Chapter Twenty
The atmosphere in and around the Ten Buck country house was not conducive to camaraderie. Or even sociality. In fact, it was downright glacial.
And Ben was annoyed.
He had taken great pains to arrange, through Marilou’s efficient management, a marriage that was supposed to operate on greased wheels. Daily schedules were supposed to run along smoothly, without a hitch. Personalities were supposed to mesh as fine as frog’s hair. His wife was supposed to be amenable to his every wish: her mood compliant, her attitude easy-going, her character above reproach.
Well, yeah. He’d give her that last one. But she wasn’t supposed to get upset over the slightest thing he said or did contrary to what she’d expected; she wasn’t supposed to get all bent out of shape because he was simply being himself. She should just accept the fact that he was a very particular individual, God damn it, and what he wanted took precedence over all else. This wasn’t supposed to be the usual marriage. It was supposed to be managed on his terms.
Supposed to be. Supposed to be.
He knew Carrie was hurt, for whatever reason she’d gotten into her head. He knew she was pissed, for whatever other reason. This was precisely why he’d wanted a bloodless, unconventional union, so they could avoid these pitfalls. God knew, life was a lot more pleasant without pitfalls.
And, without pitfall, he could go into his office every day, or visit ports of his far-flung empire, without feeling guilt or remorse about what was brewing on the home front. He could just work.
He didn’t think he had to be the one to make amends. Not when Caroline was turning a cold shoulder to his words and a cold front to his knock at her bedroom door.
Why in bloody Hades hadn’t someone talked him out of this whole crazy mail order bride idea?
Best scenario, with all this going on? Get the hell out of Dodge.
This time, Ben wasn’t considerate enough to hand over his itinerary in person. His driver picked him up very early one morning, only a few days after the single night he had spent in his wife’s bed, and Marilou had apologetically handed over the list to Caroline some hours later.
“My, that’s an impressive number of miles he plans to rack up,” Caroline said calmly, looking over the pages of information in her hand. “I see he plans to be gone at least a week.”
“Yes, he scheduled—I mean, a number of meetings were scheduled that he felt he had to attend. Some shareholders’ groups, a few corporate dinners, that sort of thing.” Marilou, whose own love life with the agreeable Jimmy seemed to be going so well, eyed her boss’s wife with sympathy.
“Carrie—”
Equable, refusing to be affected, she looked up. “Yes?”
“Ben—Mr. Taggart—well, he sometimes gets these hair-brained ideas…I mean, you can’t really follow his reasonin’, but…” Marilou, who felt some odd compulsion to defend her boss to the wife he had so uncaringly left behind, heard her voice trail off. “Well, you know men.”
“No, Marilou,” said Caroline coolly. “I’m afraid I don’t know men. Especially this one. But I thank you for your concern.”
“Carrie, you wanna go t’ supper sometime, just you and me?” the secretary asked impulsively. “A girls’ night out.”
A small smile in return. Would it be absolutely proper for a mere office employee and Mrs. Mogul to socialize? Well, why not? Caroline realized she didn’t care what the mores might be here in Texas hill country. She would by God set her own rules. And look who had given her the freedom to do so, and fired up the spark of rebellion in her soul—Mr. Mogul.
“I’d like that, Marilou. Let me just check around about babysitting availability, so Sophie won’t be left alone. Right now I have to go sack the cook.”
Mrs. Wyeth’s frosty attitude toward Caroline had not improved since taking her “sick day.” In fact, it had deteriorated so badly that she either responded to her employer’s comments with a sneer, or not at all. Dissension in the ranks! Had she felt such incredible loyalty to the first Mrs. Taggart that she refused to see anyone in her place, even though the woman had been gone for some six years?
It was a strange thing. No one in the house ever spoke of her. If not for Lila Sampson filling in some of the missing background puzzle pieces, Caroline would have no information at all. What was there about Diane Taggart that everyone was keeping a secret?
Caroline had no answers. Nor had she any experience in dealing with hired help. And, thus far, the cook had refused to sit down and talk with her, so that they could try resolving their differences.
She could hear a vacuum humming away upstairs, which meant Maria was already busy with her household chores. Esperanza, who worked only part-time, was gone for the day. That meant that Mrs. Wyeth would be alone in the kitchen. Probably preparing some exotic meal for dinner that would be far too rich and heavy for anyone’s palate.
“Mrs. Wyeth?”
Sure enough, she was stirring something in a pot on the stainless steel range. Something? Or someone? Slowly she turned. Did the woman’s expression ever lighten?
“May I have a few words with you?”
Inclining her head, she simply stood still in her bovine pose, hands folded together, and waited.
“Here. Come, sit down, please.”
With that much, at least, the cook felt uncomfortable. “Miss Fi—Mrs. Taggart—”
“It’s all right.” Caroline mustered up a thin smile. “Join me.”
As soon as she had reluctantly taken a seat at the sparkling kitchen table, Caroline moved her chair aside to fetch the coffee pot and two cups, a sugar bowl, the creamer, and spoons. Mrs. Wyeth’s face registered a mixture of shock and disapproval. “You needn’t go waitin’ on me.”
“Why not? You wait on me often enough.” She paused for a few minutes, until her employee was tentatively sipping at the rich dark brew before announcing, “Mrs. Wyeth, I have to let you go.”
The cook choked and barely managed to swallow her mouthful of Kenya’s finest. “What!”
“Yes. I cannot have you undermining my authority, or causing problems in the household. Or, worse, disrupting Sophie’s routine. You must see that your attitude is to blame for whatever has gone wrong between us.”
Brave words; cool, calm, and collected words, as befits an employer to employee, especially one behaving badly. But Caroline was quaking inside. Earlier confrontations had simply not prepared her for this direct, one-on-one opposition, and she had both dreaded the moment and longed to have it over. But it must be done.
“How soon do you want me to leave?” Her mouth was set hard. Yet her chin—both of them— trembled. Perhaps she wasn’t so much of a termagant as imagined. Perhaps she could be saved.
“Customarily, it would be at once,” said Caroline gently. “But shall we say—two weeks? Will that give you enough time to get your affairs in order?”
The plain china cup rattled as she set it on the table and made as if to rise. “That will be plenty of time. I’ll just get my things together, and I’ll—I’ll—”
Caroline forestalled her with a light hand on the wrist. “Mrs. Wyeth—Emma—may I call you Emma? I admit I have my own way of doing things, and there are some changes I’d like to make in the kitchen. And I’ve no doubt I’ve made some mistakes right from the first day of my arrival. So, if I’ve caused offense to you in some way, I apologize. But won’t you at least talk to me, and tell me what’s wrong?”
“You want me gone, I’ll go. No two ways about it. Oil and water can’t mix, no matter how you try, and I’ve got—”
“But we’re not oil and water, are we? We’re two capable women, with the common goal to keep this household running smoothly. You’re a wonderful cook, Emma, and you’ve done a wonderful job overall so far. It’s just your—um—well, it’s your very strong dislike of me, and I can’t tolerate it. No one can deal very long with being disliked. So, if you’d but—”
“Sophie,” blurted out Mrs. Wyeth.
“I beg your pardon?”
“It’s Sophie.”
“I don’t understand.” Caroline moved aside her brimming cup to actually take the cook’s veiny, work-worn hand in her own. “What about Sophie?”
Mrs. Wyeth paused to catch her breath and steady her emotions. Amazingly, the sharp glare behind her glasses had softened, and a few actual tears had pooled, ready to ooze and fall. As slow as she had been to look a problem head-on, and discuss it, she was even slower to confess to a very human failing: jealousy.
“Because she was mine,” the cook said softly. “And you stole her from me.”
“I stole her? But—” Caroline was honestly bewildered. “There was a nanny, wasn’t there? When she lost her mother, as a baby—didn’t Sophie have a nanny to take care of her?”
“She did. Her name was Patricia Mendez, and I supervised every minute she spent with the child.”
“Well, that’s admirable, I’m sure. But—”
“And when she got to be too old for a nanny,” continued Mrs. Wyeth, as if the interruption hadn’t taken place, “I watched over her. She spent time here with me, in the kitchen; she played blocks and did colorin’ books. I helped raise her; I took her places; we did things together. It was like—I was like—sort of a—grandma. And then you came along.”
And took my place.
The words were not spoken. But they hung in the air, almost audible; the muted cry of a broken-hearted woman striking back in the only way she knew how.
“I see.”
Another puzzle piece, another one of an unexpected shape, to be fitted into the whole of this unusual Texas Taggart family.
Was too much love for a lonely, motherless child ever wrong?
Caroline’s grip tightened. “Thank you for telling me, Emma. I’m very sorry for hurting you, even though I didn’t mean to. You see, I’ve been trying to do a job myself, and—well…”
The cook exhaled a long, quivering sigh. “Yes. Well, I’d best get back to my chores, so I can red up and start packin’.”
“Emma.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“I really don’t want to see you leave, and I don’t think you want to leave, either. Couldn’t we pretend this is the first time we’ve met, and start all over?”
“You’d do that? Why would you do that?”
Caroline smiled. “Because you make the very best flapjacks in seven counties. Along with a host of other mouth-watering dishes. C’mon, Emma. Say yes, and stay.”
Even though her eyes puckered, her lips puckered, and her whole lined face seemed to crumple up like tissue paper, she couldn’t capitulate too easily. “Well, if it means that much to you…”
Bursting into laughter, Caroline jumped from her seat to fold the cook into an embrace very unbosslike. “It does. I’m so glad. And I won’t be selfish with Sophie’s time, anymore. You can be sure you’ll sometimes have the pleasure of her company.”
Yes. Finally a smile. A very small one, to be sure, but there was a definite easing of the rough edges. “Thank you, ma’am. Mrs. Taggart.”
Caroline was able to wait until she had left the kitchen, and was out of sight, before she high-fived herself and her results with a little triumphant, “Yes!”