A Mistaken Match. Whitney BaileyЧитать онлайн книгу.
bucket with the ruined eggs. “This is why I didn’t want a pretty bride.”
Ann’s cheeks flushed crimson and she clenched her hands into fists. “You think an ugly girl will make you a better breakfast?”
“I need to eat, Ann. Uncle Mac needs to eat. The animals need to eat. The crops need to be planted and harvested. And you can’t even cook an egg.”
“I’m sorry I’m a disappointment to you, Mr. McCann, but why are you berating me? If I’m another man’s intended, you won’t be bothered with me much longer.”
James’s cheeks burned. “I shouldn’t have spoken to you that way. Forgive me.”
He escaped out the back door before he could say something else he regretted. Ann was right. It didn’t matter that, despite the disastrous breakfast, in a single morning she’d impressed him with much more than her beauty. She’d risen early to clean the entire kitchen by dawn, made an attempt at breakfast and stood stoically through the dressing of a burn that would likely make a grown man cry. None of that mattered. The agency intended her for another, and he had to keep reminding himself of that. Forget for an instant and he risked falling in love.
James had been gone half an hour, and Uncle Mac still hadn’t appeared. Did James still expect her to bring the older man his breakfast? She fried a second batch of eggs that, despite James’s lesson, looked only slightly better than her first. She fished out a large piece of eggshell with the tines of a fork and broke both yolks in the transfer to the plate. Ann exhaled loudly as the yellow liquid ran over the burned edges of white.
She scrounged a dented metal tray from the pantry, and arranged the tray with the plate of eggs, the coffeepot and a cup and saucer. After surveying the meager meal, she added the last of the bread heel she’d found under an oilcloth. On impulse, Ann poured a cup of coffee for herself and sipped. Wretched! She spit the bitter mess back into the cup and replaced the coffee with a mug of milk. Her ill-suited suitor was right. She was hopeless in the kitchen.
Upstairs, she hesitated at the bedroom door next to hers. Ann had years of experience serving, but her employers expected her to remain unseen. She cleaned rooms after the family vacated them, and if called to a room where her employers were present, she entered and exited as quickly as her legs and duties allowed. But that kind of detachment wouldn’t do here.
“Mr. McCann? This is Ann Cromwell. I have your breakfast.” Her knuckles softly rapped the paneled door. Was he even a McCann? Oh dear, she may have offended the man. Feet shuffled on the other side, but they didn’t move toward the door. Had his nephew even shared with him news of Ann’s arrival?
“Mr... Sir? Your nephew sent for me through the Transatlantic Agency. I’m to...to stay with both of you for a time.” How had the burden of explanation fallen on her shoulders?
Ann waited several long minutes, knocking louder and louder at regular intervals, but still no one approached the door. The sounds from the other side assured her Uncle Mac remained both alive and mobile. She set the tray on the floor.
“I’ve left you a tray of breakfast, sir. I hope you enjoy it.” Unlikely.
Back in the kitchen, she cleaned up the few dishes from breakfast and surveyed the room. It had been dusk when they arrived the night before, and the house had appeared neat and well-ordered. In the morning light she’d discovered the truth. Everything had been tidied recently, but by someone who knew every trick of creating the illusion of clean. Tabletops were spotless, but the spaces beneath were a tangle of cobwebs. Windows had been washed but their sills were trimmed with dust. Had James even noticed how she’d scrubbed the floors, wiped down the baseboards and chased spiders from every corner? And all before she’d prepared breakfast.
Ruined breakfast, she chided herself.
She never expected to become a proficient cook overnight, but her first attempts in the kitchen were sobering. To earn her keep here, and cook for herself when she left, she’d need to learn. Perhaps James would give her a few more lessons.
Ann tried to shake the thought from her head, but it wouldn’t budge. The whole thing had been a dreadful mess, and yet the memory stirred her heart. The thought of James standing beside her, his strong hand gently guiding her through each step of frying an egg sent goose bumps down her arms. When she’d carelessly burned her fingers, those same strong hands turned impossibly gentle as he tended her wounds. For a brief moment she’d forgotten she wasn’t meant for James and had thanked God for her good fortune at being matched with someone so unlike the man who’d caused her so much pain in the past.
Just as quickly the memory soured. She didn’t blame James for his outburst. He knew as well as she did they weren’t meant for one another. It did neither of them any good to pretend. But did he have to remind her of her shortcomings? She knew them as well as anyone.
Ann’s stomach knotted as it so often did when she grew nervous or upset. She chided herself. James McCann occupied far too many of her thoughts already, despite being no more than a begrudging temporary landlord and she his unwelcome houseguest. She needed a distraction. Polishing and scrubbing were good for that, but she’d already depleted the meager supply of soap and polish she’d found in the cabinet. Her needle lace had always been a comfort to her, so she fetched some from her room and set to work.
The simple piece—a square of linen on which she built up needle-lace scallops and flower petals one stitch at a time—didn’t require enough attention to prevent her mind from drifting back to her situation. Despite James’s beliefs, she knew no one waited for her. She would soon be alone in a strange country. Basic necessities to buy. Room and board to pay. The very thought of each expense made Ann’s stomach go cold.
Embroidery proved a very poor distraction. Her hands trembled over the stitching as she contemplated her future, and after she ruined the third petal with her carelessness, she tucked the lace away in her apron pocket.
The creak of floorboards snapped her attention to the back porch. The wooden screen door swung open and James entered in his stocking feet. He’d walked through the kitchen with his dusty shoes on this morning. Did this mean he’d taken note of the markedly cleaner floor?
“Is lunch ready?”
Ann’s throat constricted. A glance at the clock proved the day approached noon. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know you wanted me to prepare something.”
“That’s alright. I don’t think I could stomach another meal like breakfast.”
Heat rose up the back of Ann’s neck, and her fingers itched to snatch a plate from the table and launch it at his head. James smiled and teasingly winked. The angry heat receded a little.
“I’ve cooked my own meals for years. I think I can manage a little longer in exchange for a house this clean,” he added.
He had noticed!
Before she could respond, James stepped abruptly from the kitchen into the hall. His footsteps moved from the dining room to the parlor. He returned, his lips pulled down into a frown. “The other rooms haven’t been cleaned. What have you been doing all this time?”
His accusation warmed her blood again. She rose from her chair and drew a deep breath to calm her temper. “I am not lazy, James McCann.”
He gestured about the room. “No lunch and a dirty house. What do you call that in England?”
“I’ll have you know it would have been my pleasure to clean your filthy house. You would have walked in the door and lost your senses at the great beauty of clean floors and windows not covered in grime. But you’re out of supplies.” Ann bit her lip to keep from saying more, though she feared the damage was done.
James’s eyes widened and the taut muscles of his jaw relaxed. His voice grew soft. “I’m out of supplies?”
Ann stood up straight