Family In The Making. Jo Brown Ann

popping into his mind. The shapeless apron she wore over her gray dress failed to hide her pleasing curves, and her smile lit her pretty face. He wondered why she made such an effort to appear drab.

      As he walked across Cothaire’s entry hall, he warned himself to keep his mind on the task of getting to know the children, not their nurse. He had agreed to Carrie’s request, and he must do as he promised. And, he reminded himself, the outing would keep him from wondering about Gwendolyn’s odd message.

      The breeze was brisk when Arthur emerged from the house. Lighthearted voices came from the left where the children surrounded Miss Oliver. They bounced in every direction like a handful of dropped coins, but Miss Oliver radiated calm. She answered their questions with an unwavering smile while she kept them from wandering away.

      She wore a simple gray spencer and a bonnet of the same color that did not flatter her complexion. Her cheeks were brushed with a charming pink, and he could not keep from thinking of how his fingertips vibrated when they had curved around her slender waist as he pulled her out of the way of toppling boxes. The exotic jasmine scent from her hair clung to his senses, and he was curious if she wore it again today. Her deep green eyes twinkled as she reached behind her and pulled out a bag. The four children clamored to see what was in it.

      When Arthur walked toward them, the younger boy noticed and raced toward him. The child stopped right in front of him. “Look! Ship!” He held up a tiny wooden ship for Arthur to see.

      “Very nice,” he said.

      “Go now!”

      Miss Oliver took the little boy’s hand and drew him closer. “Forgive Gil, my lord. He is excited to sail his ship in the harbor.”

      Arthur noticed that she did not meet his eyes, even when she spoke to him. Was she having second thoughts about helping him?

      Bertie let out a shriek. The older boy’s tiny ship lay broken on the ground. It must have fallen out of his hand.

      Arthur bent to collect the pieces and bumped into Miss Oliver when she did the same. A quiver, as if the earth beneath his feet trembled, rushed outward from where their hands touched. He jerked his back at the same time she did. Beneath her bonnet, her face flushed nearly to the shade of a soldier’s scarlet coat.

      He was relieved when she turned away, because he did not want her to discover he was unsettled by the peculiar, fascinating sensation when his fingers grazed hers. Picking up the broken toy, he examined it. The children quieted while they waited to see what he would do or say. Balancing the tiny ship on his broad palm, he realigned the two cracked masts, then held it out to Bertie.

      The little boy looked from him to the ship and back.

      “I am no shipwright,” Miss Oliver said, “but I suspect it will float well, Bertie. Thank Lord Trelawney.”

      Bertie mumbled something as he wiped his eyes and nose on his sleeve, then reached to take the boat.

      Miss Oliver put a hand on the boy’s shoulder and asked, “Shall we go, my lord?”

      He nodded. The sooner they went, the sooner he could return to write out his coded note.

      As they walked down the hill toward the village, the children prattled with excitement. Miss Oliver seemed to understand everything they said, but to Arthur much of it sounded like the chatter of Indian monkeys as they all talked at once.

      Miss Oliver glanced at him several times and arched her brows. He comprehended her silent question, but he had no idea how to jump into the babble. Perhaps he would do better if he spoke with one child at a time. There surely would be an opportunity when they reached the beach.

      He glanced at the village as they passed its single street. It was quiet in the morning sunshine. One woman was hanging clothes near a stone cottage, and another was dumping out a bucket. Water ran between the cobbles on the steeper section that led down toward the harbor. A single word of caution from Miss Oliver kept the children from sticking fingers in the water as it rushed by.

      At low tide, Porthlowen’s sandy beach was a few yards wide. It offered enough space for fishermen to pull their boats up onto the sand to work on them. Flat stretches of stone were visible where the water had pulled back. They would be invisible again once the tide came surging around the curved edges of the cove, where two sets of cliffs challenged even skilled navigators.

      Arthur helped Miss Oliver take off the children’s shoes and socks. She piled them on the grass beyond the sand. Next, she tied a string connected to each tiny ship around a child’s wrist, so the toys would not be lost. As they ran to put their ships in the water, he was impressed how easily Miss Oliver managed to keep an eye on all her charges seemingly at the same time.

      He walked to where the glistening blue water lapped against the shore. He should have been so cautious the year he turned sixteen. He had brought Susanna to the cove. She had been no older than the twins, and he old enough to know better than to turn his back even for a second. Yet he had, and his baby sister had almost drowned. When he realized she was gone, he had found her floating facedown in the water, and he thought she was dead. Desperate to get her breathing, he had put her over his shoulder like a baby being burped. A couple quick slaps to the back had made her vomit water, but she had begun breathing again and, in a few minutes, was fine.

      But he had not been. His parents had trusted him to watch over Susanna. That was the last promise he had ever broken. He had learned his lesson that day about responsibility and God’s grace on young men who thought they knew everything.

      A small hand tugged on his coat. In astonishment, he saw one of the twins had come over to him. He was not sure which one it was, because he could not tell them apart. She raised her dripping ship toward him.

      “You boat?” she asked.

      “No,” he answered, his throat tight as he forced the words out. “Yours.”

      “Wuwu.”

      “What?”

      “She said her name is Lulu.” Miss Oliver joined them. “Her real name is Lucie, but we call her Lulu. She wants to know if you want to sail her ship.”

      “Me?” He glanced from the child to the nurse, realizing that their eyes were almost the same color. Lulu’s were bright with innocence. Shadows clung to Miss Oliver’s, even when she smiled.

      Sadness or some other emotion? He wanted to ask, but that was too personal a question.

      “If you wish, my lord...” Miss Oliver’s gaze led his to the little girl, who patiently held up the boat.

      He reached down. When the child grasped his hand as he took the wooden ship from hers, he was startled how small her fingers were. The last tiny hand he had held was Susanna’s...right on this shore that horrible day.

      “In water,” Lulu said when he hesitated.

      He motioned for her to lead the way, then asked Miss Oliver, “Are they always so bossy?”

      “Always.” She smiled.

      His lungs compressed, but he could not release his breath when her face shone as if she had swallowed sunlight. Her curls emphasized her high cheekbones, which were burnished by the breeze to a deeper pink. He was tempted to tell her to stop attempting to make herself look plain, because those efforts were futile and a waste of time.

      “I had no idea that you were at the mercy of miniature despots,” he said, knowing he must not keep staring at her in silence.

      “Fortunately, they are benevolent despots.” She laughed. “As long as they are fed on time, have plenty of toys to play with and can negotiate a few extra minutes before bed.” She stepped aside as he went with Lulu to the water’s edge. “Hold on to the string before you place the ship in the water. As you know, the currents are tricky here.”

      Lulu confidently squatted and looked up, gesturing toward the sea. She could not understand why he was hesitating. The sight of a little girl at the water’s edge, unaware of the danger awaiting her if