A Mother In The Making. Gabrielle Meyer

and expensive—yet practical—furnishings reflected the status of the owner. It wasn’t quite as elaborate as Marjorie’s childhood home—but it was comfortable.

      “Mrs. Gohl, the cook, and Miss Ernst, the maid, live in the servant’s quarters at the back of the second floor,” Dr. Orton said as he passed through the front hall and up the stairs. “Charlie is the only child home at the moment. The other three are across the street at my mother-in-law’s home...”

      Marjorie followed close behind, her gaze feasting on a beautiful stained-glass window above the landing of the curved stairs. Rays of brilliant colors depicted a glorious sunset. She had tried her hand at working with stained glass, but the unfinished project was tucked away in her room in Chicago along with dozens of other half-completed ventures.

      Dr. Orton stopped at the top of the stairs and Marjorie bumped into his back.

      He turned, barely concealing his frustration. He pointed down a long, carpeted hallway. “The night nursery is at the end of this hall, to the right. You’ll find your room attached to it.”

      She didn’t want to beg, but she needed reassurance that she would be given a chance. “I hope you’ll consider my offer. Please give me two months to prove I’m the person for this job.”

      He studied her with an analytical gaze just as the downstairs door opened and voices drifted up the stairwell.

      “Papa, we’re home!” A little girl’s voice filled the hall.

      “John? John, where are you?” An older female voice pierced the air. “Peter wet his pants once again. I’ve told you to put your foot down with him, John. The child needs more discipline.”

      Dr. Orton closed his eyes and let out a long sigh.

      Marjorie raised an eyebrow and whispered, “Your mother-in-law?”

      He opened his eyes and she could see exhaustion behind his weary gaze. “You might as well meet her and get it over with.”

      “Get it over with?”

      “John!” the lady yelled up the stairwell, her head peeking around the banister. Her gaze narrowed when she spotted Marjorie. “Who are you?”

      Marjorie pasted on her biggest smile. “I’m the new governess.”

      The lady’s blue eyes grew enormous in her wrinkled face. “The what?”

      Dr. Orton gave Marjorie a warning glance as he stepped past her on the stairwell.

      Marjorie tried to hide a giggle as she followed him down the stairs and faced the lady standing in the foyer. She wore a black mourning gown, with a black hat pinned tight against her gray hair. She held a baby in her arms, while a little boy peeked around her skirts. A girl of eight or nine stared at Marjorie with open curiosity, a spark of animation glistening from her eyes.

      “This is Miss Marjorie Maren,” Dr. Orton said. “She is my mother’s neighbor from Chicago.”

      “Was her neighbor,” Marjorie couldn’t help adding as she nodded a greeting at the older woman.

      John gave her another warning look and Marjorie snapped her mouth shut. If she was going to keep this job, she must be vigilant about guarding her tongue.

      “Governess?” the woman asked. “You don’t need a governess, John—you have Dora and me.”

      John took the baby, a smile lifting his lips when he looked at his child—but it disappeared when he glanced back at Marjorie. “Miss Maren, this is Mrs. Scott, my mother-in-law.”

      Marjorie extended her hand, but Mrs. Scott only stared at her. “Maren? Why does that name sound familiar?” She openly examined Marjorie with a critical eye. “I don’t like it, John. These things should stay in the family.”

      Marjorie lowered her hand.

      The little boy raced away from his grandmother’s skirts and clung to Dr. Orton’s leg, eyeing Marjorie with big blue eyes.

      “I can’t impose on you forever,” Dr. Orton said. “You and Dora have been helpful—but it’s best if I hire a governess to take care of the child—”

      “If you would do as I say and marry Dora, you wouldn’t be an imposition. It would become her duty.”

      “Please,” Dr. Orton said, pointedly looking at the children. “I don’t want to discuss this right now.” He looked at Marjorie, relief suddenly lighting his face. “And since I have a governess, this conversation is pointless.”

      Mrs. Scott crossed her arms over her ample bosom. “You trust this lady? We don’t know anything about her.”

      Dr. Orton looked as if he was trying to control his irritation. “Thank you for your concern, but Miss Maren is from a good family and is highly recommended by my mother.”

      Mrs. Scott raised her eyebrows in disdain. “Your mother?”

      John moved to the front door and opened it. “Thank you for all your help. Please extend my appreciation to Dora, as well.”

      Mrs. Scott ran her gaze over Marjorie one more time, her displeasure evident, before looking back at John. “I’m right across the street if you need me.”

      He nodded and opened the door wider. The woman stepped through it with her nose high in the air.

      Dr. Orton closed the door behind her with a decided thud.

      “Are you our new governess?” the girl asked.

      “Miss Maren, this is my oldest daughter, Lillian. And this—” Dr. Orton put his free hand on the head of the little boy who still clung to his leg “—is Peter.” He lifted the smiling baby in his arms, his voice softening. “This is Laura.”

      “You can call me Lilly,” the girl said with a shy smile. “Will you sleep next to our room?”

      Marjorie looked to Dr. Orton and posed a question with her eyes.

      The doctor lifted the baby to his shoulder, lines edging his mouth. “For now.” He hugged Laura and then handed her to Marjorie, saying under his breath, “Until the end of the year, Miss Maren—and don’t let me regret my decision.”

      Relief washed over Marjorie as she took Laura—trying to look as if she had held a baby before—and smiled. “You won’t—I promise.”

      “The children are required to have at least one hour of exercise every day,” Dr. Orton said, “and the two oldest are to spend an hour reading. Petey needs to practice his numbers, letters, colors and shapes every day, as well. There is a schedule posted in the day nursery for you to follow. Laura’s feedings and nap times are listed beside the others. I don’t like the children to deviate from their schedule.” Dr. Orton paused and his face became grave. “If you fail at being a governess, you’ll prove my mother-in-law right—and I hate when she’s right.”

      Marjorie jostled the baby in her hands, trying to remember everything he was saying. For a brief moment she thought she might drop the precious bundle—but she held her tight. “Come, Lilly and Peter, and show me your nursery.”

      “First you’ll need to change Petey’s clothing.” Dr. Orton disengaged the child from his leg and put him near Marjorie. He turned toward the office but then pivoted back to face her. “One more thing, and this is the most important—the children are to take ten drops of cinnamon oil in a glass of water every morning with their breakfast.”

      “Cinnamon oil?” Marjorie wrinkled her nose.

      “It’s a preventative measure to ward off influenza. I’ve been studying the effects and they’re promising. I’ll require you to take the oil, as well.”

      “Of course.”

      Petey stood close to Marjorie, his eyes filled with apprehension.

      Dr. Orton looked at his son, and then back at Marjorie. “If you