the room answered her questions about the odd situation she’d stepped into. From birth, the child had evidently been cared for by the housekeeperfed and tended to in the wicker cradle downstairs in the doctor’s study. Considering Mrs. Benbow’s spare, bent frame, her inability to climb the stairs and her obvious reticence about picking up the baby even when it wailed, Erika surmised the child had received attention only out of duty. Even the papa, Dr. Callender, seemed uninterested. Remote.
Had he delivered the infant and immediately relegated her to the care of his dour housekeeper as his wife lay dying? Poor man.
And the poor Liebchen! What a sad beginning for a child. No one to hold or comfort her, no warm mama’s body to nestle against, no breast to suckle. Erika knew instinctively what the child needed. Love.
And that silent, enigmatic man whose house this was planned to send his own child to Scotland? Erika would die first. The instant those tiny, perfect pink fingers had curled around her thumb, Erika’s heart had contracted. Now the child lay downstairs, looked after but not loved. It was not good enough.
She plucked the handerchief from her apron pocket and whisked it over the dusty chair and bureau top, shook out the shawl and folded the mound of diapers and laid them in an empty drawer. In the middle drawer she found a set of infant-sized sheets and a tiny pillowcase with embroidered pink and gold flowers twining around the edge. She made up the bassinet, laid a rose-edged crocheted baby blanket over the top sheet and opened the window to air the room. A warm, sweet-scented breeze washed over her perspiring face.
Erika pressed her forefinger against the smooth rocker back, setting it in motion. Forgive me if I not know everything, Mrs. Callender, but I learn quick. I will take good care of your beautiful baby girl.
She watched the chair tip slowly forward and then back on its long, curved runners, as if nodding in silent agreement.
Erika slipped the cambric sacque over the baby’s head and cradled the tiny form in the crook of her arm. In the single day since her arrival in Plum Creek, she had mastered not only changing diapers but dressing and feeding Marian Elizabeth Callender. Now, alone in the kitchen on Sunday morning while Mrs. Benbow attended church, Erika planned to bathe the child for the first time.
Grateful not to have the housekeeper’s sharp eyes assessing her every motion, she moved about the spotless, meticulously arranged pantry searching for a vessel to serve as the baby’s bathtub. The teakettle on the stove hissed as she scanned the cabinets and long, painted shelves for a basin of the appropriate size.
Skillets, cooking pots of various sizes, three sets of china. What riches! She gazed about her in awe. So many beautiful things! The blue-flowered plates she recognized from last night’s dinner, eaten in haste on the small kitchen table while Mrs. Benbow grudgingly rocked the baby in the wicker cradle.
Aside from her own bedroom upstairs, the wellkept kitchen with its ornate, nickel-trimmed iron stove and the wealth of utensils and china and glassware was her favorite room.
Ah, there! On the top shelf! Her gaze fell upon a large white china bowl with a matching cover. Just the right shape for a baby to sit in, and the cover so clever—to keep the water warm until bath time! Shifting the infant to her other arm, Erika reached over her head to retrieve the basin.
Zu hoch. Too high up, she amended in English. She must remember to speak the language of America! She would never become a citizen of this great country if she could not.
Undaunted, she settled the infant on a folded towel in the oblong porcelained iron sink and dragged a stool over to the shelf. She climbed onto the stool and with care lifted down the curious dish, cover and all. At the same instant the tall figure of Dr. Callender filled the doorway.
His white shirt was rumpled, his eyes red rimmed, as if he had not slept. The tumble of unruly coalblack curls over his forehead gave him an almost jaunty, boyish look. But his pale, strained face told her otherwise.
“Good day, Miss Scharf. I thought I would brew myself a cup of tea before Mrs. Benbow.” He turned somber gray eyes up at her, perched on the stool, and his brows rose. “.returns from her weekly religious indulgence,” he finished after a moment’s hesitation.
“Water is hot,” Erika said as she stepped off the stool. She set the china basin on the sideboard.
His gaze followed her, the expression on his face changing as he spied the infant. “What, may I ask, is the baby doing in the sink?”
“Oh, I bath baby now.” Erika gestured at the covered dish. “I find, how you say, bath-ing tub, on shelf. You use first hot water in kettle to make tea, then I wash baby.”
The eloquent, dark brows drew together. “You’re going to bathe my daughter in that?”
“Is what Mrs. Benbow uses, ja?”
“Certainly not. This, young woman—” he tapped a deliberate forefinger on the dish cover “—is a soup tureen. A wedding gift from my wife’s uncle in Savannah.”
“Ah. I see.”
Jonathan saw a sheepish smile curve the corners of her mouth.
“I make mistake.”
He watched her hand dive into her apron pocket and withdraw a small notebook and a chewed pencil stub.
“How you spell, please?”
He spelled out the words slowly as she scribbled on the pad. “Toor-een,” she pronounced. “For Suppe, ja?”
“For soup, yes. Not for bathing.”
“Ah.” The blue eyes sparkled with the joy of comprehension. “What for baby, then?”
Jonathan opened СКАЧАТЬ