Judith Stacy - The Hired Husband

They stopped abruptly at the sight of Mitch. Rachel looked embarrassed, Chelsey angry.

“Good evening,” Rachel said.

She seemed relieved at seeing him, even though her smile was forced, and for some reason that pleased Mitch.

“Let’s all have a seat, shall we?” she suggested.

Mitch seated both Rachel and Chelsey across the table from each other in the spots he was certain they’d occupied all their lives. The two end positions, designated for their mother and father, remained conspicuously empty. Mitch took the chair next to Chelsey.

Noah ambled in a few minutes later and murmured a brief greeting as he sat down. The boy looked pale and drawn. His clothes—shirt and jacket, but no necktie—hung loosely on him. His brown wavy hair curled around his collar. Mitch hadn’t noticed these things earlier when he’d seen Noah. He couldn’t help but notice now that the boy smelled of liquor.

Rachel made an attempt at small talk as the soup was served which brought a contemptuous response from Chelsey. Noah remained silent. When the main course was served—beef, maybe, and something green—Noah looked at his plate and his cheeks flashed bright red. He rose from the table and walked away.

“Noah?” Rachel called. “Noah, please, don’t—”

“There. You’ve done it again!” Chelsey shouted.

“Chelsey, please don’t raise your voice at the supper table,” Rachel said, casting an embarrassed look at Mitch. “We have a guest and—”

“You always worry about the wrong things!” Chelsey declared. “Like that ridiculous luncheon! You care more about that stupid occasion than you do us!”

“Chelsey, that’s not true—”

“That horrid Mrs. Chalmers means more to you than we do!”

“Of course not—”

“It’s true!” Chelsey burst into tears and raced out of the room.

It was all Mitch could do to stay in his chair. He wanted to go after Chelsey and find out why she was crying, then give the cook a verbal lashing for embarrassing Noah with the meal preparation.

But the look on Rachel’s face kept Mitch from leaving the room. Mortified, embarrassed, troubled. Yet she kept her chin up and blinked back tears of her own. He wanted to round the table, slip his arm around her, lay her head against his shoulder and make everything all right for her.

Yet he didn’t dare.

Instead, Mitch caught Rachel’s gaze across the table.

“Thanks for insisting I join you for supper. These family occasions are certainly special,” he said and smiled.

For a few horrible seconds, Mitch thought Rachel might actually burst into tears at his gentle teasing. Then she smiled. Then she laughed. A quick giggle that took the edge off her emotions.

“I wanted your first evening with us to be memorable,” Rachel told him.

“And you’ve succeeded beyond your wildest hope.”

They shared another moment of smiling silence. Then Mitch asked, “Is there a reason Chelsey dislikes you so much?”

“I’m ruining her life,” Rachel reported.

“I see,” Mitch replied, though he still had no idea what was going on between the sisters.

Rachel’s smile faded. “But I truly wish I knew what to do about Noah. He’s sullen and moody, almost never speaks. He stays locked up in his room nearly all the time.”

And he drinks too much, Mitch thought.

“The doctor insists this is normal, that Noah needs to come to terms with…what happened…in his own way.” Rachel shook her head. “But I feel so helpless, and I don’t know what to do. I don’t even understand what’s wrong.”

Mitch didn’t offer his opinion. Who was he to butt into this business? The business of a real family?

Rachel pushed her plate away. “I’ve lost my appetite. But finish your meal. There’s dessert, of course.”

Mitch looked down at his plate. Chicken, he thought now, or maybe not. Something green. No potatoes. No gravy.

He’d starve to death if he didn’t get this job finished soon.

“I can’t eat anything else, either,” he said and rose from the table.

Mitch considered excusing himself, going to the study and getting in another hour or so of work on the Branford family business. But that idea held no appeal as he found himself walking alongside Rachel up the staircase. When they reached the second floor she turned to him.

“You’ll stay, won’t you?” she asked.

In the flickering light of the hall sconces, Mitch saw quiet desperation and hope in her expression. And something else also. Fear.

“Of course, I’ll stay,” he said, his words harsh. “I told you I would.”

She didn’t seem put off by his tone. “Yes, but I know you didn’t want this job. If…if you were to leave—”

“I won’t. I’ll stay until the job is done.”

She gazed at him, wanting him to say more, he was sure.

“What is it?” he asked, unable to stand the suspense. “What more assurance do you want?”

She hesitated another moment. Then, as she’d done earlier today in the foyer, she rose on her toes and whispered in his ear. Her breath, her sweet voice, sent a shiver through him, dissolving his irritation at having his intentions questioned.

“You can do this, can’t you? You can really figure out what’s wrong with Father’s business and fix it?”

He looked down at her and nodded. “I’m very good at this.”

Rachel gave him a hopeful smile.

“I’m very, very good at this,” he told her.

She seemed to relax a little and her fear morphed into something that resembled trust, hinted at faith. Mitch’s chest swelled, bringing on a myriad of emotions, few he’d ever experienced.

“Thank you.” She gave him a little smile, then turned and walked down the hallway to her bedchamber. At the door, she looked back, then disappeared inside.

Something within Mitch, some part of him, seemed to tear away and go along with her.

He ducked into his room and stared into the darkness.

He had to get this job done and leave this place.

Quickly.

W aking to find another person in his bedchamber was disconcerting enough, but a man?

Mitch couldn’t even remember the last time he’d awakened with a woman in his room.

Morning sunlight drifted in through the tall windows as Mitch went about dressing. When he’d awakened and found a man creeping around his room, his first thought had been that a burglar had broken in. He’d vaulted out of bed and nearly given the gray-haired fellow a heart attack before realizing it was Joseph, his valet.

His valet. Mitch shrugged into his white shirt. He’d never had servants before, beyond the maids who worked at the hotels he called home when he traveled. He hadn’t known exactly what to do with Joseph.

He’d allowed the valet to draw his bath, arrange his shaving kit in the bathroom, lay out his clothing for the day, brush his suit and buff his shoes. But he’d drawn the line when the valet had tried to sift talc in his underdrawers and hold them while he stepped in. He’d sent Joseph on his way.

The bedchamber was silent now as Mitch closed the buttons on his shirtfront and eased cuff links into place. He looked down at his gray trousers. This suit had hung with the two others he owned in the massive redwood closet built to hold dozens more. His few shirts, undershirts, drawers, socks and other belongings took up only a fraction of the space in the dresser.

He’d considered buying himself another suit before making this trip, but had decided against it. He didn’t want to pay the extra charge to have it rushed.

Mitch wondered now if that had been a mistake.

But his suits—few though they may be—were of the current fashion. He knew because he watched what others wore. Powerful, wealthy men always dressed well. Mitch paid attention to everything and everyone around him and figured things out as best he could.