“No, your falling all over me wasn’t . . . Well, your knees and bony elbows were uncomfortable. And you’re correct. I don’t forget a face, even one disguised in white paint. Not with that delightful cleft in your chin. But knowing where to send my men to retrieve trunks from the catacombs was your downfall. You’ve spent time there before. You’ve worked here.”
He moved and sank into the rocking chair close to the crib and eased his crutch to the floor, next to the broken shell of a coconut.
Coconut?
Poking at the smashed-up white flesh, the dark, thick outer husk, he shook his head, then looked up at LaCroy. “A newly hired woman wouldn’t know this. What will you do with coconuts?”
“Lots of things. It’s a dependable drupe. You would call it a stone fruit or nut.”
“No, ma’am, I’d never call a nut dependable.”
She glared at him, those hands now flexing at her sides. “Linens, clean linens are needed. Mrs. St. Maur has buckets of scrubbing, including your shirts. And this baby seems to have been on dirty sheets far too long. Oil from the coconut is for his bottom. You did notice how red it was?”
“I just cleaned and wrapped. That wasn’t right?”
“You did good.” She smiled a little. “Your shirts are the cleanest thing he may have worn in weeks.” She sniffled, and a big fat tear rolled to the tip of her arched nose.
Some women didn’t cry and look beautiful, but LaCroy did. And her face looked tanned and healthy without the paint she’d worn last night. Her complexion was smooth, a little darker than Lionel’s. Was she mulatto or Blackamoor or both?
It didn’t matter, when she looked like a choice rose sprinkled in morning dew. He dug into his pocket and handed her a handkerchief. “Please stop crying. It’s so much easier to dismiss a soldier. This almost feels like the end of a courtship.”
That made her frown and stepped away. “What?”
He raked a hand through his hair hoping to tighten his skull and keep more stray thoughts from uttering. “You admit to working here. You purposely tried to deceive—”
“Itoldyou I’d reapply in the morning. That’s what I did.”
Well, that was what she said last night.
Busick raised his hand to complain but instead clasped the chair arm and rocked. “Why dress as a man?”
Her mouth opened, then closed, then opened again. “You were right. I was here. I worked hard, but I could not stand, Mark . . . Mr. Markham. He put the things needed for efficient running of the house down in the catacombs. I knew exactly where he’d tossed the linens and things for the baby. Unfortunately, the elements and dampness have gotten to some. There’re more trunks down there, but I don’t think they have linens. I’ll need to go to Town to get more for the baby unless you’ve come to Hamlin with an endless supply of shirts.”
The energy in her voice extinguished all his thoughts of LaCroy spying for Markham. She was dedicated to the care of the boy. Passionate about it. Isn’t that what he wanted in a nanny?
He felt foolish and looked at his content, snoring ward. “That answers some of my questions. But why dress as a man?”
A smile spread across her lips and even stretched to her eyes, adding a sparkle like freshly glossed boots. “What’s easier to spot, a woman coming and going through the catacombs or a man?”
“You chose a disguise to find bedding and baby things because you hate Markham. I don’t think so, LaCroy. I think—”
The baby started crying.
Busick wanted to pick him up and comfort him as he’d done last night, but the chair moved when he tried to get out.
Mrs. LaCroy cut in front of him. Without asking, she scooped Lionel up and held him to her bosom. She rocked him until his cries stopped. “We’re talking too loudly.”
“Letting go of employees is nasty business. It will be well, little soldier. The secretive lady will be leaving. I’ll get you a new one, one who can be honest.”
She half turned and Busick panicked. He was stuck in the chair, and she was about to feed the babe. As much as he was an admirer of the female form, some things needed to be private.
“ ‘Il était un petit navire. Il était un petit navire.’ ” She sang the words, her voice low and pretty.
Lionel stretched and hooked a pinkie upon LaCroy’s full lips.
Then she stopped singing and looked at Busick as if he’d caught her doing something wrong. “I’ll do this in English. English is better for you.” Again, she sang, “ ‘There was once a little boat. There was once a little boat.’ ”
“But it was lovely in French, LaCroy. ‘Ohé! Ohé! Matelot.’ ”
