Whirlwind by Cathy Marie Hake Page B

all.”
    She set down the spoon and lifted the glass of milk, murmuring, “Both hands.”
    “All’s well, then. The nursery and parlor are of a size to permit him room to play. Mr. Tibbs will keep informed as to my whereabouts. If my son needs me, send the steward.”
    “Yes, sir. Fresh air and a daily stroll do wonders for a child’s health and spirit. With your permission, I’d like to bundle your son in his coat and take him out.”
    “Do.” And I’ll maneuver so I can be along the way and spend more time with my son.
    By tea time, Daniel couldn’t stay away any longer. Knowing Tibbs would be picking up the tray, Daniel stopped by the cabin to check on how Arthur fared.
    “There you are,” a soft, feminine voice soothed from the nursery.
    “Buddy.” Arthur’s sigh carried with it utter contentment.
    “You have a nice nap. Yes, let’s cover up Buddy, too. Sleepy-bye.” Miss Fairweather backed out of the nursery and pulled the door shut. Sometime between breakfast and now, she’d changed into a black skirt, plain white blouse, and a blindingly white apron.
    “How is my son faring?”
    “He’s a delight.” She pulled a face. “Most of the time, anyway. I took his ball away. It’s so big and hard, I’m afraid he’ll break something with it. I’ll see if I can find enough yarn to knit up something softer for him to toss about.”
    “What about a pair of socks?” Her cheeks went red, and he immediately tacked on, “I’ve several pair, so I wouldn’t miss them.” He paced to his cabin, pulled out a pair of socks, and crushed them into a tight ball. Black. All of his socks were black . . . as were his ties. Such paltry symbols of mourning.
    He and Henrietta had had a sound marriage. Pleasant, even—except for her mother’s infernal meddling. Her mother’s overbearing manner was what first captured Daniel’s attention. While eating at a restaurant, he’d overheard Mrs. Renfroe at the next table. She spent the entire meal instructing Henrietta as if she were a small, wayward child, demanding she assert herself and insist upon playing the church organ. Though he didn’t want to eavesdrop, it would have been impossible to ignore the litany of her daughter’s faults Mrs. Renfroe listed. Among the worst, though, was that she’d reached the age of three and twenty without receiving a single offer of marriage. That pronouncement came just as the waiter served cake to them—a confection decorated with delicate pink icing roses.
    No one deserved to be demeaned—and being humiliated while receiving one’s birthday cake seemed so very wrong. As he rose from his table, Daniel intentionally stepped on the hem of Henrietta’s gown. He’d not only apologized, but insisted upon making restitution for the damage by sweeping Henrietta to the local modiste for a new gown. While there, Daniel asked if Henrietta might recommend a church since he was traveling and unfamiliar with her town.
    Three months later, Daniel and Henrietta exchanged their vows at that very church. Only once did she ever hint that her life before him had been difficult. She’d said Jesus was her Savior, but Daniel was her knight in shining armor. Daniel knew better. Too wrapped up in business to notice the little things, he’d missed the signs—or so Mother Renfroe later accused. Had she been the only one to say so, he might have chalked it up to her bitter tongue, but Nanny Jenkin also confirmed that Henrietta had been struggling with dizziness during that second pregnancy. Henrietta hadn’t wanted to trouble him, so she’d not complained and tried to get by without his assistance as he put his business before his family. In the end, he’d not rescued Henrietta; his neglect had been the death of her.
    The suite lay silent as Daniel let himself in. A single kerosene lamp swung from a ceiling hook over the parlor table. Some of the more modern vessels he’d sailed in had boasted electrical lighting, but the Opportunity counted