Kat took the paper he handed her and unrolled it. The writing was smudged, with inkblots and fingerprints and cross outs, and she could barely read what it said. She gave him a questioning glance.
“It’s a poem,” he said helpfully. “For you.”
“For me?” Kat stared at him in surprise. Morty was writing poetry? For her?
“Shall I read it to you?” he asked with a hopeful look.
“Please do.” Kat sat back to listen.
After clearing his throat several times, Morty began to read:
There is a lady fair whom one cannot see just anywhere;
To find this prize you must seek her out.
On bridle path or theater box,
In drawing room or city shop
Are some of the places you might encounter the lady fair.
Her hair is brown, her eyes are blue
Particularly when they are looking at you.
Gracefully she glides across the floor
As she walks toward the door.
Fearing you will not see her anymore
you follow her steps as they trip lightly across the carpet.
For one of her smiles anyone would walk miles.
Like Helena her light shines on all those who worship at her feet, hoping someday that they may be the ones to bathe in the glow of her warm countenance.
He reroiled the scroll and presented it to her with a flourish.
Kat did not know what to say. The poem was . . . appallingly bad. Even she knew that. But she suspected Morty had labored long over his work—and it had been for her. It was a sweet gesture.
“Morty, that was wonderful,” she said at last. “No one has ever written poetry for me before.”
“I have others,” he said. “But they are not quite done. The whole process took longer than I thought it would.”
“It is my understanding that writing poetry is a difficult task,” Kat said. “I am very impressed. I could never do such a thing.”
“It wasn’t that difficult,” he said, but she saw the look of pride on his face. “Getting the words to rhyme was the hardest part.”
“I think you did a marvelous job.”
Morty fixed her with an expectant look, and opened his mouth to say something, but before he could speak, Sophie came into the room.
“Goodness, you are up early, Mr. Mortimer,” she said as she poured herself a cup of tea and sat down.
“I had important things to attend to,” he said.
“Oh?” Sophie glanced suspiciously from Morty to Kat and back again.
“Morty wrote a poem for me,” Kat explained.
“How delightful,” said Sophie. “May I hear it?”
Morty dutifully read his creation again.
“That is . . . amazing,” Sophie said. “I had no idea that you had such a literary bent.”
“Stayed up nearly all night working on it,” he said proudly. “Came home from the theater all fired to write.” He gave Kat an adoring look. “Must have been inspired by my muse.”
Kat felt a sinking sensation in the stomach, fearing Morty was taking this more seriously than she had first thought. Did he actually believe what he’d written? Had he formed an attachment for her? She looked at him with growing suspicion.
“Well I, for one, think it is a very sweet gesture,” Sophie said. “No one ever wrote a poem for me, even my late husband.”
“I can write one for you, too,” Morty said, then glanced nervously at Kat. “That is, if you did not mind.”
“Oh, please do,” Kat said. “I should not like Sophie to feel left out.”
“Have you been writing poetry long?” Sophie asked.
“This was my first effort,” Morty replied, puffing out his chest.
“How impressive,” Sophie said. “I could never do such a thing.”
“I think it is important for a man to cultivate more than just sport,” Morty said.
Voices sounded in the hall, and Nick and Lieutenant Boone were led in by the footman.
“Nick!” Kat exclaimed, eager to brag to her brother. “Guess what? Morty has written a poem for me!”
“Don’t know why he should do that,” Nick said. “You’re no Helen of Troy.”
“Beauty is not everything,” Morty said. “There is spirit and outlook and—”
“Are you saying I’m not beautiful?” Kat demanded, with a look of mock dismay.
Morty gulped. “Weil, I—”
“Oh, I am teasing you,” Kat said. “I know I am no beauty. But you will have to focus on that when you write Sophie’s poem, because she truly is.”
“Yes, indeed.” Lieutenant Boone cast an appreciative look at Sophie.
“Enough of your flummery, or you will have me thinking it is true,” Sophie said. “Has your commanding officer been keeping you two busy?”
“Oh, endlessly,” Nick said. “Drill, drill, drill.”
“No doubt interspersed with eating, drinking, card playing, and riding,” Kat said. “I do not feel any sympathy for you.”
“What new trouble have you been up to?” Nick asked.
“I have been a perfect model of propriety,” Kat replied. “I attended the theater the other night.”
“She was the most popular lady there,” Morty said.
“Hardly,” Kat replied. “But I did have several male visitors.”
“I did hear London is still rather thin of company,” Nick said. “You must have been the only young lady there.”
Kat cuffed him on the arm. “You are a brat, brother.” Then she leaned toward him, suddenly turning serious.
“Have you heard anything from Eddie? I am getting worried; he has not yet written back! I am afraid something is terribly wrong.”
“No doubt he’s locked in the cellars on a diet of bread and water and isn’t allowed to write,” Nick said.
Kat gave him an exasperated look. “Do not even say such a thing! That’s precisely the reason I think he should not be at school—they can be so cruel to their students.” “If they are punishing him, I am sure it is well deserved,” Nick said. “You know Eddie.”
“I am going to remind Newkirk today,” Kat said. “He promised I could visit Eddie if he was still unhappy.”
“I am certain that if things are truly awful, you will hear from the headmaster,” Nick said. “I would not rely on anything Eddie wrote. You know how he exaggerates.”
Kat frowned. Nick was such an annoyance. He was still firmly in Newkirk’s camp. She turned back to Morty. “Did your parents send you to school?”
He shook his head. “Didn’t want to go.”
“Good for you.” Kat felt relief at having found a sympathetic ear at last. “We still must schedule our visit to Man- ton’s. Newkirk bought me a new shotgun yesterday.”
“He did?” Nick regarded her with surprise. “Whatever are you going to do with that?”
“Shoot birds,” Kat replied dryly. She looked back to Morty. “When would you be free to go?”
“Friday, perhaps?” he asked. “As long as I am inspired, I should like to keep writing my poetry.”
“You could write a poem about pheasant shooting,” Kat said. “I would like to hear that.”
“You would?” Morty jumped to his feet. “I have to run home and start writing. Good day, adieu, I shall return.” As soon as he was safely out of the house, Sophie burst out laughing.
“That poor boy,” she said, between giggles.
“Not much of a poet, eh?” Lieutenant Boone asked. “Abominable,” Sophie replied.
“But it was such a nice thought,” Kat protested.
Nick gave her a sharp look. “Don’t tell me you’re fond of this fellow?”
“And if I were?” Kat glared at him. “You have nothing to say in the matter. That is between me and my guardian.”
“I’d certainly speak with Newkirk if I thought you were interested in such a dolt,” Nick said. “I’m not going to let you go off with the first fellow who pays y
ou any attention.”
“When I choose a man to marry, you will be the last to know,” Kat said with a sneer. “You gave up any right to interfere with my life when you sided with Newkirk back at Kingsford.”
Nick had the grace to look guilty. “I did what I thought was best.”
“Hah!”
“Kat!” Sophie admonished her with a hint of sharpness. “Lieutenant Boone does not care to listen to your family squabbles.”
“Oh, take no notice of me, I’m—” he began, but a look from Sophie quelled him.
“We did come here for a reason,” Nick said. “I’ve managed to borrow a phaeton from one of the fellows. We came to take you ladies for a drive in the park this afternoon.”
“So sorry, but I already have an engagement,” Kat replied airily.
“With whom?” Nick demanded.
“Mr. Gerald Parker,” Kat replied. “Sophie and Newkirk are coming with us, so don’t ask if you can go along. There won’t be room.”
“Perhaps we could take you ladies to the park tomorrow afternoon, instead,” Lieutenant Boone suggested.
Kat looked at Sophie. “Are we free tomorrow?”
Nick hooted. “Listen to you. You’re sounding like the belle of London.”
Kat gave him an arch look. “Perhaps I am.”
“Well, if you are too busy to drive with us, perhaps Sophie will consent to come,” he said.
“I should be delighted,” Sophie said, and glanced at Kat. “You will come, won’t you?”
“Oh, I suppose,” she said reluctantly.
“Then tomorrow afternoon it is,” Lieutenant Boone announced triumphantly.
“Is Newkirk at home?” Nick asked. “I wish to speak with him before I go.”
“Look in the study downstairs,” Sophie said.
“Ask him about Eddie,” Kat called after him as he headed for the door. He dismissed her concern with a wave of his hand.
“How can he be so insufferable?” Kat asked.
Gerald Parker arrived that afternoon in a well-appointed landau. Kat immediately noticed that the two horses pulling it were not prime specimens: one was a bit too swayed in the back, while the high withers on the other bespoke a rough gait. Still, there was little point in wasting prime animals on sedate carriage rides in the city. Perhaps he kept his best horses in the country.
“Couldn’t have picked a nicer day for a drive, what?” Parker asked as he helped first Sophie and then Kat into the carriage. He stood back to let Newkirk climb in and then followed. A coachman handled the reins.
“Tell us about your family, Mr. Parker,” Sophie said as she settled into the well-padded seat. “You have how many boys?”
“Three,” he replied. “Ten, thirteen, and fifteen.”
“They are of a similar age to my brothers,” Kat said. Was it possible that Parker would be her savior? “Did you bring them to London with you?”
“Good God, no,” Parker replied. “They’re all in school, every last one of them.”
“Even the youngest?” Kat’s hopes floundered. The poor child was barely older than Eddie.
“Boys need a good education, and you can’t start them too soon. I hate to say it, but when their mother was alive she coddled them far too much. Boys need a bit of toughening to develop into good, strong men.”
Kat bit her tongue to keep from bursting out with an angry retort. She could overlook the horses and Parker’s age, but his callous disregard for his poor children ... If they’d been alone, she’d have no qualms in telling him what she thought of his child-rearing ideas.
She glanced at Newkirk, who studiously avoided her gaze. An awkward silence ensued.
“Do you prefer London to the country?” Sophie asked at last.
“The city?” Parker shook his head emphatically. “Heavens, no. Bit of a nuisance, it is. I only come here for business and . . . other matters I can’t take care of at home.” He gave Kat a warm glance, which made her feel queasy. “I’d much rather be in the country, puttering about the estate, hunting, fishing.”
Kat did not care how much he enjoyed country pursuits. He treated his poor children cruelly, and that was all that mattered. Parker, she realized quite clearly, would be of no use to her in rescuing Eddie and the others.
She wished she could find some excuse to make him turn the carriage around and take her home, but unfortunately she was doomed to spend at least the next hour with a man she was rapidly growing to dislike. Worse, with Sophie and Newkirk present, she did not dare treat him to the blistering set-down she wished to bestow on him. With Parker proving unsuitable, it was all the more critical that she keep on Newkirk’s good side.
Still, that did not mean she had to encourage him. She would treat him with civility, nothing more.
Val sat back against the cushioned seat of Parker’s carriage, an amiable smile plastered to his face, bored out of his mind. Parker had an opinion on nearly every subject, and he was not loath to share them with his guests, whether it be the fate of the prisoners soon coming to trial, the military budget, or the price of corn.
The man was a prosing bore. Val did not wish the fellow on anyone.
Let alone his ward. Val knew she would be utterly miserable with this man. Parker would stifle her eager enthusiasms, and Kat would either fall into despair, or rebel in some intolerable way. Val did not want to see the fight from those sparkling blue eyes dulled by such an insensitive and unimaginative husband.
Kat needed a man who would keep her in hand, but with a fight touch. Heavy-handedness, he realized now with chagrin, was not the way to deal with her. Unfortunately, Parker was not clever enough to realize that.
Val gave a silent, inward sigh. Really, it was ridiculous to have thought that he’d be so lucky as to find a husband for her this soon. The Season had barely started. There
were plenty of men in London—surely one of them would be right for her. He merely needed to widen her circle of acquaintances.
Val now knew enough about his ward to have an inkling of her likes and dislikes. A sportsman with a keen eye for horses was imperative. Someone who was more comfortable in the country than in town would be best. And he should not have a fondness for either music or art, remembering her dismissal of both.
The fellow also needed a sense of humor. Val had seen enough of Kat’s teasing nature to know that she enjoyed exchanging good-natured jibes. And the poor soul would have to tolerate visits from those brats she claimed as brothers.
He would have to redouble his efforts to find someone who fit his specifications. Kat deserved that much from him.
And Parker was definitely not the man.
Chapter Fifteen
After finally arriving home, in her relief at being rid of Parker, Kat almost missed spotting the letter lying on the Queen Anne table outside her room. But something made her glance down, and she saw the envelope.
A letter from Eddie!
She tore the covering off and eagerly scanned his poorly written missive. “Miserable.” “Dreadful.” “Unhappy.” Her initial dismay was replaced by excitement. She finally had the proof she needed. Eddie was miserable and wanted to leave school. And Newkirk had promised she could rescue her brother if he still wanted to come home.
With a look of growing excitement on her face, she raced down the stairs in search of Newkirk. She found him in the
study, intently reading a newspaper spread out on his desk. Kat waved the letter at him.
“Look at this!” she said. “Eddie’s written and he’s still unhappy. When can I go get him?”
Newkirk looked up, his expression curious. “What exactly does the rascal say?”
“That he’s miserably lonely, school is terrible, and he wants to come home right this minute,” she announced with a note of triumph in her voice.
“Odd.” Newkirk sat back in his chair and looked at her intently. “The reports I have received say otherwise.”
“What reports?”
“I wrote to the
headmaster after your brother’s first letter,” he said.
Kat stared at him. “You did?”
Newkirk gave her an exasperated look. “Did you think I would blithely consign the child to an uncertain fate without checking? I told the headmaster of Eddie’s complaints, and your concerns. He wrote back and assured me that ‘young Mr. Foster’ was doing quite well, was popular with the other students, and did not appear to be wasting away from hunger, as he has claimed.”
“That’s easy for him to write in a letter.” Kat sniffed derisively. “Do you think he would dare admit to harming the children?”
“I do not think he is harming any children, including your brother,” Newkirk said. “The headmaster assured me that these sorts of complaints are common among children when they are first sent off to school, or when their life has been disrupted in some other way. Frantic parents arrive at school, only to find a child who insists upon staying.”
“If Eddie says he is unhappy, he is unhappy,” Kat said. “And you promised I could bring him home if he still wanted to leave.”
“I have a feeling that Eddie knows how to exaggerate his plight to play on his sister’s sympathy.”
“I do not care what you think.” Kat stamped her foot with growing irritation at the man’s obstinance. “I want to bring Eddie home.”
“It is silly to take him out of school now when the term is set to be over in a few weeks,” Newkirk said patiently. “He will be home soon enough.” “Newkirk, my brother is in distress. I have to rescue him.”
“He is not suffering, and, no, you are not going to take him out of school before the end of the term.”
Kat blinked back the tears that threatened to blind her. She should have known better, should have known that all of Newkirk’s recent amiability was only a pretense.
The Defiant Miss Foster & A Highly Respectable Widow Page 17