by Farr, Diane
“That’s all I require at present,” said Malcolm mildly. “I’ve put you to a great deal of trouble, arriving on such short notice.”
Howatch looked embarrassed. “It’s your house, milord,” he said gruffly. “Ought to be able to arrive on short notice if you choose.”
“Shall I show you round the house, sir? Or would you rather I merely took you upstairs?”
It seemed clear that Mrs. Howatch would prefer the latter. Malcolm had no objection. But as they were about to begin the climb, they were interrupted by the unmistakable sound of another set of wheels coming up the graveled drive.
The caretakers’ gaze shifted in surprise from Malcolm to the windows behind him. He turned, and had an excellent view of Miss Whittaker driving a pony cart toward his house. His spirits lifted at the sight. He had been half afraid that she would change her mind, but the back of the cart contained a neat stack of bandboxes, a Glastonbury bag, and a small trunk. So Miss Whittaker was staying. Thank God.
He was startled, however—and a little taken aback—by how prosperous Miss Whittaker looked. Gone were the battered hat and faded round gown. She was wearing a lightweight pelisse of what appeared to be silk, and her nut-brown curls had been prettily arranged and topped with a rather fetching little hat. It sat at a dashing angle and sported a feather dyed to match the pelisse. Beside her sat a gaunt woman of indeterminate age, clutching a reticule in her lap. This woman looked to be a maid or some other sort of trusted personal servant. Her presence at Miss Whittaker’s elbow added to the general impression that Miss Whittaker was a woman who employed others, rather than a woman who was, herself, available for employment.
For the first time, Malcolm felt a few qualms about what he had done. Miss Whittaker had told him she had a family—she had even told him that her family owned an estate of some sort—but the import of her words had not struck him until now. He had let her wind-blown appearance, the way she was dressed, and the fact that she was walking about unaccompanied, persuade him that she had exaggerated her station in life. He had assumed that, at the very least, the Whittakers must have fallen upon hard times. But the pony cart looked stylish and well-maintained ... and so, in fact, did Miss Whittaker. His initial impression must have been flat-out wrong. She looked to be exactly what she had told him she was.
Mrs. Howatch, with a barely-audible grumble, vanished to parts unknown while her husband moved to greet the arrivals. Bemused, he watched as Miss Whittaker pulled the pony cart to a neat halt, handed the reins to Howatch, and allowed herself to be handed down. She then floored Malcolm with that devastating smile of hers. It looked even better topped with the well-combed curls and natty hat.
“How do you do?” she said cordially. “Shall I go away again? It seems you have only just arrived.”
“We have, but we are very glad to see you. Your timing is impeccable.” He strolled toward her, Sarah’s hand still clutching his. “I would offer you tea, but I’ve no idea whether there’s any tea in the house. Howatch? I’m sure I may rely on you.”
“Aye,” said Howatch gruffly. “We’ve tea. I’ll speak to the missus.”
Malcolm reached to shake Miss Whittaker’s hand. “Welcome to Larkspur,” he said, remembering to smile. “I hope you’ll be very comfortable here.”
Miss Whittaker blushed and pulled her hand quickly away. “Thank you, but I’m afraid I must—that is, I think it only fair to tell you —”
“Come in, come in. Both of you,” he added, since the servant accompanying Miss Whittaker showed no sign of following Howatch.
“Oh!” said Miss Whittaker nervously. “My lord, may I present—” She gulped and waved a hand to indicate her companion. “My lord, this is Mrs. Bigalow. She was my nurse.”
Mrs. Bigalow dropped a curtsey. He noticed that her eyes, sharp with appraisal, were on Sarah. Malcolm felt his hackles rise; something was going awry. He felt it in his extremely reliable bones. “How do you do?” he said grimly.
Miss Whittaker bent down to Sarah’s eye level. “Sarah,” she said gently, “this lady was my nurse, once upon a time. I have brought her here to make your acquaintance.”
Sarah studied Mrs. Bigalow, then offered a tiny curtsey. “How do you do?” she said, with solemn courtesy. “My name is Sarah.”
Mrs. Bigalow nodded, kindness glinting in her eyes. “I’m pleased to meet you, Sarah.” Her voice was nearly as gruff as Howatch’s. “Miss Whittaker tells me you helped her search for her lost kitten.”
“But we didn’t find her,” said Sarah, her regretful demeanor as serious as if they were discussing a real kitten instead of an imaginary one. “I’m frightfully sorry.”
“Hmpf. I daresay she’ll turn up,” said Mrs. Bigalow. “That Clara was always underfoot when Natalie was your age. Miss Whittaker, I should say.”
Natalie. Her name was Natalie. Despite his increasing sense of foreboding, Malcolm felt a tiny rush of pleasure at learning Miss Whittaker’s given name. It suited her—feminine, but unusual. There was nothing commonplace about Miss Whittaker. He should have known she wouldn’t be a Jane or an Anne.
Natalie was smiling, her attention on Sarah. “It’s a wonder Clara survived my childhood,” she remarked. “People were forever stepping on her.”
Mrs. Bigalow’s lips twitched. “And how not? Pesky creature was invisible.”
“Not to me,” said Natalie indignantly. “I saw Clara very clearly. And I fancy Sarah will see her, too—if we ever find her.”
For a moment, Sarah looked a little lost. She peered anxiously up at Natalie. “Miss Whittaker, she’s an imaginary kitten, is she not?”
Natalie’s swift smile returned. “Yes, my dear. You will see her in your mind’s eye. Do you know about your mind’s eye?”
Sarah shook her head, but looked relieved. Even a child with Sarah’s active imagination apparently preferred a boundary between the real and the unreal. Natalie reached across and placed one hand gently on Sarah’s shoulder. “Your mind’s eye is what we call the part of you that sees invisible things. The things you imagine—like Clara—and also the things we know to be real, but cannot see. When you look into a person’s heart, for example, you look with your mind’s eye.”
Sarah’s rare smile bloomed. Malcolm cleared his throat. “Now that we have cleared up that point,” he said dryly, “I suggest we hunt for the elusive Clara indoors. Ladies?” He included Mrs. Bigalow in his bow, and indicated the open door behind him.
Natalie slanted him an apprehensive glance. “My lord,” she said, “I wonder if I might have a word with you in private.”
Aha. His instincts had been right. Miss Whittaker was going to renege. He had known this would happen the moment he saw that hat.
“Of course,” he said, hiding his disappointment behind his blandest smile. “If Mrs. Bigalow has no objection to watching Sarah for a few moments.”
“None whatsoever, my lord,” said Mrs. Bigalow, as he had known she would. Still, he reminded himself, there was no need to jump to conclusions. It was possible that Miss Whittaker was not going to wriggle out of their bargain. She might very well have brought along her trusted old nurse for advice. Or to act as chaparon. Anything was possible.
Malcolm opened a door at random and ushered Natalie into the first room he found, directly off Larkspur’s smallish entry hall. It turned out to be some sort of sitting room that bore signs of a recent, rather hurried, setting to rights; it smelled strongly of lemon oil and the bric-a-brac on the mantlepiece, although free of dust, were slightly askew. The windows all faced west and the heat was stifling.
As he closed the door behind them Natalie remarked, in a falsely bright tone that did not fool him for a moment, “Sarah certainly went off willingly with Mrs. Bigalow, did she not? You told me she does not generally like strangers. But Nurse has always had a gift for dealing with children.”
“I’m sure she has,” said Malcolm. His tone was not meant to sound encouraging. He saw dismay flutter across her features and knew that
she had guessed his suspicions. “What was it you were wanting to tell me?”
Natalie faced him squarely and took a deep breath. Here it comes, thought Malcolm. “Lord Malcolm, I have no intention of letting you down. Or of letting Sarah down.” She hesitated.
“But?” he prompted.
“But we shall have to rethink our arrangement a trifle.” She looked distressed, but did not back down. “A few ... adjustments ... may be necessary.”
He was not going to make this easy for her. “Why?”
She swallowed. “Well, the reasons that initially caused me to hesitate still apply. But I’m afraid that Hector and Mabel—you do recall Hector and Mabel?—have added additional impediments.” She fanned herself with one hand, wrinkling her nose. “I’m sorry, but is there somewhere else we might go?”
He shrugged. “Probably.” He stepped to open the french windows at the other end of the room. They led to a veranda that ran the length of the north side of the house. She followed him gratefully into the cooler, less odorous, air.
Once outside, he pinned her with a glare. “Pray enumerate for me the adjustments you think will be necessary, Miss Whittaker. And then I will tell you whether I find them acceptable.”
She faced him, distress in her eyes. “Oh, pray do not be disagreeable,” she cried, disarming him with her directness. “Indeed, I dislike this as much as you do. But you must know as well as I do—upon reflection—that my leaving Crosby Hall to come here was purely a fantasy. My family will never allow such a thing. Common sense will not allow it. At least—not my living here. I own, I had not anticipated the lengths to which Hector would go to stop it, but I should have known he would take steps of some kind. And so he has. My lord, it will not be possible for me to leave my brother’s protection. But I think—I hope—that I have a solution to present to you.”
Malcolm sighed and rubbed the knot that had formed at the bridge of his nose. “What is it?” he asked wearily. “I have a feeling I am not going to like it nearly as well as I like the idea of your living here.”
She favored him with that blinding smile of hers. “Thank you,” she said warmly. “Nor do I. But it will be the next best thing. My lord, I think you do not realize how very near to you I already live.” She reached, as if on impulse, and took his hand, dragging him to the end of the veranda. He felt vaguely disappointed when she dropped it to lean over the railing and peer back past the front of the house. “Oh, how vexatious,” she exclaimed. “You cannot see it from here. But do you see that wooded area, where the land dips? A brook runs there, between our two properties. And the land rises again on the other side of it, and Crosby Hall sits at the top of the rise. It took me twelve minutes to reach you by pony cart, and I think I can walk it in even less time. Going down the hill and across the brook, you know, rather than using the road.”
In her enthusiasm, she whirled around to face him, her lips parted to say something more—but halted, freezing in place with the words unspoken. She must have known he was standing directly behind her, but it seemed that their nearness when she turned round took her as much by surprise as it did him. For a tiny space of time they stared at each other, unmoving. They were only inches apart.
The long rays of sunset struck the side of her face, lining her cheek with fire and painting her brown hair with streaks of gold. Malcolm was acutely aware of how long, how terribly long, it had been since he had stood this close to a woman. Her heat, her softness, her very femininity were overwhelming. A subtle perfume seemed to cloud the air, teasing his nostrils with the musky scent of honey and the sweetness of jasmine. No matter how near their two houses stood, he thought, it would not be near enough. He wanted this woman beneath his own roof. He wanted to inhale her fragrance on a regular basis, and catch that breathtaking smile as often as possible. It was a refreshment to his spirit just to stand beside her. He wondered, for a crazy moment, what it would be like to kiss her.
As if sensing his thoughts, Natalie shivered and crossed her arms protectively beneath her breasts. A tentative smile wavered across her face. “At any rate,” she said rather breathlessly, “It will be easy for me to spend most of the day here. With Sarah.”
Had she felt compelled to add that clarifying remark? With Sarah, indeed. Malcolm almost smiled. Her contact with men must be nearly as limited as his had been, lately, with women. Perhaps he was affecting her senses almost as much as she was affecting his. He could hope so, at least.
He frowned and gave himself a mental shake. Good lord, he was having a completely inappropriate physical reaction to Sarah’s governess. Her governess! Get a grip, imbecile, he told himself disgustedly. The last thing he wanted to do was frighten off the most promising candidate he had encountered yet.
He stepped back, clearing his throat. “I see. You propose to spend your days at Larkspur, but not your nights. And Mrs. Bigalow—?”
“Can remain at Larkspur, with your permission, to see to the day-to-day tasks. Putting Sarah to bed and getting her up in the mornings. Looking after her things, and seeing that she is fed and dressed properly, and so forth.” Natalie pressed her hands together beseechingly. “It’s dreadful of me to foist yet another stranger upon you, but I couldn’t think what else to do.”
Stepping away from her had helped marginally, but Malcolm was still struggling with an overpowering sense of Natalie’s closeness. He managed a frown, but for some reason it did not come as easily as it should have. “So the things in the back of the pony cart belong to Mrs. Bigalow rather than to you. You must have been very sure that I would agree to this.”
“Oh, dear.” She gulped, shamefaced. “That was bad of me, I know. But indeed, indeed, there was no other choice. I could not stay tonight, and I knew you had dismissed Mrs. Thorpe, so—”
“So you did not like to leave me entirely in the lurch.”
“Yes. That is what I hoped you would realize, at any rate.”
Again her frankness disarmed him. He felt his manufactured frown fading. He made an effort to hold on to it. He must have succeeded, for Natalie still looked anxious.
“You must take my word for it, I suppose, but Mrs. Bigalow is truly a wonderful nurse. I am confident that Sarah will love her. And if it’s any consolation, I will confess that I have brought her here at great cost to myself! We kept her on at Crosby Hall all these years as a sort of hired companion for me. And I only recently fought an enormous battle to keep her on the staff. Mabel wanted to let everyone go and replace our staff with her own people, but I was able to convince her to keep Nurse on because…well, because Mabel is expecting a child in the autumn. I hate to let her leave, even temporarily, but until we can come up with something better for Sarah…” She shrugged helplessly.
It was confoundedly difficult to follow what she was saying. In her anxiety to persuade him, she kept moving closer. It rattled him. She was backlit, now. The setting sun haloed her with gold and pink. A current of air fluttered the feather in her hat. A tendril of her molasses hair curled frivolously beside her cheek and danced in the breeze. He longed to touch it. When he spoke, his tongue felt thick and clumsy, as if he had been drugged. “What you are telling me is, you are reneging. Fobbing me off with Mrs. Bigalow instead of yourself.”
“No,” she said quickly. Passionately. She stepped even closer, placing an urgent hand lightly on his sleeve. “You shall have both of us.”
He stared at her, mesmerized by the barely-felt hand on his arm, the perfume, the rosy, other-worldly light. Her curls. That dratted hat. Everything about her conspired to fuddle his wits. She seemed to misinterpret his silence as disapproval, for she looked apologetic. “You did say, sir, that you meant to pay me handsomely.”
Was she blushing? Adorable.
Her dark eyes lifted to his, pleading. “Whatever you meant by that remark, I ask you to cut my wages. I am determined that acquiring the services of both of us will not cost you a penny more than hiring my services alone. That is only fair, since I am not strictly abiding by our a
greement. I shall still act as Sarah’s teacher, during the days, and you may house Mrs. Bigalow in my place.”
When he still did not speak, her blush intensified. “Or,” she stammered, “if you insist—and I suppose you have every right to insist—I could pay Nurse out of my wages. Or—” Her voice faltered to a halt. Her eyes searched his. She looked bewildered; he must be wearing a very odd expression. “Please, Lord Malcolm, I beg you to be frank. Tell me what you are thinking.”
Out of nowhere, seemingly, he heard his own voice, sounding hoarse and strange. “I am thinking,” he heard himself say, “that all these little difficulties would simply disappear if you married me.”
Her jaw dropped. For an instant she stood as if petrified, still with one hand laid beseechingly on his sleeve. Then she removed it. “I’m sorry. That’s not amusing. Not amusing in the least.”
“I’m not laughing.”
She took a step backward, away from him, staring at him incredulously. He watched as anger gradually replaced her bewilderment, narrowing her eyes and tightening her jawline. “Either you are making a very poor joke at my expense,” she said, in a clipped, furious voice, “or you are a lunatic.”
He hoped the rosy light would camouflage the embarrassed flush he feared was stealing up his neck. Good God. She was right. He had blurted out his thoughts like a gawky schoolboy, with no regard for the effect his careless words might have. “Well,” he muttered defensively, “you told me to be frank.”
She stared. “Do you mean you were really thinking that?”
He grinned weakly and shrugged. “I’m only human. Have you never had a crazy thought?”