Twisted River Page 9

  “’Course, Daddy,” Molly said. She clasped Isa’s tiny hand in the one not holding her primer and together they climbed the stairs one at a time, Molly humming all the way.

  “They’re sweet children,” Maggie managed, still floored by the idea of this reserved man as a father of three.

  “The girls are,” Mr. Frye said, eyes still focused on the stairs. “But Henry? Of course my only boy would have to be my handful.”

  “How old are they?”

  “Six, five, and three. Although, if you ask me, Henry’s six going on whatever age will be my end.”

  Mrs. Humes blew out a breath that ruffled her bangs against her hat brim. “I want payment, Mr. Frye.”

  “Next week. You have my word, Mrs. Humes.”

  “Your word is for the birds. You’re already three weeks behind.”

  He folded his arms with an attempt at assertiveness that fell flat within his weary gaze. “This time I mean it. I have sessions arranged every day this week. You’ll have your pay Friday afternoon.”

  “Hmph. You had better, or you’ll find yourself a new nanny who will work for free.” She flipped her handbag from the rack beside the door. “Girl’s here for a job. Come Friday, she can have mine.” With a huff, she shuffled down the entry steps to the drive.

  Mr. Frye pushed the door closed with a none too subtle exhale and still managed to throw Maggie a half-lipped smile. “I’m sorry, Miss Archer, I’ve had a difficult day today. I was called away from the studio mid-session due to an incident with Henry and ... bah, this doesn’t interest you.” He rubbed the back of his neck with a shy grin. “You’re honestly here about employment? I couldn’t persuade you to leave right now and save me the trouble of sending you away?”

  Somewhere between his boyish smile and his unease, her own discomfort began to dissipate. “I’m afraid not; however, you could brew some tea while I convince you to hire me.”

  His smile wavered. “Well, then it seems I will be the cause of many disappointments today. There’s not a tea leaf to be found here. Although I can offer coffee.”

  No tea? Maggie wondered at the strangeness of it all. Telling someone in Fontaine that the house was void of tea was close to saying that the Pope was Protestant. Although she supposed it wasn’t any stranger than she, the perpetual spinster, expecting a child. “Certainly,” she said. “When in America, one does as Americans do.”

  His frown quickly flipped back to a grin, his bottle green eyes lighter. “Precisely, Miss Margaret. Have a seat. I won’t be long.”

  “Oh, no, my name’s not—” she began, but he had already disappeared into the kitchen. With a sigh, she wandered into the living room, claiming one of two fireside chairs tucked between matching sofas all surrounding a slightly distressed coffee table. As she allowed her gaze to wander the room, she noticed that, similar to its master, everything in the house was a little tattered. Not dirty exactly, but not the pristine finish of her parents’ home. The Archers’ housemaid, Olivia, had been meticulous in her daily cleaning habits, ensuring no upholstery patch remained visible and no floor scuffs unattended. The checkerboard cluttering the Fryes’ side table would be removed and the little woven basket of blocks on the window seat stowed neatly out of sight.

  How lovely, she breathed when her eyes fell upon the floor to ceiling shelves flanking the stone fireplace, each case containing four silver-framed photographs for every one trinket or vase and not a single book in sight. Cream tintypes propped up in cardboard folders stood beside black and white petite individual portraits, group poses of the children, and stunning architecture. The walls were decorated similarly, each frame containing magnificent landscapes from parts of the country she couldn’t even guess at. Each one suggested unimaginable adventure. What might her own childhood have been like in a home like his, without a constant barrage of her mother’s rules and stringent expectations?

  Hands smoothed against her traveling suit, the same outfit she wore the day she left England, she felt a stirring deep within that had nothing to do with either morning sickness or a baby not yet large enough to feel. She ached for her father and a desire for his gentle strength beside her.

  “You can do this, little girl,” he would say. “You will be a good mother.”

  “But how, Father?” she replied. “How can I be a mother when I’ve had no mother to guide me?”

  With a kiss to her brow, he would smile. “Never say that. Always be thankful for your mother, even if all she taught you was who not to be.”

  The robust scent of percolating coffee drifted in from the kitchen, its unfamiliar aroma in line with everything she felt about becoming a mother. The fear of becoming her mother.

  “Napping, are we, Miss Margaret? It seems you need this coffee more than I do.”

  Maggie’s eyes flew open, unaware she had even lowered her lids. Hugo set a silver tray onto the coffee table containing a dented coffee pot and two mugs already steaming with dark brown brew. With a shake of her head, she accepted the mug he offered her as he claimed the chair across from hers. “Nonsense, Mr. Frye. I was only thinking.”

  Cautiously, she sipped the coffee, amazed to find it pleasant. While it certainly had a bite compared to her usual tea selection, the drink was also delightfully warm with a hint of orange zest and was that ... “Molasses?”

  Hugo nodded, raising his own mug. “My mother’s addition. Too sweet?”

  “Not at all. Actually, it’s surprisingly appealing.” She folded her hands around her mug and nodded towards the shelves. “Mr. Frye, why did you become a photographer?”

  He studied the many framed photographs while he sipped his coffee. “My father was a photographer during the War of the Rebellion. He captured the most incredible scenes; everyone clamored for them. After the war, he married my mother, then made the five of us faster than the Mississippi runs.” Hugo pointed to a photograph of a handsome couple surrounded by three beautiful dark-haired teenage girls, a much plainer Damaris, and a boy of perhaps ten who mirrored Henry. “I was the youngest,” he acknowledged, “but as the only son, I could apprentice under my father while my sisters remained home. I was only fifteen when the three middle girls married and moved to California.”

  He returned his gaze to hers, thumb running absently along the lip of his coffee mug as he spoke. “My father was celebrated for his work. Even so, it wasn’t the money or the notoriety which drew me to the camera. I merely wanted to be like him. To see what he saw. Not only what the lens captured, but something deeper.”

  “You must miss him.”

  “How do you know he’s gone?”

  Maggie’s eyes held his in one sympathetic moment of understanding. “Because my father’s passed too.”

  “My sympathies.” He quickly turned his attention into his coffee. “Tell me about your employment situation, Miss Archer.”

  “To put it plainly, Mr. Frye, I have been up and down this city searching the agencies and the newspaper ads; however, opportunities have simply not opened up. I need a position quickly or I will be in an unfortunate predicament.”

  His thumb stopped its pace around the mug rim. “How unfortunate?”

  “On the street unfortunate.”

  “But the Kischs surely wouldn’t—”

  “There was a quarrel with my sister, Mr. Frye. I’m afraid I’ve done irreparable damage.”

  “I see.” With another sip of his coffee, he placed the mug on the tray and moved to steal the chair directly beside her. “I want to help you. I do. Only I don’t see how I can.”

  “Do as I asked. Offer me a position.” Not allowing him to open his lips more than a centimeter in remark, she forged on. “I know you haven’t much money, but I don’t need much. Only enough for the cheapest room this city has. I can be your assistant. Or a secretary. I’m not overly fond of reading, but I can transcribe well enough. I spent nearly a year as a lady’s maid in London, so you can count on my professionalism. If you require a reference, my former mistress would wr
ite one.”

  “Please, Miss Archer, you’re making this terribly difficult for me.” His fingers splayed, gripping palms down upon his knees. “My sister already assists me in my studio, and I have no need for a secretary. As you could probably gather from Mrs. Humes, I can’t afford the nanny I have, much less a housemaid.”

  The clock in the hall chimed out the hour in two long mournful tones, as though the timepiece itself could feel its master’s sympathy.

  “What I don’t understand,” he continued when the tones had lulled, “is how you are experiencing any complication securing employment.” As he spoke, he refilled his mug along with her own. Fresh steam billowed under his chin. “You have service experience which is desirable. You appear intelligent, are undeniably eye-catching, and young—far younger than I am anyway. They ought to line up to hire you. If I had the funds, believe me, I would.”

  Choosing to ignore his comment on her attractiveness, she focused instead on the mention of his age. Despite the tinge of grey in his goatee, which was only visible when she inspected closely, he didn’t have a strand on his head. Originally she assumed he was perhaps only five years older than herself, but could his baby face and short stature have disguised an extra ten or fifteen years? He certainly didn’t speak like her father’s colleagues back in Fontaine. “What is your age?” she asked.

  She knew she was already pressing her luck; she should ask him for a reference and leave. Instead, she had probably just insulted him.

  Surprisingly, Hugo actually chuckled. “Why is it rude for a man to ask a lady that question, but not the other way around? There is a serious double standard at play here.”

  She breathed an inward sigh of relief. She could still remedy this. “So you’re old then? Because only an old man would refuse to give his real age.” She sipped her coffee with a smile as sweet as the molasses it contained. “Shall I guess? Fifty? Fifty-five?”

  “Good grief, Miss Margaret,” Hugo spluttered. “You’re off by nearly twenty years.”

  Maggie gasped, lowering her mug in order to fan herself unnecessarily. “Heavens, surely not seventy? My friend, Bianca, would adore you.”

  With a roll of his eyes, he took a long swig of his coffee with only the slightest wince at its heat. “I’m thirty-three, thank you. How young are you exactly?”

  She grinned. “I thought you said it was impolite to ask?”

  “Don’t care.” He leaned in, green eyes tinged with mischief. “I’m asking anyway.”

  “Hugh!”

  They both startled as a door slammed and Hugo’s sister burst into the living room in a disheveled flurry. She peeled off her hat with abandon, sending her mousy hair flying.

  “Miss Archer, you remember my sister, Damaris?” He raised a brow. “Where’s the fire, Mare?”

  Drawing the curtains on every window, she turned on her brother with troubled eyes. “Donovan came by the studio again. Banging on the front door and yelling such profanities. I snuck out the alleyway, but I think he’ll come here next.” She stole Hugo’s coffee from his hand and drained it, breathing heavily when she finished the cup.

  So, Maggie thought, the timid mouse has finally found her voice.

  “You’re probably mistaken,” she said. “That was me knocking earlier. I promise I wasn’t swearing though.”

  Only then did Damaris acknowledge Maggie’s presence. Her face scrunched as though a stagnant pond had appeared in the room with them. “What is she doing here?”

  “Employment interview.”

  Damaris swore, her brown eyes furious. “How in Pete’s name are you planning to hire someone else? You don’t even pay me full wages!”

  Hugo ignored her question. He walked to the window, drawing the curtain back an inch. “Donovan’s coming here?”

  Damaris nodded, then pointed at Maggie. “This child—whom you are not hiring—showed up shortly after you’d gone. I was filing paperwork and didn’t bother answering what I assumed to be another sales call. About an hour later, Donovan arrived with his usual threats. Only I believe he’s serious this time.”

  Her brother’s face paled and he dropped the curtain. “Well, that is a problem.”

  “Who is Donovan?” Maggie asked.

  His eyes met hers briefly before shooting back to Damaris. “Get the children,” he said urgently. “We’ll call a taxi from the Kincades’. Beats me if I know where we’re going after that, but we can’t stay here.”

  “California?” Damaris asked hopefully.

  Maggie sprang from her seat, nudging the coffee table and rattling the china. “Are you involved in illegal work?” Her arm flung in the direction of the shelves. “Is this supposed photography studio all a facade?”

  “This would be a pretty elaborate facade, don’t you think?” Damaris snorted. “Honestly, Hugh, this is the type of simpleton you hope to employ?”

  “Excuse me?” Maggie spat. “Who’s simple?”

  A stiff knock on the entry door startled all three into silence. “Mr. Frye?” came a gruff call. “I know you’re in there.”

  “Now, who is Donovan?” Maggie whispered.

  Hugo watched the door. “The landlord. He’s come for the rent on my studio, and he’s the sort of fellow who will respond to an unsatisfactory answer with … let’s call it one step shy of my demise.”

  Maggie rounded the chair to face him. “Then pay him the rent!”

  “I can’t because I don’t exactly have it at the moment.”

  “Frye?” Donovan called, and Maggie could imagine the man’s face simmering red from neck to brow. “You’re three months past due. I want my money today or you’re booted!” The inflection on booted implied a more literal violence that merely throwing possessions into the street.

  Upstairs the children were oddly quiet. “Shall I assume this isn’t the first time he’s visited?” Maggie asked.

  Hugo rounded the room, tugging at his hair with both hands. “What am I going to do? I can’t lose my studio. I suppose I could move everything home, but where would I fit it all? The study isn’t large enough. In the dining room? The bedroom? Isa could crawl into it. Henry would break it. Beans and Bacon!”

  “You’re hungry?”

  “No, sometimes I yell random food words so my children don’t become vile gutter-mouths before they’re seven.”

  “Hugh?” Damaris’s voice strangled.

  “Mr. Frye—” Maggie began, and he held up a hand.

  “Listen, not to be insensitive, Miss Archer, but you need to wait. My problem is a touch more imminent than your employment situation right now.”

  “Maybe I can help.”

  “How could you help? I can’t hire you! I can’t pay you!” Hugo tugged at his hair again, the strands sticking up like a blazing fire. “I’m purging my finances to keep a nanny when I should just quit and stay home with my children. Only if I stay home, I can’t work, and I can’t take them with me to do my job, and I don’t have room for a studio here, so you see how we go round and round again!”

  “Frye!” Donovan’s voice echoed.

  “Baloney!” Hugo tugged his fingers through his hair again, staring at Maggie like he didn’t know what to do with her. “Why am I telling you all this? I don’t even know you!”

  The sound of a fist slammed against the front door. “Frye, I’ll break this door down, I swear I will.”

  Dread rolled off Hugo in waves. Maggie saw it building in the shallow nature of his breath and knew he was only a few minutes from a full-blown mental breakdown. She watched it happen to Reuben on the Höllenfeuer. Certain desperate acts couldn’t be reversed.

  Maggie splayed a hand on her own breastbone. “Slow breaths, Mr. Frye. We need you calm.”

  “No,” he gasped. “Can’t. All is lost.”

  “The situation is not so desperate as all that. Trust me. I’ve been attacked by a man before and that time my friend nearly died. This is not nearly so dire.”

  His breath hitched. “Attacked? Why did a m
an attack you?”

  “Too extensive a story for today, I’m afraid. Come with me.” Hands pressed to his shoulder blades, Maggie steered Hugo across the room into his study, ignoring his sister’s suspicious expression.

  Damaris lurched to grab her brother’s sleeve. “Hugh, now is not the time for dalliances with some half-purchased secretary.”

  His neck swiveled from Damaris to Maggie and back again, eyes wide and breath barely slowing. “Please,” he pleaded with Maggie. “Wait in my study.” He slid the pocket doors closed, encasing her in darkness.

  “This is ridiculous, Hugo!” Damaris’s shout filtered through the door, her voice barely muffled behind its thickness. Cautious to keep the door from shifting in its frame, Maggie gently pressed her ear to the wood.

  “We’re ruined,” Hugo choked. “That man is going to kill me.”

  “Not if you weren’t acting the part of the city idiot,” Damaris spat. “I managed a satisfactory haul at the Thompson funeral, not to mention what I collected from the Kischs. We sell what I stole and we have all the funds we need.”

  “Damaris!” he hissed. “I told you to return those.”

  “You refuse to charge for postmortem photos. Consider it our payment and clear your conscience.”

  “You’d have me take advantage of their grief, Mare?”

  “Precisely, I would. Especially when we have Donovan on our doorstep. Every other penny we make goes to that nanny of yours. What would you have us do? Starve?”

  Maggie’s ears rang with the silence. She could picture him slicing through his hair in angst before eventually releasing a weary sigh. “The devil’s reserved a special room for us. I hope you know that.”

  “Well, if you were open to any of my other suggestions, I wouldn’t have to thieve.”

  His voice quieted, steps marching across the room. “What suggestions?”

  Heels clacked across the floor, and Maggie gently slid the doors apart a crack. A cool draft whistled against her ear, and she edged them another centimeter. They now stood before the fireplace, Hugo’s appearance all the more childlike beneath his sister’s extra inches.