by Maureen Lang
“We’ll only trot around a bit where your mum can see, all right?”
Padgett nodded enthusiastically beneath the black, sturdy helmet, squealing with delight when the spirited mare took off. A chestnut Kisber half-bred, the horse was lovely and strong, and Quentin, an assured rider.
“I can see why you care for him,” Dana said at Rebecca’s side. “He’s about as adorable as they come.”
Rebecca grinned but could think of nothing to say. Nothing that wouldn’t mark her silly and in love.
“How long have you been dating?”
“Not very long. Around the time we first heard from you, as a matter of fact. I actually connect the two, for some reason.”
“From the Hall’s Web site, I guess you’re an expert on planning weddings. Will that be coming in handy any time soon? For you and Quentin?”
Rebecca admired the easy way Dana asked such a question, as if it were an obvious inquiry based on the way Rebecca and Quentin behaved. “You’re living up to your country’s bold reputation.”
Dana’s clear blue eyes held nothing but affectionate interest. “My sister calls me nosy. As I always remind her, I learned it from her. And you didn’t answer my question.”
“Yes, I know.” Rebecca grinned, thinking she should leave it at that but for some reason didn’t mind talking. Maybe it was the easy friendship that had sprung up between them . . . or maybe there was comfort in confiding in someone whose home was across a big ocean, far away from English society pages. “It’s a bit soon to be contemplating marriage. Still, we’re not exactly teenagers. We should know by now what we’re looking for in a mate.”
“You sound like I did before I met Aidan.” Dana sighed. “When I was single I just wished I could wake up married without having to go through all of the dating trauma.”
“Now there’s a lovely dream. I shall start hoping that myself, since it seems to have worked for you.”
“But now is the best time, really. All that excitement of getting to know someone you really want to know. You’ll have great memories when you’re married.”
“Yes, if I knew we were headed that way. There are complications, though.”
Dana’s gaze went to Quentin, who held the powerful horse to a slow walk around the grassy paddock. “We might not have aristocracy in America, but we do have snobs. It seems like the newspaper was trying to paint Quentin as one. I don’t see him that way at all, and I doubt you do, either, or you wouldn’t be dating him.”
“He’s anything but.”
Dana turned to the direction of the Hall, her gaze lingering there. “Tell me about a wedding here, Rebecca.” She grinned. “Better yet, tell me about how you would plan your wedding here.”
Rebecca fell into the temptation too easily, sharing plans as detailed as which flower garden she would choose to supply her ceremony and what music would be played. Dana joined in, telling Rebecca she’d been a part of so many American weddings she could certainly think of an addition or two. And she did, suggesting instead of table numbers for a seating arrangement Rebecca might use favorite forebears’ names in honor of their memory. Rebecca laughed over which table Dana might sit at—Cosima’s or No-Beacon Bill’s, who sounded like someone she would have enjoyed knowing.
Their conversation ended with Padgett’s call for Dana to watch, and Dana withdrew a camera from her pocket. Padgett’s smiles were easy to capture.
Soon they went inside, where Dana led Padgett upstairs for a bath. Rebecca followed Quentin to the library.
“You seem to have struck up quite a close friendship with my cousin and her daughter. All that whispering and laughing.”
Rebecca smiled, though she had no intention of admitting the content of their conversation. “Guilty as charged. She’s delightful, and so is her daughter.”
This being their first moment alone since his return, it wasn’t long before Quentin pulled Rebecca into his arms.
“How was your fund-raiser last night?” she asked. “Successful, I hope.”
“Fine.”
“That’s all? Just fine?”
He seemed to stiffen to the tip of his fingers, but she couldn’t imagine why. Unless his mother had used his time away to try convincing him to her way of thinking. Rebecca sent up a quick plea for wisdom. Press and pry, or wait and trust?
“Did you know Helen and William Risdon will be on holiday for the next two weeks?” she asked. “Normally it wouldn’t be a problem. We have only one function scheduled—a wedding next Saturday morning—and we’ll use the same cooks and servers for the banquet after, so they won’t be missed for that. They’ll be back well before the Featherby judges are scheduled next month. If you don’t mind, I’ll be using the kitchen so Dana and Padgett don’t starve while they’re visiting.”
He caressed her cheek. “I can bring someone in if you like.”
She shook her head. “No, I don’t mind. Dana isn’t very hard to please, and she tells me Padgett has lived on peanut butter and jelly for nearly a year. If she can survive on that, I think I can manage.”
“I can help,” he said. “With the peanut butter and jelly at any rate.”
Rebecca laughed. “Perhaps we might add that to the tour. Watch the nephew of the Earl of Eastwater prepare his world-renowned peanut butter and jelly sandwich.”
She would have left the circle of his arms to take a seat on the nearby sofa, but he held her firm. “Do you know, Rebecca, I missed you yesterday. Would you have come if I’d asked?”
She eyed him curiously. He seemed so serious. “I needed to be here for Dana and Padgett.”
He shook his head. “No, if there were nothing in the way, would you have left this safe little world of yours and come to the city, fed the media sharks, played my partner at a high society function?”
“That depends,” she said with a grin. “Who was the beneficiary of this charity event?”
He gave her a slow smile. “Barnardo’s.”
“Then by all means, yes.”
She enjoyed his embrace, glad he was reluctant to let her go. “Quentin, it’s still true I don’t like the idea of living under the shutter of a reporter’s camera. But I must tell you, if it’s the price to be paid for being with you, I’m willing to pay it.”
His smile widened, only to be lost in a kiss.
28
* * *
My dearest Cosima,
It pains me to see how your cousin Finola has been mistreated. She still mourns the life that is lost to her with a husband and home. And her son is delightful. He must be very much like Royboy was at his age. He cannot talk but will sit still far longer than most of our other students. We read to him and show him pictures and sing to him, and he is generally very happy.
Finola, I fear, has some adjusting to do. She was so grateful when we opened our doors to her son. We expected she might want to start anew somewhere, perhaps in Dublin, where she might find a job. But she would not leave her son and unfortunately quickly proved she is unfit for most positions (not unlike myself, I admit, before I was called to the vision of this school). She does, however, possess a fine skill for needlework and could likely find a position in such a field if she put her mind to it. For now, she is doing our mending, and we hope to have her help in other areas as time goes on.
Simon MacFarland, our unexpected legal champion, returned for his first unscheduled visit. It was blatantly clear that he had forgotten how important keeping to a routine is for everyone, including Katie. He wanted to take her into the village, but she refused to leave.
I feel quite cheated that he has left twice now without giving me the opportunity to prove him wrong about this school—and me. Last night on my walk around the manor, I thought of all sorts of things I might say to convince him, but without him here it was all for naught.
Berrie clapped her hands with the music, along with many of the students. In the week since Duff had returned, he’d become a favorite among most of the children, and not only for his music
. He found the humor in each student and elicited a laugh more often than anyone else on staff. A word, a tickle, a tousled hairline, a funny grimace for those who didn’t understand many things but somehow possessed the ability to decipher a jest. Duff was the one who made sure laughter became part of the daily routine.
He seemed to have taken to Finola’s Conall most of all. When he walked with the four-year-old on his shoulders, the two of them cast a long shadow, one that was becoming familiar when Duff wasn’t teaching in the workroom.
It was late in the evening, and Duff played the tune he always closed with, a favorite lullaby. Berrie’s gaze roamed the room as she sang along, unable to miss where Duff’s own gaze fell most often. Upon Finola O’Shea.
So far, Finola didn’t seem interested, perhaps thinking another marriage out of the question. If she had more children, they would likely be similar to Conall. Berrie knew well enough the fears Cosima had of marriage and children and assumed Finola felt the same way, and with far more cause.
Berrie couldn’t ignore mixed feelings regarding Duff’s obvious interest in Finola. Envy had no part in it, though she couldn’t deny it would be nice to have a man look at her in such a way. Not since Lord Welby had expressed an interest in Berrie had she been the object of anyone’s interest, and his interest had too quickly waned when she’d begun talking about having a purpose in life that might not be satisfied by marriage, children, and an endless social circle.
Rather, Berrie wondered how it would affect the school if a match were made between two members of the staff. She’d been warned any impropriety among the staff would be more than frowned upon by the Lunacy Commission. She understood that; the trust of the parents was not something they could afford to lose.
And so she wondered if she should worry when Duff carried Conall to his bed, the one he shared with his mother in the shrouded corner of the girls’ dormitory upstairs. Surely there was no privacy to be found in this place, but even so innocent a favor might be viewed improper if anyone noticed the way Duff looked at Finola.
Berrie sighed, trying to let go of her concerns. Here she was again, imagining every troubling possibility, even ones that didn’t exist.
29
* * *
Rebecca removed the fried sausages from the pan. She’d mastered cooking by the age of twelve, after taking on kitchen duties when her mother’s lingering illness deprived her of the energy to do household duties. Rebecca’s father made the task lighter with his open praise of her accomplishments. Following the example he set, they’d both kept busy through their worries, letting the illness dictate their day: treatments and homecare, plus fulfilling the responsibilities Rebecca’s mother left behind. It was less painful to be distracted by work than to watch her grow weaker, and keeping busy helped ease the grief of losing her when she died a year later. Rebecca was the avid student and housekeeper while her father was the breadwinner and single parent. Busyness hadn’t taken the place of her mother, but it had dulled the pain.
No doubt Quentin was setting out dishes and cutlery in the garden room with Padgett’s assistance. Dana had offered to help with the finishing touches on the meal but had unexpectedly disappeared into the lavatory the moment they returned from church.
When Dana entered the kitchen moments later, she had a pale tint and didn’t seem to welcome the scent of Rebecca’s cooking.
“Everything all right?” Rebecca asked, taking the last sausage from the pan. She knew her skills wouldn’t match Helen’s or any chef’s of Lady Elise’s, but she hadn’t burned anything and the sausage was fresh.
Dana nodded. “Better than a few minutes ago. I’m sorry I wasn’t any help.”
“Not to worry. The fruit was ready, Quentin took in the juice, and here are the roly-polies now.”
“Roly-polies?”
“Padgett’s idea.” Rebecca handed the plate of melon to Dana. It was less fragrant than the sausage and pancakes, and she thought it better to take those in herself. “We’re ready.”
They found the others in the bright garden room, the table prepared, but Quentin and Padgett near the bird rather than waiting at their places.
“Mommy!” Padgett called as they entered. “This is Winston. Did you know he’s even older than you are? Quentin says Winston is old enough to be my grandfather.”
“You can help me feed him after we eat,” Quentin invited.
“What does he eat?”
“Nuts, right out of your hand.”
Quentin led her to the table, where they all took seats except Quentin, who went to the tea trolley to retrieve the pitcher of chilled orange juice. Then, once seated, he bowed his head.
Rebecca loved hearing him pray. If she’d ever doubted his faith, she abandoned such notions the moment she first heard him pray. She’d asked him why he hadn’t prayed that night when his mother came to dinner, and he’d apologized for that, admitting some habits were only now beginning to form.
“There is a fair in the village this afternoon,” Quentin said. “I thought we’d visit there, if you’d like.”
“Sounds like fun,” Dana said.
“It will be,” Rebecca confirmed, looking Padgett’s way. “You’ll get to taste apple snow and fairy cakes.”
“What’s that?”
“To put it less charmingly,” Quentin said, “apples with custard and cupcakes. Not on the same plate, of course. You’ll like it better than bubble and squeak, is my guess.”
“And what’s that?” This time it was Dana asking.
“Beef and mash—that’s mashed potatoes—with cabbage and onion.”
“Hmm . . . I may have to pass along with Padgett on that one.”
They chatted about which other sights Dana and Padgett should see, and Rebecca was glad to note Dana’s coloring improve as she ate. Whatever had ailed her this morning after church was obviously gone. Still, as excited as Dana was to see more of England, she wasn’t willing to abandon the purpose for which she’d come. She insisted they plan their mornings to continue the transcription of Berrie’s letters and see where the school records might fit.
Barely finished with her meal, Rebecca heard the echo of clipped footsteps, followed a moment later by a familiar voice calling Quentin’s name.
He took up his napkin, wiped unnecessarily at his mouth, then excused himself. Rebecca aimed a carefully manufactured smile Dana’s way.
“Quentin’s mother has arrived for a visit.”
“Oh, good!” Dana said. “I get to meet her at last.”
Rebecca nodded, wondering how long it would take to see Dana’s eagerness turn sour. Lord, help me bite not only my tongue but my thoughts, too.
Elise’s voice reached them before she and Quentin did. “You really ought to hire someone to watch over this place, Quentin. No one answered the door, and I walked right in. Didn’t you hear me knock?”
“No, Mum. Come in; have some lunch with us.”
“It’s a bit early for that. I have lunch waiting for me at home. And if by ‘us’ you mean that commercial manager again, I’ll not be sharing another meal with the staff. And in that same room with that awful bird.”
Rebecca felt rather than saw Dana’s gaze shoot to her, but she didn’t look up.
“You know, Mum, that was incredibly rude.” Quentin’s voice was friendly, as if he’d complimented rather than chastised her.
They arrived in the garden room then, and as Elise stopped across the threshold, the bird squawked the only greeting—and a grating one at that. Rebecca knew there was no etiquette requiring her to stand. She did so anyway, anticipating the need for another chair if Elise decided to stay. Without Helen or William there, Rebecca was prepared to fill the role of servant.
“What’s this?”
“You already know Rebecca, Mum. These other two lovely ladies are my American cousins Dana Walker and her daughter, Padgett.”
Elise was stunning as ever, dressed in a white linen suit and a feathered hat, with shoes and matching handb
ag undoubtedly of expensive design. Just now she looked down at Dana with anything but a warm English welcome.
“An American cousin, Quentin? I don’t think that’s possible, considering neither your father nor I have any American siblings.”
He laughed. “Yes, well, I’m not sure how many times removed we might be, but we share the same great-great-great-grandparents, Cosima and Peter Hamilton. That makes us cousins of a sort, don’t you think?”
“And you came all the way from America to meet my son?” Elise’s gaze grazed Padgett. “With a child, no less?”
Dana stood too, perhaps because Rebecca had. Only Padgett remained seated, though rather than eating, she stacked the roly-poly slices in the middle of her plate.
Dana held out a hand. “With my husband, who’s in Ireland at the moment. He’s been hired as consultant to a project in County Kilkenny. Padgett and I are visiting Quentin and Rebecca for a week or so.”
“How nice.” Lady Elise eyed Padgett. “Just make sure your little one doesn’t break anything.”
“Of course.”
“Padgett has been an angel since she’s been here,” Quentin said, returning to his place at the table. “Now, please, everyone sit, and Mum, take my chair for the moment while I fetch another.”
“I won’t be staying. Where is Helen or William? No one answered the door, and there’s no one here to bring another setting if I did decide to stay.”
“Helen and William are on holiday, Lady Elise,” Rebecca offered. “But there is plenty if you’d like to take a seat.”
“Why in heaven’s name are you eating before noon?”
“We’ve just come from church, where all our stomachs took turns growling. Rebecca put something together right away.”
“So now you have her cooking, Quentin? I thought managing the Hall was her full-time job?”
“Actually we’re sharing the cooking while Helen is gone. My turn will be dinner. You’re welcome to come if you don’t mind being a guinea pig. Though I have my doubts about anyone wanting to be a pig of any sort until my cooking skill can be proven. What do you think, Padgett? Will you be eating more of my cooking than you have of Rebecca’s?”