Miss Spitfire by Sarah Miller Read Free Book Online Page B

away, still dripping, and flings her wet self into her father’s arms.
    I stand there, bewildered and blinking. “Meaning?
    There’s no meaning. We’re washing for supper.” He looks at my sodden shirtwaist, all the while stroking Helen’s heaving back. “Are clean hands worth so many tears from an afflicted child?” His voice carries genuine distress. For a moment I wonder if the captain himself isn’t about to cry.
    My insides curdle. I don’t know what to say.
    Without a word he picks Helen up. She wraps her legs round his waist and buries her face into his shoulder. With a snap that makes me jump, Captain Keller yanks a hand towel from the dresser top.
    â€œWe’ve seen enough tears in this house,” he mutters. In the doorway he turns, mopping Helen’s face, and says, slowly and deliberately, “Supper is
served,
Miss Sullivan.”
    Rooted to the spot, I watch him go. The soap goes slimy in my hand. Here I thought they’d be pleased, and Captain Keller acts as though I’ve done nothing but rub salt in their wounds. My lips tremble. I don’t know if it’s because of the captain’s harsh words or the sorrowful look in his eyes. Below me I can hear the scrape of the dining-room chairs on the floor as the Kellers nudge themselves up to the table. Then, an awkward silence.
    They’re waiting for me. I don’t know if I can face them, red eyed and dripping, a failure once again. I’d much rather shrink into the rocker with Helen’s doll. But if I want to keep my position, I have no choice.
    Helen’s beaten me again.
    With a heavy sigh I press my eyes into the cool elbow of my damp sleeve, then head down the stairs.

Chapter 10
    Her untaught, unsatisfied hands destroy whatever they touch.
    â€”ANNE SULLIVAN TO SOPHIA HOPKINS, MARCH 1887
    The next day I rise early, determined to make some headway. Washing for supper may not have been enough to please them, but I’ll dare the Kellers not to be impressed when they wake to find Helen dressed, combed, and washed.
    First I dress myself and creep down to the kitchen. Viny is already preparing breakfast in the half-light. “I need cake,” I tell her, “and plenty of it.”
    She gives me a dubious look. “You gonna spoil that child’s appetite,” she chides.
    I fix her with a hard stare. “The last thing I intend to do is spoil that little bully,” I inform her. “And as for her appetite, Helen’s more likely to whistle ‘Dixie’ than refuse a bite to eat.”
    Viny laughs to herself and shakes her head. “You sure right about that, Miss Annie,” she says, heading for the platter. Her laughter makes me strangely confident. I smile as she hands over a generous plateful. “I’ll bake another this afternoon.” She winks. “You keep Missy Helen from cryin’, and Cap’n won’t give you a bit a trouble.”
    I cock my head and squint to make out her expression.
    â€œI hear what I hear, is all,” she replies, turning to her biscuit dough. “You really got her washed up yesterday?”
    â€œI did.”
    â€œHumph,” she grunts, “ain’t that somethin’!”
    I can’t keep from grinning as I hurry back to my room. Helen is still asleep, so I set the cake on the floor between the dresser and her bed, then lay everything I need within reach. Dress and pinafore; stockings, high buttoned boots, and buttonhook; soap, brush, and towel. If I can wake her gently, I’m certain this will work. Perhaps by the end of the day I’ll have won over more than Viny.
    Kneeling beside her bed, I run my fingers over her hair. It’s in dire need of a brushing but surprisingly soft. Delicate brown tendrils curl round her face. I could wind them into ringlets like the doll’s, if she’d let me. The thought makes me smile. I lean in to kiss her cheek, and she stirs. One of my