"They are only boys, Miss Wheatly. Whatever lies between Songbird Cottage and Eversham Hall need not color their lives."
She frowned but had no reply, because in her heart she agreed with him.
"The horses alone would enrich Freddy's life, and his example might—"
Whatever the earl meant to say was cut short by a screech from farther down the paddock fence. Charles lay half-suspended on a fence rail inside the paddock. Both adults took off at a dead run. Randy had his arms around the young duke supporting his weight. A nasty slice that cut through his trouser leg oozed blood.
"I'm bleeding, Uncle Will," the boy cried.
Chadbourn called out to Freddy, "Help Reilly get the horses out of the paddock!" He lowered his nephew to the ground and tore back the cloth around the duke's thigh. The earl looked frantic. Freddy dropped to the ground and led the horse away, while Reilly ran to help.
"Am I going to die?" the boy asked. His clenched teeth looked like they held back a cry. Catherine guessed he couldn't bear to show weakness in front of other boys.
Before the earl could answer, Randy piped up. "No, but you may get an interesting scar from that one. I sliced my arm on a broken branch last year. Hurt like the Devil, but I got the best scar." He started to roll up his sleeve.
Catherine thought about the days she spent dreading infection, and dropped down beside the earl.
"It doesn't look so bad," she said soothingly, but whether she meant to reassure the boy or his uncle, she couldn't say. "It will need some attention, though. Cleaning and bandaging. An application of honey may be in order."
"Honey?" the earl and the duke asked in unison.
"It aids healing. I don't know why, but it makes infection less likely. Dark is best if you have it. I can send some, if you don't."
"I saw a surgeon use it in the Peninsula once. Does it work?"
She cast him a sardonic eye. Of course it works, you looby.
"Ever so well," Randy interrupted. "And Catherine will give you a spoonful when she's finished dressing the cut. That's the best part."
Catherine did not intend to dress it. "Not I, the earl. We're going home. Now."
"You can't. I need your help." Chadbourn lifted his nephew into his arms, and Catherine rose to her feet. "Come along." He started for the Hall, but Catherine stood fast. She stared up at the imposing façade of the old house and felt her stomach clench. The earl turned to see why she didn't follow.
"Miss Wheatly, we need your help. You obviously know more about cuts than I."
Don't these people have servants for that?
"You know more about boys, too, I think," the earl went on.
A boy needs more than servants and bandaging when he's been hurt.
She turned to her brother. "Randy, fetch Freddy, and the two of you go directly home. I expect to find you there shortly, and I'll be wanting an explanation for what happened."
"There's nothing to explain. His Grace climbed the fence after me, and he slipped. It wasn't my fault."
"Home. Now." He left, head hanging.
Catherine took a steadying breath.
"Will you come now, please?" Chadbourn urged. She fell into step beside him, feeling like a cow in the vicar's parlor in her plain dress.
I don't belong here.
***
The line of a woman's back surpasses the grace of any cathedral, Will believed. At least this woman's does. He looked his fill at Catherine bent over his nephew, and smiled to himself. He found her gentle competence oddly compelling, also. They had laid Charles on a sofa in the tradesmen's parlor, while Will had shouted for cloths, hot water, and honey. She had cleaned and bandaged the wound in short order, all the while encouraging the boy and quieting his fears. Her strong hands wrung out the cloths she had used into a basin, before she handed both the basin and rags to a waiting footman and rolled the sleeves of her simple dress back down.
Will watched her smooth back Charles's hair, and longed to feel those strong, gentle fingers in his own. When she kissed the boy's cheek, he felt a wholly inappropriate surge of desire. He ought to be concerned for his nephew, not lusting after his extraordinary neighbor.
"Will I get honey? Randy said you would give me some," Charles reminded her.
"Of course!" Catherine answered with a chuckle. She reached for the honey pot. "You were very brave."
"I was, wasn't I, Uncle Will?"
Will didn't answer, lost in the woman's husky voice. That voice would reduce a man to begging.
"Uncle Will?" Charles repeated.
"Yes. You were very brave," the earl murmured.
When Catherine popped a spoon of honey into the boy's mouth, the adoration on Charles's face mirrored his uncle's.
"Chadbourn! Why didn't you come when I sent for you? Franklin told me those horrid boys imposed themselves on Charles. He said you ordered him brought to the stables, but I couldn't believe it."
Will spun around to see Sylvia leaning on the door-frame, breathing rapidly. He saw the moment her eyes found Charles and the white bandage around his right thigh.
"Dear God, what have you done to my son?"
She looked as if she might faint. Will stepped closer, but she proved to be sturdier than he thought. She pushed herself forward and fell to her knees beside her son. Catherine stood and moved away. Will put out a hand to steady Catherine, but she sidestepped him.
"My baby, what did they do to you?" She grabbed the boy's hand and patted it repeatedly. Charles looked like he wanted to pull it away. "What have you done, Chadbourn?" Sylvia spat over her shoulder. "He may never be normal. He may never walk. He may—"
Will saw stark alarm on the boy's face. "Nonsense, Sylvia, it's a clean cut. He will heal up fine." He glanced at Catherine, who eyed the parlor door. He didn't want her to bolt. They needed to talk.
"Randy says I may get an excellent scar," Charles, relieved, put in with pride.
"Randy? We don't associate with any 'Randy.' Those horrid boys did this, didn't they? Emery was right to run them off. You will call the magistrate, Chadbourn. I insist on it." She continued to chafe Charles's hand, while the boy tried in vain to tug away.
"No, Mama," Charles insisted. "Randy didn't do anything. I climbed up the fence to watch Freddy and slipped. It was my fault, but Randy says he slips all the time, and I just need practice."
"Randy says? Randy says? What does he have to say about it? That lot at Songbird Cottage are not received, Charles. You will not go near them again. You will keep yourself to the schoolroom with dear Franklin." She hiccupped a sob. "We must send to London for a physician."
"You might want a physician or surgeon to look at it," Catherine said quietly to Will. "There is an excellent medical practitioner in Wheatton. I doubt he will do more than I, however. Until then, I recommend you keep it clean. Reapply honey when you change the bandages tomorrow."
"You let this woman touch my son? With honey? We will send for Wetherby, of course. He will come from London posthaste, but this honey will horrify him." Sylvia rose to glare at Catherine. "She's from Songbird Cottage, isn't she? One of them?" She didn't wait for an answer. She lifted her chin and addressed Catherine directly.
"Get you gone. Stay away, and keep your sons away from mine," Sylvia spat.
Catherine drew herself to her full height and returned Sylvia's haughty look with one of her own. "I will gladly leave, and I will make sure my brothers know they aren't welcome here, as I had intended when I came." She turned to Charles, neatly giving Sylvia the cut direct, her slight bow acknowledging the boy's title, for his mother's sake. The smile she gave him looked genuine, but strained. "I hope this scratch doesn't trouble you unduly, Your Grace. Don't let it keep you from enjoying the out of doors. My lord," she said, with a nod at Chadbourn. She, and took her long-limbed stride to the door.
"Miss Wheatly, wait!" She didn't.
***
Blasted snooty aristocrats. Catherine rounded the hall into Eversham's vaulted and, in Catherine's op
inion, over-decorated, foyer. I'll be damned if I skulk out the tradesmen's door like a charwoman. She refused to recall the last time she had come to this door. Her half-boots pounded on the floor mosaics and echoed off the gilt cherubs on the molding. She could hear the earl call for her to stop. If he thought he could detain her, he was as big a fool as his ninnyhammer sister.
She reached the front door before he caught up with her. "Please don't go," he said breathlessly, putting out a hand.
She jerked her arm up so he couldn't touch her.
"Do you plan to throw me in the dirt?" she demanded, when she spun on him.
"What? No. I want to talk to you about Charles."
His sister treats me like dirt, and he wants to talk about the duke? She scowled at him.
"I apologize for my sister. She is in a fragile state, and I'm afraid the sight of the bandages sent her wits begging."
"I doubt it. From the looks of the duchess's pupils, an excess of laudanum scrambled those wits long ago."
The pain in Chadbourn's eyes caught her. He must genuinely love the woman. He bit his lower lip; Catherine found herself captivated by the sight.
"My sister was not well served in her marriage," he said hesitantly. "The generosity of spirit she had as a girl disappeared." He looked directly at Catherine. "I can't seem to bring it back."
For a moment, he looked as if he meant to ask Catherine for help, as if she could heal the duchess's hurts, but he quickly came to his senses. "I'm sorry. I have no right to burden you with my problems."
She nodded firmly. "You wanted to talk about the young duke?"
He asked her briefly about wound care. He obviously knew more about it than he let on, but he asked, and she repeated what she had already told him.
"Try not to let that society doctor treat him," she added. "He will want to bleed the boy. That's their answer to everything."
The earl nodded. "I didn't plan to allow it. When do you think he'll be able to meet with the boys again?"
The question startled her.
"You have been here two months, and will be here two more. You must see that the breach between Songbird and Eversham runs deep. Let it rest."
"I will not. Charles needs boys his age. His cousins—I'm right that they are his cousins, am I not?"
She couldn't deny it. She nodded.
"His cousins can give him not just companionship, but the confidence he desperately needs. You have no idea how pleased I am he attempted to climb a fence, even if it didn't end well. He has had no chance to be a normal boy. I want that for him, and I'll have it."
He means it. This interfering earl is going to storm into our lives, upset Papa more than his bloody damned lordship can imagine, and then leave.
"Very well, my lord," she said. "Your nephew is welcome to visit Songbird Cottage whenever you like. However, under no circumstances will I, or my brothers, step foot here again."
Storm clouds again. "You should be welcome here," he ground out.
"We aren't—" The last time I came, only Papa's illness and desperation for his sake brought me. The duke set two footmen to toss me out the tradesmen's door. "—And obviously, that hasn't changed. I'll bid you good day."
The earl put a hand on Catherine's arm to hold her in place; she didn't expect it. In her agitation, she jumped, and he dropped his hand as if it burnt.
The earl's coffee-colored eyes bore into hers. "I didn't mean to frighten you. I saw the look on your face."
"My face?"
"Out there, by the paddock, when I asked you in. For a moment, you were afraid."
She didn't deny it.
"What did Emery do to you? Did he force you?"
The sting of her slap echoed through the house. "What do you take me for?"
He rubbed his cheek. "I take you for an innocent who has been badly treated by this house, damn it!"
Too angry to speak, Catherine struggled to catch her breath. She felt heat rise up from between her breasts to inflame her cheeks.
Chadbourn ran a hand through his unruly hair. "I'm making a muddle of this. I apologize if my concern gave offense."
"Accepted. May I go?"
"Of course you may. Stop acting like I'm coercing you."
He wasn't. Not really. Catherine urged herself to stop acting out a Cheltenham tragedy over it.
The earl heaved a great sigh. "Stay away if you wish. What I'm trying to do is ask for your help. With your permission, Charles and I will call on you when he feels better." His brown eyes pleaded for understanding.
"Very well, my lord. I wish you well convincing the boy's mother." She spun on her heel and left.
***
A few days later, Catherine watched the three boys make their way toward the orchard, Freddy and Randy skipping about, the young duke stiff and uncertain, but determined. Bertha, the dog, scampered around them. November had just passed into December, but the chill was slight.
After an awkward visit of several uncomfortable minutes, Chadbourn had enticed the boys with a suggestion they reenact some lurid episode of the Wars of the Roses. Even the young duke seemed eager to defend Lancaster or York. She wasn't sure which.
"That was neatly done, if I do say so." The earl's rich baritone vibrated through her. He sounded smug.
"Rather! My brothers are pleased to be loosed from their studies."
"So is Charles, not that I think his studies are getting him far. His tutor is worthless."
At least he has one, she thought as she turned to find the earl smiling at her.
"Did you come here today merely to disrupt the peace of our orchard with Lancastrian armies?" she asked.
"No, no. I came to thank you for giving me Squire Archer's direction. I admit, it gave me an excuse to bring Charles, though. I told you he needs to meet boys his age."
"The duchess allowed it?"
"The duchess doesn't know." If he felt any guilt for hiding it from his sister, he hid it well.
"His Grace is certainly polite."
The earl groaned. "Etiquette is well enough. Your brothers certainly know how to behave. Charles uses good manners as a shield to hide behind."
Catherine looked at the man next to her. His title and fashionable dress marked him as someone comfortable in the halls of power and fashionable drawing rooms, and still, he worried about a boy with an excess of manners. She could see more when she looked closely. He had the sun-darkened skin, disordered hair, and broad shoulders of a man at ease in the out of doors. An insight came to her.
"You want that for your nephew," she said. She met his eyes.
"Want what?"
"Comfort in the out of doors."
"More than comfort. Passion for the land, for the fields and woodlots, for the people. The country is our true home."
Catherine felt her mouth widen into a smile and knew it reached her eyes. She saw the echo in his.
***
Passion. This woman shares it. I can see it in her eyes.
"Shall we go to the house?" He smiled at her. He stood well over six feet, so, of course, he had to look down, but not as far as he might. Catherine came up to his shoulder. She would fit there nicely, he thought with a private smile.
She looked sideways at him as they reached the door. "So, what do you wish to discuss? Wheat yields or milk production?"
Blatant change of subject. He couldn't be irritated with this brilliant woman. "Wool, Miss Wheatly. What am I going to do with all those blasted sheep? The late duke apparently believed that if a small herd made a profit, quadrupling it would make four times as much. The pasture land can't support them, and thanks to his steward's stupidity, we can't afford to feed them over the winter, either."
The woman launched into a recital of the ratio of sheep to meadow, "Though we haven't the land to keep sheep ourselves," and provided several shrewd ideas about ways to dispose of the blighters before winter took full hold. Will listened with half an ear, tucking away the thoughts to share with Archer.
He had
far more interest in the color talk of husbandry brought to Catherine's cheeks. He had a sudden vision of seeing that face over breakfast every morning while they went over the business of their own estate. The thought stunned him.
"What is it, my lord?" Catherine asked, watching him closely. "You look as if you've had a fright."
"Not a fright, merely an unexpected thought," he replied. One much too soon to talk about. "It's nothing." He pushed the thought of Catherine at his table to the back of his mind. He needed to marshal all his attention for the conversation he wanted to have with Lord Arthur.
***
Her father turned so dark with rage, Catherine feared for his heart.
"We do well enough, damn you. We don't need Eversham's charity. Not now, not after everything," the old man raged.
Chadbourn had bungled in as she feared, but what he laid out had been generous and well intended. Papa's old hurts are in the way of his reason.
"Think, man," Chadbourn soothed. "The boys deserve an education at least. They are a duke's grandsons. Don't tell me they aren't."
Papa's chin quivered with pent-up emotion. "I won't deny that, but that doesn't make it the Earl of Chadbourn's business."
"As long as the duke is my ward, it does. The estate has an obligation, and I intend to see it met. The least owed is to educate them as gentlemen and prepare them for professions."
"Randy doesn't want a profession," Catherine cut in. "He will be content to be a farmer."
"Be that as it may, he can be an educated farmer, just as I am, title or not. What of Freddy? Horse mad and eager for glory. The cavalry—"
"You want to send my boy off to war?" Papa shouted. Catherine felt sick at thought. Yet, she had to admit to herself, she feared Freddy would take the king's shilling just to get away from farming. School and an officer's colors would be better.
"No, no. That would be up to Freddy. For now, schooling. Charles is bound for Eton next year, and having friends with him would ease his way."
"Not that damned place. My father condemned me there."
Chadbourn smiled broadly, taking Catherine off guard. "Harrow it is," he said. "Much better. My own school. It can be just as harsh, but friends make it bearable. The boys would be together."
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