“Merry Christmas to you, too. Er, has your sister arrived?”
“Amelia? No, she has apparently come down with some sort of affliction. Her maid told me she didn’t feel well enough to attend. She sends her regrets.”
“I… see. I trust she recovers soon.”
Phillip backed away. What would he do now? He had no desire to stay and socialize with anyone else. Partying held no appeal for him without Amelia there. With her, he felt like celebrating. What could have happened to her? He wanted to ask, but Edward was already in conversation with someone else. Phillip could see Edward’s mouth and easily deciphered the earl’s words.
“Of course, Amelia never was one for parties and dressing up and such. My mother had an awful time getting her to cooperate during her season. She finally had to give up when Amelia bluntly told her she had no intention of getting married.” Edward paused. “I thought perhaps she might have been interested in Bartlett.”
Might have been?
“She had been looking more… girlish, lately. You know, with the hair and the lace and such. She behaved like a young girl. But today she came down to breakfast in one of her drab old frocks. It was almost like she was in mourning.”
Could she have been upset with him about something? He searched his mind. What could he have done?
His first reaction was to admit defeat. How could he have thought he could win the hand of a woman as special as Amelia? What would she see in him?
But another voice reminded him of her sunny smiles whenever they were together. The way she worked hard for people less fortunate than her. There was no better woman to head Bartlett Manor than Lady Amelia Partridge. He needed to find her and fight for her. Was there even a chance for them? He went in search of a servant to fetch his coat.
Chapter Ten
The carriage ride seemed endless. Along the way, she mentally rehearsed what she would say to Phillip. “I’m so sorry to keep you waiting, Your Grace.” No, that wouldn’t do. What if he hadn’t been waiting for her? Hopefully he wouldn’t have found it odd that Edward arrived before her. Perhaps she could simply say, “How lovely to see you again, Your Grace.”
The carriage drew up before the Kringle mansion, and the door opened. A gold-braided cuff decorated the wrist of the hand extended to her.
She took a deep breath and descended the steps. “Please be there,” she whispered.
She would surely be one of the last to arrive at the party. Would Phillip still be waiting for her? A servant took her cloak, and she braced herself. Another servant waited at the ballroom’s entrance. When he saw her, he reached for her card.
She shook her head. “I — I need a moment.”
The man nodded and stepped back.
A bank of potted pear trees festively decorated with ribbons and ornaments for the holiday graced each side of the wide arch leading to the ballroom. Amelia decided to look for Phillip through the branches of the trees so she could go to him immediately.
She leaned forward, trying to see the partygoers through the boughs. But it was nearly impossible to make out any one figure through the sea of humanity. She should have known. The Kringles’ party was the prime event of the holiday season. Lord and Lady Kringle held court in one corner of the room, greeting their guests. She took another step but froze when she realized her hair had caught in one of the ornaments on the pear tree. She tried to disengage herself but managed only to get herself more firmly entangled. Embarrassingly, the skirt of her dress, in her twisting and turning, had caught on some lower branches and was pulled up into the tree, exposing a shocking amount of her legs.
Goodness! How ever would she get out of this? Absently, she recalled a song she’d heard about a partridge in a pear tree. She wasn’t sure whether to giggle at being part of a Christmas carol or sob at her dilemma. Should she call out to one of the servants in the foyer? Would they even hear her?
Suddenly, her skirt fell back in place. A second later, the ornaments released her hair. A deep voice behind her murmured, “There you are, Lady Amelia. I trust you and your lovely gown have not suffered any ill effects from your mishap.”
“Phil— Your Grace!” She dampened her excitement and cleared her throat, dipping into a deep curtsey. “Again, you have rescued me. Thank you.”
He executed a formal bow. “It was my pleasure. Your brother told me that you were ill, and I feared you would not be here tonight.” He extended his elbow. “Shall we join the ball?”
“I would love to, but first I need to tell you something. I tried to tell you earlier, in your library, but I’m afraid you might not have heard me.”
“I apologize. I’m listening now.”
She faced him directly so he could see her lips and understand what she said. “I — I write books. Love stories. I like to write them, and my publisher says they are becoming quite popular. I don’t want to stop writing them. I have a pen name, so no one needs to know, but I wanted to tell you. Would that bother you, knowing what I do?”
“I have already read some of your stories. They’re quite wonderful.”
Her jaw dropped. “You — you knew?”
“Yes. A few weeks ago, when you read aloud to the students, you hardly looked at the page. You didn’t have to, because they were your words. The next day I went to the bookstore and purchased every available title by A. P. Worthington.”
“And… the idea doesn’t repulse you?”
“I shall be proud to be associated with the author of such tomes as The Demure Duchess and The Tempestuous Ton. He sobered. “Would it repulse you to be associated with a disfigured, hard-of-hearing duke who must work like a common laborer to restore his crumbling estate?”
Amelia held her hand to her heart. This must be the kind of love she’d read about, even written about, but never experienced.
“I would be honored at such an association, Your Grace.”
He stepped closer, wrapping his arms around her. “Shall we seal this agreement with a kiss?”
Two Tutor Doves
by Patricia Kiyono
Published by esKape Press
www.eskapepress.com
All Rights Reserved
Copyright © 2015 PATRICIA KIYONO
ISBN-10: 1940695791
ISBN-13: 9781940695792
Cover Art Design by For the Muse Design
This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters, and events are fictitious in every regard. Any similarities to actual events and/or persons, living or dead, are purely coincidental. Any trademarks, service marks, product names, or named features are the property of their respective owners and are used for reference only and not an implied endorsement.
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Dedication
To the lovely women of the Mid-Michigan Romance Writers of America – thanks to you, I discovered I really could write a book. And because of your constant encouragement, that first publication became the spark that ignited even more. This particular book would not have been completed without your annual I Will Write A Book challenge coupled with monthly goal-setting and bi-weekly writing sprints. I feel so fortunate to belong to a group that so actively works toward the success of its members.
Cha
pter One
Robert Townley swallowed, hoping to hide his discomfort. As valet to Phillip Peartree, Duke of Bartlett, he prided himself on being efficient and able to handle any emergency. He’d often used his resourcefulness to get his deaf master out of a jam. But right now his resourcefulness failed him.
The little boy looked up at him with wide eyes, waiting patiently for an answer to his question.
“Well, I, er, that is to say — that’s simply the way it’s done. There are two ways to write each letter, and you must learn them both.”
“But why?”
“This isn’t open for discussion, young man. You will do as you are told.”
The boy frowned and bowed his head over his slate.
Robert went on to the next student. He would rather be almost anywhere but inside the chapel of St. Paul’s Cathedral, instructing a group of ragtag ruffians how to read and write. But the little school was the duchess’ pet project, and what was important to the duchess was important to the besotted duke. In previous years, the former Lady Amelia Partridge had been the instructor in the makeshift school, and the duke had often come to help her. But the impending arrival of the family’s newest addition meant the duchess could not continue her work in the school.
“Please, Robert,” the duchess had implored him. “You’re the perfect instructor. You taught little Bertie Crabtree when his mother came here to work. I know you could help these children too.”
Blast. He’d hoped she’d forgotten about those tutoring sessions. He hadn’t minded working with little Bertie, but that was after the boy had been cleaned up. The child’s grammar was awful, but he had good manners, so he’d agreed. And it hadn’t been too awful. Bertie had been bright and eager to learn.
But having to stand close to so many dirty, bedraggled children — it was almost more than he could bear. If it weren’t for Jeanne, lady’s maid to the duchess, watching his every move, he’d be tempted to end the lessons early and stop at a nearby pub before returning to the townhouse. But the bothersome woman would definitely inform her mistress, and then he would be in trouble with the lady of the manor.
After determining the children’s abilities, they’d agreed to split the children into two groups. Jeanne instructed the younger students, and Robert took the older ones. The arrangement suited him just fine. He had no patience for whiny little brats.
Jeanne crossed over to his side of the room and stopped behind the urchin who’d questioned the need for upper and lower case letters. She whispered to him and patted his shoulder. The boy nodded and straightened his back and shoulders. How did she get him to work so willingly? Had she bribed him with an extra treat?
The boy — Andrew, if he recalled correctly — was bright enough, and he usually behaved appropriately. But his clothing was even dirtier and more threadbare than the rest of the children’s. It looked like he wore someone else’s castoffs and had taken them in just enough that they wouldn’t fall off his body. How did people live like that? The boy constantly sniffled, as if he was about to cry. He could use another coat to keep warm in the winter weather.
Having lived his entire life in the duke’s homes, Robert had heard plenty of discussions about the various societies Phillip’s mother and grandmother had promoted. Surely one charity or another could take care of this child’s clothing, or lack of it.
Still, he couldn’t help taking another glance at Andrew. Jeanne took a clean cloth and wiped it over the boy’s face. What had happened to him? A closer look at the boy’s hands and arms revealed more of the purplish spots. Bruises? Perhaps he’d taken a tumble. Little boys were always getting into scrapes. He’d certainly had his share, climbing trees and running about the Peartree estate with his master Phillip. Geoffrey Townley, valet to the Ninth Duke of Bartlett, had received permission to have his son live with him after his wife had died, and Robert and Phillip had grown up together. Later on, as young men, they’d gotten braver, exploring the sordid back streets of London, where proper gentlemen were not encouraged to go. Until that disastrous day…
“Mr. Townley, I believe everyone is finished with the writing assignment.” Jeanne’s voice cut into his thoughts, bringing him back to the present.
After the lessons, it was time for the treats. Robert distributed the napkins, and the students dutifully placed the cloth squares across their laps. He nodded when they waited patiently for the little sandwiches and cakes prepared by the cook at Bartlett Manor. Thank goodness the duchess had taught them some manners. He recalled the first time he’d observed the class with his master. Phillip had followed Lady Amelia Partridge, wondering why she’d been dressed so plainly, and discovered her running the little school. Back then the children had wolfed down their treats like heathens. Now, at least, they’d learned to take smaller bites, though they still made terribly annoying sounds as they chewed.
Jeanne didn’t seem bothered by their noises. In fact, she didn’t seem bothered by anything they did. She bent close to them, speaking to them quietly, even touching them. She’d brush a little girl’s curls out of her eyes, or hug a little boy when he got frustrated.
When he reached Andy, the boy didn’t reach for the napkin but shrank back as Robert placed it on his lap. His stiff posture remained until Robert had gone on to the next child. Odd. He believed in discipline, but he’d never raised a hand to any of them. Why would the boy be afraid of him?
Andy showed none of that fear when Jeanne followed with the sandwiches, but he stiffened again when Giles, the footman who’d come to assist them, distributed the dessert. Why would the boy have an aversion to the men, but not to Jeanne?
No matter. It was nearly time to pack up and leave. Then he could return to his comfortable, sensible world.
“Children, we seem to have a few treats left. Why don’t we have a contest? We’ll start with Mr. Townley’s students. The first to recite the entire prayer on the back of your horn book will receive an extra sandwich or scone.” Jeanne’s announcement was met first with silence then excited murmuring. But none of the children stood.
Except Andy. Hesitating, he slid off his chair. He kept his gaze down and shuffled his feet. Jeanne knelt in front of him and lifted his chin. She waited until he met her gaze then took his hands in hers.
“I know you can do it, Andy. Let’s show everyone else.”
In a halting voice so quiet Robert needed to lean forward to hear, the boy began. “Our Father…” His voice shook, and he paused. Jeanne kept his gaze, and the boy gained confidence. By the end, his volume had grown, and the shakiness had disappeared.
The other children listened patiently, and cheered when he finished.
“Excellent, Andy! Would you like another sandwich, or a scone?”
He puckered his brow. “Sandwich, please.”
Robert nodded his approval when the boy thanked Jeanne politely.
~~~~
The walk back to the duke’s rented townhouse was rather quiet. A few years ago, the duke had sold his London home to defray the last of the debt his father had incurred. He and the duchess spent most of the summer and harvest time at Bartlett Manor, his estate in Lincolnshire, coming to London only during the months when the duke needed to fulfill his Parliamentary duties. Until her pregnancy, the duchess had spent her London time with the Ladies Literary Society and writing, in addition to teaching the poor children at the church school.
The group made an odd procession walking back to the townhouse. Robert and Jeanne took the lead, Giles and one of the maids behind them. Normally he would follow his master and mistress, but tonight, as an upper servant of the household, he led the way. He was half-tempted to offer his arm to Jeanne, but thought better of it. They weren’t a couple, and the people behind them weren’t their servants.
Still, the idea of being one half of a couple held a certain appeal. Curious. He’d never given any thought to marriage and a family for himself. Perhaps it was a passing fancy.
Chapter Two
The next mornin
g at breakfast, the servants’ dining area was filled with the usual clatter of cutlery and small talk. Utley, the butler, held court as he droned on about the day’s requirements, but Robert heard none of it. He focused on Jeanne. The young lady sat daintily near the foot of the table, next to Mrs. Floyd, the housekeeper. She kept to herself, not really cold, just — alone.
The previous night, after returning to the townhouse, he’d bid the other servants goodnight and had gone to his room. But he hadn’t been able to dismiss the notion of himself as the head of a family. He’d probably never have servants of his own, but he could marry. His father, having served the previous duke for decades, had left him with a tidy nest egg. The inheritance, added to what he’d been able to save during his own years of service, would be enough to purchase a small home near the Bartlett Estate in Lincolnshire.
He and Jeanne would suit well. She was rather pleasant in appearance, and her interactions with the children at the school indicated that she would be able to handle a brood of her own. After working hard for the Peartrees, he had no use for the silly concerns most women tended to burden their husbands with. Jeanne kept the duchess’ day running smoothly, so logically she would be able to run a household.
He watched as she ate. She sat up straight, the way a lady would. She chewed with her mouth closed, so that the chewing didn’t make noise. She didn’t talk, waiting until she swallowed before answering a question someone asked her. Manners. She showed excellent breeding, as his father would say.
Where were her people? She’d never talked about family. Though Brown was common enough, her given name was most unusual. Occasionally he caught a trace of a French accent in her speech. Had she come from the continent? Did her refined manners and speech stem from a background as an impoverished noble? The revolution and Napoleon’s romp across Europe had caused countless members of the ruling class to go into hiding — those who had managed to escape the guillotine.
The Patricia Kiyono Christmas Collection Page 31