Christmas Pie Page 14

  “Two people?”

  Polly peered at him and was curious to notice he seemed uncomfortable, as though he’d said too much.

  “Er, yes. Another gentleman of my acquaintance plans to attend the ball.”

  Mother Francis Mary’s creaky laugh drew Polly’s attention. To the best of her recollection, she’d never heard the nun laugh before.

  “Oh, my,” the Mother Superior said, catching her breath. “I think you should both attend. Why, you even have a proper gown to wear, my dear, don’t you.” She winked at Polly. “You told me all about it. Remember?”

  Dumbfounded to be winked at by a nun, Polly murmured, “I—I—why, I guess I did.”

  Mother Francis Mary left Polly and Raymond at the gate. She chuckled all the way down the corridor, and the two of them stared after her until she was out of sight.

  Finally Polly shook herself. “Well, I’d best be getting along, Mr. Sing. Billy Peabody drives me home on Wednesday evenings, and he doesn’t like to be kept waiting.”

  Raymond laughed. “Ah, yes. Good old Billy. I suppose you’re right. I understand he gets quite cranky when things don’t happen right on schedule.”

  It was Polly’s turn to laugh. “Your understanding is absolutely correct, Mr. Sing.” She ran to Billy’s wagon. He sat hunched over his reins, his cap pulled down on his forehead, an impatient frown on his face.

  # # #

  “Well, hell, Raymond,” James said grumpily. “Why didn’t you ask her if we could give her a ride home?”

  Raymond shrugged and smiled. “You always say you don’t want anybody to know about your charitable leanings, James. I figured you’d hate it if word got out in the type-writing pool that you’re a closet philanthropist.”

  Raymond’s words brought a shudder to James’s expensively garbed shoulders. “I suppose you’re right.”

  He didn’t like it, though, and rapped on Mother Francis Mary’s door a little harder than was necessary.

  “Come in, come in, Mr. Drayton,” the tiny old nun said, swinging the door open in James’s face. “It’s a pleasure to see you. We have much to talk about.”

  “Er, yes. Thank you, Mother.”

  Mother Francis Mary waved James and Raymond onto the two chairs across from her desk. “Oh, my, yes, we do indeed have lots to discuss. I just realized you’ve not only sent us criminals, but your firm’s loveliest type-writer as well. The children all adore her.”

  James stared at the nun. Her sparkling eyes held a degree of humor he couldn’t account for. “Do they?”

  With a large sigh, Mother Francis Mary sat down and folded her leathery hands on the stack of papers she seemed to keep on her desk for the purpose. “Oh, my goodness, yes, Mr. Drayton. They do indeed love her. She’s wonderful with children. She’ll make a splendid mother one day. When the right man comes along.”

  James could have sworn the old nun winked at him.

  Chapter Eight

  On Thursday morning Polly did not have to rise early since the employees of Drayton and Associates, Attorneys at Law, were given the Thanksgiving Holiday off. With pay. It was a consideration Polly deemed one more indication that James Drayton was nothing akin to the scoundrel he liked to make people believe he was.

  She was luxuriating in bed, her thoughts tangling wistfully around memories of her chat with him the day before. All at once her blissful daydreams were shattered by a tremendous ruckus coming from the street below.

  Good Lord, it sounded as though somebody were being murdered.

  Scrambling out of bed, Polly threw on her morning wrapper and stuffed her feet into her slippers. She tore down the stairs and raced to the front door. When she threw the door open and darted outside, the sight which greeted her eyes drew forth an exclamation dismay.

  Then she burst out laughing.

  Flapping furiously through the neighborhood were at least fifty indignant geese, each one squawking up a storm. A terrified dray horse had apparently bolted and now stood, sides heaving and eyes rolling, several yards away, having managed to get its traces tangled around a picket fence. The cart itself listed at a drunken angle against the same fence.

  Ignoring both horse and fowls in favor of the poor drayman, who looked petrified and clung desperately to the almost-naked lower branches of a maple tree, lurched James Drayton’s rarely seen Philippine Tapir Hound, baying fit to kill. Its disreputable tail whipped back and forth in a whirlwind of happiness over having discovered such good sport in Polly’s neighborhood.

  “Oh, my goodness.”

  Polly dashed down the six steps and out into the street. She still wore her nightgown and robe, but was willing to sacrifice modesty for the sake of rescuing a fellow human being in distress. After all, it was Thanksgiving Day.

  “Help!” cried the drayman.

  “Come, doggie. Come here.” She added, “Good doggie,” and nearly laughed again.

  The dog turned to look at her, but all she got for her efforts was an especially big wag.

  “Get him off me!” the poor drayman hollered. “Get him off me! He’s scattered my geese all over creation, and I’ve got to get ‘em to market for Thanksgiving!”

  “I’m trying,” Polly told him, all inclination to laugh now squelched.

  For several tense minutes, she tried to persuade the dog to draw off, but the tenacious beast wouldn’t be swayed from its purpose. Every time she got the animal by the collar and tried to drag him away, he resisted. Since the dog was nearly as heavy as Polly and had twice as many feet, he won each skirmish.

  Finally, Polly put her fists to her hips and told the drayman, “I guess I’ll have to go into the house and fetch a rope. Try not to worry. I don’t think he’s really vicious.” She eyed the fellow skeptically and shook her head, knowing her recommendation was for naught. He was obviously quite worried already.

  Just as she turned to hurry back to the house, she heard a loud and enormously angry voice.

  “Dewey! Dewey! What do you think you’re doing?”

  Her spirits soared, and Polly turned on the second step to peer in the direction of the voice. Her anxiety vanished instantly when she spied James Drayton, a leash held aloft, tearing down the street. Amusement returned and, with it, her laughter.

  “Mr. Drayton, we’re so happy to see you!”

  James saw Polly on her porch steps, screeched to a halt, and nearly collapsed from shock at the foot of the stairs. He could only stare at her for a moment, speechless.

  Good Lord in heaven. He’d always been under the impression women looked their worst in the morning. Polly MacNamara belied that commonly held belief. There she stood, in her night wear and tousled from sleep, looking as serene and lovely as a Grecian goddess. Her hair, still braided for bed, captured the morning sun’s rays, perfected them, and sent them back into the world in glimmering auburn flashes. Her utterly fascinating cinnamon-colored eyes shone with humor.

  James realized he was gaping and shut his mouth. “I—I lost my dog.”

  A giggle erupted from her rosebud mouth and he gulped.

  “So I see. But I think you’d better fetch him now. He’s managed to chase that poor man up a tree and scare away all his geese.”

  Tearing his gaze away from Polly, James eyed the devastation his hound had wrought. “Oh, my God,” he muttered. “Here, Dewey!”

  As he ran over to rescue the poor drayman, he heard Polly’s laughter ripple through the air. His whole insides smiled.

  “I can’t believe you actually named that animal Dewey, Mr. Drayton!”

  James could tell she was trying to contain her giggles, and was having a hard time of it. He was glad. She was so lovely when she laughed. As he grabbed his hound by its collar he said, “It was the least I could do, Miss MacNamara. After all, Commodore Dewey was the hero of Manila Bay.”

  Another silvery laugh kissed his ears as he began to haul the hound from its prey. Dewey dug in his paws and proved recalcitrant, but James was stronger than Polly and made the hound obe
y.

  “I’m very sorry, Mister,” he told the drayman. “Please let me deal with this beast and then I’ll take care of the rest of this mess.”

  The drayman still clung to his branch, apparently unwilling to trust James’s strength and the paltry leash. James smiled sheepishly when he walked Dewey up to Polly.

  “Miss MacNamara, may I call upon your kind heart one more time? If you will take this animal inside, perhaps I can deal with the havoc he’s wrought on your formerly peaceful street.”

  “I’d be delighted to do so, Mr. Drayton,” she said just as the front door opened.

  “What is going on out here?”

  Lillian MacNamara wheeled herself onto the porch and stared incredulously at the street. When she saw James and Dewey, her eyes bugged momentarily, but she regained her composure almost immediately.

  “Good morning, Mr. Drayton.” Lillian’s voice sounded weak.

  Geese still flapped here and there. The drayman, on his feet now, wasn’t happy about the state of affairs. His glower raked James’s back, skidded over the geese, and pounced on his horse. The equine had relaxed by this time and was now occupied in devouring the unpainted pickets around which his traces were wrapped.

  Wandering geese nipped at each other and neighborhood flowers. Some, apparently of a more nervous disposition than their sisters, continued to cackle with agitation. MacNamara neighbors, alerted by the noise, peeked out from doors and windows.

  “Good morning, Mrs. MacNamara,” James said, striving for a formality he did not feel. In spite of everything, he felt just fine.

  Polly, leading the now-docile Dewey, said, “Come inside, Mother. I’ll explain everything to you while I dress.”

  “Well . . .”

  “Your daughter has come to my rescue yet again, Mrs. MacNamara,” James said gallantly. “I have some business to clean up out here, and I’ll join you soon to express my appreciation.”

  “Well, all right.” Lillian looked perfectly bewildered.

  The drayman finally found his voice. As Polly waited for her mother to precede her into the house, he cried, “Some business! Some business! You’ve got geese to round up, Mister, and no mistake!”

  “And so I shall, sir.” When the front door clicked behind Polly and his hound, James realized his voice had gone dreamy and snapped to attention. “And so I shall,” he repeated, with much more appropriate firmness. “But let’s tend to your horse first. Then we’ll see to your geese.”

  “A fine thing it is when a gent can’t even make an honest dollar on Thanksgiving.”

  Polly, peeking out the window at the mess, giggled yet again. “Oh, my, what a stir.”

  Then she turned, deposited Dewey in the hall with firm instructions to behave, and wheeled her mother to her bedroom. There she explained things while she washed up, dressed and brushed her hair. By the time she had put the last pin to her upswept hair, she heard a knock at the door, followed immediately by an intense baying as Dewey, ever alert, announced that a visitor had appeared on the porch.

  Both MacNamara ladies were laughing when Polly reached the front hallway. Holding onto Dewey’s collar for insurance, Polly opened the door to an extremely contrite James Drayton. In his gloved fist he held a creature which had, in life, been a superior example of the goose family. James presented the bird in a gesture of conciliation.

  “May I offer you a Thanksgiving goose?”

  Dewey lunged for the fowl and nearly broke Polly’s arm. She was laughing too hard to take exception.

  “Good Lord.” Very carefully, James handed Polly the deceased fowl and took over the care of his dog.

  After a few awkward moments, during which the fate of the MacNamara’s hall carpet and James’s peace offering remained in doubt, tranquility descended on the house once more. As they walked toward the pantry to deposit the goose, Mrs. MacNamara said, “We were going to have a roasted chicken from our coop out back, but this will be much more festive, Mr. Drayton. Thank you very much.”

  “There’s no need to thank me, Mrs. MacNamara. Your daughter saved the day.”

  “Actually, I wasn’t able to save much of anything. I’m afraid old Dewey is bigger than I am.”

  “And much less disciplined,” murmured James.

  He was having a hard time keeping his gaze directed at where he was going. It kept sliding over to Polly.

  “However did you solve matters with that poor man, Mr. Drayton?”

  “We managed to work out a solution satisfactory to everyone. I’m afraid his cart was badly damaged, but I’ll take care of the repairs. He managed to find a boy to fetch his brother with another cart. Fortunately the horse wasn’t injured, although the poor thing was scared to death.” He frowned. “I’m not sure about that fence, though. I suppose I should replace the pickets he ate.”

  Polly’s laughter bubbled out as though she couldn’t keep it contained, and James grinned. Lord, she was lovely. He’d had no idea the staid type-writer who looked so stiff and somber in the office could transform into this relaxed, delightful woman in her own home.

  “How did you ever make that man come to terms, Mr. Drayton?”

  “First we had to catch the geese. Then I offered him a reasonable price for the lot, and a good deal extra for his trouble. At least, he seemed happy to accept it.”

  “You bought the whole lot?” Polly turned to stare at him. “Good heavens, that must have been fifty geese! What are you going to do with fifty geese?”

  Bother. James had difficulty stifling his scowl of annoyance. He’d never let information of this nature slip out before. He must be going soft. Or daft, in the company of the enchanting Polly MacNamara.

  “There are one or two charitable organizations I know of that can use the geese, Miss MacNamara. I paid the drayman to deliver them.”

  Polly’s smile could have melted a heart of ice, and however much he chose to pretend, James’s heart was definitely not made of ice.

  “Oh, Mr. Drayton, how kind of you. I wish I’d known. There’s an organization run by the Sisters of Benevolence with which I am associated in a minor way. They operate an orphanage and two soup kitchens, and I’m sure they could use an extra goose or two.”

  “I am aware of the Sisters of Benevolence, Miss MacNamara. I sent thirty of the geese to Mother Francis Mary.”

  It would be easy, James decided, to become obnoxiously big-headed if he were to be the recipient of very many glowing looks from Polly MacNamara. At the moment, in fact, he felt almost heroic, when he knew he wasn’t any such thing. His only interest in the charities he supported was motivated by, as Mother Francis Mary had so appropriately pegged it, guilt. He returned Polly’s smile, though; he couldn’t help it.

  Lillian interrupted James’s contemplation of her daughter’s charms. “However it came about, I’m sure this goose will be just delicious, Mr. Drayton. And since you’re the provider of the feast, it seems only fair that you partake of it. Can you join us for Thanksgiving dinner, or will you be dining with your own family?”

  Dining with my own family. The words twisted bitterly through James’s middle. “Indeed, Mrs. MacNamara, I have no family with whom to dine, and I should be delighted to join the two of you.”

  He noticed that Polly’s cheeks went pink, and hoped they did so with pleasure and not mere embarrassment. When she seemed about to lodge a protest, he forestalled her with, “But what’s this about you dining on chicken? It’s Thanksgiving, ladies. Thanksgiving is a time for turkeys and geese, not chickens.”