Chapter 4

Why couldn’t she be beautiful like Audrey? Why did her features have to be so small and unremarkable, her straight hair such a muddy shade of brown? Not blessed with effortless curls like Audrey’s, her tresses hung to her waist like a sheet. Leaving no practical way to style it, save in a knot at the nape of her neck.

She jammed in pins, smoothed her fingers over the chignon, then hurried from her room. No use looking in the mirror again. She’d only dislike what she saw.

Morning light streamed through the parlor windows. Grace stifled a yawn. She’d scarcely slept last night, overwrought by her change in surroundings and the nearness of the man in the next room. She opened the kitchen door. Deserted save for a table, two chairs, a stove, icebox, and dishpan. Where was Dr. McNair?

No matter. She smoothed the front of her apron. She’d simply have breakfast waiting for him. She opened the icebox and peered inside. A jug of milk, a bowl of eggs, and a rasher of bacon. Plus, the leftover stew he’d spoken of.

Either he ate breakfast food at every meal, or this man just plain starved. Perhaps there’d be some flour in one of the cupboards. She opened one and found it empty. The other held a set of china dishes and a few pots and pans. Thankfully, the last contained a bag of flour, some sugar, and salt. Perfect. Pancakes and eggs for breakfast.

Standing on her tiptoes, she managed to grab the jars of flour and sugar and set them on the counter then added the bowl of eggs and jug of milk. Now for mixing it all together. She’d seen Mrs. Ackerman make pancakes hundreds of times, surely doing it oneself couldn’t be that difficult. Could it?

She took down a bowl and scooped a couple handfuls of flour inside. There. Looked like enough. Now what? Oh, yes, three eggs ought to do it. She cracked each into the bowl and chucked the shells in the dishpan. One pinch of salt or two? Hmm. Perhaps she’d better use just one. Milk? She unscrewed the lid and dumped some in. A bit of sugar and she’d be all done. Cooking was easy. She’d be a gourmet in no time.

Wherever Dr. McNair was, he’d at least lit the stove. She placed the frying pan on it and poured in some of the batter. Now she could work on the eggs. And coffee. Men liked coffee.

How many eggs should she cook? Four perhaps. That made two for each of them. She cracked them into a pan and added the shells to her pile in the dishpan. Now coffee. But how in the world did one go about making that?

Grace found a box marked coffee in one of the cupboards and scooped a couple handfuls of the beans into the pot along with a cup of water. Then she placed the kettle on the back of the stove. She could set the table, and everything would be ready the moment Dr. McNair came inside.

Something smelled like … Oh, no! The pancakes. She grabbed a spoon and scraped them onto a plate. Not golden like Mrs. Ackerman’s, but burnt and black. Her nose crinkled. Doubtful even a dog would eat these.

With a sigh she added more batter to the pan. This time she’d be sure to watch them. She checked the eggs. Cooking nicely, thank goodness. Now she could set the table.

She carefully placed two plates on the table and added silverware and cups. If only he had a tablecloth somewhere. Then she could make it truly elegant.

A hissing sound emitted from the stove. She turned. A scream caught in her throat. The coffee bubbled over, overflowing its pot. Grace ran to the stove and grabbed it. As hot metal burned her skin, the kettle crashed to the floor. Water and coffee beans doused the kitchen and soaked her skirts. She snatched a towel and knelt to wipe up the mess.

Lord, whatever happens, I beg You not to let Dr. McNair come in just now.

Once the floor had been sufficiently dried, she returned to the stove and checked the eggs. Burned, along with the pancakes. She dumped the pots into the dishpan and sank into a chair, covering her face with her hands. Tears stung her eyes, and she let them fall. She wanted so much for breakfast to be a success, but instead flopped every last bit of it. Why hadn’t she ever asked Mrs. Ackerman for cooking lessons? Because she’d been too busy working at the store, that’s why. She’d never had a moment to spare, what with Father always asking her to balance the books or wait on customers.

Well, there was plenty of time now. She straightened her shoulders and dried her eyes.

Action was far preferable to crying. She’d learn how to cook, if it was the last thing she did.

Shadows darkened the house by the time Raymond arrived home. Ten house calls in one day and over twenty miles of travel. Thank goodness for dependable King. Without his faithful horse, these calls would be impossible.

Softly, he climbed the stairs and opened the door. His stomach growled at the thought of something to eat. His hastily packed sandwich and apple hadn’t been nearly enough. Sure and certain, he’d have a decent meal. Now he had a wife. One who, no doubt, had dinner waiting on the stove.

He opened the kitchen door and squinted in the darkness. Grace sat at the table, her head pillowed on her arms. He moved closer. Beside her sat an untouched plate of food. Stone cold.

He studied her in the twilight. Her hair had escaped its usual prim pinnings and cascaded over her shoulders and down her back. Soft, even breaths rose and fell from her chest.

Should he wake her? The poor thing looked exhausted. Best to let her sleep. Gently, he lifted her from the seat and carried her from the room. She sighed softly, nestling against his chest. Gossamer in his arms. The scent of lemons filled his senses. Wispy, delicate, like the young woman herself.

He kicked open the door and placed her gently on the bed. She barely stirred. For a long moment he stood over her, his heart twisting. In slumber, her features looked even younger, more innocent. She’d been entrusted to his care, and he would take care of her. As a gentleman, he could do no less.

Silently, he left the room and returned to the kitchen, lit a lamp, and surveyed the plate of food. Potatoes, gravy congealing in a lump. Some kind of meat, chicken perhaps. He picked up the biscuit and bit into it, wincing as he nearly broke a tooth.

Obviously cooking wasn’t among his wife’s finer skills. But how could it be? From what Audrey had told him, their mother died when the girls were but children. Mrs. Ackerman had consequently been hired to care for the house and do the cooking. Audrey also said that from the day Grace had graduated from school, she’d spent six days a week at the store, from the time the sun went up, to day’s end. No doubt it was cheaper for Mr. Whittaker to make use of his child than hire another employee. Audrey, on the other hand, had rarely worked at Whittaker Dry Goods. In fact, now that he thought of it, she never worked at all. Whenever he came to call, he’d always found her practicing the piano, reading a book, or writing a letter. Thus, no doubt, a great deal of housework also fell upon Grace.

He hadn’t given it very much thought at the time, he was so blinded by Audrey’s beauty. Perhaps too blinded.

Tomorrow he wouldn’t leave before Grace awoke. They’d have breakfast together, share conversation. He’d do his best to become acquainted with this wife of his, and perhaps she’d stop being so timid.

It would at least be a start.