Free Louisa Rawlings by Forever Wild Page B

it’ll sit comfortably, for a change…”
    Willough smiled uneasily. Daddy had been complaining a great deal lately. Perhaps he was eating too much.
    “Would you like some mineral water?” she asked. “Keller brought a bottle or two from Saratoga.”
    He made a face and reached for a cigar from the silver humidor. “Never mind. If Mrs. Walker’s cooking is as bad as ever, I won’t want much supper when we reach MacCurdyville.” He bit off the end of his cigar and spit it toward the cuspidor on the floor, eyeing it with indifference when he missed. “Give us a light, lass.”
    She struck a match and held it to the end of his cigar. He was feeling good. She could always tell. He called her “lass,” he let his voice slide into the soft lilt of his native Scotland, he ignored the graying hair that drooped carelessly over his forehead. How handsome he must have looked when his hair was still all black, she thought. Like a wild gypsy coming over the moors. There was an air of danger to him that she had never quite got used to. As much as she loved him, wanted to please him, she’d always been a little bit afraid of him. But he was feeling mellow right now. It was a good time to speak up.
    She hesitated, choosing her words with care. “I hope you haven’t forgotten your promise to name me the chief clerk at the ironworks. It’s all I’ve thought about for months, since we were at the sawmill. I’ve been reading the financial notes in Harper’s Weekly and the Times . I can quote you the figures for pig iron for the last six months, and I know what the stock was going for last week. I even wrote to your manager, Mr. Clegg, with dozens of questions. He very kindly answered them as best he could, and assured me that”—she laughed nervously—“whenever you’re ready to give me the job, of course, he would be happy to help me through the difficulties of the first few weeks. So you see, I haven’t been idle.”
    “Good. Good. It’s not an easy job…to run the ironworks.” Brian Bradford stood up and impatiently brushed back the wayward lock of hair. He paced the length of the railroad car, dropping cigar ash on the flowered carpet. “God!” he burst out, “I wish your brother Drew…it needs a man…!”
    She felt the old familiar pang. Why hadn’t she been born a son? His son Willoughby. Drew was Mother’s child. Even his middle name—Carruth—had been given out of pride. Her name had been given out of disappointment.
    “I can do it, Daddy,” she said softly. “You’ll see. I’ve always been good with figures. You know that. I’ll be able to fill the clerk’s spot.”
    He looked doubtful. It made her uneasy.
    She smiled with a brightness she didn’t feel and tried to sound offhand. “If the sign is to read Bradford and Bradford someday, I should get to know the ropes. And soon.”
    He sat down, grimacing, and rubbed his hand against his stomach. “Someday,” he said sourly. “But you’ll have to earn it first. If you can.”
    She felt her control slipping. “I’m your daughter!” she said, rising to her feet and glaring at him. “If you can do it, why can’t I?”
    His dark eyes flashed; he pounded the table with his fist so the dishes rattled. “Don’t you raise your voice to me, miss! I’m still your father, no matter how grown-up you get!”
    She subsided into her chair, trembling. The last thing she’d wanted to do was make him angry. I’m sorry; I’m sorry, Daddy, she thought.
    She was saved by the appearance of Keller with a decanter of port. Brian downed one glass quickly, rubbing again at his stomach, then poured another glass. He sipped slowly at it while the tension drained out of his face. He leaned forward to extinguish his cigar, and his front curl drooped again on his forehead. He let it stay. He stretched, took another sip of port, and smiled at Willough. “It’s a hard job, lass. I was fourteen when I started. Fourteen. Puking my way across the Atlantic on that