Unsuited

Chapter One

1884 Newport Rhode Island...

"Someone here to see you, sir."

Sir?

Wincing at Mrs. Walsh's studied formality, Baylen Abbot lifted his gaze from his treasured copy of The Wall Street Journal. "If that's the landscape applicant out there, he's too dang early for his appointment."

"How in blue blazes should I know who's out there, early arrival or not?" Just itching for a fight, his so-called "housekeeper" stuck her head inside the room, her silvery curls bobbing with menace.

At him.

Nothing new there.

"And do you know why I don't know who's out there, Bay?"

"Reckon I don't, ma'am." But he had a sinking feeling Mrs. Walsh was about to tell him.

"I don't know who's out there, Bay, because you don't tell me everything that goes on around here. That's why."

And, so, there it was - the bee in Mrs. Walsh's bonnet. In this instance, that bonnet was an imported Belgium lace mop cap she couldn't wait to try on for size. The novelty of her new position in his household must've already worn off because that there housekeeper's cap was nowhere to be seen now.

"Now, that's more like it, ma'am. Your cheery disposition of late has given me real cause for concern."

"Ha-ha. Very funny, Bay. You don't like how I fulfill my duties around here? Answer your own fancy front door from now on."

"Wait. Ain't you the one who elected to act as housekeeper once we moved into this here Newport estate rather than retire to a nice easy chair with your feet up like I suggested?"

Her hands landed smack dab in the middle of her hips. "What of it if I did?"

"Only this - the responsibility of the housekeeper is to meet and greet guests as they arrive at the door. Ain't that so, ma'am? " Bay paused, giving her chance for rebuttal.

She reflected on this for 'bout half a second, then lit into him, "What of it?"

"Only this - if guarding that dang entrance ain't what you wanted to do this summer, why insist upon taking on the charge in the first place?"

"To keep my eye on things, that's why. Plus those black silk uniforms I ordered from that Parisian couturier suckered me right in. The color goes so nice with my peaches-and-cream complexion, don't you think, Bay?" Her strong jaw leading the way, Mrs. Walsh struck a pose.

"You'd make a gunnysack look good, ma'am, and yes, you do look lovely. Then again, you always do, with or without that dang cap." Bay flashed some teeth, giving Mrs. Walsh what he hoped would pass as a mollifying smile.

No such luck. The woman was on a roll this time. As usual, he must've said the wrong thing. Consequently, a shitload of trouble was his new address.

Bay tucked his chin protectively under. Some habits die hard, like ducking a right hook during a boxing match when he knew he was in for a good clouting.

"As to my answering the entryway door, sonny-boy - "

Bay's swallow went down hard. "Yes, ma'am?"

"I can't answer chimes that have yet to ring, now can I?"

Question posed, she gave a disdainful sniff that sent her new diamond-studded spectacles - the ones he insisted on getting for her, the ones she swore up and down she didn't need but couldn't see a blamed thing without - aquiver.

Going aquiver right alongside those bifocals, Bay made the safest reply he could come up with on such short notice. "Guess not, ma'am."

"You're not listening to me, lad. Your attention is divided. And you know why that is?"

Oh, he did. He really did. But Mrs. Walsh was spoiling for a fight so why ruin her fun? "Why don't you tell me why, Mrs. Walsh? You know how much I enjoy hearing you speechify."

"Your attention is divided on account of that rag you're studying. And here you're supposed to be on a wife-finding mission for the summer, are you not?"

Another dang question. Was there a right or wrong answer or could he play possum and ride this one out?

Though replying was plumb loco, he decided to take a shot at it. The way he figured, he had a 50/50 chance of saying what Mrs. Walsh wanted to hear.

Then, Bay recollected who was scowling at him.

With Mrs. Walsh, no matter what he said, he was going down for the count. "I extrapolate future investments from this rag's financial figures, which I can't follow as closely as I'd like owing to a certain someone coercing me into finding myself a bride." He blew that certain someone a noisy kiss.

In return, Mrs. Walsh glared at him. "You want to extrapolate? Go extrapolate social dates off that pile of calling cards catching dust out there in your fancy-pants foyer. Furthermore..."

Bay slumped lower in the saddle. Or, in this case, his chair's velvet seat cushion. Sure as shootin', he was in for it now. Whenever Mrs. Walsh added a furthermore, all hope of a quick redemption was gone. He was paying the fiddler for definite on this one.

"...I'm blasted sick and tired of taking household directions from you, laddie-boy. What does a man know about running a house? I want to answer to a woman - your wedded wife."

He snorted. "As if you've ever answered to anyone in your whole dang life, Mrs. Walsh. Why would this marriage you've planned for me change all that?"

Pulling a pout, she approached.

Hanging onto his precious newspaper for dear life - lest it got ripped to shreds by the wild gesturing of a certain someone - Bay crossed his long legs one over the other at the ankle and moved his favorite Western style boots to safety. Mrs. Walsh had an odd habit of stomping her feet when she got real upset and his old-as-the-hills footwear wouldn't stand up to any freak accidents.

Mrs. Walsh waved a gnarled finger at Bay's face. "Listen up, lad. Study those silly calling cards. Then find yourself a snooty Newport lady and get busy procreating! You'll never find yourself a bride if you don't start attending these highfalutin' dances that pass as Newport society. Quit holding out on me, hear? Before year's end, I expect to cradle your bouncing baby in my arms. I don't have much time left. At my advanced age, I could croak at any minute, you know."

Tears sprang to his eyes. Even the thought of losing this sweet woman had him all choked-up. "You know I can't dance worth spit, ma'am. Dang frightening those turns and steps and dips and such. They waltz at them there balls."

"If you aim on keeping your own balls intact, better learn the waltz fast. Besides, that's just an excuse. You danced around your opponents aplenty when you boxed. Now cease arguing with me and go see what your applicant is up to outside, My Baylee."

My Baylee. And just like that, he was a goner.

Only Mrs. Walsh had ever called him so. Certainly he'd never belonged to anyone else. And positively, no one but no one had the nerve to refer to him by a nickname, especially not to his face, unless it was "Cowboy Killer" or the like during a street brawl. This frowning and scolding woman, however, had called him whatever she danged-well pleased since the wild fighting days of his youth.

Lest she give him what-for, Bay bit back a smile of fond remembrance. Those who thought him a street tough back then had never run into a steamed Mrs. Walsh on her way home from an unsatisfactory trip to market hunting down grub for the wealthy household where they both worked as domestic servants.

Talk about tough? Now, that was tough.

No one struck fear in his heart as she had in his boyhood and continued to do now that he was nigh on to thirty-five.

The woman did not suffer anyone's bullshit gladly, especially not his. And that's the way he liked it, and had since boyhood. She kept him from going off the rails.

"Give it here, sonny-boy." She held out a hand.

With a meek nod and a polite "Yes, ma'am," Bay folded the financial section of the Wall Street Journal he'd been analyzing, making sure the columns of figures lined up exactly, before handing the newsprint over. Then, he clutched the arm of his leather library chair.

Not half-bad furnishings for a wild young'un who'd spent some of his checkered past in a ranch's bunkhouse out West. Even better for a snot-nosed hoodlum who'd started out brawling in the slums of New York City.

Speaking of noses...Bay wrinkled his.

As a boy, he'd always wanted a quarter horse. Ownership, of course, was an impossible dream for someone such as himself. Now that he owned several prize-winning stallions, he rose every morning at the crack of dawn to take one out for a ride. Rather than pass their grooming off to a stable boy, he did it himself. As a result, one whiff of his person told Bay he stank to High Heaven. And what with the applicant's early arrival, it was too late for him to wash up and change out of his old riding duds into something proper and businesslike.

Goldang it! No help for it, he'd just have to interview the applicant in smelly stable attire.

No suit, no cravat, and wearing boots that had seen better days equaled him taking a peevish turn. "Like I already said, Mrs. Walsh, if that's my applicant out there, he's early. This Marty Somebody-or-other - "

"Brown," Mrs. Walsh supplied. "Marty Brown. Remember you showed the application to me?"

He shrugged. "Whatever he's called, his early arrival has me entertaining grave concerns about hiring him on."

Rumpled and odiferous and some peeved, Bay rose from the chair, his filthy boots soiling the library's newly polished parquet floor as he stood.

"Mrs. Walsh," Bay said over his broad shoulder as he left the room, "when the applicant does finally ring the door chimes, show him to my office. I'll await his arrival in there. With the windows open to rid the room of my stench."

Bay checked his watch again as he crossed the foyer's imported Italianate floor, the rundown heels of his riding boots clicking as he went. He picked up his leather Stetson hat off the table where he'd tossed it on the way into the house and placed it back on his head.

At times, he found himself regretting the fancy-pants entryway, an architectural feature he'd insisted upon having installed when he'd commissioned the building of this "summer cottage" two years earlier. Everything here was for show, designed to impress not for comfort. Though he hated everything about the place, he had a master plan for his future from which he dared not stray.

"Don't hold an early arrival against your applicant," Mrs. Walsh called after him. "Usually, there are good reasons behind what people do. Keep that in mind during the interview."

Exasperated by his inability to turn Mrs. Walsh down for anything, including making him over into a better man, Bay glanced overhead, where a circle of diapered cherubs looked like they were performing some kind of strange ribbon dance around the twelve-foot high coffered ceiling.

Why the Sam Hill had he ever ordered that particular picture painted? A fella, namely him, could trip over his own two left feet trying to figure it out.

Bay blew out an annoyed breath. The same as the cherub picture over his fool head, this interview was a mistake. He should've had the groundskeeper see to all the dang hiring questions. That was what he should've done. What did a ruffian like him, born and bred in the gutter, know of fancy gardens?

But saying landscapes were wrought with highly personal choices, Mrs. Walsh had insisted he grant this Marty Brown fella a personal interview for the landscape artist position, whatever the heck that was, and so here he was, a busy man, taking time out of his busy day to ask a series of questions on a subject about which he knew absolutely nothing and cared about even less.

"Tarnation," he said, half to himself and half to Mrs. Walsh, who was still looking after him as she'd done since his boyhood. "Where'd the applicant go? This landscape artist can't seem to find the front doorbell, no way, no how."

"Miss Brown just went around to the back of the house."

Bay stopped dead in his tracks. "Hold up there! Mrs. Walsh, did you just say Miss Brown?"

"Your appointment is with a female."

"How so is she a female?"

"The usual way, Bay."

"Dang humorous, Mrs. Walsh. Kindly spell it out for me."

"Her wool trousers are baggy all over except at the seat, where their tightness emphasizes characteristically female hips. I suspect the purpose of her oversized tweed shirt is to minimize an unbound bosom of sum and substance. I wager her lumpy tweed cap disguises a thick head of golden hair, a marked contrast to her dark arching brows and thick, sweeping lashes. All name your applicant an uncommon beauty, which is most likely why she dressed in male disguise for the interview. And I can't bring myself to blame her for doing so."

Bay scratched his ear. "Let me think on this turn of events for a spell."

"Women do not have it easy when seeking employment. They're often preyed upon by lecherous men, especially those women involved in domestic work. I'm not telling you something you don't already know."

Bay did know, and all too well. Having worked in domestic service of a sort, both before and after he went out West, he'd seen some things involving defenseless females, the course of which he'd always stepped in and interrupted with his fists.

Even as a boy, he'd been on the huge side, with a chip-on-his-shoulder to match his stature. He'd been let go from a few places here and there along the way - before Mrs. Walsh took him in hand and wrangled him a position where she was employed. Not that her influence on him worked all the time. He still beat some nasty types to a pulp when it was called for. He didn't like when women were disrespected.

"You spoke of..." He coughed.

"What? Spit it out, sonny-boy."

Heat rose up in his tanned cheeks. "Miss Brown's unbound bosom."

Mrs. Walsh snorted loud enough to beat the band. "What a Nervous Nellie prude you are, Bay!"

He let that pass in favor of asking about something that bothered him about all this. "You never went outside, ma'am, so how'd you come by that there information about my applicant?"

"I lifted the lace curtain and peeked out - that's when I noticed her scurrying out back."

He sighed. "The all-male landscape crew sure won't appreciate a woman bossing them."

"Then, I'll just go and send the scullery lad for the steward. Henry is mending harnesses behind the kitchen. He'll escort her off the property." She paused. "Or you can do the right thing, Bay, and find out for yourself what motivates Miss Brown's present desperation."

"Now hold on there a second." He frowned. "Did you say desperation?"

"I saw your applicant's face when she rushed by the front porch. She wore a strained expression. Henry of course will treat her as a trespasser here and, strictly speaking, she isn't, is she? After all, you granted her an interview. Done under false pretenses perhaps, but all the same..."

Mrs. Walsh shrugged. "As I said - sometimes there are reasons behind what people do. Nevertheless, my loyalty remains with you. Forewarned is forearmed, and all that. If Miss Brown turns out to be a conniver, she won't hoodwink you now. On the other hand..."

Bay groaned to himself. "Go on, ma'am."

"I firmly believe women should be accorded the same opportunities as their male counterparts - if they prove themselves capable of doing the work. That might also help to explain her masculine apparel and the mix-up over the shortened version of her name, which I now believe is most likely Martha in long-form."

"See! Now that there's another cheat."

Mrs. Walsh tapped her toe. "Knowing her true gender, would you have called her in for the interview?"

"I ain't got nuthin' against hiring on a female. You know I ain't never set much store by any of that kind of nonsense. Tell you what - I'll handle this. Like you said, she's must be desperate if she's trying to hoodwink me. Pulling a stunt like this - masquerading as a different gender and all - makes me curious about what's up with her. Then, again, I was once desperate too, before I happened upon you on the city streets all those years ago."

She nodded. "I well remember."

"It was a hopeless kind of feeling I had back then. Figuring I had nothing left to lose, I went and landed myself in a whole mess of trouble. And yet, not giving a hoot about my appearance, you took me by the filthy scuff of my neck and dragged me back where you worked and found me a place there. You fed me kitchen scraps like a stray cat at the door of the servant's entrance. You were so dang tough. Made me work for that handout afterwards too, cleaning boots. No charity from you."

"You needed none. You were a hard worker even back then. That's what got you hired."

"Ha! You put in a good word for me."

Mrs. Walsh smiled at his trip down memory-lane. "There was an opening in the stable. And you mentioned horses were something you wanted to learn about."

"Right. And I wanted to learn how to make a bundle of greenbacks too. Too birds-one stone, as it turned out. The financier who owned that there New York City mansion where we both worked took a shine to me and taught me all about investments. I'll never be able to repay you for seeing I had that lucky break."

Mrs. Walsh smiled over at him in what might've passed for fondness. Or dyspepsia. Hard to tell at times.

"You already have paid me back, my Baylee. You already have," she repeated. "Now do the right thing by this woman. Judge her on her merits, not by her gender or what came before."

"Yes, ma'am," he said and hightailed it out the door.