“Don’t let Louisa keep my special marble,” Rory said as he deposited the few marbles he’d been able to collect into her hand.
“We’ll discuss it in the morning.”
Clara sighed as she handed over her marbles as well.
Louisa, however, remained where she stood, holding the marbles, chin raised high, her eyes daring Polly to act.
“You, too, Louisa.”
“I’m the eldest. I shouldn’t have to go to bed so early.”
“Your attitude says otherwise. I’m sure if I had more cooperation from you, then you would be rewarded by being allowed to stay up later and read in the sitting room. But clearly, from how you’re fighting with your siblings, you’re just as tired and cranky as they are.”
Louisa’s face reddened, and she opened her mouth to speak, but Polly had learned that a single look, the same she’d successfully employed dealing with the children in the Lassiter household, was enough to silence her. Even Louisa knew that the look meant her punishment would be worse if she spoke.
“Fine. But as soon as Papa returns, I will speak to him about this, and he’ll tell you how unreasonable you’re being.”
With that, Louisa set the marbles on the table and flounced off.
Polly couldn’t help the smile that curled at the edges of her lips. Every day was a battle with the Taylor children, but it seemed like each one became easier. Mostly because the children were starting to learn that while she was firm, ultimately, she was fair, and in the morning, when the marbles were divvied out again, each child would be satisfied with the results. Not completely happy, of course, but satisfied enough that they’d received their due.
In the meantime, though...she looked over at the sofa, where Isabella had curled up and fallen asleep. The girl had a knack for being able to do so whenever she felt tired and could be found sleeping in the oddest of places, as evidenced by their first meeting.
“Come along with you, then.” Polly scooped the sleeping girl up and carried her to Mitch’s bed. Their first night together, Polly learned that Isabella was prone to nightmares, and the easiest solution was to keep the small girl in bed with her. Otherwise, her cries woke the entire household, and it made everyone miserable. Polly had spent enough years with a child in her bed that she was able to quickly comfort Isabella and lull her back to sleep without much fuss.
After Polly tucked Isabella in, she went into the children’s room, where they were all in their beds, the girls in one bed, the boys in another, quilts tucked up to their chins. Thomas had already fallen asleep, and Rory seemed to be quickly on his way.
“Good night, boys,” Polly said softly, brushing their heads gently and pressing quick kisses to their hair.
Then she went to the girls’ bed. As she reached for Louisa, she was met with the usual icy glare. “Don’t you dare.”
“All right, then. Good night, Louisa.”
Polly smiled and looked down at Clara. “Good night, my sweet.” She smoothed the little girl’s hair and bent to kiss her, but Clara stopped her.
“Why do you do that?”
“Do what?”
“Tuck us in, and kiss us and then say a prayer for us?”
Polly hadn’t gotten to the prayers yet. Since the children refused to pray with her, she prayed aloud anyway and hoped that somehow her words, combined with God’s love, would reach their hearts.
“Because I care for you, and I want you to know that you’re loved.”
“You’re not our mother,” Louisa said, then rolled onto her side, putting her back to Polly.
“No, I’m not,” Polly said softly. “But it doesn’t mean I can’t love you. It doesn’t mean that God doesn’t love you.”
Clara reached up and hugged her. “None of our other nannies loved us.”
“Well, I’m not like them,” Polly said, hugging her back and kissing her on top of the head. “Now off to sleep with you, and we’ll talk more in the morning.”
Then, as she always did, she tucked the quilts firmly around the children, saying the familiar prayer her mother had always said when she tucked her in.
“May the Lord be with you, and in your dreams, show you the love He has for you, so that in the morning you wake, full of His love and everything you need for a glorious day. Amen.”
She thought she heard Louisa snort, but Clara whispered something softly, something that, if Polly had to guess, sounded an awful lot like “amen.”
The wounds these children carried were not something Polly could fix, but if they allowed Him into their hearts, the healing they needed could follow.
Polly exited the room, closing the door softly behind her. She tiptoed through the rest of their home, blowing out the lamps, then banking the fire so it would keep them warm the rest of the night. Though the spring weather was warm during the day, evenings and early mornings still held a chill that needed to be kept at bay.
Satisfied that everything was in order, Polly returned to the bedroom where Isabella slept. She quickly changed into nightclothes and snuggled in with the tiny girl. Another benefit of sharing a bed was that it was already warm when she got in.
She’d just begun to enter the hazy almost dreamlike state when a crash startled her. Polly’s heart leapt into her throat as she sat up in bed.
A scraping sound, then another crash.
Muttered words of anger.
At home, Polly would have lain in bed and prayed that Pastor Lassiter, or Will, or someone, would have dealt with it. Or that it was one of the boys, having fun. But here, alone in this place with these children, she knew it was up to her.
Hands shaking, Polly pulled her wrapper around her nightgown, then grabbed the pitcher from the dresser. It wasn’t much, but at least if the intruder got close enough, she could use it as a weapon.
“Please, Lord,” she prayed, “don’t let the intruder be armed.”
Her prayer did little to quiet the rushing sound in her ears or calm her unsteady hands.
Polly eased open the door, then peered out. A large mass lay on the ground, muttering in pain.
She held the pitcher above her head. “Who are you, and what are you doing in our home?”
For a moment, she thought about sending it crashing over the intruder’s head, which would incapacitate him long enough for her to get help, but her hesitation gave the intruder time to speak.
“Polly, it’s me, Mitch.”
Her heart continued to thunder in her chest as she lowered the pitcher, then clutched it tight against her.
“You nearly frightened me to death.”
“Why didn’t you leave a lamp lit?”
“I had no way of knowing you were coming home tonight. One would think you would have kept me apprised of your circumstances so that I had something to tell the children. Had I known you were coming, I would have been better prepared.”
“Point taken,” Mitch said, his voice sounding like he was smiling as he spoke.