A Passionate Endeavor

by Sophia Nash

  “What do you think, man?” asked Nicholas.

  “Methinks this is a damn dangerous tool, it is.” Owen clapped his hand on Nicholas’s shoulder. “I’m guessing the blood flowed freely in Spanish fields with this nasty weapon.”

  Nicholas studied the apparatus and waited for Owen to say more.

  “I must admit, with its added length and moving hinge, it does cut more hay. 0’ course, the younger lads and old men can’t take on the extra weight all day.”

  “It sounds as if it won’t work, then,” Nicholas surmised. “Well, you’ll have to take away mine at the point of a pistol.” Owen gave a broad grin.

  “You old bag of wind,” Nicholas retorted. “Never could trust you.”

  “Now, I resent the implication, my lord,” Owen said with puffed-up fakery.

  “Now, don’t you go `my lording’ me.” Nicholas laughed. “That’s when I know I can trust you least of all. And where is my erstwhile batman-in-training?”

  “O’er there,” replied Owen, pointing to where Charley was, holding a scythe much too large for his small frame. “He’s taking to the farmin’ life like a duck to water.”

  Charley ran up to him. “Lord Nick, we’ve been at it for hours,” he exaggerated. “Thought you’d be here afore now.”

  “Owen tells me haying agrees with you.”

  “Well, in some ways yes and in some ways no.”

  “Well?”

  “Well, ‘tis pleasanter—”

  “More pleasant.” Nicholas corrected him.

  “More pleasant to be outside singing and working with the other boys and men.But then ‘tis damp and cold in their cottages. I think I prefer livin’ in the abbey, even though I have to watch that Cook doesn’t clobber me with her spoon. And His Grace’s valet is nice enough when he chooses to lower himself.” Charley sniffed.

  Nicholas glanced at Owen. “Looks like you’ll be losing a hand in the long run then. But what is this about the cottages? Is it the thatching? I’ve noticed it looks in poor condition.”

  “That it is. Mr. Coburn, your dear steward, says there’s not time or blunt available to fix them up. Perhaps you would like to see one for yourself.”

  “Is that an invitation for a midday meal?” Nicholas asked, with a smile.

  Owen looked embarrassed and blustered a little. “Why, of course. Sally will be pleased to see you. Mind you, we dine simply, not like them fancy dishes in the abbey.”

  “I haven’t seen little Sally Peterson since she was following you around like a hound on a scent, all those years ago. I should have guessed she would have been the one to tame you,” Nicholas said, laughing.

  “Caught me under the horse chestnut tree on Guy Fawkes Day, she did,” Owen admitted.

  “I guess I’ll have to earn Sally’s fare. Shall we?” he said, motioning toward the field.

  Nicholas joined the communal effort that continued throughout the hot day, taking short breaks to quench the great thirst the work churned. When they broke for the short midday meal, Nicholas and Charley walked the short distance to Owen Roberts’s small dwelling.

  The rushes on the roof were in the same deplorable condition as others he had seen all over the valley. Inside, it was a sadder story. Oh, Sally kept the small two-room cottage as clean as a dirt floor would allow. Whitewash was peeling off the damp walls, and a baby cried in the next room. A small loaf of bread sat in the center of the simple wooden table, where three pairs of eyes looked at it with hunger. Two meager slices of dried ham sat on a plate at the head of the table.

  Sally’s welcome was marred by her embarrassment. “I am afraid you have caught us with our larder a bit short, my lord. Owen was to kill a hen this eve.”

  He hadn’t seen any sign of a chicken in the yard, however. The people of Wiltshire were a proud lot. Too proud to admit to hunger to a childhood friend. The two men sat next to each other, surrounded by the three silent Roberts children and Charley. Sally brought a bowl of boiled potatoes to the table and sliced the bread, handing a portion of each to everyone. One slice of ham was given to each of the two men.

  Nicholas could hardly stop himself from forcing portions of his slice to Sally and the children. But he would never dare to deprive her of her pride. She excused herself and disappeared to attend to the baby, without consuming a bite. Nicholas was already envisioning the brimming basket of foodstuff he would have delivered here each week. But if Owen’s family was reduced to this squalor, what of the other families?

  The valley had been reduced to this?

  During the sad little meal, Nicholas told Owen about his idea for a brewery. Owen’s eyes lit up, and he spent all of ten minutes expostulating on the brilliance of the plan.

  “It is a fine idea, Lord Nick. Seeing as how you’re the heir, that good-for-noth—

  .… I mean, your brother and the steward can’t say nay to you. And the water is the best in all of five counties. Men will be lining up for the work.”

  Nicholas gave a small shake of his head to Charley, who was reaching for a second slice of bread. Charley withdrew his hand and glanced at Owen. Out of the corner of his eye, Nicholas saw his friend’s face turn beet-red. The rest of the meal was consumed in silence, a vast change from the excitement his idea of a brewery had conjured up.

  At the end of the day Nicholas rode back to the abbey, Charley riding pillion. Wyndhurst was in a disgraceful state of affairs. He was ashamed. Why had his family not provided better for its laborers and tenant fanners?

  It had never been like this when he was a boy. The war and his father’s ill health were poor excuses for the poverty he had witnessed. He was amazed the Robertses and others like them could survive on so little. But then they were not surviving, if the truth were known. He had not failed to notice two tiny headstones near Owen’s cottage.

  Meanwhile, the inhabitants of the abbey dined well no less than three times a day, including tea with enough sweetmeats to keep a tooth drawerer in high demand.

  He would have a visit with Edwin, his father, and the new steward. Yes, it would jolly well be a long visit with the threesome. Life could not continue as it was.

  The next day, a light rain pattered on the windows, forming tiny crystalline droplets. Charlotte dipped her hands into a water bowl and continued to smooth the small clay bird form before her. It had been foolish of her to wait for Lord Huntington in the front room. He wouldn’t come. Her stomach clenched in nervousness. If she didn’t keep her hands busy, thoughts of him would drive her mad.

  She rubbed her eyes in exhaustion. His Grace had been up half the night with a fever and a series of coughing fits that had left him overcome. At last, he had fallen into slumber at half past three in the morning, and her father had relieved her at seven o’clock, allowing her two hours of sleep and half an hour to dress and prepare a possible lesson for his lordship—if he allowed her to teach him.

  Lord Huntington had promised to meet her. Surely he would come, rain or not. She reshaped the head of the little clay wren she cupped in one hand and rehearsed her lesson plan, almost missing the faint knock at the cottage’s outer door. She threw a damp cloth over the clay figure and plunged her hands into the bowl of water. Quickly drying her hands on her apron, she pulled it over her head and tossed it in the corner. Doro called to her. Charlotte ran a hand over her hair to smooth down any stray locks as she entered the narrow hall, almost knocking the maid down.

  “Oh, Miss, his lordship be in the front room waiting on you.” The maid straightened Charlotte’s gown. “Shall I bring you some refreshments, deary?” she asked with an inquisitive gleam in her eye.

  “Oh, no, Doro. We shall not require anything, thank you.” Charlotte could see the disapproval in the maid’s eyes. She felt a slight blush in the making, but hurried to the front room as the maid muttered something behind her.

  He stood looking out the window the same as yesterday, except that a flawlessly fitted dark blue coat stretched between his broad shoulders, tapering down to his narr
ow hips. Buff-colored breeches and top boots finished the elegant picture he presented. It was the first time she had seen him dressed in anything except his uniform or nightshirt. The crisp white cravat was tied in many intricate folds and emphasized the tanned color of his face, the face of a man who obviously spent most of his time out of doors. Lord Huntington turned to her and smiled, revealing straight teeth that rivaled the shade of his starched white cravat. It was all quite dazzling. Charlotte again found herself without words.

  “It seems you do not recognize me, Miss Kittridge,” he said, bowing. “I am afraid this is the first time I have been forced out of uniform in many a year. My father’s valet has been displaying paroxysms of delight while he attempted the newest way to tie a cravat—almost more so Charley, who has decided that he will learn every version by day’s end. I left the two of them with a boxful of stocks next to a much more willing victim—my bedpost.”

  He was trying to set her at her ease, she knew. It was almost working. She did not know how to compliment his attire without appearing foolish. “Your appearance… You appear lov-lovely, Lord Huntington,” she said, cursing inwardly at her ridiculous words.

  He threw back his head and laughed. “Ah, Miss Kittridge, I thank you. It has been many a day since I have been complimented thusly,” he said. “If I had known you would approve, I would have asked the tailor my stepmother insisted I employ to work much more quickly. It seems Her Grace had insisted that my battered Rifleman’s uniform was no longer presentable to her elegant eye. Actually, I am hounding the poor man to finish a new uniform. I don’t feel I am myself without one on—much like a hermit crab between two shells.”

  “Yes, of course. It would be natural to feel that way.” She looked down at her modest dove-gray morning gown. The muslin had been washed so many times that it appeared to be half its original weight. She must talk to Father about new dresses.

  He took a step closer and pulled out a starched new handkerchief from his breast pocket. “Miss Kittridge, will you allow me to offer you the use of my handkerchief? You seem to have a few spots of something—something powdery on your nose.” He peered at the offending feature.

  She was utterly mortified as she accepted the cloth. She swiped at her nose and looked up at him after several seconds. “I am afraid it is some clay. I was—I was in my workroom before you arrived.”

  “Ah, that explains it. Allow me,” he said, taking the cloth from her fingers.

  She closed her eyes and held her breath as he gently touched her nose and cheek with the delicate handkerchief. She inhaled his warm, sandalwood scent, and for a moment she was floating. The rubbing stopped and she fluttered her eyes open. His mesmerizing, half-closed green eyes were very close to hers.

  She was paralyzed with longing. Longing for him, for a return of her… her deep affection? No, she must be honest—it was more than that, much more. Dangerously more.

  She swayed toward him before noticing a painful reflection in his eyes. He stepped back and she almost lost her balance. How mortifying. She covered her cheeks with her hands and closed her eyes.

  “Thank you for your assistance, my lord.” With those seven words, spoken without the hint of a quiver, she recovered her grace and her pride, and swore never to behave so foolishly again. She would not. “I—I took the liberty of visiting your sister’s horse and the foal yesterday. Your stable master said he thought she would make a full recovery although it is doubtful the horse should continue her role of broodmare. But he did say Lady Rosamunde will probably be able to ride her once again in a few months.”

  “Yes, and it is all due to your actions, Miss Kittridge. I cannot thank you enough. You have won the respect of every last man and boy in the stable yard with your quick thinking.”

  “It was my pleasure and my duty, sir.” Charlotte walked over to the window well and picked up the familiar slim volume Lord Huntington had placed there.

  “I have dutifully looked over the wonderful engravings. I was quite taken by two species that I had not seen before,” he said, as he motioned Charlotte toward the settee before joining her there. He took the book from her hands and skimmed through a few pages before pausing at one.

  She touched the page. “Oh, yes, that is the grey wagtail.

  A bird I have never seen in England either, although I did see one, once, in France.”

  “A wagtail? What a curious name,” he said, grinning.

  Charlotte refused to comment. “Let me see, yes… It says here that it gained its name by wagging its long tail up and down while perched atop long willows or on the ground.”

  “Fascinating,” he replied.

  Charlotte noticed that he was not looking at the book, but focusing on her face. She feared he could see more clay on her nose. “Yes, isn’t it?” she said. “And the other bird?”

  He turned several pages and stopped at one, smoothing the sheet then handing it to her. “I believe it says ‘water rail’?” he said, with some self-consciousness in his voice. “Although I have never seen this one in my travels either.”

  “Why, Lord Huntington,” she said with wonder, “that is precisely what is written in the book.” She hesitated. “You were able to read it?”

  “Well, yes and no, to be honest. I made out ‘rail’ and concluded it said ‘water’ before it as I spied the water in the engraving and the word began with `wa.’ I remembered the word begins with those two letters.”

  She hesitated, steeling herself. “Would you be insulted if I showed you a primer I found at the abbey? I am curious to know where your difficulties in reading lie.”

  This was the crucial moment. She bit her lower lip and crossed her fingers under the bird book. Crossed fingers had only ever failed her once. She looked up at him with the most innocent expression she could endeavor to form on her face.

  “Was there ever any doubt that that was where all of this was leading, Miss Kittridge?” he asked.

  She would take that for permission. Charlotte jumped up and picked up the primer she had tucked below the top few books of the nearby stack.

  “Your certainty of a positive response to your request leaves me almost deflated, Miss Kittridge,” he drawled.

  She leaned over the book stack, then glanced at him from her bent position to find him staring at her… her posterior. “What, sir?”

  “Please forgive me. Actually, I was thinking of… “ and here he began a deep rumbling laugh. “As we have always been ever honest with each other, I was thinking of a grey wagtail, Miss Kittridge.”

  Charlotte bumped her nose on the stack in front of her as she straightened quickly. She was sure she was blushing. The fine light of humor sparkled in his eyes, and she could not stop herself from laughing with him.

  “I see you are trying to disarm me with your candor.” She came around the settee with the primer. “Perhaps in an effort to escape your lesson, sir,” she said, attempting a stern stare. “But it cannot be done. I refuse to be put off.”

  “An admirable and necessary trait in a teacher, I do assure you,” he admitted ruefully.

  She opened the primer to the first page, which had the alphabet printed in large letters stretched across several lines. “What do you see?”

  She watched as he looked to the side and began reciting the alphabet by memory.

  “No. What do you see?”

  “Ah. You are observant, Miss Kittridge,” he said, staring at her. He lowered his gaze to the primer, his face now pale. “I see the letters of the alphabet. It is just that some are dancing around on the page and moving around in a way that will give me the headache if I stare too long at them.” He gripped his forehead in aggravation.

  “Which ones can you make out?”

  “A—and the next I realize is a B—but it sometimes looks like a D. Then C, and E or F and G. Later I see M’s and N’s, which look the same, and S’s and Z’s, which also look similar. But worst of all is trying to string together the sounds of letters.”

  He gazed wi
th intensity at the page. A small vein at his temple pulsed near the surface. He looked up at her with frustration. “Shall I tell you what I think of all I’s and J’s, which annoy me with their dots?”

  “Which letters are clear?”

  “A’s and O’s and G’s are quite straightforward letters, don’t you think?” he said with a wry smile. “Humor serves you well, does it not?” she asked. “Come, come, Miss Kittridge, let us get on with the lesson. We have much to cover if you intend to have me reading within the hour.”

  Charlotte sighed. She hadn’t the faintest clue how to begin. For the next hour and a half she forced herself into the role of patient teacher, reading aloud then listening to Lord Huntington stumble over page after page of childish nonsense.

  His endurance was staggering, but the task seemed impossible.

  Well past the time she would have suggested a rest, he plodded along, with errors and stops aplenty. After one particularly challenging passage where he had tripped over many words, he came to a full stop.

  “I think we have had enough, don’t you? I daresay I have demonstrated my superior skills to you, Miss Kittridge,” he said, a cynical expression on his face.

  “I believe we both need a rest from the page. I am exhausted, and I can tell that you have the headache.”

  “Your fatigue must be due to your superior ability to bite your tongue, Miss Kittridge. I have never been fortunate enough to have a teacher willing to let me fail alone. Instead they could not stop themselves from telling me the word I was trying to decipher. You are a veritable fountain of patience and kindness.”

  Well! That was praise indeed. “I am quite sure I would not have tried so hard as you have done. You are a relentless student, sir,” she replied with feeling.

  “We shall have to form a mutual admiration society with a membership limited to two, I daresay,” he said, giving her a glimpse of his dazzling smile.

  He was so very beautiful, she thought for the hundredth time this past hour or more. She could not come up with a more appropriate description. How she longed for Byron’s turn of phrase, or Shelley’s brilliant talents, displayed in the volumes she had borrowed from the abbey. How could she describe the way his brown hair fell forward onto his forehead when he bent over the page? Or the evenness of his profile and his sonorous voice? Or the feeling she had when his knees, fabric pulled taut over muscle, had touched her own?