Free Whirlwind by Cathy Marie Hake Page A

Christian topped the list. She needed to be older and of impeccable character. In the morning, he would add the latest consideration that had occurred to him: A nanny ought to be a light sleeper. Pleased with his sensible plans, Daniel opened his Bible.
    “Mr. Tibbs, it is imperative you return Arthur’s laundry.” Millicent stood across the table from the purser. “Arthur’s got only two more clean nappies, and he doesn’t own any more gowns.”
    Going a sickly shade of puce, Mr. Tibbs swallowed hard. “I’m sorry, miss. I tried. Maybe you could borrow from the Haxtons.”
    “I rather doubt they have any to spare. Even so, you’d still have to launder and return any we borrowed.”
    Removing the silver dome from the tray, the purser declared, “Breakfast is served, Miss Fairweather.” He raced out of the cabin before she could say another word.
    She and Arthur prayed and ate. As she had for the past two mornings, Millicent set aside the third coddled egg. Small as he was, Arthur didn’t eat much. She often shared his plate so the food wouldn’t go to waste. Her own food fit into a handkerchief, which she dropped into Frank’s outstretched hands each day while on her morning walk with Arthur. Then they would saunter to the deck chair Mr. Clark preferred at the appointed time, as requested.
    Determined to remedy the nappy situation, Millicent took the serviettes from the breakfast tray and went to the nursery. Once there, she folded them together and used them to diaper Arthur. Without a clean gown to put on the little boy, she took a tiny blanket and knotted it into a cape. “There! You are King Arthur. Let’s go get your horsey.”
    Arthur rode about the parlor on his stick horse. “Gup! Gup!”
    “Gup?” Mr. Clark lounged in the doorway to his bedchamber, a puzzled look on his face. “I rather expected it might mean cup, but Arthur’s not at the ta—” His voice halted abruptly.
    “Arthur just learned ‘giddy up’ yesterday,” Millicent quickly stated. “He’s a very clever boy.”
    “Just what,” Mr. Clark said in a disbelieving tone, “is he wearing?”
    “His costume.” Millicent strove to sound nonchalant. “He’s King Arthur, of course.”
    Hunkering down, Mr. Clark beckoned his son. Arthur rushed to his father, clumsily stepped free, and thrust the little toy at his father. “Dadda, gup!”
    “It’s very nice of you to share, but you are King Arthur.” Mr. Clark adjusted the blanket around his son’s shoulders. “You ride. There you go now.” Pleased with the attention he’d received, the toddler climbed back on the “horse.” He didn’t care that it was backward; he rode away, dragging the head on the floor behind him.
    Mr. Clark straightened up and sauntered over to the table. Casual as could be, he put the two rashers of bacon on the remaining piece of toast, folded it over, and took a bite.
    Disappointment speared through her. Poor Isabelle and Frank. I won’t have anything to give them other than the—
    Her employer picked up a knife, tapped around the eggshell, and lifted the top. His brows knit. “Yolk’s runny. How did you manage to get any of it into Arthur?”
    “I cut his toast into little pieces and pour the yolk onto his plate. He dips the toast whilst I feed him the egg white.” Afraid he’d reach for the serviette and find it missing, Millicent blurted out, “Did you see his new tooth? It came in yesterday.”
    “So he’s not gnawing on your bracelet any longer?”
    “I didn’t mind.”
    Mr. Clark nodded sagely. He disappeared into his bedchamber and returned. “Son, come here.”
    “No!” Regardless of his word, Arthur trotted back toward his father.
    “Daddy made you a boat. See?” Mr. Clark set down a trio of connected rectangular blocks. Each rode on cork wheels, but the middle portion’s wheels weren’t connected from the center. The offset axle made that block—and the carved wooden boat upon it—rise and dip crazily as he tugged