The Problem Child (Emerson Pass Historicals 4)

“I’ve been distracted with Addie and not paying enough attention to you.” She took my face between her hands. “Should I be worried for your virtue?”

“Virtue?” I flushed, remembering our kisses.

She scrutinized me with such intensity that I had to look away. “You do know how it might look to some if they knew you were spending all this time alone with Viktor at his home.”

“I promise, Mama. It’s nothing like that. He’s the perfect gentleman.”

“Do you plan on marrying him?”

“He hasn’t asked.” I studied my hands.

“If he does?” Mama asked.

“Then I will say yes.”

She sighed with what I could clearly see was relief. “Cym, you’ve no idea how I’ve worried about you. Finding a man who understands you and doesn’t try to change you? This is a rare thing.”

“And especially for a girl like me?” I couldn’t help but laugh. She was right. That Viktor loved me was nothing short of a miracle.

“Not that. I mean, finding a man special enough for you,” Mama said. “That’s what I’ve worried about. One who would hold your interest.”

“He does hold my interest, and he makes me laugh.”

“During this life, you need to laugh as much as you possibly can,” Mama said. “The other thing I wanted to say…I’m sorry you can’t compete. I know it bothers you, and I wish the world was different.”

“But it’s not. I’ve accepted it.” Being dishonest did not come easily to me. However, I couldn’t let her know my plans or she would worry. Would she disapprove? Strangely enough, given how old-fashioned she was, I didn’t think she would. I couldn’t take the chance, though. If she didn’t want me to continue and expressed this to me, I would not be able to carry through with our plan.

“I’m proud of you,” Mama said. “Whether you win a race or not.”

“Thank you.” I hugged her quickly and tried to squelch the guilt inside me.

Later that afternoon,Addie did well with the bland potato soup Lizzie made for her. When she’d finished her bowl, I took the tray down to the kitchen. Lizzie was there with her daughter, Florence.

Lizzie greeted me with her usual cheery hello. She was kneading bread on the wood-slab island in the middle of the kitchen. Florence was at the table reading. She and Addie were the same age, but they couldn’t have looked more different. Florence was fair-skinned like her parents and as healthy as a blooming rose. With copper hair and freckles, she was lovely to look at, but heavens the girl was clumsy. She brought to mind an enthusiastic but uncoordinated Irish setter puppy. She even had the large hands and feet—ones that seemed too big for the rest of her. I suspected she would eventually grow into them, but for now they seemed to cause her a great deal of trouble, for she was always tripping or knocking items off her mother’s counters.

Not that any of her accidents caused us to love her less. She was like Fiona, impossible not to love. She’d inherited her mother’s vivacious and feisty traits and her father’s precision when it came to her studies. Lately, she’d talked often of going to college when she was done with high school. I had no doubt she would.

“Lizzie, Addie ate the whole bowl,” I said as I set the tray near the sink. “So far, she’s feeling well.” I turned, leaning my backside against the chill of the ceramic sink. “I’m much cheered about her situation.”

“I hope it remains that way,” Lizzie said. “I’m sick myself thinking about her.”

“She usually feels sick right after she eats. So we might have found at least one thing she can eat.”

Lizzie pushed back stray strands of hair that fell over her forehead with a flour-dusted forearm. “I’ve been poisoning her. Do you think it’s my spices? I’ve learned to add flavors to my bland English recipes over the years. Perhaps I’ve made her ill?”

“Lizzie, you’ve done nothing wrong. Goodness knows you’ve dedicated your life to making sure we’re all well fed.”

“I’m beside myself.” Lizzie smacked her dough like it was a naughty child.

Florence looked up from her book. “I’ve told Mummy it isn’t her fault, but you know how she is.”

“Yes, I do.” I went over to give Lizzie’s rounded shoulders a quick squeeze. “You mustn’t worry, Lizzie. Theo will figure out what’s wrong with her.”

“He told me I can only feed her one type of food at a time. How’s a person supposed to do that, I’d like to know?” Lizzie’s English accent was as thick as the day she’d arrived in America over two decades ago.

“The potato soup was a wonderful idea,” I said. “But we don’t even know if food is the problem. It might be something else making her sick.”

Florence set aside her novel and picked up a notebook instead. “I’ve got something to show you.” She scooted out of the bench seat that curved around the table with no troubles. However, as she bounded toward us, the toe of her shoe caught on the wood floor and she stumbled. I thought she was going down, but she righted herself before she tumbled over completely. Seeming to barely notice her mishap, she bounced on her tiptoes the rest of the way over to the island.

She slapped the notebook down too close to the pile of flour, causing a cloud of white dust to billow several feet over the island.

“Love, please be careful,” Lizzie said.

Ignoring her mother, Florence tapped a finger on top of the notebook. “I’ve been studying the patterns to Addie’s illness. And making notes on what she ate and the reactions.”

“What made you think to do that?” I asked.

“Theo asked me to.”

The pride in her voice touched my heart. “He’s lucky to have such a good helper.”

“Thus far, we have only two items. The broth and the soup. I’ll list them all, though, don’t worry.” She opened the notebook to show me her list. “Mummy, what did the potato soup have besides potatoes?”

“A little salt and pepper and water,” Lizzie said. “Theo told me no milk or flour until we see how she did with the potatoes.

“He said I could try bread next. No sugar in in it, though. Only my sourdough mix and flour.” Lizzie gave her dough one last ferocious knead and stuck the ball into a buttered bowl. “Nothing blander than sourdough bread.”

“We all love your freshly baked bread,” I said, trying to make her feel better. “Save a little for me?”

“You eat like a man,” Lizzie said. “I don’t know where it goes.”

“It’s all my outdoor activities,” I said.

“Addie has to get better,” Florence said as she wrote down the words: sourdough bread. “She’s my best friend.”

“She will get better. Especially with you and Theo working together.”

I was rewarded for my kind words with Florence’s smile worthy of any dog’s best tail-wagging.