“Perhaps if I’d arrived donned in a pair of trousers, with my hair in a tangled mess—a style you apparently prefer—you’d have shown me the courtesy of granting an interview before sending me away.”
His gaze shot to hers at her scathing tone. His brows arched in surprise, then turned downward in displeasure. “Time is my most precious commodity, Miss Greyson. I refuse to waste it.” He stepped closer, and Nicole fought the urge to back away. “I know your type. Well-educated in literature, art, and . . . embroidery. You have lovely penmanship and a high opinion of yourself but no real skill in the things that matter to me. Science, mathematics, mechanics. Besides, you are far too young and much too pretty to work for a man in close company.”
This last statement threw a chunk of ice into her rapidly boiling temper. He thought her pretty. Then she remembered he also thought her worthless in all areas that mattered to him. The simmer heated again.
Nicole lifted her chin and stepped so close to him, her skirts brushed his shoes. “I’ll have you know, Mr. Thornton, that I am well versed in mathematics, including algebra and Euclidian geometry. My father never had a son, to his great regret, so he passed his business acumen on to me. Instead of reading novels as a girl, I read shipping manifests and accounting ledgers. I will admit to only a rudimentary knowledge of science and mechanics, but I’m a quick study and have a logical mind that can grasp scientific principles with ease.”
His brows were arching again, and he opened his mouth as if to say something, but she wouldn’t give him the chance.
“Audition me, Mr. Thornton. I dare you.”
His head quirked to the side. “I beg your pardon?”
“Give me the chance to prove my value.” Nicole raised a brow of her own. “If I fail to meet your expectations, you may send me on my way, and I’ll leave without a word of complaint. But if I demonstrate myself capable of the tasks you demand, well . . . then we both end up with what we want. You’ll have your secretary, and I’ll have employment. Surely that’s worth wagering a few moments of your oh-so-precious time.”
His gaze sharpened—with curiosity, thank heavens, not anger. Despite her brave words, her knees trembled beneath her skirts. Thoughts of madmen and unpredictable rages had flitted through her head. Yet now that she studied him at close range, she noticed the deep slate-blue of his eyes and a glint of intelligence. Mr. Thornton might be eccentric and rather unkempt, but she doubted he was actually mad.
The man regarded her closely for several seconds, then crossed his arms over his broad chest. “All right. I’ll accept your wager.” He stalked over to the desk that dominated the center of the room and picked up a small leather-bound book. With a flick of his wrist, he tossed it at her.
It sailed in a shallow arc, spinning like a well-wound top. No doubt he expected her to squeal and lunge out of the way. Instead, she snatched it out of the air with one hand, just as she used to do with the wood-carved guns and cutlasses Tommy Ackerman used to toss her when they were under attack from invisible pirate lords.
Mr. Thornton nodded in appreciation, and Nicole couldn’t quite keep her lips from curving in a small smile of triumph.
“What I am looking for,” he intoned, “is someone who can interpret my admittedly horrid handwriting, duplicate my diagrams and schematics, and reproduce my computations in an organized and thoroughly legible manner, so that I might submit my findings to the Franklin Institute, the foremost authority on advances in mechanical and physical science.” He stepped around the desk and balanced a hip against the flat edge, nodding toward the book he’d just tossed her. “Reconstruct the first five pages in suitable fashion, and we can discuss terms.”
Nicole examined the book, flipped it around when she realized it was upside down, then bent back the flexible cover and scanned the first couple pages.
Heavens. He certainly hadn’t exaggerated his poor penmanship. If she hadn’t spent so many months deciphering her father’s scratchings while overseeing his business correspondence prior to heading off to Miss Rochester’s Academy for Young Ladies, she would have truly despaired.
As it was, it would be challenge enough. But she hadn’t come all this way to give up at the first obstacle laid in her path.
Squaring her shoulders, she smiled at the man who lounged so smugly before her. “Would you mind if I used your desk?” She nodded toward the cherrywood furnishing that surely would have been quite lovely if it hadn’t been strewn with untidy papers, journals, and . . . was that a miniature engine?
“Of course.” Mr. Thornton stood and gestured for her to come around and avail herself of the chair. “You’ll find paper in the top left drawer, and here is pen and ink.” He lifted a stack of publications to reveal an ebony inkstand. “I’ll just be over here, reading.”
Taking the top journal off the stack, he dropped the rest onto the floor and moved toward an upholstered chair situated between a pair of towering bookcases. In less than a minute, he was fully absorbed in his reading, leaving Nicole free to inhale a large breath unobserved.
Collecting the papers scattered over the desktop, she arranged them into a single stack and set them aside. Now that she had room to work, she pulled out a sheet of paper, creased open the logbook, and put pen to ink.
However long it took, she’d not let this task best her.
Darius flipped a page and inhaled a harsh breath. He’d avoided reading this particular article earlier, but putting it off any longer would only prove him a coward. So, steeling his spine, he forced his eyes to scan the words detailing the report of another New Orleans steamboat explosion.
Unlike the Louisiana, the Anglo-Norman’s boiler hadn’t burst as the boat pulled away from the landing, making this case somewhat unusual. In his study of boiler explosions, Darius had learned that around sixty percent occurred either as a vessel pulled away from a landing or while docked. However, according to the journal’s accounting, the Anglo-Norman had successfully traveled upriver a good distance, had navigated a turn, and was on her way back to the Port of New Orleans when her boiler exploded eight miles from the city. The differences made the report a little easier to stomach, and it wasn’t long before his intellect suppressed his emotional response. Images of dead and dying passengers faded beneath the factual description of the type of boiler the boat had carried.
The author of the article supplied wonderful details about the size and layout of the wagon-form design, the diameter of the eight cylindrical flues, the exposure of the water legs, etc. Darius reached for the pencil he always kept on the library table beside his chair and began sketching the steam engine in dark strokes on top of the text of a neighboring article contrasting vertical and radial paddle wheels.
So intent was he on his diagram, he failed to notice the woman standing before him until she delicately cleared her throat. He jerked up from his drawing to see a plethora of red brocade skirts draped just beyond his knees. Drat. He’d completely forgotten she was there. Dread sunk deeper into his gut as his gaze lifted to meet her slightly amused eyes.
Drat. Drat. Drat. He’d also completely forgotten her name.
“I’m finished, Mr. Thornton,” she said, holding a thin stack of papers out to him. “The pages are ready for your inspection.”
It was Miss Something-or-Other. He remembered that much. She wasn’t married. Though why that fact should register in his brain when her name failed to stick was beyond his understanding.
“I’m sorry it took so long,” she was saying, “but I discovered an error in your computations on page three and had to recopy that entire page after calculating the correct figures.”
“What?” No longer caring about her name, Darius snatched the papers from her hand and immediately turned to page three. How dare she presume to correct his calculations?
He held out an empty palm to her, demanding his original logbook as his eyes scanned the page. She must have understood the silent demand, for his notebook slapped against his palm without delay. He took it from
her, opened to the page in question, and set about comparing the two equations, eager to point out her mistake.
The little upstart. Just because she fancied herself something of a mathematician did not give her the right to tamper with . . .
His eyes narrowed as he took in her calculations. She’d adjusted the cargo weight. He’d only factored in the difference of engine weight between the double-tier flue boiler and the newer tubular boiler. The amount of cargo would naturally be different on the two types of vessels since the tubular boiler not only weighed less but took up less space, leaving room for more cargo. Therefore, her numbers actually were more accurate when it came to predicting water displacement or draft on a seagoing vessel.
Although, she had been kind enough to include his original calculations under a separate heading denoting the even greater difference in draft if the cargo remained unchanged. Of course, no sea captain worth his salt would load less cargo than his ship could carry if it were available. Why would he, when more cargo meant more profit? And she’d known this.
Hadn’t she said something about reading manifests instead of novels as a girl? Her father must be involved somehow in the shipping industry. Maybe a female secretary wasn’t such a bad prospect after all. If it was this female.
Darius glanced up from the papers, peered at her thoughtfully, then frowned. She was still far too pretty.
“You must not distract me from my work.” He growled the command at her, but all she did was smile.
She smiled with such untarnished joy that he felt like a man stepping out of a dungeon to behold the vision of a sunrise cresting the horizon. Glorious. Yet so bright, he wanted to scuttle back into the hole from whence he’d come.
“Thank you, Mr. Thornton.” She nearly clapped her hands together in her excitement. Hands without gloves, he noted. Hands that consisted of dainty fingers stained with ink at the tips. Capable hands. Delicate hands. The fact that they were both intrigued him, even as she stole them from his view by pulling them behind her back as she made an effort to compose herself.
“The advertisement mentioned accommodations.”
She was dictating to him again. Odd that he didn’t seem to mind. But then, he’d always appreciated people who spoke their minds instead of dallying with polite niceties. He just wasn’t accustomed to finding that trait in a woman. Especially one who looked like she belonged on a shopping excursion with his mother and sister, or sipping tea with them in the parlor.
Darius rose from his seat. Time to do some dictating of his own. “There is a small chamber near the kitchen that should suffice. My butler and his wife, my housekeeper, room down that hall, as well, so you’ll not be alone. You will work in here”—he gestured around him at the controlled chaos that was his study—“and occasionally with me at the workshop, if I need your assistance. However . . . ” He paused to glare down his nose at her, emphasizing the importance of his next point. “You are never to interrupt me when I am in the midst of an experiment. Do I make myself clear?”
She nodded, though the stubborn tilt of her chin did nothing to reassure him that she comprehended the absolute necessity of obedience.
“I will leave strict instructions regarding where you may and may not venture on this property, and I expect those instructions to be followed to the letter. Should you fail to comply, you will forfeit your position.”
The young lady schooled her features into a properly sober demeanor. “I understand, sir, and will, of course, abide by your wishes.”
He swore he could hear the qualifier—As long as I deem it appropriate—wafting in the air about her. This was not a woman one contained with threats. No, she’d follow his commands only as long as it suited her purposes. Not that he sensed anything nefarious about her. On the contrary, she was quite the most genuine person he’d met in years. Yet there was something untamed about her. Something below the surface. Like a wild mare that had been broken to saddle even while her spirit stood ready to race the wind the moment the reins were loosened.
Darius turned his face away from her, pretending to peer at something outside his window. The woman was interfering with his focus, drawing him into her puzzle with her bright smile and hidden depths. He couldn’t afford to be distracted from his work, from his purpose. Yet neither could he afford to continue on without a secretary, and she was his only applicant. A far more qualified one than he had hoped to find, even amongst the local male population. That outweighed his personal . . . discomfort.
He was master of his own mind, after all. He’d simply refuse to give her the power to distract him. She’d work in the study, and he in the workshop. They would rarely need to cross each other’s path. Besides, once she’d been around a few days, he’d grow accustomed to her, much like one grew accustomed to a new piece of furniture in a room. She’d eventually stop standing out and would be absorbed into the surroundings, like everything else about the place.
Yes, he could handle her.
He spun around again to face her, though he focused slightly to the side to avoid full contact with her eyes. “Meals will be included, and a stipend will be delivered at the end of each month.”
“Week.”
His gaze arrowed back to hers. “Pardon?”
This time she was the first to look away. “If it wouldn’t be too much trouble, I’d prefer to be paid at the end of each week. My father is ill, and I’m trying to do all I can to help him.” She looked directly at him again, and while he didn’t detect any untruth in her, he did sense there was more to her story than she was letting on.
Curious.
“A compromise, then.” He watched her closely. “Payment twice a month. Would that be agreeable?”
A slight tightening about her lips was the only hint of her disappointment. She nodded. “Yes.”
“Good. Then I’ll have Wellborn assist you in collecting your things from town.” Right after he had his man remind him of his new secretary’s name.
CHAPTER 7
Nicole unpacked the last of her belongings in the small chamber that was to be her home for the next two weeks. Most likely the room had been intended for a maid or other servant. No paper decorated the walls, a small rag rug on one side of the bed was all that broke up the monotony of the oak floor, and the only furnishings the room boasted were a washstand, a thin wardrobe, and a tiny bureau that contained two drawers. However, it was spotlessly clean, and Mrs. Wellborn had plucked a handful of buttercups and placed them in a stoneware crock atop the bureau. The yellow blooms cheered the room considerably.
She’d only had space to hang three of her five dresses in the wardrobe. The rest of the space contained table linens and the like. But she didn’t mind. With her trunk cleared out, the remaining dresses could be stored there without fear of excessive wrinkles.
A light tap echoed as her door pushed open. “I found another rug and a length of calico that we can use over the window to brighten the place up. What do you think?” The housekeeper bustled into the room, her smile doing more to brighten the place than the pink fabric she carried.
“It’s lovely,” Nicole enthused, coming forward to take the calico. White flowers dotted the pink cotton in a feminine pattern.
Nicole crossed to the stark bar hanging above the narrow window and began experimenting with the cloth. Perhaps a twist here, then a swag, and another twist . . . She stepped back to eye her handiwork, made a few adjustments so the fabric hung symmetrically, then turned to the housekeeper with a grin. “It really warms the room up. Don’t you agree?”
“That it does, dearie. That it does.” The plump woman dropped the rug into place in front of the bureau, gave it a tug or two, then straightened, wiping her hands on her apron. “Though I must say, it’s having you here that truly warms this old place. I can’t tell you how delighted I am to have another female about. Mrs. Graham, our cook, comes in every day to prepare the midday and evening meals, but she never actually dines with us. Says it’s not her place.
“I suppose it’s natural for a former slave to feel that way, but no matter how many times I explain that Arthur and I are servants on equal footing with her, she refuses to come to the table at lunch, preferring to take a plate out on the back porch and eat on the stairs. In the evenings, she leaves as soon as the food is prepared so that she can get back to her family.”
Nicole smiled as the woman took a knitted throw from its storage at the top of the wardrobe and unfurled it across the narrow bed. Mrs. Wellborn seemed always to be in motion. Both with her hands and her voice. Nicole had liked her immediately upon their first meeting, and that impression had only grown stronger over the last hour.
“Yes, indeed. It will be wonderful to have another woman around to talk to. Don’t get very many visitors at Oakhaven. Not like we did back in New York. ’Course there were plenty of maids and other household staff to talk to there. Not like it is here with just Arthur and me. But I’m not complaining,” she assured Nicole as she wiped a smudge from the tiny mirror above the washstand with a corner of her apron. “Mrs. Thornton was right to send us out here to care for the young master when he decided not to come home after the accident. The man barely eats as it is. If left completely to his own devices, he’d probably wither away to nothing in less than a month’s time.”
Nicole’s ears perked. What accident? Why wouldn’t he go home? What was keeping Darius Thornton at Oakhaven? She clamped her lips against the questions, though, fearful that if she drew attention to the details Mrs. Wellborn was inadvertently revealing about her employer, the housekeeper would cease her informational prattle. So instead, Nicole fiddled with the placement of her brush and hairpin box atop the bureau.
But it seemed Mrs. Wellborn was done imparting jeweled tidbits anyway, for she turned around, straightened her apron, and reached for the door handle. “I’ll leave you to finish settling in. Come to the kitchen in about thirty minutes, and I’ll have supper on the table. Mr. Thornton always dines in his workshop, so you need not worry about dressing for dinner. You may eat in the dining room if you wish or join Arthur and me in the kitchen. Whichever you prefer.”