And then she saw him take in the basket and its contents. And the outrage it sparked.
"Miss Maddux, I was expecting a maiden!"
"And I, sir, was expecting a gentleman!"
A shocked silence ensued as each glared at the other, then Megan turned her back on Mr. Bristol and raised her arm to summon a porter.
"Hrmmm, uhm," he cleared his throat, "perhaps you have an explanation for this, erm, uh . . ." His voice sounded plaintive and Megan felt herself waver from her own outrage. She turned back to him.
"You're right. I had no opportunity to write to you about the child before I left. But this is hardly the place for extended discussion." She glanced around at the few remaining passersby who quickly averted their heads as if they hadn't been gawping at the evident disagreement being enacted before them.
Mr. Bristol pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and mopped his forehead.
"No, no, this will not do. It will not do at all." Seeing the porter approach he nodded to the man abruptly and pointed toward the trunk. "Please assist the lady with her things. My buggy is just over there," he pointed with his chin. Then, giving a stiff bow, he offered Miss Maddux his arm.
"One moment, Sir," she replied, dipping her head slightly, then turning back to her luggage she secured the basket over her free arm before resting the other hand lightly on his extended appendage. The babe remained asleep.
Silence reigned as Mr. Bristol neatly handled his equipage, conveying them a scant few blocks from the station over dusty roads. The town wasn't much to look at. There were a few wide streets with a fair amount of commerce, mostly consisting of what Megan took to be ore wagons, based on Mr. Bristol's descriptions in his letters.
Those letters had been rather sweet and Mr. Bristol had sounded quite lonely. It was that, finally, that had convinced her to come west. But now?
“Perhaps you would care to share why you were so shockingly late?”
He blanched slightly, realizing his reaction had prevented him from apologizing for his extreme tardiness.
“Indeed, it was unavoidable, but I beg you will accept my sincere regrets that I was not on hand to greet you as you stepped down from the train.” He deftly shifted the reins into one hand as he reached into his breast pocket to withdraw a handkerchief, with which he proceeded to mop his brow. He cast his eyes briefly toward her before returning his attention to his driving and both hands to the reins.
“There was . . . an incident.” He paused.
She waited.
“And?” she finally prompted.
“And,” another glance, “there was an attempted holdup of the stagecoach,” he sighed. “One man was injured, but not before he shot his assailant. I had to wait until the sheriff’s deputy arrived.”
“Is this sort of thing common?”
He cleared his throat uncomfortably. “It is not unknown, but I wouldn’t necessarily call it common . . .
“Ah, here we are.” He brought the conveyance to a stop in front of a trim house of modest size, compared with hers in Philadelphia, but clearly larger than its neighbors. Looping the reins, he quickly descended and walked around in front of the horse, absently patting its head as he came around to help her descend.
The front door had opened and out spilled an ample woman dressed in a brightly-colored, flowing gown of an unusual cut, and a young man of no more than ten or twelve years, perhaps a bit older than Toby. Both had the tan complexion she’d seen on a number of people as they drew south and who, Johnson had explained, were of Spanish descent, but intermixed with the native Indian tribes, which produced the duskier hue. The Spanish, and then the Mexicans, had held all of this land for centuries before the United States had acquired it by force of arms or purchase.
This, thought Megan, must be the housekeeper, Señora Suarez, about whom Mr. Bristol had written. The woman hurried up, nearly knocking Mr. Bristol aside, and raised her arms to Megan.
“¡Ay, mira! ¡Qué bebé, tan bonita! Te la quitaré.” The Spanish was rapid, but Megan thought she’d said something like, Oh, look, what a pretty baby; let me take her from you.
“Muchas gracias, señora,” Megan replied, handing down the basket.
“¿Usted habla español? ¡Qué bueno!” (You speak Spanish? How wonderful!)
“Solo un poquito, lo siento.” (I’m sorry, only a little.)
“I know you said you had learned Spanish but I didn’t realize you were so proficient. You will have to teach me!” Mr. Bristol reached up his hand to assist her from the carriage.
“Well, I clearly have to work on my accent, and she was speaking so rapidly I was having trouble following, but, yes, I’d be delighted to help you!”
Camellia had awoken when the carriage stopped but had become somewhat accustomed to travel, so did not object to being swooped through the air and scooped out of her basket. Her eyes were caught by the large earbobs on Señora Suarez, and her hands reached up to grab. Laughing delightedly, the woman moved her head back and grabbed the baby’s hands in her own before planting a fat kiss on her forehead.
“Miguel take el equipaje to rooms for you. You no tell me bebé.” Speaking rapidly in Spanish to Miguel, who nodded several times, she turned back to her employer. “Señor Bristol, señora, you come. Mi hermana have bebé, she feed.”
She started toward the door and realized they hadn’t started to move.
“You come now!”
Megan looked at her fiancé with a slight frown puckering her brows, as she followed Sra. Suarez.
“I’m not sure, but I think your housekeeper
