Read Online Whirlwind by Cathy Marie Hake - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Cathy Marie Hake
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later?”
“At the rate you’re supposedly freeing him, he’ll still be stuck in it when we dock in New York.” He paced away and returned with the knife. “Hold him still.”
Clutching the little boy to her bosom, Millicent inched backward, and Arthur let out another loud wail.
“Hush, son. Daddy is here.”
To her amazement, the little boy drew in a few choppy breaths, but he stopped hollering. “Sit down, Miss Fairweather.” Mr. Clark didn’t really have to give the order. The moment the knife came close to her charge, her knees turned to jelly. Next to Arthur, the pocket knife looked like Goliath’s sword. Teasing the tip of it into a knot proved impossible, so Mr. Clark repositioned the blade beneath the strap and sliced clean through.
His big hands stilled just before he cut through a second knot. “Must you do that?”
She loosened her hold ever so slightly.
“That’s not what I meant. You’re praying.”
Heat suffused her cheeks. She hadn’t realized she’d been speaking aloud.
“Where did you learn to tie knots like this?”
“While attempting to braid my hair as a child.” She bit her lip. Embarrassment washed over her—for both her inane babbling and because Millicent realized her hair hung in a thick braid down her back. She was positively indecent.
Mr. Clark focused on the job and the last strap fell free. His big hands delved into the white life vest and curled around his son. Arthur wiggled and screeched with happiness.
“I fear your son is a bit too wound up to go straight back to sleep.”
Mr. Clark gave her an assessing look. “So you don’t hold with discipline and routine?”
“Indeed I do. Then again, when the extraordinary happens, one can scarcely expect ordinary behavior from a child so young.” She took Arthur from his father, then stooped to pick up the pillowcase. As she straightened up, her braid swung over her shoulder. Millicent tried to console herself with the fact that she’d managed to pull on her clothes. The best thing to do was ignore her inappropriate presentation and hope Mr. Clark would, as well.
But then he reached over and flipped the braid behind her. Just as he finished the action, Mr. Clark’s hand froze. Immediately shoving his hands into his pockets, he said in a brusque tone, “Sorry. Arthur pulls—pulled . . .”
She watched as embarrassment heated his face, revealing a chink in his usually reserved, composed nature. Wanting to rescue him, Millicent filled the silence. “It’s a wonder all adults aren’t bald from babies snatching handfuls of our hair. If babies weren’t so sweet, I’d suspect they do it on purpose because they’re jealous we have more hair than they. Only I can’t say that about little Arthur. I mean, he’s sweet. It’s just that he’s not jealous. He has no reason to be. Your son has a lovely head of hair.” I’m babbling like a fool. What is wrong with me?
Pointing at what she held, Mr. Clark asked, “What’s in that?”
Millicent looked down. Oh dear mercy. The hem of her shirtwaist hung askew, having been buttoned unevenly. If that wasn’t bad enough, she hoped in the dim light her boss wouldn’t notice that she’d put her skirt on inside out. Jerking the pillowcase upward to cover those flaws, she said, “Lifeboats can’t possibly be supplied with nappies. Speaking of which, I’m sure Arthur needs a dry one.”
Mr. Clark took the pillowcase. Brows shot toward his hairline. “How many nappies did you put in here?”
“All of them. It isn’t all that many. Mr. Tibbs has most of them to launder. He goes through seven or eight nappies a day. I mean, Arthur does—not Mr. Tibbs.” Oh, why can’t I just stop talking?
“Tibbs!” A man in the corridor called out. “I demand to know what’s happening!”
Taking advantage of the distraction, Millicent took possession of the bag. Mr. Clark’s fingers released the pillow slip and curled around hers for a mere breath. “Stop shaking.
“At the rate you’re supposedly freeing him, he’ll still be stuck in it when we dock in New York.” He paced away and returned with the knife. “Hold him still.”
Clutching the little boy to her bosom, Millicent inched backward, and Arthur let out another loud wail.
“Hush, son. Daddy is here.”
To her amazement, the little boy drew in a few choppy breaths, but he stopped hollering. “Sit down, Miss Fairweather.” Mr. Clark didn’t really have to give the order. The moment the knife came close to her charge, her knees turned to jelly. Next to Arthur, the pocket knife looked like Goliath’s sword. Teasing the tip of it into a knot proved impossible, so Mr. Clark repositioned the blade beneath the strap and sliced clean through.
His big hands stilled just before he cut through a second knot. “Must you do that?”
She loosened her hold ever so slightly.
“That’s not what I meant. You’re praying.”
Heat suffused her cheeks. She hadn’t realized she’d been speaking aloud.
“Where did you learn to tie knots like this?”
“While attempting to braid my hair as a child.” She bit her lip. Embarrassment washed over her—for both her inane babbling and because Millicent realized her hair hung in a thick braid down her back. She was positively indecent.
Mr. Clark focused on the job and the last strap fell free. His big hands delved into the white life vest and curled around his son. Arthur wiggled and screeched with happiness.
“I fear your son is a bit too wound up to go straight back to sleep.”
Mr. Clark gave her an assessing look. “So you don’t hold with discipline and routine?”
“Indeed I do. Then again, when the extraordinary happens, one can scarcely expect ordinary behavior from a child so young.” She took Arthur from his father, then stooped to pick up the pillowcase. As she straightened up, her braid swung over her shoulder. Millicent tried to console herself with the fact that she’d managed to pull on her clothes. The best thing to do was ignore her inappropriate presentation and hope Mr. Clark would, as well.
But then he reached over and flipped the braid behind her. Just as he finished the action, Mr. Clark’s hand froze. Immediately shoving his hands into his pockets, he said in a brusque tone, “Sorry. Arthur pulls—pulled . . .”
She watched as embarrassment heated his face, revealing a chink in his usually reserved, composed nature. Wanting to rescue him, Millicent filled the silence. “It’s a wonder all adults aren’t bald from babies snatching handfuls of our hair. If babies weren’t so sweet, I’d suspect they do it on purpose because they’re jealous we have more hair than they. Only I can’t say that about little Arthur. I mean, he’s sweet. It’s just that he’s not jealous. He has no reason to be. Your son has a lovely head of hair.” I’m babbling like a fool. What is wrong with me?
Pointing at what she held, Mr. Clark asked, “What’s in that?”
Millicent looked down. Oh dear mercy. The hem of her shirtwaist hung askew, having been buttoned unevenly. If that wasn’t bad enough, she hoped in the dim light her boss wouldn’t notice that she’d put her skirt on inside out. Jerking the pillowcase upward to cover those flaws, she said, “Lifeboats can’t possibly be supplied with nappies. Speaking of which, I’m sure Arthur needs a dry one.”
Mr. Clark took the pillowcase. Brows shot toward his hairline. “How many nappies did you put in here?”
“All of them. It isn’t all that many. Mr. Tibbs has most of them to launder. He goes through seven or eight nappies a day. I mean, Arthur does—not Mr. Tibbs.” Oh, why can’t I just stop talking?
“Tibbs!” A man in the corridor called out. “I demand to know what’s happening!”
Taking advantage of the distraction, Millicent took possession of the bag. Mr. Clark’s fingers released the pillow slip and curled around hers for a mere breath. “Stop shaking.
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