by Jo Manning
John turned to his younger brother, mischief gleaming in his eyes. “That is Baron Rowley to you, peasant!” he joked, cuffing his sibling good-naturedly in the chest.
William snorted, muttering, “Witling!” under his breath.
A scuffle between the two brothers was averted by the young man who greeted them at the imposing stone steps marking the entrance to Rowley Hall.
“Mr. Heywood!” Both boys ran to their tutor, laughing with pleasure. A familiar face! One beloved face, they knew, was gone forever, and an unfamiliar one was about to make its appearance after a long, long absence, but this was a face they knew and loved. More than a tutor, more than the village parson, Charles was like a young uncle to them.
Charles Heywood accepted the exuberant welcome of his two charges. They threw themselves at him with abandon, John jumping up on him and throwing both arms around his neck, putting the vicar’s immaculate neckcloth into immediate disarray. William took hold of his legs and bounced up and down, greatly endangering Charles’s stability. The long carriage ride over, they released their pent-up energy with all the enthusiasm of youth. Their school uniforms, already rumpled from the long journey, rumpled further.
Unable to stay on his feet, within seconds Charles was on his back and rolling over the gravel path with the Rowley heirs. Great whoops of laughter could be heard, even into the hallway, where Lady Sophia stood with the butler.
“Bentley, what on earth is going on out there?” Lady Sophia’s creamy white brow furrowed in consternation.
Bromley winced. He had more names than a Hindu god had arms! “The young gentlemen, my lady, have arrived. Mr. Heywood is greeting them.”
“Greeting them? Wrestling with them, more like!” Lady Sophia strode forward. She was in a nervous state—indeed, she had not slept most of the previous night—and strove mightily to keep her nerves in check. But long years of practice in dissembling and hiding her innermost feelings stood her in good stead.
“Mr. Heywood!” She called out, standing straight and arrogant in the shadow of the massive oak doorway, a vision in pale lavender sarscenet. Her raised brows seemed to question the rowdy outdoor scene.
“Oops, boys, the game is up! Stand to attention, now, and greet your mother.” Charles smoothed down his clothes, but his neckcloth was beyond smoothing. He flushed with embarrassment.
John brushed pieces of sand and gravel from his brother’s hair, pulled down his own coat and swept a hand over his knees. They were a sight…all three of them. A lump rose in Sophia’s throat. She checked her admonishing words as something melted inside her. Her boys! These two handsome lads…Hers! That odd prickling at the back of her eyeballs threatened to erupt in tears. Sophia cleared her throat, trying to ignore the burst of emotion. The boys would not want to see a mother with red, puffy eyes. Oh, but look at them! She viewed them with wonder.
These lovely children had come from her very own body. She unconsciously passed her hands over her flat stomach, twice so full of new life. She had given birth to these boys, labored hard to bring them into this world. How triumphant she had felt then, how thrilled, despite the wrenching pain. For the first time in her young womanhood, she’d had a sense of great accomplishment. The taller had to be John, the new Baron Rowley, and the shorter, William. They were not simply handsome; they were beautiful.
Except for the difference in their heights, John and William could have been twins, so much alike were they. Both were extremely fair-haired; that pale blond shade was an Eliot family trait. She and her young-looking father had often been taken for siblings, with their hair and the unusual blue of their eyes. She winced inwardly as she was prone to do when her father came to mind, praying that the earl’s grandchildren were similar to him only in looks.
Dismissing thoughts of her unspeakable sire, Sophia descended the stone steps, one hand on the decorative wrought-iron railing that curved down to the gravel path. She smiled in welcome, though her stomach was knotting and her heart pumping so madly she thought it would jump out of her chest. Could they see how nervous she was, she wondered? Did they note the wild jumping of her heart?
Charles released the breath he had been holding. He had not realized Sophia was close enough to witness the boys’ exuberant response when he’d greeted them. He had always encouraged physical contact; they had few friends in the area and their father was too old for boys’ play. It had been part of Charles’s relationship with them, but, of course, Lady Sophia knew nothing of that. To her, it had probably seemed an inordinately rowdy display.
But she was smiling. What a brilliant smile! No arrogance there, just…love. Yes, love, that’s what love looked like, Charles knew. And now she held out her arms to her sons. At first, the boys did not seem to know how to proceed. John flashed a quick, sidelong glance at Charles, as if to say, What now? Then William ran into his mother’s embrace and John followed his lead.
How natural the trio seemed! Charles was pleased, gratified that the baroness was touching her children, embracing them, fussing over them as much as any natural mother. Charles chided himself quickly: she was their natural mother. What she was not, was a mother who had ever, to his knowledge, previously concerned herself overmuch with her children.
The vicar was acquainted with a number of mothers in his pastoral visits, and he also remembered the women in his family’s circle. Maternal instincts were strong and true, but not all women, he knew, had them. He would have easily put Lady Rowley in the latter class, but for the way she was hugging the boys now, holding them close and exclaiming over their growth, her brilliant eyes shining with love. Maternal instincts…He would never have believed it. There might be hope for George’s widow yet.
John nuzzled in his mother’s arms. The new Baron Rowley was an infant again, breathing her familiar smell, a sweet, sharp fragrance that he had never forgotten. Mama. She was here. Finally, she was here, and he was in her arms. He sighed happily. All would be well again. He missed his father terribly, but now his mama had come. He had wondered where she was, all those years, but Papa had said she would return as soon as she could, and he had told him the truth.
She was warm and soft, and beautiful, too. Papa had often reminded him that she looked just like her portrait, but John knew that people sometimes did not look at all like their pictures. His best friend’s father had far less hair, a longer nose, and eyes placed nearer each other than they appeared in the miniature Hannibal kept in his desk at school. John had barely recognized Lord Stover from that likeness when he’d visited the school one day. But Mama, if anything, was lovelier than the oil painting over the mantelpiece in the drawing room. She was the loveliest person he had ever seen. She was his mother!
William Rowley, embracing both his older brother and the mother he barely knew, rejoiced in the feel of her warm, sweetly scented body. She felt better than he had imagined. Better, even, than Rudy, the Irish wolfhound pup that his father had given him when he was five years old. Rudy had not lived long. William looked up at his mother and hoped she would live a lot longer than Rudy or his father had lived.
He had been inconsolable when his papa had died. If not for Mr. Heywood, he would still be sad, but Mr. Heywood had told him that Papa was looking down on them from Heaven, and that William must not be sad or his Papa would be sad, too. He caught Sophia’s eye. She smiled, bent down, and kissed his brow. His heart swelled in his chest and began to beat very fast.
He hugged her tighter, the silky soft fabric of her dress crushing against his cheek. He would not let her go away, not ever again. He and John and Mr. Heywood would do their best to keep her with them forever. He would be very, very good, so good that no one would ever leave him again.
Sophia felt the beating of her sons’ hearts against her abdomen and remembered holding them when they were babes. Their little chests had heaved so when she’d embraced them. She had hated handing them over to their nursemaids. Many times, she’d fallen asleep with one of them in her arms. She could not bear letting th
em out of her sight in those early days of motherhood. More and more memories of those three years at Rowley Hall were coming back to her. Smells, tactile sensations, emotions…
Why had she ever left them? What madness, what stupidity, had sent her away? This was joy. Why had she abandoned joy for the shallow pretext of her life in London? Sophia had chosen not to dwell on past mistakes, but now she was drenched in regret. It overwhelmed her even as the last remaining fingers of ice that had encased her heart tightly in its frosty grip melted away. She held her sons closer and reveled in their tight, warm, loving embrace, warmth that had set her free.
I will never leave you again, so help me, God, she promised them silently as she bent to kiss their fair heads. Later, she would make them acquainted with Harriett, the always smiling, pleasant young girl she’d engaged to look after them when they were not with Mr. Heywood.
Charles had barely worked out the sum on the blackboard before William called out the answer. The boy’s mathematical gift had grown by massive increments over the last few months. The vicar constantly endeavored to be inventive in the problems he presented to William, but no sums he could set seemed a challenge.
“All right, you genius, answer this one, if you dare: from Land’s End Cornwall to Farret’s Head in Scotland is measured to be 838 miles. Now, and take your time to work this out, at the rate of eight feet a day, how long would it take a snail—a mere snail, mind you—to creep that long distance?”
“Sir, that is not a probable distance for a snail to cover in a day,” the literal-minded John objected.
“This is solely for the purposes of the problem,” Charles assured him. “We both know that it is im—”
“Five hundred fifty-three thousand and eighty days, sir!” William interrupted them.
Charles and John looked at each other. John started scribbling the numbers on the board and working out the multiplication. Five hundred fifty-three thousand and eighty days. Yes, that was correct.
“How does he do it, sir?” John threw up his hands in exasperation.
“We shall stump him yet, John,” the vicar remarked with conviction.
William smirked, crossing his bony arms over his narrow chest.
“All right, sirrah, now pay attention. If a coach wheel is five feet ten inches in circumference, how many times would it revolve in running eight hundred million miles?”
William frowned. In less than a minute, he had scrawled the answer to the problem—which involved changing miles to feet before dividing the numbers—on the blackboard.
“Sir, that is seven hundred twenty-four billion, one hundred fourteen million, two hundred twenty-five thousand, seven hundred and four times, with twenty inches left over.”
John, who had barely begun to work out the first part of the problem, threw the piece of chalk he was using to figure the sum up in the air. “Arrrgggh! How does the little beast do it?”
“Wait, John, let me see if he has it worked out properly.” Tongue between his teeth, concentrating hard, Charles began the task of working out the long division.
Several minutes later, he had confirmed the ten-year-old’s conclusion: “He is correct, it is seven hundred twenty-four billion, one hundred fourteen million, two hundred twenty-five thousand, seven hundred and four, with twenty inches remaining.” He, too, threw both the chalk and his hands up, despairing of ever stumping the wondrous boy, this mathematical marvel.
Young William had a remarkable gift; Charles had never seen its like. What the second son of a baron could do with such a gift, however, was food for speculation. At the very least, it was an excellent after-dinner amusement. Wagering on how long it took the lad to come up with an answer would tickle the fancy of the gamesters at the London clubs, Charles had no doubt. As to the future, Cambridge University was noted for excellence in science and mathematics. The great Newton, inventor of the calculus, had been Lucasian professor of mathematics there. And, Charles chuckled gleefully, he could not wait to show Lady Sophia her younger son’s gift. She would be amazed!
“Well, he may be able to work impossible sums in his head, this awesome mental calculator,” John cuffed his younger brother on the shoulder, and William pretended to be felled by the light blow, “but he can barely spell his own name!”
William flushed. It wasn’t true! He could so spell his own name, but other words, as a rule, were not so easy to spell.
“Ah, William, consistency in spelling is for small minds like mine. Your brother is only jesting.” Charles knew too many adults whose orthographic skills were at a level not much higher than young William’s, if the truth were told, and society cared not a whit. Dr. Johnson’s dictionary was over fifty years old and had caused a small revolution in setting down authoritative spellings and spelling rules, but amongst the ton, no one paid much attention to such strictures.
“Now, boys, pay attention to me. I am going to read from The Iliad today, and we shall translate from the Greek together.” Charles’s sonorous voice fell into the old Homeric rhythms as he began the tragic tale of the valiant soldier Achilles, the bickerings and whims of the ancient gods (to whom mortals were mere playthings), and the horrors of war. The boys listened in awe, concentrating on the poetic structure, frowning at the pronunciation.
John and William were both aware that proficiency in Greek and Latin was essential in order to pass the entrance examinations of the universities. This was their summer holiday, but Mr. Heywood’s tutoring would give them an advantage when the time came to stand for those examinations. Their father had been determined that they attend university, as he had done, and they were determined that their father would be proud of them. They knew that he watched over them from Heaven. Mama and Mr. Heywood had told them so.
William had just performed three mathematical feats involving enormous sums to Sophia’s delight. Charles had set him the problems and he had calculated them in his head for less than a minute each. It had taken both Charles and Sophia considerably longer to work them out on paper, Charles noting with interest that Sophia was a faster calculator than he was.
Then John recited his own translation of a passage from The Iliad, after first repeating the ancient Greek from memory. The boy had a prodigious memory, and his Greek was improving daily. Sophia’s eyes sparkled with maternal pride as the boy recited, acting out the stirring excerpt from the poem. Charles thought she was mouthing the Greek with him and wondered how that could be. Lady Sophia, versed in Homeric Greek? Nay, he must have been mistaken. When would that lady have learned Greek? Ladies learned needlework, how to ride, and dabbled in watercolors; that was the whole of his sisters’ education.
Sophia beamed at her boys, her breast swelling with pride. Charles, watching the lady closely, could not help noting it.
She stood and clapped her hands enthusiastically. “Bravo, bravo!” She turned to the vicar, her body swaying seductively toward him. “You have done very well, Mr. Heywood. I am in your debt.” Her blue eyes were warm and promised untold payment. Charles caught his breath.
After the boys had gone to bed, Charles and Lady Sophia enjoyed an postprandial brandy in the drawing room. The cellars at Rowley Hall were excellent; the baron had been a connoisseur of fine wines and spirits. Sophia’s eyes glowed warmly as she toasted the vicar.
“To your health, sir.” She raised her glass.
“And yours.” Charles returned the compliment, smiling.
Sophia sipped the brandy, contemplating the man before her through the thick mesh of her long eyelashes. She felt a stirring inside that had nothing to do with the infusion of liquor through her system.
Charles caught her appraising look. He took a hurried sip of the brandy and placed his glass upon the side table. That scene in this same drawing room a few short weeks ago returned in all its glory. Lady Sophia’s full, creamy white bosom flashed before his eyes. If he tarried any longer, he would disgrace himself with his surging lust. He must leave.
Sophia took note of his sudden nervousnes
s and smiled; she knew how to relax high-strung young men. Putting an arm on his sleeve, she purred like a sleek, satisfied cat. “Mr. Heywood,” she whispered, “have you seen the Hall’s gardens by moonlight?”
Rowley Hall was famous for its rose gardens. An Elizabethan ancestress, Blanche Snow, had been responsible for creating the fragrant blooms. Indeed, a particularly fragrant white rose, the Blanca Gloriosa, had been named for her. That rose was planted all along the far wall of the garden, and it perfumed the soft, warm night air with its presence. Lady Sophia’s signature fragrance, almond blossoms, wove in and out of the underlying leitmotif of roses. Charles was intoxicated by the sweet competing odors.
Lady Sophia walked slowly, skirt swaying, to a stone bench set in an ivy-trellised alcove. Her gown was cut low in the back, displaying her white shoulders and long neck. Charles’s eyes were fixed at a point between her shoulder blades. As she stopped short, he bumped into her back. “Beg pardon, my lady,” he murmured.
“My fault entirely, sir. I stopped suddenly.” She turned to face him, her movements sleek and sinuous. Charles’s heart lurched in his chest. She looked up at him, the motion feline but unmistakably female, as well. If he had been sitting down, he was sure she would have jumped in his lap for a cuddle, like a favorite kitten. He backed away a step. She walked toward him, closing the gap.
His collar was inordinately tight and he felt drops of perspiration forming at his temples. Lady Sophia took her thumb and ran it over his lower lip, slowly, teasingly. She suddenly pressed down hard and giggled when he jumped. He gulped.
“My, what a soft mouth you have, Mr. Heywood,” she cooed.
Charles was mesmerized. Sophia stood on tiptoes and slanted her mouth over his. The pressure of her warm lips forced his to open slightly. Slowly, excruciatingly, the pointed tip of her sweet tongue insinuated itself into his mouth. His arms wrapped around her curvaceous, yielding form and she sighed as his tongue met hers and began to explore her soft, warm mouth.