To her, not her father.
She peeked past the curtain, over her shoulder, to see the earl staring straight ahead, his expression one of total boredom.
She closed her eyes, her fingers clenched. How could he not hear Papa’s message? How could he sit there unmoved? She fought to refocus her thoughts heavenward as her father’s sonorous voice continued. Heavenly Father, I’m really struggling. I do feel hardness in my heart toward him. I know he didn’t cause Mama’s death, but part of me still wants him to take responsibility. I am sorry. Please forgive me, and help me forgive others—including him.
After the recessional hymn, she slipped from her perch and found Aunt Patience, her face lined with exhaustion. “How did the children fare today?”
“I believe they prefer their younger teacher.” Aunt Patience lifted a brow. “I think I’d prefer they had their younger teacher, too.”
“They can be a little wearying, can’t they? But it’s for a good cause.”
“Another good cause for Miss Ellison?”
Lavinia’s breath hissed inward. “Lord Hawkesbury.” She turned to encounter his sardonic gaze. “What a pleasure.” Too late she remembered her prayer earlier.
A smile flickered on his lips. “Apparently the pleasure is all mine. Ladies.” He inclined his head to her aunt and moved to walk away.
“Lord Hawkesbury.”
The earl stilled, closed his eyes briefly, and turned. “Mr. Ellison.”
“I trust you found today’s sermon topic a little livelier.”
“I’m afraid, sir, I cannot answer that question without implicating myself.”
Aunt Patience managed a brittle laugh. “You sound as though you’re well versed in the art of not implicating yourself.”
“Now, now, Patience,” Papa said. “Leave our guest be.”
“Our guest?” Lavinia frowned at the earl, who offered an inscrutable smile.
“Did I forget to mention it, my dear?” Papa said mildly. “I suppose I did. Last week I asked Lord Hawkesbury to join us for a meal. I’m sure he would enjoy company and our plain fare.”
From the look on the earl’s face, she was not sure he agreed, but his manners were smooth. “I can think of nothing better.”
“I’m sure you can’t.”
Her aunt’s tart reply gave rise to another of those enigmatic smiles, which Sophy would swoon over but Lavinia found smug and annoying. She smoothed down her dress. Perhaps she had forgiven him, but she would not let him off the hook concerning his responsibilities to the poor. She exchanged glances with her aunt and smiled inwardly. From the look in Aunt Patience’s eye, neither would she.
Luncheon proved surprisingly enjoyable. The mutinous tilt to the chins of both female family members suggested he would be hard pressed to relax, but Nicholas found himself somewhat comfortable. The dining room was simply furnished and the food—as promised—plain, consisting of ham and egg pie, a roasted fowl accompanied by an assortment of vegetables, and stewed apples with clotted cream. But it was honest food, tasty, perhaps made more so by the reverend’s comment that his daughter had plucked the produce from the garden and baked the apples only yesterday. He hid a smile at the thought Lady Disdain should bake a pie for a creature such as he.
But a quick glance across the table revealed no pronounced aversion in those stormy silvery eyes. For once the disdain seemed set aside. Instead, she seemed thoughtful, her brow creased, as if she measured him, so he exerted himself to please.
“I must thank you for your kind invitation today. It was a meal fit for a king.”
“Coming at it much too strong,” Miss West said.
“No, indeed, I have not enjoyed a meal so much in many a month. I have found, after time on the Continent, that the taste for confections and sauces has quite left me. I much prefer honest English fare.”
Miss Ellison’s eyebrows rose, their little wings dancing.
He met her gaze, saw the questions quiver in her eyes, but she only pressed those rosy lips together. He smiled.
“And where did you serve?”
He turned to Mr. Ellison and sketched a simple description of his time in Spain.
“You led a troop, the Twelfth Light Dragoons, I believe? Were you involved at the charge at Garcia Hernandez?”
“Why, yes.” Nicholas shifted in his seat. “I must confess to being surprised, sir. From your words this morning, I thought you would be more interested in peace rather than so conversant with matters of war.”
“I believe we all truly prefer peace, don’t you agree?” The reverend’s eyes twinkled. “Perhaps you would not be so surprised should you know the avid curiosity of my daughter and my sister-in-law. Many a long discussion we held about Wellington’s tactics, particularly about the benefits of siege warfare.”
The room grew warmer. He sipped his water and studied the rose centerpiece.
“What a waste Burgos was.” Miss West offered from her end of the table. “Were you involved in that action?”
He nodded stiffly. One hand clenched the stem of his glass as the memories rose in all their ugliness. The cold, the relentless rain. The cries of men for a morsel of food. Their gasps before they slipped from this world. His men. His men whom he’d failed.
His meal sat uncomfortably heavy on his stomach. He swallowed the bitter taste in his mouth. “Too many good men died for no discernible gain.”
He glanced up to encounter Miss Ellison’s gaze, her questioning look gone, her eyes now soft with sympathy. Something like a wave of immeasurable kindness, deep, profound, sincere, seemed to flow from her, tugging at him, drawing warmth from his heart to hers, like water surged to shore.
She leaned forward slightly. “I would think, regardless of discernible gain, the deaths of so many would weigh terribly on a man.” His throat constricted as she concluded quietly, “I am sorry, sir.”
He nodded again.
Silence filled the room for a few moments, until Miss West remarked, “I am sorry, too, for I thought Burgos to be quite beautiful.”
This led to a more pleasant exchange about the merits of Spain versus Portugal. They compared travel notes, and the mood lightened as the conversation spun from politics to art to food. Comfortable once again, Nicholas turned to his host. “I was hoping you might clear up a little mystery. I have on occasion wondered where Miss Ellison disappears to during the service.”
“Why?” Miss Ellison’s direct look held nothing of the coquette. “I fail to understand why you would find my movements the least bit interesting.”
“Do you, my dear?” Miss West addressed Miss Ellison; her eyes fixed on him.
Heat flushed his cheeks. “It is only that I cannot suppose the reverend’s daughter be permitted to abscond during the service.”
Miss Ellison shrugged. “We are attempting to form something of a Sunday school.”
His brows rose.
“Many of the villagers cannot afford to send their children to school, as it is either too costly or they are required for work. We are hoping that by teaching letters and basic arithmetic, we might be able to help educate them for life, as well as teach about God.”
“Goodness! I’m dining with social reformists.”
Mr. Ellison laughed. “It was Lavinia’s suggestion.”
She colored. “Mr. Robert Raikes of Gloucester first had the idea. Many villages are trying his scheme.” She turned to Nicholas. “The world is changing, with manufactories replacing farms. It is important to equip our children with skills necessary for the future.”
“I applaud you.” He lifted his water glass—no wine here—and watched the cheeks pink prettily again.
“Come now.” Miss West leaned forward. “You cannot have us believe you really mean that.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“It is only to your advantage that people stay as they always have. Estates such as yours will always require workers for their farms. If they are educated and leave, you will be without.”
“But if Miss Ellison is correct and they will leave anyway, why would I object to their being educated? Besides, I would much prefer to deal with someone who has the ability to reason and communicate clearly. Danger lies in relying on people without such ability.”
As Mr. Ellison murmured agreement, his daughter exchanged a glance with her aunt. Was it just his imagination, or did he hear the name “Johnson” murmured in an undertone?
Miss Ellison turned to him. “So you approve our school?” A dimple hovered as her lips curved to one side.
“Well … yes.”
“And would support the establishment of a proper village school?”
“I—”
“Now, now, Livvie. Don’t tease the poor man.” The reverend smiled. “I’m sure he has many other things to think of.”
The conversation rambled easily, the repartee reviving memories of his time in Oxford, as the reverend’s family talked of cropping, music, books, and health. If the ladies’ bluestocking tendencies appeared occasionally, it only made the conversation more stimulating. Miss Ellison certainly had nothing of the insipid about her.
“I didn’t see Bess Thatcher in church today,” she said with a frown. “I imagine she was kept busy caring for her sick children.”
“Very likely, m’dear,” Mr. Ellison offered. “Will you visit tomorrow?”
She nodded and eyed Nicholas, “I am certain it is the inadequate housing that makes families such as the Thatchers particularly susceptible to sickness.”
He lifted a shoulder. “Surely it is in the nature of some families to be sickly.”
“In their nature, perhaps, when the family has lived in the same poor house for generations. But then, you sir, would not be able to imagine that, would you?”
“Now Lavinia …”
She ignored her father’s gentle protest and lifted her chin. “I am sure it is like what is mentioned in the book of Leviticus, about leprosy in the walls. I have done some reading on the matter, and I believe there are sickness spores that can penetrate the very walls of a house. And if people are forced to live in a dark, damp, little house, what can you expect but that they will get sick often?”
He raised an eyebrow. “They could move, perhaps.”
She raised both of hers. “Of course! The perfect solution.” Her gaze narrowed. “And to which of their many other houses do you suggest they move?”
“I was of the belief that a good cleanse and a whitewash helped eradicate the infection.”
The reverend leaned forward. “Aye, but sickness can be like sin. It doesn’t matter how much you try to cover it up, it still has a way of coming out, no matter what we might do.”
The Ellisons nodded, as if they’d had this conversation many times before.
“The only way to remove the problem is to demolish the old and make a new. Like our Lord said, you cannot put new wine into old wineskins …” The reverend nodded almost absently.
Miss Ellison gave her father an affectionate look. “Papa, we were discussing the state of the Thatchers’ house and its urgent need of repair.”
“Ah, but no house is in more urgent need of repair than a man’s heart.”
The words boomed like cannon fire. Repair a man’s heart? Did Mr. Ellison refer to him? He stiffened.
“Lord Hawkesbury, please excuse me. I do not want you to feel uncomfortable.”
“No, indeed.” Miss Ellison’s voice was soft. “Heaven forbid you feel discomfited by anything we do or say.” The dimple was gone, as was the light in her eyes.
Nicholas swallowed. The meal seemed suddenly tasteless, the conversation flat, his presence obviously unwelcome.
He soon made his excuses and left, as clouds gathered in the darkening sky.
CHAPTER SIX
THREE DAYS LATER, the weather had cleared sufficiently to permit travel to the village. Lavinia heaved the basket onto her arm and mentally listed the visits she must make: a visit to the apothecary for medicine to help Papa’s cough—which the showers of the past two days had done nothing to alleviate—a visit to Mrs. Foster, then Eliza, and finally the Thatchers.
She sighed. If only Lord Hawkesbury would replace Johnson, then perhaps the modifications to the tenants’ houses would be accomplished. Should she ask the earl directly for help? Perhaps if he visited firsthand, he would come to understand their plight.
The cherry trees, already ripe with red goodness, drew her to pick several clusters. The Thatchers would enjoy cherries, as would Eliza, although Mrs. Foster would decline, on account she always said they made her insides ache. She popped a succulent morsel into her mouth and walked along the road until the clatter of hooves made her peek over her shoulder. The earl, resplendently attired in starched neckcloth and dark coat, sat up high in his silver-gray phaeton.
She nodded as he pulled the matched pair to one side. She must remember he was forgiven. She hefted the basket higher. “Lord Hawkesbury.”
“Miss Ellison.” He looked around her and frowned. “No escort today?”
“As you can see.”
He opened his mouth to speak but then closed it, as if he’d changed his mind.
She curtsied, and moved to walk on.
“Where are you off to on such a fine day?”
“I have several calls to make in the village.”
“Would you permit me to carry your basket?” His lips drew into a half smile. “I would offer you a ride, but I gather you hold my driving to be rather poor.”
“No, it is not that, sir.”
“Merely you wish to avoid my company?”
“Must you persist in misunderstanding, sir? I am happy to walk.”
“It is muddy underfoot. Surely you don’t wish to make your visits and track muck inside.”
She glanced down. Already the hem of her dress was flecked with brown.
“You may find your visits unwelcome if they necessitate your hosts cleaning up your mess.”
He was right. She ignored the stab of recrimination and said, “Once again, I fail to understand why you would concern yourself with my visits.”
“Ah, but we cannot have the virtuous Miss Ellison thwarted in her attempts to better the world.”
Fiery words rose. She bit them back and walked on. “You are laughing at me.”
“I would much prefer to laugh with you.”
She glanced up. His hazel eyes watched her carefully, his lips still pulled to one side, one gloved hand holding the reins as he lounged in his seat. His tone was more lighthearted than she had heard before, yet his very attitude displayed all the arrogance she had come to expect. “Have you no regard for the plight of others? No desire to help?”
“Most certainly I do. That is why I am here, offering you—or at least your basket—a ride to the village.”
“You are excessively kind.”
He flicked at a speck on his coat. “One doesn’t like to announce one’s virtues …”
“But as it is a distance I am accustomed to walking most days, I must thank you, sir, but I’m—”
“Independent and unaccustomed to taking advice.”
She gasped. “How dare you presume to know whether I—”
“Take advice?” He smiled wryly. “I presume only because you consistently ignore mine.”
“Perhaps that’s because you appear smug and condescending and—”
“Condescending!”
“And so self-important that you never for one moment think that people might have a mind of their own and might actually want to finish their own sentences!”
His eyes widened, then a smile flickered on his lips. “Touché.” He laughed, instantly transforming the harsh planes of his face into something far more boyish. “Miss Ellison, please accept my sincere apologies. I had no intention on waking this morning to argue with you.”
“Nor I, you.”
“Please allow me to offer you—and your basket—a ride to the village.”
“Thank you, my lord, but unaccompanied as
I am, I’m rather afraid that accepting a ride without an attendant …” She paused, her cheeks warming.
“Would be considered somewhat scandalous?” His crooked brow rose. “You surprise me. I did not think you missish, but rather impervious to the opinions of others.”
“My lord, I—”
“Miss Ellison, it is muddy. I am simply offering you a ride. If anyone questions that, they are miserly minded indeed.” He proffered a hand. “Please, let me be of service.”
She drew in a deep breath. He was attempting to be conciliatory; so should she. “Very well.”
His eyes gleamed as if with victory before he reached down to assist her—and her basket—past the enormous black-spoked wheels to the top. He placed the basket on the floor as she settled herself into the seat.
“I had no idea it was so high.”
He gently snapped the reins, and the bays moved along the road. “Not too high for you?”
Her fingers tightened on the side. “No, sir.”
“Bravo.”
“Do I detect more condescension?”
“Not at all, Miss Ellison. I would never dream of condescending to such a superior female. I am merely remarking on your courage in accepting so onerous a challenge from one such as myself.”
“The challenge would scarcely be less onerous even if presented by another.”
“Indeed? I am flattered.”
She bit back laughter. “Do not consider this a huge victory, my lord.”
“Only a very mild one, I assure you.”
She did laugh then and glanced across to see a smile on his face.
“See? Laughing with me did not hurt, did it?”
“You, sir, seem rather fond of the ridiculous.”
He nodded, his attention back on the road. “I have learned an appreciation for the ridiculous is sometimes necessary in this world.”
His wry tone hinted at the pain she’d glimpsed last Sunday. Her heart softened. Perhaps there was more depth to the man than she realized.
She eased back in her seat, holding the side firmly. The hedges bloomed with wildflowers, the green hills singing of summer as they made their way down the hill. Despite the light, springy equipage, he was a smooth driver, although traveling at a much slower pace than she’d noticed him travel on previous jaunts. He carefully negotiated the curve in the road near her tree. From this height, she could almost see her sanctuary, although the bushes were creeping dense and high.
The Elusive Miss Ellison Page 5