"Robert," the duchess said, addressing the back of his son's head, which was buried against his neck, "you are almost six years old, are you not? You may be the very person I need. There is a four-year-old boy over there by the window who is looking very unhappy indeed because he knows no one and is too shy to make himself known. I fear he will not enjoy his stay here if someone a little older does not befriend him. Could that older boy possibly be you? It would be extremely kind of you though you must not feel obliged. His name is Tommy."
For a moment Robert did not respond. Then he lifted his head and looked across the crowded room to where a little ginger-haired boy was sitting on the window seat, playing forlornly with a small sailing ship.
"I'll come with you, Robbie, if you like," Georgette offered.
But Robert seemed not to hear her. He did not protest when Michael set him down. He set off across the room without taking his eyes off the other child and bent over him, his hands on his knees as he said something, just as though he were an octogenarian addressing an infant. Tommy tucked his chin against his chest before looking up and extending the hand holding the toy ship toward Robert, who looked closely at it, touched it, and said something. He sat beside Tommy, who was now gazing at him with the beginnings—surely—of hero worship.
"That was well done of you," Michael said. "He is abnormally shy."
"I can see that," the duchess said with a smile. "He needs someone younger than himself to protect. He will be fine, Lord Staunton. You must not worry. Ah, here comes Eleanor with Lizzie."
He looked toward the door to see a young girl, who was leading—or being led by—a black and white border collie on a short leash. His daughter shrieked before he had a chance to look at the woman who had entered the room with her.
"Miss Thompson!" Georgette cried—and dashed across the room.
And good God, it was indeed she. Miss Thompson. Eleanor.
"Your daughter knows my sister?" the duchess asked.
"We were stranded together at an inn yesterday," he said, gazing across the room. "Georgette escaped from her room and, before she was missed, talked Miss Thompson's head off in the dining room while she was having her tea. The lady is your sister? She was very kind to my daughter."
He was absurdly delighted to see her again and only very slightly embarrassed.
She was looking startled at Georgette's approaching figure, and then her eyes met his for one moment before his daughter hurled herself into her arms and almost bowled her over. He closed his eyes briefly.
The duchess laughed. "Do not discourage her enthusiasm," she said, correctly reading his expression. "There is sometimes a strange notion that perfect ladies ought to be demure and that girls ought to be brought up to aspire to such perfection."
Miss Thompson, having been released from Georgette's clutches, was introducing her to her young companion, who looked a few years older than his daughter.
"She is Lizzie," the duchess explained, "the Marquess of Attingsborough's daughter. The marchioness used to teach with Eleanor in Bath. The dog is Horace. He leads her about with only the occasional mishap. He has been trained since she first acquired him and he led her spectacularly astray one afternoon on the estate next to ours when there were at least a dozen of us adults supposedly keeping an eye on her."
Michael looked more closely. "She is blind?" he asked.
"Since birth," she said. "But sometimes one almost forgets. Claudia and Joseph give her all the rein she needs to explore her world, and Claudia has found a way of educating her so that she may live as rich a life as anyone else."
"It is not easy being a parent," he said with great lack of originality.
"It is not," she agreed, "and someone ought to warn us before we launch into the state with blissful ignorance. Shall we go down for tea before we are deafened, and take Eleanor with us?"
"Papa," Georgette shrieked as they approached the door. "Miss Thompson is here. Is it not the best surprise ever? And this is Lizzie, and her dog is Horace and goes everywhere with her because she is blind and he acts as her eyes. Is that not clever? I am going to ask her a million questions about being blind. I have never met a blind person before."
Michael winced, but Lizzie only laughed. "Neither have I," she said. "Is that not funny? I have never met anyone else who is blind. Shall we go to my room, where it will be a little quieter?"
"Oh, yes, and perhaps we may be friends," Georgette said, and off they went, arm in arm, the dog trotting beside his mistress.
Robert was engrossed with the ship, which he and Tommy were sailing on the seat between them, their heads almost touching above it.
"Miss Thompson." Michael smiled at the lady. "You told me you were on your way to spend the summer with your family. I told you I was on my way to a house party. Neither of us mentioned any names or places, though, did we? I am delighted to see you again, and I think it possible my daughter is quite pleased too though you may not have noticed."
She laughed and…blushed? "I am delighted too," she said. "Has Lord Staunton told you we found ourselves marooned at the same inn last night, Christine? He was kind enough to invite me to dine with him in the only private parlor available."
Michael offered them each an arm and they made their way downstairs. He was still smiling when they stepped into the crowded drawing room a couple of minutes later. Perhaps he had done the right thing after all in coming here. And really it had not felt awkward at all meeting Miss Thompson again. He had refined too much on that accidental kiss and the attraction he had felt for her toward the end of last evening.
And then his eyes alit upon two fashionably dressed ladies across the room, the younger looking very fetching indeed in a pale primrose afternoon dress.
Lady Connaught and Miss Everly.
Good God!
His smile faded.
* * * * *
Lindsey Hall could accommodate a vast number of guests and had done so on several occasions since Christine married the Duke of Bewcastle. Wulfric's three brothers and two sisters were here with their spouses and growing families. So was all of Christine's family. And there were several other guests, relatives, and friends. She had invited the Earl of Staunton, Christine explained to Eleanor and Hazel and their mother while they were sitting over their coffee in the cozy sitting room next to Mrs. Thompson's bedchamber the following morning, because he had kind eyes and she had heard he brought his children with him to London each spring and devoted much of his free time to them, taking them to places that would interest and entertain them.
"But it sounded to me," she said, "as though the children were not often in the company of others, and that made me sad. Sad for them and sad for him, for I believe he dotes on them. I have been told he doted on his late wife too, though I never knew her."
"Poor gentleman," their mother said.
Christine had not planned activities for every moment of the two weeks. Everyone must feel free to relax and enjoy the summer in good company, she had explained at dinner last evening. Everyone must come and go as they pleased and not feel obliged to do anything they would rather avoid.
They did tend to move about in crowds, however. On the first afternoon, which was hot and sunny with not a cloud in the sky, someone—Christine? The Marchioness of Hallmere, the former Lady Freyja Bedwyn, Wulfric's sister?—had suggested going out to the hill that descended in a long, wide slope from the wilderness walk almost to the bank of the lake, and children and adults flocked there in the most exuberant of spirits though no one had explained what was so delightful about a long, steep hill.
Eleanor doubted Wulfric had opened his home to many house parties before he met her sister, and she had never observed him either to romp or to frolic since then, or even to bend sufficiently to smile and relax and look as though he were enjoying himself. But, observing him as she walked from the house to discover what the excitement was all about, it seemed to her that he was happy. He was standing at the foot of the hill, his hands clasped behind
his back, his booted feet slightly apart, an austere expression on his face, watching excited, shrieking children, including two of his own, rolling down the hill from the very top.
The person he was really watching, though, Eleanor saw as she came up to him, was Christine, who was hurtling downward, her body straight, her arms stretched above her head, her dress bunched up about her knees, shrieking. She was not the only adult thus engaged. Freyja and two of her brothers, Lord Alleyne Bedwyn and Lord Rannulf Bedwyn, were also part of the action, to the huge amusement of their own children and other people's.
"Why could I not have married one of the respectable Thompson sisters?" Wulfric asked without turning his head.
Eleanor laughed. "Because Hazel was already married and I would not have had you even if you had asked," she said.
"That is very deflating to my self-esteem," he told her.
"That even if you had asked is a key point, Wulfric," she said. "Only Christine would do for you. Admit it. And it was because she is as she is."
Robert Benning, she was delighted see, was leading the younger, red-haired child with whom he had been playing in the nursery yesterday up the hill by the hand. He was bent slightly toward him, like a parent protecting his chick. And, interestingly, another infant caught up to them up as Eleanor watched—he was Jules, son of Gervase, the Earl of Rosthorn's son, Wulfric's nephew—and took Robert's other hand, no doubt seeing in him an older boy who was a rock of stability. Georgette too was trudging up the hill with Lizzie and the girl's father and talking animatedly to both of them.
"Quite so," Wulfric said, watching as Christine caught a little girl at the bottom of the hill and swung her about in a high circle, laughing and whooping up at her. The Countess of Rosthorn, the former Lady Morgan Bedwyn, Wulfric's youngest sibling, was doing much the same thing a short distance away with young Miranda Bedwyn, Lord Rannulf's daughter. "You are looking…subdued, Eleanor."
Oh, gracious. Was she? But those unblinking silver eyes of his, so disconcerting to many people, did not miss much. He turned them upon her now—appropriately enough, his eyes were like a wolf's.
"Because I am not risking life and limb by rolling down the hill?" she asked, laughing again.
He was not to be deterred, "What is troubling you?" he asked.
"Absolutely nothing at all," she said, "beyond a little weariness after a busy term."
All about them in the warm sunshine house guests of all ages were at play. Even those who were not laboring up the hill in order to tumble down it were watching those who were and calling out comments and encouragement and laughing and whistling and applauding and, in a few cases, tending bumps and bruises and soothing tears. But the Duke of Bewcastle's austere attention was focused fully upon his sister-in-law.
"You are not as happy," he said, "as you expected to be." It was not a question.
"Oh, I love my school," she protested, quite truthfully, "and I love my fellow teachers, every one of whom has both the skill and the enthusiasm and understanding I expect of them. I love my girls, from the haughtiest and most obnoxious of the wealthy ones to the cattiest and most belligerent of the charity cases. I love what I do. It matters."
"But?" He raised one eloquent eyebrow.
She sighed. "But—"
"Bewcastle," a strident voice said, and Lady Connaught sailed up beside them, dressed in all the splendor she might have worn on Bond Street in London or on a drive in Hyde Park at the fashionable hour of the afternoon. Plumes nodded above the flower-trimmed brim of her large bonnet. Her daughter was with her, dressed as though for a garden party in Richmond, her arm drawn through the Earl of Staunton's. "How delightful it is to see all the dear children enjoying themselves, though I am surprised you would allow them to expose themselves to such danger. I am surprised too that the mothers of the girls would allow them to behave more like ill-bred hoydens than the young ladies they must aspire to be when they grow older. I am surprised you did not send them with their nurses somewhere not quite so close to the house. Their shrieks were audible as soon as we stepped out of doors."
Wulfric was suddenly all cool hauteur. His quizzing glass was in his hand and raised halfway to his eye.
"Are you surprised, ma'am?" he asked. "If there is indeed danger, it is slight and there are many doting parents on hand to deal with scraped knees and bumped noses. In my experience, exuberant girls often grow up to be perfectly delightful and well-bred ladies. My sisters are a case in point, as is Her Grace. And why, on a summer day, when the children are having a great deal of fun, should the pleasure of watching them and listening to them and even, in some cases, of joining in their games be reserved for their nurses? It would not seem quite fair."
What was also not quite fair, Eleanor thought with the greatest satisfaction, was that no one could ever argue with Wulfric—except Christine. Lady Connaught retreated into a dignified silence.
Eleanor's eyes met the Earl of Staunton's. She had recognized Miss Everly's name as soon as she had heard it yesterday, and Lady Connaught's too. The impression she had gained at the inn during dinner that he was courting Miss Everly had been quite correct. She was exquisitely lovely, and she seemed to be all sweetness and dimpled good nature. Eleanor had not warmed to her. There was something about her sweetness and something about her smile… Could it be that she was just a little jealous, Eleanor had asked herself yesterday and asked herself again now. How very ridiculous of her. She felt more than ever ashamed of that near-sleepless night while she relived a kiss that had not been a real kiss at all.
He looked back at her with expressionless eyes.
"Perhaps, ma'am," Wulfric was saying, "I may escort you back to the house and have tea and scones brought out onto the terrace. It will be quieter there. I believe my mother-in-law plans to sit there in the shade with a few of my other guests."
But she did not avail herself of his offer. Instead she turned her attention upon Eleanor. "I would be obliged if Miss Thompson would take a walk along the lakeshore with us," she said.
Eleanor looked at her in surprise. She had thought herself beneath the notice of such a grand lady. "Thank you. That would be pleasant," she lied.
"It must be very gratifying for you, Miss Thompson," Lady Connaught said as the four of them moved off, "that your sister succeeded in snaring England's greatest matrimonial prize a few years ago. It is a feather in your cap to be able to boast of the Duke of Bewcastle as your brother-in-law."
"Indeed it is, ma'am," Eleanor said. "I am delighted to boast of both my brothers-in-law because they make my sisters as happy as my sisters make them."
"It must be a matter of regret to you," Lady Connaught said, "that you were unable to do as well for yourself. However, your loss is possibly our gain. You own and manage a girls' school in Bath, I understand."
"I do indeed," Eleanor said and glanced at the earl. She had not told him that when they dined, only that she was a teacher. He smiled at her, and her breath caught annoyingly in her throat.
Lady Connaught drew breath to say more, but they were interrupted by Georgette, who had come dashing from the bottom of the hill to hurl herself upon Eleanor, just as she had done in the nursery yesterday. Her dress was strewn with assorted debris and streaked with grass stains. Her hair, still tied precariously behind her head was nevertheless disheveled and liberally decorated with grass and twigs. There was a dirt streak and a slight scratch across one of her cheeks. Her hands were dirty. Her eyes sparkled. And her mouth was, of course, in motion.
"Miss Thompson," she cried, "did you see? Did you, Papa? I just rolled down the hill for the sixth time. It looks ever so frightening from the top, but it is the best fun ever. Lizzie has come with me three times though the first time her papa had to come too. You see? There is her mama hugging her and her dog licking her hand. She is blind. Did you know that? But of course you did. You were with her yesterday. She is full of pluck, is she not? And Robbie—have you seen Robbie? Have you, Papa? Look, he is getting ready to roll do
wn again. It was positively inspired of the duchess to send him to look after Tommy yesterday, was it not, for now he has a whole group of the very little ones thinking he is very grown up and wanting to be his friends. He has hardly glanced at me all afternoon. Oh, here he comes. Does it not do your heart good, Papa?"
While she had been speaking, she had caught Eleanor's hand in one of hers and reached out to take her father's hand in her other. She was almost jumping up and down between them now and laughing as Robert led his little band down the hill.
"It does indeed," the earl said. "I am very happy, Georgette, that you are both enjoying yourselves so much. I will be happier still when you recover your manners from wherever you have put them and make your curtsy to Lady Connaught and Miss Everly."
"Oh." She bobbed a curtsy that encompassed them both.
"Dear Lady Georgette," Miss Everly murmured. Her arm had been somehow forced from her escort's.
"It is perhaps a good thing you have no mama at the moment, Georgette," Lady Connaught said, smiling graciously. "She would doubtless be ashamed to own you."
All the light went out of the child, and her hold on Eleanor's hand slackened. "My mama would never ever have been ashamed of me," she said almost in a whisper.
"That is because she would have trained you to behave like a proper lady," Miss Everly said sweetly. "And then she would have been proud of you."
"I—" Georgette began.
"I believe Lizzie is waiting for you, Georgette," the earl said. "Go and have fun with her and the other children."
The child looked from him to Eleanor, her light still dimmed, her eyes glistening with what might be tears. Eleanor smiled.
"I am envious, I must confess," she said. "The duchess, my sister, has the courage to come rolling down that long hill, but I am afraid I would stand cowering at the top and then make some excuse to descend the sedate way along the wilderness path."
"I am proud that my daughter has more courage," the earl said, also smiling. "Off you go, Georgette. And try to leave at least some grass on the hill, will you?"
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