by Jane Ashford
“If one finds a way to fight for—”
This stung. She didn’t understand. And how could she, with the life she’d led? Yet he wished she might. “I’ve been fighting for most of my life, a new disaster threatening nearly every hour. I’ve only just managed to hang onto the Rathbone lands. And that may not last much longer.” He shoved this fear aside with a gesture. “Imagine trying to hold back the tide with a shovel. Believing in the impossible makes no difference at all when the waves are about to engulf you.”
“You would give up?”
The hurt wonderment in her tone overset him. Must he escort her back to her bedchamber? No, that was too much to ask of a man. Leaving her the candle, like a coward, he ran.
Seven
The following morning, Peter found the four young ladies in the parlor they’d taken over for their use. Or rather, the three young ladies and Miss Ada, as he thought of them now. She’d become a category of her own, unique in his experience and beginning to occupy all his attention. Peter had spent the second half of the night getting control of himself after that latest kiss, and mainly he had succeeded. He was accustomed to disappointment and not being able to have things he wanted. Ada was just the latest, though certainly the most searing, in a long line. Probably by this time she’d realized there was no future for them. How could she not?
He knew that he ought to avoid her, even tell his unexpected houseguests that it was time for them to depart. Why prolong a vain temptation? At the same time, he longed to see her. He could feel her presence in his house like a lodestone that draws a magnet. Once she left, he was unlikely ever to meet her again.
Full of this turmoil, he entered the parlor on a sigh. He had reason to be here this morning. He had news to bring them. Under Miss Deeping’s stern gaze, he felt rather like a junior officer reporting to headquarters. An odd sort of headquarters, admittedly.
At this hour, before Miss Julia Grandison left her room, the young ladies sat at ease around the room. A colorful scatter of their possessions covered the long table. Chairs had been rearranged around the hearth, and Miss Ada’s little dog was curled up before the fire. Ella seemed a placid creature, except around bats. In the short time they’d been here, they’d made this spot feel more homelike than any other room in his house. But he thought that was as much a function of their long-established friendships as of any particular talents. He wondered if they knew how fortunate they were to have such a connection.
Under scrutiny from four pairs of pretty eyes, only partly welcoming, he stood straighter. Perhaps more like an examination than a report. And naturally he’d spilled gravy on the lapel of his one good coat at dinner last night. While it was being cleaned, he wore a relic of his ancestral trunks, an old-fashioned garment that Miss Deeping clearly found amusing. He should find time to do something about his clothes.
“I asked the servants about Delia’s foreign governess,” he began. “It took a bit of time to catch up with them all. They remembered her, and that she was from some northern country, but no one knows where she is now.”
“Do you think she went back to Sweden?” asked Miss Ada.
Peter shook his head. “Conway was certain she wasn’t Swedish. She once told him that her country had been ‘ground under the heel’ of Sweden as much as of Russia.”
Miss Sarah Moran raised her head like a hound catching an interesting scent. “Perhaps Finland? That would fit.”
All of them looked at her.
“Finland was ruled by Sweden,” she continued. “And then Sweden fought a war with Russia and lost it to them.”
“You have an impressive knowledge of history, Miss Moran,” Peter replied.
“You have no idea,” said Miss Finch.
“Where is Finland?” asked Miss Ada.
“In the far northwest of the Russian empire. They speak quite a different language there. Perhaps that’s why the words in Delia’s message look strange.”
“So far away,” said Miss Harriet Finch. “I wonder how she ever came to be here?”
“Perhaps she grew tired of being in a place that was being ground under various heels,” said Miss Deeping dryly.
Miss Finch nodded. “And perhaps she didn’t wish to go back and stayed in England.”
“I should look through the records room then,” said Miss Moran. “To see if I can find any mention of her.”
“Yes, I’m sorry.” Peter didn’t envy her the job.
“Oh, Sarah likes nothing better than a pile of dusty documents,” said Miss Ada. “In complete disorder, preferably.”
They all smiled, even Miss Moran. “Not preferably,” she said. “I enjoy a tidy order as much as anyone.”
“Oh, far more,” said Miss Finch.
The obvious affection in the looks they exchanged revived his envy. But it also gratified him. “I’m glad I sent Delia to your school,” he said. When they looked puzzled at his non sequitur, he added, “I wanted her to have good friends. I hoped she’d find them. You.”
The young ladies’ smiles turned pensive. “The connection didn’t come easily,” said Miss Ada.
“When she arrived at school, she was like a pot on the boil,” said Miss Moran. “You almost expected steam to pour out of her ears.”
To Peter’s surprise, Miss Moran stood and began to stride back and forth across the room. She’d been the quietest of them so far, but now she stomped and scowled and swung her arms. Small and sturdy, she looked nothing like Delia, but still she evoked his sister’s restless presence. Delia had tossed her head just like that when she was displeased.
“At first, Delia used to walk up and down in the garden and mutter complaints,” said Miss Ada, as if narrating a legend.
Miss Moran made a low grumbling sound. “‘The food is bland and monotonous,’” she murmured, pacing. She even sounded rather like Delia. “‘The grounds are cramped and tame and boring.’” Miss Moran grimaced and gestured. “‘The conversation is utterly insipid.’”
They all laughed again.
Peter thought he’d never seen a prettier picture. In their pastel gowns, they were a medley of feminine beauty, and gentle humor lit their faces. Miss Ada’s smile had an impish charm as she continued. “Finally, one day, Charlotte stepped in front of Delia and stopped her pacing. She looked her straight in the eye. Charlotte was the only one of us tall enough to do that. And she told Delia that she couldn’t know anything about our school conversations, because she hadn’t had any.”
“And then they had an argument,” said Miss Finch.
“Discussion,” said Miss Deeping. She stood and faced Miss Moran. They squared off like cats priming for a fight.
“A loud and lively discussion,” said Miss Ada. “With rather a lot of arm waving.”
The two young ladies demonstrated, each trying not to laugh.
“And then we all joined in,” said Miss Ada.
“For a bit of…vigorous wrangling,” said Miss Finch.
“Delia could curse in five languages.” Miss Deeping clearly admired this ability and wished she could claim the same.
“And I think she was longing for an opportunity to shout at someone,” said Miss Ada.
The other young ladies nodded. Peter didn’t doubt this point. Delia had certainly shouted at him when he decreed that she was going off to school.
“And for signs of intelligence,” added Miss Deeping. “A spirit of rebellion.”
“So that’s how we became friends,” Miss Moran finished. “Or began to be, at least.”
Which was why he couldn’t regret his choice to send his sister away, Peter thought. Yet a pang of melancholy shot through him. She’d been such a lively spirit, obviously, and he’d missed the chance to know her well. The circumstances of his life, and of course her early death, had conspired to keep them apart. A shame, never to be mended. “Good,” he managed.
Somehow, she made him feel better. How long had it been since someone cared how he felt? A man might lose himself in that gaze. If he allowed it.
“She called it a marvelous place,” said Miss Moran.
It was odd to think of his sister talking about him. He would have said she had little interest in his life. “Did she? She was never there.”
“It was in Wales, I believe?”
“Yes.”
“Tell us about it,” said Miss Ada. The others nodded.
He would never be able to resist those looks, Peter thought. He simply wanted to do whatever Miss Ada Grandison asked. Which was likely to get him into trouble. And then Peter remembered that he wouldn’t have to worry about that. They’d soon be gone. The idea was so unpleasant that he rushed to speak. “The school is run by a man who was—is a noted scholar. He formed a theory—my father loved theories—that use of the hands stimulated and…informed use of the mind. Sharpened the faculties as one might hone an ax-head. So along with more common disciplines we learned practical skills. And no Greek. Mr. Griffiths took against Greek at an early age.”
“Why would anyone reject a whole language?” Miss Moran shook her head.
“What sort of skills?” asked Miss Deeping.
“Simple carpentry,” Peter replied. “And I can shoe a horse.”
“You cannot,” said Miss Moran.
“Oh yes. We became crude blacksmiths. I can milk a cow. I can pleach a hedge as well.”
“What is pleach?” asked Miss Ada.
“Make a hedge. Create, you might say. One cuts through the stem of each hedging plant near the base, bends it over, and weaves it between wooden stakes.” Peter realized that all four young ladies were staring at him.
“I never heard of a duke doing things like that,” said Miss Finch.
Because no other duke ever did, Peter thought. Why had he told them so much? Now, they thought him even odder. Miss Finch in particular seemed to draw away.
“I suppose that’s rather…useful,” said Miss Moran.
Peter might have agreed, and pointed out that carpentry came in handy on his crumbling acres. But he didn’t want them thinking of that. “We also studied Latin and philosophy and poetics. We put on Shakespeare’s history plays.” He definitely wouldn’t mention Mr. Griffiths’s interest in more arcane subjects. The man hadn’t really believed that he was a magician. Only that some of the effects could be duplicated. He’d been spectacularly unsuccessful in that arena. The young ladies were gazing at him. “We had to calculate the height of every tree on the property using mathematics.”
“How do you do that?” asked Miss Deeping, looking interested for the first time.
“With shadows,” replied Peter. “You need a sunny day, and a measuring stick. With the sun at your back, you measure your shadow on the ground. Then you do the same for the tree’s shadow, including half the width of the trunk. Shadow lengths are proportional, you see. So with those three figures you can calculate the tree’s height.”
“Or any other object,” said Miss Deeping. She jotted notes on the sheet of paper before her.
He’d finally impressed her, Peter thought. That was something. He would have preferred it to be for different reasons, of course. For the thousandth time, he noted that his education had not included the social graces.
“I’m sure you made good friends at your school,” Miss Ada said. “Just as we did.” She looked at the other young ladies.
The truth was he had not. His title had intimidated most of the boys. He had disliked the place. And unlike his sister later on, he’d never found kindred spirits. His schooling had been one long endurance test.
Something of this must have shown in his face, because Miss Ada added, “You learned interesting things.”
Had she begun to pity him? The idea was insupportable.
“But you know, young men are supposed to make important connections at school,” said Miss Finch.
She echoed complaints Peter had made in his youth. He ought to have gone to Eton or Harrow and woven himself into the fabric of society. He’d argued with his father over this. Without success. But he wouldn’t say so. It was not for a stranger to judge Papa.
“My brothers say Harrow set them on the right track,” said Miss Deeping.
Peter felt a surge of annoyance. No doubt these brothers were the sort of young men he’d seen at White’s. With clothes and manners more polished than his, and far fatter purses. Easy for them to speak about right tracks.
“It’s good to know practical things,” said Miss Ada.
“But he won’t be shoeing horses or laying hedges or milking cows,” replied Miss Finch.
Would he not? Who knew what he might come to? Let her try to manage a large estate with no money. “You know nothing about it,” he said.
Miss Finch bridled at his tone. “I believe I do know—”
Miss Ada stepped between them like the monitor at a boxing match. “Charlotte has made progress with the keys,” she said.
There was a moment of silence. Though no one moved, their positions in the room seemed to reshuffle. Finally, Miss Deeping spoke. “Not nearly as much as I would have if I weren’t forced to waste time on stupidities like potpourri.” She said the last word as if it was a curse.
“But still a great deal,” replied Miss Ada.
The taller girl went to stand beside the long table. She picked up a pointer, apparently made from a tree branch, and set the end on a sheet of drawing paper inscribed with a grid. “I’ve tried all the doors in the modern wing.”
“We have,” said Miss Finch, looking even more irritated. “I fetched and carried for you.”
Miss Deeping nodded. “More than that,” she answered, showing more tact than Peter would have expected of her. She turned back to him. “You were right that the keys didn’t work in those. So we’re about to move on.” She flipped over the grid, revealing another page which showed very creditable sketches of the next oldest part of the house.
“Those are well done,” said Peter.
“Harriet drew them,” said Miss Deeping.
He gave Miss Finch a bow. She deigned to nod in response.
“We’ll start in as soon as we get free from our household management lessons.” Miss Deeping grimaced.
“You might be doing it now,” said Peter.
The thin, dark girl gave him an incredulous stare, as if she’d extended herself for him and he’d spurned her efforts.
“I only just finished the sketches,” said Miss Finch. “They were a good deal of work, you know.”
“Of course we do, Harriet,” said Miss Ada.
“Perhaps you could tell your aunt I’m ill,” said Miss Deeping. “Then I could—”
“Aunt Julia would come and check on you, Charlotte, or send Tate.”
“I can do it,” said Peter.
He’d meant it as a service, but Miss Deeping looked even more reproachful. Peter understood the reaction. She wanted to find the solution herself. He realized that he felt the same. And this was, after all, his house. He held out his hand for the keys.
“You can’t just walk off with my drawings,” said Miss Finch.
“I’m familiar with my own home. I can do without them.” His hand was still. He did not beckon impatiently. Not quite. “We have established that I have practical skills.”
With patent reluctance, Miss Deeping handed over the keys.
He received them with a disproportionate sense of triumph. The young ladies were a happy addition to Alberdene society. But they didn’t rule the roost. A man’s home was his castle, wasn’t it? Quite literally in his case. It might be falling to pieces, but it was still
indubitably his. As were his father’s keys. And what he lacked in savoir faire he might make up in native ingenuity, he thought as he left the room.
He wanted to impress his feminine visitors. All of them, he realized, but one in particular. He needed Miss Ada to think well of him. When she thought of him. When she was gone from here. He wanted a favorable place in her memory.
Peter’s sense of triumph dissipated. When she looked back, what would she think of him? Would he dwindle into a motley figure of fun?
Instead of going directly to try the keys, he passed through the kitchen, snagging two lanterns from a side table, and headed for the back staircase. On his way up, he passed one of the new footmen hauling a load of wood to the bedchambers and nodded a greeting as he continued to ascend.
Living alone, one didn’t have conversations, Peter thought. One had thoughts, which might be quite interesting and could be recorded or even spoken aloud. “Though best not to do that,” he said to the empty stairs.
He heard a scrabbling sound behind him and paused to listen. Had the young footman overheard? No talking to yourself, he warned silently, and moved on.
His young lady guests had endless conversations, he thought. Words flew back and forth between them like a tennis ball in the matches his ancestor had enjoyed with the old Tudor king. It was fascinating, the process as much as the subject matter. He’d never seen anything like it. His talks with his family had been halting and awkward. And yet. He suddenly felt that he could talk to Miss Ada forever.
Peter reached the attics and lit his lanterns, carrying one in each hand along a familiar route through the boxes and discarded furnishings. He came to the area his father had established years ago when he realized that there was a hoard of stored clothing at Alberdene. Certain of the Rathbone ancestors had apparently been fashion plates. Some of their lost fortune had clearly gone to expensive tailors and dressmakers, Peter thought. And those past family members had splashed out for many more ensembles than they could ever wear out.