Heaven Sent Read online

  HEAVEN SENT

  Alice Duncan

  Heaven Sent

  Copyright © 2001 by Alice Duncan

  All rights reserved.

  Published 2001 by Berkley Publishing Corp.

  A Jove book

  Digital edition published July 24, 2012

  No part of this publication may be reproduced in any form whatsoever without written permission from the author. All rights reserved.

  This is a work of fiction. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  Visit www.aliceduncan.net

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  Prologue

  Santa Angelica, California, August 1897

  Miss Callida Prophet finished her simple supper, washed her dishes, and sat in her late father’s comfortably padded rocking chair. Monster, her aptly named black cat, jumped onto her lap as soon as he figured she was set for the evening and commenced purring.

  With no more thought than she might have given to watering a flower, Callie opened the letter little Becky Lockhart had addressed to her mother in heaven. Tampering with the U.S. Mail was a felony but Callie, rural postal carrier for Santa Angelica, California„ wasn’t worried. All Callie cared about was that, by reading and answering Becky’s letters to her dead mama, she might be helping the poor girl cope with her terrible loss.

  Anyhow, Mr. Wilson, the Santa Angelica postmaster, had sanctioned Callie’s intention to respond to Becky’s letters. The entire town of Santa Angelica knew how huge a blow the loss of Anne Lockhart had been to Anne’s daughter.

  Dear Mama, had been written in Becky’s firm, though somewhat lopsided printing.

  I miss you lots. Papa dint come down to brekfist today. He dint eat his dinner yesterday. I miss you. I miss Papa. He says he will hire a nany for me. Is a nany like a mama? I want a kitty or a puppy.

  Love, Becky

  The word “nany” gave Callie pause until she realized Becky had been trying to write “nanny.”

  “So. He’s hiring a nanny for his child, is he?”

  Callie didn’t know what to think about that. Becky’s letters told her what she’d already guessed: Becky missed her mother terribly. Worse, she missed her father, though he still resided in the house in which Becky lived. But Becky’s father, the rich Mr. Aubrey Lockhart, seemed to have become mired in grief somewhere along the road leading from his wife’s illness and death to the present. He was wallowing in the slough of despondency to this day, a year later. He’d clearly withdrawn from his daughter, who needed him now more than ever.

  Often when she read Becky’s letters to her mother in heaven, Callie wished she could shake Mr. Aubrey Lockhart until his teeth rattled and his brain started functioning again.

  Callie knew exactly what Becky was going through because she’d lost her own mother when she was six years old, the same age as Becky. But Callie, unlike Becky, had had two wonderful sisters, a compassionate older brother, and a loving father to comfort her.

  Poor Becky sometimes wrote about how nice the Lockhart housekeeper, Mrs. Granger, was, but the only messages her letters ever contained about her father were that he was hiding out somewhere in his own personal hell and ignoring Becky. She didn’t use those words, of course, but Callie could read between the lopsided lines.

  And that, in a nutshell, was the reason Callie had started answering Becky’s letters to heaven with letters of her own and signing them “Mama.” Somebody had to pay attention to a little girl’s loneliness and distress. Somebody needed to reassure her that her mother had loved her beyond anything. Somebody had to persuade the child that life could be good, even when one did lose the person one loved hest in the world. And, since Becky’s father didn’t seem inclined to interrupt his own selfish suffering to offer assistance to his daughter, Callie tried her best to do the job for him.

  “Stupid man,” Callie grumbled. It shouldn’t take a genius to understand that he and Becky could be of enormous help to each other in coming to terms with Mrs. Lockhart’s death.

  Anne Lockhart, the mama Becky missed so much, had been sick for a long time, suffering from some sort of wasting illness that had eaten her up inside and sapped her strength until she’d at last been confined to her bed. She’d been the talk of the small village of Santa Angelica for almost two years before her ultimate demise. She was still talked about, with sad shakes of heads and dolorous sighs.

  The whole town had mourned her death. Most Santa Angelicans had attended her funeral, Callie among them. Anne Lockhart had, by all reports, been a truly good person.

  Everything Callie had ever heard about Anne bespoke a generous, gentle, good-natured, loving woman who had adored her husband and daughter. Surely she wouldn’t want them to suffer like this from her death. She would especially hate it that Mr. Lockhart had forsaken his daughter just when she needed him most.

  Callie sat in the chair, stroking Monster, and wondering if there wasn’t something she could do for Becky. Something more than answering her letters to heaven. Becky’s father was beyond Callie’s reach, so she’d never be able to tell him to his face that she thought he was an idiot to retreat from his own daughter. Still, there might be something . . .

  Her gasp of insight startled Monster into lifting his head and scowling at her. A stunning—no, a brilliant—idea had occurred to her. She wasn’t sure she dare try it.

  “But why shouldn’t I, Monster? After all, I’m perfectly qualified for the position. Besides, what do I have to lose?”

  Monster evidently didn’t know because he didn’t answer. He did resume purring after a few seconds, though, so Callie guessed he approved. She lifted Monster gently off her lap and set him on the rocking chair as she went to the desk to pen a response to Becky’s letter.

  My darling Becky, I hope you get your kitty or your puppy. A little girl needs a pet to play with. And then, when all the grown-up people around you are busy, you could talk to your pet. Pets are good for that. I hope your papa hires a nice nanny to take care of you, dear. He loves you very much. And so do I.

  Love, Mama

  It irked Callie to tell Becky that her father loved her, but she knew Becky needed to read it. And the man probably did love his daughter. That he was unable to tear himself away from his own unhappiness and demonstrate his affection was not to his credit, but it didn’t mean he didn’t love his child.

  As she folded the letter and sealed it, Callie turned and murmured to the sleeping cat, “Well, Monster, it looks like I’m going into another line of work.”

  Monster only purred more loudly.

  Chapter One

  Aubrey Lockhart sat with his head in his hands, staring at his desk blotter, wishing he were dead. It wasn’t an uncommon pose for Aubrey, and it certainly wasn’t an uncommon wish. He’d got into the habit of doing both somewhere between the onset of Anne’s illness and her death. He was only adhering to tradition.

  He sighed heavily. Why had this happened to him? Why? Had he irked the gods so much that they’d decided to punish him? Why couldn’t they have taken him instead of Anne? Aubrey didn’t think he’d mind dying. Hell, he’d greet death with open arms, if that was the only way to see Anne again. But that would be even more unfair to-Becky than he was already being.

  He felt very guilty about Becky. He knew he
ought to be holding her, talking to her, reading to her, going for walks with her, as he used to do. Before Anne left them.

  But now, every time he saw Becky, he saw Anne. Becky had Anne’s bright blue eyes and peaches-and-cream coloring. Becky’s hair was lighter than Anne’s had been, but that was only because she was so young. When she grew up, she’d be the very image of her mother.

  No. Aubrey couldn’t bear being around Becky. For one thing, she brought Anne’s loss into sharp focus, which was excruciating. Worse, he couldn’t quell a new fear that if he loved Becky too much the gods would take her, too.

  “Ass.” Aubrey had also become accustomed to calling himself names, much as he’d become accustomed to basking in his unhappiness. Both behaviors were habit with him now, not unlike his habit of breathing. Or his habit of avoiding his daughter, who didn’t deserve it.

  He shoved his chair away from his desk, let his head loll back, and stared at the ceiling.

  “Why can’t I just get over it?” he asked himself, not for the first, or even the hundredth, time. Anne had been dead a year last week. He shouldn’t still have this terrible ache in his chest. He shouldn’t still feel this awful emptiness, this deep hole in his life. He shouldn’t—

  A sharp knock at the library door jerked him upright in his chair. “Yes?”

  The door opened without a creak. Mrs. Granger, his housekeeper, wouldn’t allow hinges to creak in her house, God bless her.

  Figgins, Aubrey’s butler, entered the room slowly and said, “Mr. Lockhart, there’s an applicant in the drawing room.”

  “An applicant?” Aubrey’s mind, a cumbersome organ determined to be of as little use as possible to him lately, finally paid attention. “Oh. An applicant. For the position advertised in the Santa Angelica Post, I presume?”

  “Yes, sir.” Figgins, who Aubrey sometimes thought looked as though he’d been stuffed by an exceptionally talented taxidermist, came forward. He looked much more regal than any of the Lockharts ever had, and he bore a silver tray in his white-gloved hand. A small card rested on it.

  With a sigh, Aubrey picked up the card. “Miss Callida Prophet.”

  “Yes, sir. I had her remain in the drawing room.”

  “Right.” Aubrey shoved his chair back farther, rose, plucked his coat from where he’d flung it over the sofa, and accompanied Figgins out of the library, shrugging into the coat as he went.

  He was glad he’d thought of hiring a nanny. Since he was of no earthly good to Becky, he ought at least to hire someone who would be. Guilt gnawed at his insides, nibbling at the edges of the blotch of grief residing there. But, hell’s bells, he couldn’t take care of a child. He was a man. Becky needed a woman to care for her. Some gray-haired granny perhaps. Maybe an old maiden aunt who missed taking care of her now grown-up nieces and nephews.

  Aubrey could picture the two of them in his mind’s eye: Becky, smiling happily as she walked hand-in-hand with a small, graying, elderly woman wearing a silly flowered hat and, perhaps, spectacles. They’d both be smiling. Maybe talking to each other in low voices, exchanging the innocent secrets of the very old and the very young. The nanny would probably walk with a cane. Or carry one of those frilly old-fashioned parasols. She would be like a grandmother to Becky.

  Yes, indeed. Once he found the right nanny for her, Becky would finally get the love and care he knew she needed. Aubrey had begun to smile slightly by the time he reached the drawing room.

  His smile died when he saw the applicant. Before he could stop himself, he barked, “Who on earth are you?”

  Callie Prophet had been staring at the portrait of Anne Lockhart hanging over the fireplace, thinking the artist had captured Anne’s fragile beauty and air of gentle humanity very well. She didn’t hear the door open at her back.

  She heard Aubrey’s question, though, loud and clear.

  Wheeling around, her heart pounding like a war drum, she saw him standing at the door, Mr. Figgins a few feet behind him. Mr. Lockhart glowered at her. Mr. Figgins merely looked aloof.

  Aubrey’s brusqueness fired her temper, as she’d done nothing to deserve it. “I,” she said in a cold, dignified tone, “am Miss Callida Prophet. Didn’t you receive my calling card?” She stared pointedly at the fingers of his right hand, which had the card in a death grip.

  “Of course, I got your card. Figgins said you came to apply for the job as nanny to my daughter.”

  She made herself smile. “Yes, I have, Mr. Lockhart.” She narrowed her eyes and squinted. “You are Mr. Lockhart, correct?” If he didn’t have enough manners to introduce himself properly, she’d just ask him.

  Aubrey jerked and appeared disconcerted. “Er, yes. Yes, I’m Mr. Lockhart. Please be seated, Miss Prophet.” He waved at a fatly stuffed, comfortable-looking chair squatting beside an equally chubby, comfortable-looking sofa.

  Callie chose instead to seat herself in a prim, straight-backed chair next to a piecrust table. She was, after all, applying for the position as nanny to this man’s child. She wasn’t a guest in his house.

  Aubrey’s frowning gaze took in this gesture. He turned to his butler. “You may leave us, Figgins. Tell Mrs. Granger to bring some tea.”

  “That’s not necessary, Mr. Lockhart.”

  Callie could have bitten her tongue as soon as the words left her lips. It wasn’t so much that Aubrey scowled at her for countermanding one of his orders; it was because she didn’t want any blasted tea and resented it being foisted upon her. She also knew it wasn’t her place to say so. She waved a hand in an airy gesture. “I beg your pardon. Bring on the tea, Mr. Figgins.”

  She’d known Figgins ever since he’d moved with the Lockharts from San Francisco to Santa Angelica almost ten years ago. According to people in the village, he’d worked for the Lockhart family in San Francisco since Aubrey was a boy. Also according to village gossip, Figgins looked a good deal more stuffy than he really was.

  Figgins bowed deeply and scooted off on his silent butler feet. Callie watched him go and wished she’d held firm on the tea issue. She didn’t really want it, and with Figgins’s departure she felt as if she were marooned on a desert island with a hungry shark lurking not far offshore.

  But that was silly. She sat up straighter, laid her little green reticule in her lap, and folded her hands on top of it. She gazed with what she hoped passed for serenity at Aubrey Lockhart.

  His gaze was anything but serene. He hadn’t yet stopped frowning at her. His elegant black trousers and morning coat didn’t do much to relax her, either. He looked rich and remote. And miles and miles above her socially.

  With a mental smack on the side of her head, Callie reminded herself that she lived in the egalitarian United States of America, and that things like wealth and social standing shouldn’t matter. The United States didn’t distinguish its citizens by class or caste.

  Unfortunately, the recognition of her social equity didn’t help to calm her jitters. She knew her appearance was at least adequate, and probably a good deal more than that. While it was true she was rather young—a mere twenty-four—it was also true that she was a mature, responsible woman, who had been fending for herself for several years. Well, three years, anyhow. She’d subdued her curly strawberry-blond hair into a tight bun and covered it with a prim straw hat adorned with one yellow flower. She’d worn her newest alpaca shirtwaist dress in a sober dark green that brought out the green in her eyes. That she’d chosen the fabric for that very reason needn’t be a consideration. The color of a nanny’s eyes was a moot point, or should be.

  Her credentials ought to be adequate, as well, if she could only stop being nervous long enough to relate them to Aubrey Lockhart. She’d graduated from college in 1893, thereby rendering her better educated than the majority of her peers.

  Thus, even though she was anxious in the face of Aubrey Lockhart’s continued owlish and unfriendly scrutiny, she knew she shouldn’t be. She was as good as anyone, and better suited to be Becky’s nanny than most, since she not on
ly possessed a college degree, but she already knew—and loved—the child. She lifted her chin to show Aubrey she wasn’t intimidated, even though she was.

  He paced the room for a minute or two, not taking his gaze from her face. She wondered if he was trying to disconcert her or if he acted like a rude bully to everyone who came calling. He stopped pacing suddenly, right in front of her.

  Staring down at her with eyes fairly radiating disapproval, he snapped, “Have you held paid employment before?”

  “I certainly have.”

  He turned as abruptly as he’d stopped, marched to the straight-backed chair on the other side of the piecrust table and sat. Good heavens, the man was precipitant.

  Laying her calling card on the table, he said, “What kind of employment?”

  Callie cleared her throat. “I’ve been the carrier on the Santa Angelica postal route for three years, Mr. Lockhart. I handle the rural route. Mr. Phi1pott delivers mail within the village limits.”

  “You’re a postman—er, woman?” Aubrey’s sooty eyebrows arched like rainbows above his dark brown eyes.

  “Yes, sir.” She wondered if she should tell him she’d met his daughter while driving her route, but decided to save this piece of information until later. She might need a weapon.

  “Do you have any education?”

  “I do. I graduated with honors from the Brooklyn, New York, Teaching Seminary for Young Ladies in June of 1893.”

  His eyes narrowed further. “Why’d you go all the way to New York to attend school?”

  As if that were any of his business. However, Callie replied to his question calmly. “My uncle is the dean of students. He recommended the college to my parents. I applied, and was granted admission.”