Under The Wishing Star

by Farr, Diane

  Such extraordinary luck could not last forever. He was made painfully aware of that fact at a dinner party given by Squire Farnsworth and his wife that very evening.

  The party consisted of the three Whittakers, the Farnsworths, the ancient vicar and his widowed sister who kept house for him, Squire Farnsworth’s two married sisters and their husbands, and himself. Among the dozen present, he was the only eligible gentleman and Natalie the only single lady, so he suspected a little good-natured matchmaking on the part of Mrs. Farnsworth. Buoyed by the satisfactory report from Patterson, Malcolm had no objection to this whatsoever. What gave him pause was that Natalie appeared distressed by it.

  The Whittakers were the last to arrive. Hector and Mabel made a grand entrance, dazzling the gathering with their London-bought attire. Natalie trailed in their wake, less resplendent in a modest dinner dress of peach-colored silk. While Mr and Mrs. Whittaker circled the room, bowing and chattering, Natalie hovered quietly by the door. He watched her, pleased by her appearance; she was neat and elegant from head to toe. This was the first time he had seen her in a social setting, and he planned to observe her closely. He owed it to his family to be sure that his intended bride carried herself well in public.

  As he watched, Mrs. Farnsworth fluttered over to her side and greeted her with affection. Natalie smiled, but her eyes darted worriedly round the company. She said something to Mrs. Farnsworth in a low tone. Mrs. Farnsworth laughed. It was a false, self-conscious laugh, and the airy wave of the hand that went with it seemed to indicate that Natalie had expressed a concern which Mrs. Farnsworth was attempting to dismiss. Malcolm tried to catch Natalie’s eye, but she studiously avoided him. Instead, she approached the vicar’s pinch-faced sister and engaged her in conversation.

  He guessed at once that the source of Natalie’s dismay, and her avoidance of him, was the conspicuous position Mrs. Farnsworth had placed her in. At first, Malcolm was rather pleased by Natalie’s reticence. He considered it one more proof of her innate good breeding, and he added another check mark to the mental list he had prepared. Really, the more he saw of her, the more pleased with her he was.

  Ten minutes later, however, Mrs. Farnsworth publicly asked him to lead Natalie down to dinner. Malcolm almost winced. This move was so transparent that it could not go unremarked by the rest of the party. Clumsy, he thought. But at least it gave him an excuse to do what he wanted to do anyway—spend time at Natalie’s side. He bowed and smiled, acknowledging his hostess’s request. The curious glances and half-hidden smiles that followed him as he crossed to Natalie disturbed him not a whit, but Natalie’s reaction did. She flushed scarlet and threw Mrs. Farnsworth a look of burning reproach. He actually overheard her murmur to Mrs. Farnsworth, “Anne, how could you?”

  He pretended not to hear.

  Natalie suffered herself to be led down to dinner by him, but he had the definite impression that she did so only to avoid creating a scene. She kept herself at as much of a distance from him as she could. He had to remind himself that any well-bred woman would react this way to such blatant matchmaking. Surely that was the only reason why she was behaving so stiffly.

  As they descended the stairs he leaned down to her and whispered, “Buck up, Miss Whittaker. I think she meant it kindly.”

  Natalie gave a tiny, mortified shake of her head. To his amusement, a curl sprang eagerly out of her coiffure and danced with joy beside her ear. “I should not have been accorded this honor,” she told him. “It’s not proper. You should have Anne on your arm—Mrs. Farnsworth—not me. Or perhaps Mabel, since she is still a bride.”

  “Heaven forbid.”

  There wasn’t time for more; the dining room was reached and places taken. Their brief exchange had relieved his mind somewhat; perhaps it was only her sense of propriety that had been offended. Meanwhile, Natalie was placed almost directly across from him. This was better, in some ways, than having her beside him. He liked watching the candlelight play on her features. And he enjoyed watching the tiny curls work loose from their confines, as they always did. It tickled him to observe the ongoing battle she waged with her rebellious hair. There was something delightful about the fact that she never quite succeeded in taming those curls.

  Natalie soon lost all signs of the agitation she had displayed in the drawing room. She looked perfectly calm. Miss Whittaker had poise, he thought, his admiration kicking up another notch. He knew his father would be disappointed that he had chosen a woman with respectable, rather than exalted, connections, especially since her fortune appeared insignificant. But the more he saw of her, the more confident he was that Natalie would soon win Father over.

  These complacent reflections continued almost all the way through the soup course, until they were rudely interrupted by one of the squire’s sisters. She leaned toward Natalie, her expression an unpleasant blend of curiosity and malice, and said, “Only fancy, Miss Whittaker, there is a rumor going round of your working at Larkspur.”

  Her words somehow cut through the babble and clink that filled the room. A hush fell. Malcolm could sense the ears pricking up, all around the table.

  Mabel Whittaker gave an angry little titter. “Oh, there is no limit to what impertinent people will say.”

  Natalie’s calm expression did not alter, but he thought he saw two pink spots appear high on her cheekbones. She swallowed her soup and touched her napkin lightly to the corners of her mouth before replying. Stalling, thought Malcolm approvingly. Very good.

  “Fancy that,” she murmured, in a tone of mild surprise. And returned to her soup.

  It was a masterful set-down. She neither confirmed nor denied the rumor; she simply made it clear that the woman’s curiosity was as vulgar as the gossip.

  Snubbed by her intended prey, the squire’s sister turned determinedly to Malcolm, a false smile wreathing her face. “I wonder how these rumors get started?” she remarked.

  Malcolm gave her a bland smile. “Do you? I wonder why they get started. It seems almost malicious.” He shook his head, feigning bafflement. “Very strange.”

  The vicar’s mild voice chimed in. “I hope you will not think our little community is overly interested in one another’s business, Lord Malcolm. On the whole, I would say we are rather less inclined to gossip than most neighborhoods. This is the most welcoming and kind-hearted parish it has been my pleasure to serve. I shall never forget my experience in Worthing, when I was quite a young man ...” At that, he launched into a gentle tale, bless him, that completely changed the subject and diverted all attention from Natalie and Malcolm.

  Still, it had been a narrow escape. The sooner he secured Natalie’s hand, the better. That was the only sure way to silence any wagging tongues.

  He waited impatiently through the interminable dinner, barely able to concentrate on the idle conversation required at such functions, watching Natalie out of the corner of his eye and trying to think how best to get her alone. His opportunity came at last, when the gathering reconvened in the squire’s drawing room. He strolled over to her with a casual air, bowing, for the benefit of any prying eyes, as if they were mere acquaintances rather than friends.

  “I wonder if you would join me for a breath of air, Miss Whittaker? It’s a bit stuffy in here.”

  Her expression was wary, but she nodded her assent. “Just while the card tables are being set up,” she said. She added, under her breath, “We must remain in full view of the others.”

  “Very well. We’ll step out on the balcony.” He held the french window open for her and she passed out ahead of him. She crossed her arms before her, clutching her elbows as if instinctively guarding herself, and halted by the low balustrade. He joined her and she averted her face, offering only her profile.

  “I am sorry,” she said in a low tone. “What a ghastly evening.”

  “Yes, it is,” he agreed. “But I don’t see why you should apologize for it.”

  “Mrs. Farnsworth is a friend of mine. I should have known she would try t
o ... I should have known she would embarrass us tonight.”

  “I’m not embarrassed in the least.” He leaned casually against the balustrade, trying to get a better view of her features. “Not by her matchmaking attempts, at any rate. I own, hearing the rumors concerning your employment unnerved me a trifle.”

  She looked dispirited. “Yes. That unnerved me as well.”

  He frowned. “It is I, not you, who must apologize for that. I had not anticipated the awkwardness we would encounter at affairs such as this. It has been painful to me to watch you efface yourself whenever a neighbor comes to call. This is even worse.”

  She gave a mirthless little laugh. “Much worse. I cannot escape.”

  “You must not distress yourself, Miss Whittaker. And pray do not blame Mrs. Farnsworth. Your friend believes that pairing you with me would be doing you a favor.” He paused, trying to gauge her reaction, but she appeared too mortified to look at him. “I do wish you agreed with her,” he said softly.

  She hugged herself more tightly, closing her eyes as if in pain. His instinct was to touch her, but he dared not. The french windows stood open just a few feet behind them and they were, as she had requested, in full view of the others. He suppressed his inclination with difficulty, and waited respectfully for her to speak. When she did not, he swore under his breath.

  “I have placed you in an intolerable situation,” he said ruefully. “The fault is entirely my own. I heartily beg your pardon. I ought to have foreseen all this.”

  “Yes,” she said again, almost inaudibly. She opened her eyes and faced him, then, her expression bleak. “I did foresee it, and still I agreed to become Sarah’s governess. It was wrong of me.”

  “Oh, come now—”

  “Wrong of me,” she repeated firmly. “Even though I have remained at Crosby Hall rather than join your household, my position is impossible to maintain. I see that now. I cannot have a foot in both worlds. I cannot serve on your staff during the day and dine with you as your equal at night. One role or the other must be discarded. It is useless to pretend otherwise.”

  Good lord, what a perfect opening. He took a deep breath and smiled. “Miss Whittaker, you are right, as usual. I believe I have a solution for this dilemma. May I tell you what it is?”

  She held up one hand to stop him, looking miserable. “Pray let me finish. Had you taken me back with you to the midlands, where the name Whittaker means nothing, our arrangement might have been possible. Here, in this parish, my status in the community is unalterable. My brother is the largest landholder in the community. I cannot change that, and if I could, I wouldn’t. You must take me off your payroll, Lord Malcolm. I cannot work for you.”

  “I will take you off my payroll on one condition. Will you—”

  “No conditions.” She frowned, tight-lipped. “What must be, must be. I realize I gave you my word. You needn’t tell me; I know how unconscionable it would be for me to walk away from you, from Sarah, without a backward look.”

  “I’m glad we agree on that much, at least. I don’t think you should walk away. In fact—”

  “Good, for I don’t intend to do so.” She looked relieved. “I will still come to Larkspur every day. I will still teach Sarah, as we agreed. I am saying only that I cannot accept payment. I cannot be your employee. I will come to you as your friend. As Sarah’s friend.”

  He almost laughed aloud. “I can’t allow you to do that,” he said. “It would put me under too great an obligation. Would you do all the work of a governess, but receive nothing in return? It’s absurd.”

  “It’s not absurd,” she said defensively. “I’m very fond of Sarah. I enjoy teaching her.”

  “Miss Whittaker, I am delighted to hear that. More delighted than you know. But even the Bible says that the laborer is worthy of his hire. Teaching is labor. And despite your affection for her, Sarah is not an easy pupil.”

  “Nevertheless, I—”

  “Miss Whittaker.” He knew he sounded exasperated. He couldn’t help it. “Pay attention. I am asking you to marry me.”

  She stared at him, the color draining from her face. “What?” she said faintly.

  He took her firmly by the arms and turned her to face him. “I can find another teacher. But you I cannot replace. You are already far more to Sarah than a governess, and I want to ensure, quite frankly, that no matter what the future may bring, you will not leave us to go elsewhere.”

  She looked dazed. She closed her eyes as if gathering strength. “Lord Malcolm,” she said, her voice dangerously calm, “pray take your hands off me.”

  He could not bring himself to unhand her; he was afraid she would turn and run. His hands tightened on her arms. “Did you hear what I said? Miss Whittaker—Natalie—I want to make you my wife.”

  Her eyes flew open, sparkling with anger. “Let me go.”

  He was baffled by her response. Let her go? He couldn’t. She hadn’t said yes.

  He slid his hands down to her elbows, trying not to hurt her, trying not to frighten her. “Listen to me,” he urged. “I suppose this seems sudden to you. But I have been thinking of it for days—since the first day I met you, in fact. My dear girl, it would solve all our problems at a single stroke. Think! You could leave Hector’s roof forever. The gossips would be silenced. Your future would be assured; you would be safe and respectable.”

  “And rich,” she said, irony salting her voice. “And well connected.”

  “Those, too. I know material considerations mean little to you—”

  “They mean nothing. For heaven’s sake, Lord Malcolm—”

  “Malcolm. You may stop ‘lording’ me.”

  “And you may take your hands off me. Now. I am not joking.”

  “Neither am I,” he said, bewildered. But he dropped his hands. “What’s the matter? You act as if I just insulted you.”

  “You did,” she said crisply. She still looked pale. “You care nothing about silencing the gossips. You want to marry me because you want a mother for Sarah.”

  Was that all? He almost laughed with relief. “Of course I want a mother for Sarah,” he said impatiently. “There’s nothing ignoble about that. And why shouldn’t you accept my offer? It’s a better bargain than working as a blasted governess—even if you let me pay you, which now you tell me you won’t.”

  “It’s certainly a better bargain for you,” she said, trembling with indignation. “A wife can’t hand in her notice, can she? No matter what.”

  His jaw dropped. “What the deuce—! Do you think I would mistreat you?”

  “How can I tell what you would do?” She hugged herself again, shivering. “You seem to be ruled entirely by impulse! I’ve never seen anything like it. ‘I think I’ll move to Larkspur—I think I’ll fire this highly-recommended governess and hire a stranger with no experience—oh, and, while I’m at it, why not marry her? No point in doing the thing by halves.’ Frankly, Lord Malcolm, at times I fear you are deranged.”

  She spun on her heel and marched back into the Farnsworths’ drawing room, head held high. He stared after her for a moment, completely nonplussed. Deranged! Of all the cheek! Of all the outrageous—

  His inward splutterings halted as he recognized the kernel of truth at the heart of her assertions. Thunderation, the woman was right. Viewed from her perspective, his actions must seem maniacal. She didn’t know what had come before. She didn’t know his reasons. And he wasn’t entirely sure whether, or how much, he wanted her to know.

  Fuming, he returned to the drawing room. Mrs. Farnsworth pounced on him, beaming and giggling, and tried to lure him to join Miss Whittaker’s table. He resisted with great firmness. He would play whist with the vicar. He would be delighted to play whist with the vicar. He would play rational, meticulous, entirely sane whist, and prove once and for all, to anyone who cared to notice, that Malcolm Chase was of sound mind.

  Ruled by impulse. Deranged. Hah! He wasn’t deranged. But he had to admit, she might have a point about the impu
se thing.

  Chapter 11

  Natalie leaned lazily back on her elbows and watched Lord Malcolm’s line dangling in the shady water. A row boat on a warm afternoon was utterly relaxing. Sarah had already fallen asleep on a cushion placed in the floor of the boat, her head pillowed on the seat nearest the prow. Natalie sat toward the stern, elbows propped comfortably on the sides of the boat. Lord Malcolm was fishing from the center of the boat, but not seriously. Had the small lake been teeming with fish, which it probably wasn’t, mid-afternoon was not the likeliest time to catch any. Fishing was merely a pretext; an excuse to float out on the cool water, drift in the shade nearest the shore, and listen to nature’s melody. A breeze rustled the trees overhead, birds called sweetly to each other, and occasionally cattle lowed in the distance. It was paradise, in a drowsy sort of way.

  A breeze tickled the back of her neck and Natalie let her head drop back, savoring the feel of it caressing her face. “Mmm,” she murmured. “I do love summer.”

  “It has its charms.”

  His voice was unusually soft, obviously in deference to his sleeping daughter. Heavens, what a voice the man had. It made something deep inside her loosen and melt. Dangerous. Delicious. Who would have thought a mere voice could evoke such powerful feelings? Natalie opened her eyes and lifted her head again, trying to keep herself from liquefying before his very eyes. This turned out to be a mistake. He was looking at her, the intensity in his ice-blue eyes weakening her even further.

  “I think I have to thank you,” he said, still in that soft, low tone.

  “For what?” she whispered. Sarah’s sleeping presence should be a deterrent to intimacy. Instead, it forced them to converse in voices suitable for a darkened bedroom. Or a church, she reminded herself. But the darkened bedroom was what came to mind.