The Social Tutor: A Regency Romance (Branches of Love Book 1)

by Sally Britton

  Yet as he waited, his eyes continually going to the path from her family estate, he looked forward to seeing her. Spending time in Christine’s company left him refreshed, his burdens lighter. Her conversation revived his interest in the world around him.

  He put from his mind, as best he could, the memory of their waltz and instead focused on their growing friendship. She understood him and his enthusiastic dreams. She conversed well on a variety of subjects. Her affection for her sisters and brother was easily felt.

  Thomas also enjoyed watching her speak, gesturing animatedly with her hands, eyes lighting up and her smile bright. Christine found joy and amusement in nearly everything. When she found the hypocrisy in society’s ways, she delighted in pointing them out and laughing over them.

  Christine, he felt, was the person he got on with the best.

  He heard movement in the brush, jolting him from his thoughts. Christine emerged from the foliage into the clearing, her head ducked to avoid a branch. The moment his eyes fell upon her, he felt his cares grow lighter. He could not help the smile that appeared. Indeed, the sight of her made his very heart lift.

  Thomas ruthlessly hushed the whisper of doubt in his mind, a little voice that warned him, saying he felt too much, that he ought to walk away now or it would be too late.

  But he held his ground, sweeping his hat off and smiling brightly.

  Until he saw the look on her face.

  Christine looked pale, her expression downcast, and she dismounted without her usual cheery greeting.

  “Christine,” he said, tension returning to his shoulders. Could her father have caused yet more damage to her joyful heart? “What is wrong?” He glanced down at the brook separating them and hurried to step on the least-submerged rocks, picking his way across to her quickly.

  “Thomas, please don’t trouble yourself,” she said, but he was halfway across the stream by then.

  “Nonsense.” He approached, not caring that his boots would need a good polishing, which he must do himself for his valet had sought another position with better pay. “You are distressed.” He well remembered the last time she came to their meeting upset, and while he did not wish her to be in such a state, he found he would not at all mind offering the comfort of his arms once more.

  “A little,” she stated softly, folding her arms before her and looking up with a furrow between her brow. “I have a great deal on my mind.”

  “Would you like to talk about it?” he offered, tone soft, giving her half a smile. “We can forgo the lesson, if you wish.”

  She shook her head. “Thank you, no. I am quite able to get through this one on my own.” Her hand came up to tuck a loose strand of hair behind her ear, then her eyes fell to the ground. “But I do wish to speak to you about my lessons. You see, I have told Julia about them.”

  He sucked in a quick breath, a creeping sense of panic tightening his lungs. “What did she say?”

  “She said it sounded rather ridiculous and then she gave me some very dire warnings,” Christine answered, a humorless smile turning her lips upward for a brief moment. “She said other things, too, which made me stop to reconsider our arrangement.”

  The surprise he felt must have been evident for she went on in a rush.

  “The horses are certainly still to come to your stables, tomorrow in fact, but I think we ought to forgo any further lessons.” She shrugged, keeping her shoulders pulled tightly upward. “We have two more left. I feel that I have learned a great deal and I will do well enough, now that Julia is speaking to me on the subject. She will help prepare me, and you will be free to see to more important business.” Christine dropped her gaze to the cold ground between them.

  A long moment stretched wherein the only sound made came from the brook, as the water tumbled and crashed into the rocks.

  He realized Christine peered up at him again, looking uncertain. He must be the one to speak, to agree to her new terms.

  He managed two words. “I see.” But he did not. He told himself it was for the best. Had he not seen these sessions as pure folly in the beginning? A person with any sense would warn against their bargain as indecent, or at least an ill-advised scheme. Now, at last, Christine felt the same way.

  Strange how things have changed, Thomas thought, I find myself terribly disappointed.

  “I will take my leave of you, Mr. Gilbert, and use no more of your valuable time.”

  “I thought it time well spent.” He spoke quietly, watching her take a step back. “And please. It is Thomas.”

  Christine shook her head, darting another glance up at him, refusing to meet his eyes as squarely as she had previously. “No, it had better be Mr. Gilbert again. In case we are in company, I would hate to forget and cause a scene.”

  He stared at the top of her riding hat, uncertain as to why he felt the sudden urge to reach out and take her hand, to stop or at least slow her withdrawal. To lose the time with her, days he thought were yet theirs, left him uncertain and empty. The chill in the air finally sunk into his skin.

  “If you think it best, Miss Christine. Though I hope you will always think of me as a friend.”

  Her brief nod did nothing to reassure him and she turned away. “Thank you, Mr. Gilbert. Good day.”

  She did not even raise her head after she mounted, did not glance at him one more time, but disappeared into the foliage, gracefully as ever, upon her horse. “Good day,” he whispered, though in his heart he wished to call her back.

  ∞∞∞

  Christine walked slowly down the hallway on the first floor, her beautiful green shawl wrapped tight around her shoulders against the chill in the air. Occasionally, she would stop to look at the artwork which lined the walls of her home, standing before them as if she had never seen them before. It felt better to walk about, contemplating works of art, than to sit still with her sisters in their cozy room to talk of inconsequential things. Rebecca kept asking about her plans for her London wardrobe. Julia kept looking at her with concern and tenderness. Despite her sisters’ best intentions, she did not feel comfortable with them at present.

  Being alone gave her a much better avenue for contemplation. It allowed her time to organize her thoughts in relative peace.

  The painting before her now was a winter garden scene, a strange subject devoid of any movement, of true life. A fountain not running but dusted with snow, bushes trimmed back, evergreen trees along the back of the scene. Though the painting did not show exceptional skill, it imparted an air of loneliness that she could certainly understand.

  “Who would paint a garden in winter?” she said out loud. The tidiness of the garden, the barren and cold paths, made her heart shudder.

  “I miss him,” she whispered to the quiet garden. “But that is foolishness.” Indeed, it felt like the very height of madness to find herself longing for a ride to the brook, to stand out in the cold for an hour or more, to be told how to go about catching a husband.

  Not all their lessons went that way. The moments her mind lingered on most were those when they were doing very little tutoring, such as their time in the greenhouse; talking of his parents and his horses. Remembering the day he told her of his ideal woman, speaking as though he was already half in love with someone he had never met, made her heart ache. She recalled his actions when she came to him in tears, after speaking with her father, giving her leave to believe him to be the very best of men. He was kind, a gentleman, he offered her comfort, and he acted the part of a true friend.

  But it was their waltz in the fall sunshine, the sky cerulean blue above them, his warm hands on hers, that made her heart thump faster and her cheeks turn warm. The way he gazed at her as they danced, his green eyes never leaving hers, looking into her as though he knew her through and through, left her knees weak.

  In that moment, she should have realized how deeply she had come to care for him.

  Christine loved him.

  She bit her bottom lip and blinked away the tears that bl
urred her view of the painting. It would do her no good to dwell upon these thoughts, as she well knew, for her life lay out before her fully planned by her father. She must marry a man of wealth or with a title, preferably both, and spend the remainder of her days providing offspring for her future husband and business contacts for her father. Her life would never be her own, her destiny never hers to control.

  As a woman, she was left to the care of the men in her life and forever would be.

  Thinking about Thomas would leave her more broken and dissatisfied with life than she felt at present. Christine would give herself today to grieve, but no longer. She must put him firmly behind her by the time the Christmas ball arrived. She could not carry Thomas’s memory with her to London.

  A door opened down the hall, causing her to jump and hastily wipe at her eyes.

  “Christine,” her father said, stepping out of the doorway. He came down the hall in several long, leisurely strides. “You look unwell.” His statement contained no warmth, only observation, without concern for her health.

  “Merely a slight cold, Father,” she said, straightening her shoulders and withdrawing a handkerchief from her sleeve. “It is nothing, I am certain.”

  He lifted his chin, studying her as he might an underperforming hound. “Good. We cannot have you ill when it is time to depart. I wish for no delays.”

  Of course not, she told herself. A sick daughter would be terribly inconvenient. “I will be well soon enough. I am never ill long. Strong constitution.”

  “It had better be.” His tight-lipped smile appeared. “I am looking forward to overseeing your entrance into society. While we are not titled, our name commands enough respect that you should have invitations into the best of circles. Your aunt will see to it.”

  “Yes, Father,” she answered dutifully, tone soft.

  “I expect we will spend the first days paying monumental bills for your trousseau. I hope you are worth the investment. I would hate to throw money away.”

  “Yes, Father. I will do my best to see your investment gives you a good return.” She could not help the way her tongue turned the words, making them sound more flippant than she normally would have dared had her emotions not been so close to the surface. Christine thought he did not notice, but then his smirk disappeared.

  “Is that cheek you are giving me, Christine?” he asked, expression darkening. “I warn you, child, to show respect when you speak to me. I have fed and clothed you these many years, seen to your education, but should you prove to be a disappointment I will cut my losses. You will spend your days wandering this estate alone, without pin money, and I will cut off my funding of your useless horses. I will not have another failure of a daughter draining my coffers for her foolishness.”

  Her spine stiffened and her chin came up. Normally, she would wither beneath his words. Today they made her angry. Was it not every father’s duty to provide for his children? And Christine never asked for much. She did not demand the latest fashions every season, or spend large sums on trifles and trimmings.

  Indeed, only his payment of her groom and the upkeep of her horses could be construed as an expense, and she knew he could spare it.

  “I understand, Father,” she said softly, though her voice remained steady. “I am well aware of what my season means to you.” After all, he had drilled it into her since Julia’s failure. For so very long, she had wished to fulfill his demands and so gain her place in his affections. Now, after her time with Thomas, she realized she should never have been required to earn her way into her father’s heart.

  “Good. I will see you at supper.” He turned and went back to his office, shutting the door firmly behind him and cutting off any further conversation between them.

  Christine turned and went back the way she had come, turning a corner in time to see someone else duck into a room. She hesitated, wondering if she and her father had been overheard. Then she shrugged. It did not matter. It was likely a servant anyway, judging by the dark fabric she had barely glimpsed. They knew well enough what sort of person her father was, and she refused to be shamed by him. She tilted her chin up higher, but after a few steps down the hallway her shoulders sagged again. Weary, Christine made her way to her room, deciding it might be best to spend a few hours curled up in bed.

  After all, today she allowed herself to mourn.

  Chapter Twenty

  “A letter for you, son,” Harold Gilbert said from across the desk where they both worked. Thomas brought his thoughts back to the present, surprised to see a footman standing next to his father with the silver tray used to deliver notes. Having buried his consciousness as deeply as possible in estate business, he was incapable of perceiving anything going on about him.

  “Thank you, Father. Peters.” He nodded to the footman and took the folded letter, sealed with blue wax. He did not recognize the hand but thought it looked feminine.

  He swiftly stamped down the swell of hope that rose in him at that thought.

  Thomas sat back further in his chair and broke the seal, knowing if he left the letter waiting it would distract him from his work. Christine’s horses had arrived yesterday, so this letter may detail some of the arrangements she wished for their stay with his mares. It might be business she wished to settle.

  Mr. Thomas Gilbert, it began. Please do not think me too forward in writing to you. My sister has told me of your meetings and all the assistance you have given her. She claims you are her friend. I must say, I hope you are more.

  Thomas stood and paced away from the desk, frowning deeply at the letter. His eyes darted to the end to see it signed “J. D.” Julia Devon. He went back to where he left off reading, his heart pounding.

  My sister has been forlorn for days, wandering about our home as if lost. I have attempted to comfort her, but I can see she is beyond my help. She is hurting, deeply, and as the days before her departure to London go by, I find I am fearful for her. Our father has brought a great deal of pressure to bear on her. Today I witnessed a disturbing conversation between them both. He has threatened Christine with destitution and the loss of her beloved horses should she not bend to his wishes. As Christine believes herself without a place to turn for shelter or help, reliant as we women are upon our male relatives for our livelihood, I fear she will put herself into a situation where she will be unhappy the rest of her days.

  Mr. Gilbert, I love my sister deeply. I cannot help feeling if she had a place to go she would gladly give up London and all the plans made for her by others.

  Can you do anything to help?

  Thomas raised his eyes from the letter, not seeing the room around him.

  “Tom?” his father said, coming to stand beside him. “Is it bad news? You are as pale as a ghost, lad.”

  Thomas folded the letter carefully and turned to look at his father. “How much has Mother told you about where I go on my rides?”

  Harold smiled, his eyes twinkling. “You know we keep no secrets from each other.”

  Despite the seriousness of his thoughts, Thomas could not help returning the smile. “This letter is from Miss Julia Devon in regards to her sister, Christine.”

  “Ah.” Harold tucked his hands behind him. “Intriguing. You look as though you aren’t pleased with what she had to say. Warning you off, is she?”

  Thomas shook his head. “Calling me back, rather. Here.” He handed the folded letter to his father and paced the study while it was read. His thoughts whirled chaotically through his mind.

  The days which had passed since their parting crawled slowly by, each longer than the last. Thomas knew, instinctively, that should he wish to preserve his heart and mind he must bury himself in the work of the estate. If he kept his mind on facts and figures, on writing letters to prospective horsemen interested in the offspring of his horse farm, then he would give his heart little time in which to enlighten him on how broken it truly was.

  Watching Christine ride away left him empty and bereft. Knowing he would not
speak to her in private again made him ache. Thomas could not give words to the way he felt, he would not describe his state of emotion, even to himself. That path would lead to a dark place.

  Christine Devon made it quite clear, from the beginning of their arrangement, that she could never wed one such as him. His social standing was too low for her family, his finances in too much uncertainty to take a wife, and friendship would never be enough to induce her when Mr. Devon’s expectations were set on loftier climbs.

  But here, spelled out at last by her sister, were his concerns for her happiness. There was also a strong hint as to what it might take, or what he could do, to save her from such a fate.

  “Tom,” his father said, interrupting his thoughts. Thomas looked to his father to find the man regarding him with a steady gaze. “What can you do to help?”

  Thomas let out a puff of air in a near laugh. “I can offer for her.” The moment the words left his lips, his heart felt lighter. He stood straighter, hope filling him as he took in a deeper breath. “I cannot give her the social standing or connections her father wishes, but those are his desires. Not hers. It may very well be…” His voice trailed off as he saw his father’s look turn thoughtful. “What is it?”

  “Are you in love with her?” the elder Gilbert asked, his eyes steady and voice soft. “Is that it, son?”

  The word Thomas refused to use, though gently spoken, crashed through the barriers around his heart and his breath hitched. Looking into the open expression of his father, a man he respected and loved dearly, Thomas nodded.

  “Yes.” He felt immensely better the moment the admission escaped his lips and he could not hold back his smile. “I am very much in love with her.”

  Harold Gilbert looked more concerned than comforted by the admission. “Everyone knows of Mr. Devon’s expectations for his daughter’s season. He has made no secret of his desires for a future son-in-law. I do not think he will look well upon your suit. Not at all. Especially if he comes to know how you have been meeting in secret all this time.”