“I am Mr. Lucaster,” the little man said stiffly, “and I am employed by Mrs. Wychombe to instruct her pupils in the art of dancing and elocution, but I do not believe I have ever met your niece.”
“I know the young lady,” his wife said, coming out from behind him and approaching Terence, “and I can well believe that Miss Kinderley has run away, rather than returning to her home.”
Terence looked down at her in astonishment, which became even more pronounced as she continued to speak.
“A more miserably unhappy child I have never seen in all my years of teaching.”
“Unhappy?” Terence said, taking an involuntary step backward.
Glaring up at him as ferociously as a little fox terrier, Mrs. Lucaster continued, “Yes, unhappy. That poor child is so hemmed in by rules and restrictions that she has no joy in her life at all.”
“My niece is a sickly child,” Terence began in self-defense, but the woman in front of him was not ready to listen to reason.
“Well, in my opinion, she would find more pleasure in the grave than she finds under your care.”
Terence stared at her in astonishment, and even Mr. Lucaster was clearly flabbergasted at his bride’s statement, which went far beyond what was acceptable.
Obviously realizing she had been much too coming, Mrs. Lucaster retreated to stand next to her husband. “I am sorry if that is speaking too plainly for you, Mr. Kinderley, but I have felt such pity for the child. It has fair made my heart ache to see her miss out on so many activities that the other girls take great pleasure in.”
“Since you appear to have such an interest in my niece,” Terence said stiffly, “perhaps you might have some idea where she has gone—or with whom she might be staying at the present time?”
But unfortunately, Mrs. Lucaster, who as it turned out was the singing teacher at Mrs. Wychombe’s Seminary, could give him no more information than her employer had done, no matter how long and how thoroughly he questioned her.
“And now, I suppose, we shall both lose our jobs,” Mrs. Lucaster said when Terence was taking leave of them.
“I am sure Mrs. Wychombe will not hold you responsible for my niece’s disappearance,” Terence said.
The bridal couple glanced at each other. Then Mr. Lucaster said simply, “Mrs. Wychombe has a very firm rule against employing married couples to teach in her school.”
After a moment’s consideration, Terence said, “I see. Well, I am afraid I cannot countenance lying to Mrs. Wychombe. If she should ever have occasion to ask me if the two of you are married, I would feel honor bound to tell her the truth.”
With dawning hope, Mr. Lucaster said, “If she asks you?”
“In that event, certainly,” Terence assured him, and both Mr. and Mrs. Lucaster were profuse in expressing their gratitude.
It was with mixed emotions that Terence sought out his coachman and instructed him to have fresh horses hitched up for the return journey.
On the one hand, Terence was feeling decidedly aggravated that so many people were telling him he had failed to take proper care of his niece. On the other hand, he realized by the time he tooled his team down the long hill into Penrith, no matter how worried he was about his niece, he could not completely suppress his feeling of excitement at the thought of seeing the lovely widow again.
Which in itself was enough to make him question his own sanity. He had, after all, been in her presence less than an hour, and nothing of a personal nature had passed between them. But he could not quite convince himself that the only reason he wanted to visit her again was because it would be discourteous to leave her to wonder about the results of his journey to Scotland.
It should be obvious to the meanest intellect that he could accomplish the same result merely by sending her a brief note.
No matter how he tried to come up with a logical reason for his happiness, the only honest way to describe the emotion he was feeling was to say that he felt as if he were returning home.
Home to Alicia Lady Dunmire, who calmly settled little boys’ quarrels, who had lovely blue eyes and kissable lips ...
Terence was appalled at where his own fancies were leading him. Surely he could not be thinking about kissing the beautiful widow when he should be worrying about his niece?
Should be worrying? How preposterous! Perhaps there was some truth in what everyone seemed to be telling him? Perhaps he did worry about his niece more than was absolutely necessary?
Even if it were true, which he was not yet ready to admit, that still did not give him a legitimate excuse to dream about kissing the delightful Alicia.
* * * *
The rain was still coming down steadily, giving no indication that it would ever stop. Marigold stared gloomily out the window of her bedroom. She and Sybil had been trapped in the dower house all morning, and it was boring, boring, boring, despite the fact that Sybil’s mother had spent several hours playing games with them.
“You cannot make the rain stop by scowling at it,” Sybil commented behind her, “so you might as well come away from the window and help me think of something fun to do. I am positive that if we begged her, Cook would teach us to make cherry tarts.”
Even this proposed treat could not raise Marigold’s mood. “It is not really the rain that is depressing my spirits,” she said. “But rather, today has reminded me of what my life was like in my uncle’s house. And what it will again be like when I go home again. ’Twill not be just a morning of sitting around the house, but day after day after day with nothing fun to do—no riding, no climbing trees, no playing tag, no fishing in the brook, no wading in the pond. I shall be allowed to embroider and then read a book, or if I prefer, I may read a book and then embroider, and that will be the extent of my choices.”
Sybil thought about this for a long time. “Do you know,” she said finally, “the best person in the whole world to ask for advice is my mother.”
“But if we tell your mother who I am, she will send word to my uncle, and then all will be lost.”
“I know that,” Sybil said. “I was just thinking out loud, trying to come up with a plan, but I am sorely afraid that there is no solution to your dilemma.”
“Do you think Algernon might have any ideas?” Marigold asked tentatively.
“No,” Sybil said bluntly. “As intelligent as he is, he is not at all devious. But,” she added, grinning broadly, “now that I think on it, you have nothing to worry about, because I, on the other hand, am always inventing the most marvelous schemes. Even you must admit that. I am sure that if I just put my mind to it, I can concoct a way to rescue you. Since that is the case, you must trust me and cheer up.”
Marigold managed to force a smile, but in her heart she was not at all convinced that Sybil could come up with the solution to the problem, at least not one that was at all practical.
“I have it!” Sybil cried out, leaping to her feet.
“You have thought of a way that I can stay here forever and ever?”
“No, no,” Sybil said, waving her hand dismissively. “I have thought of something we can do to keep from being bored right now. We shall cut each other’s hair.”
Marigold quite failed to see that this was a wonderful idea, and some of her doubts must have shown on her face, for Sybil caught her hand and resolutely pulled her away from the window.
“I am not talking about cropping your hair as short as a boy’s, silly. But think how much easier it will be to brush it if it is short. Curly hair gets so tangled when it is long—and short hair is quite stylish, you know. Doubtless it will make us look seventeen or eighteen years old.”
That was the deciding argument for Marigold, and she willingly sat down in a chair and allowed Sybil to drape a sheet around her shoulders.
“Perhaps it might be better if we asked one of the maids to do the actual cutting,” Marigold suggested tentatively when she felt Sybil take the first snip.
“Nonsense,” Sybil replied confidently. “I have wat
ched Betty numerous times when she cut my mother’s hair, and there is really nothing to it.”
A half hour later, she was willing to admit that it might be a trifle more complicated than she had imagined. “The only problem is getting it to come out even,” Sybil explained, snipping a bit more off the right side and then comparing it to the left side. “If your hair did not curl so much, it would be easier to tell how much to cut off. Maybe we should just leave it a trifle uneven—what do you think?”
With a feeling of dread, Marigold stood up from the chair, and leaving a veritable mountain of shorn locks on the floor behind her, she approached the cheval glass that stood in the corner.
The image that she saw in the mirror was not one she recognized. A strange boy stood there looking back at her—a very pretty boy, to be sure, with short black curls hugging his head. “Oh, dear,” was all she could think of to say. “Oh, dear. Oh, dear. Oh, dear.”
“I did not intend to take off quite so much,” Sybil explained unnecessarily. “But you must keep in mind that it will grow back. Eventually.”
Pulling the sheet loose from her neck, Marigold turned to face her friend. Without voicing the slightest reproof, she began to wrap the white cloth around Sybil. “And now it is your turn to get your hair cut.”
“Perhaps,” Sybil said as Marigold picked up the pair of scissors, “we might ask Betty to give us a little instruction.”
“Nonsense,” Marigold said, ruthlessly chopping off a long, dangling curl. “I have it on the best authority that there is nothing at all complicated about cutting hair.”
* * * *
Fortunately, the trip back from Scotland was unmarred by the disasters that had plagued their journey north. That was little enough consolation to Terence when he pulled up in front of Colthurst Hall. Six days wasted, and he was right back where he had started from, both literally and figuratively.
Instructing Sweeney to stable the team and saddle a riding horse, Terence knocked on the door and was soon admitted. A few minutes later, the butler ushered him into the drawing room, where both the duke and the duchess were taking tea.
“From the expression on your face, I would say that you have not yet found your niece,” Colthurst said.
“No,” Terence replied, “she did not elope to Gretna Green. At least, not with that ridiculous dancing master.”
“Would you like some tea?” Elizabeth asked politely, and he accepted the cup she held out to him.
“So, what are your plans now,” she asked, once he had taken a sip of the brew.
“Well, I thought perhaps I might visit Lady Dunmire,” he said. “The dowager viscountess is who I mean, of course.”
At his words, the duke and duchess exchanged meaningful glances, and Terence felt his face grow warm. For the second time in his life, he could not keep from blushing. “Her daughter may have thought of something else that might give me a clue as to my niece’s whereabouts,” he said. But his rather lame explanation only brought smiles to his friends’ faces.
“Sybil might be of help,” Darius said. “And her mother is quite renowned in the neighborhood for her common sense and good judgment.”
“Yes, that is it exactly,” Terence said with relief. From the smiles on the others’ faces, he could see he was not fooling them in the slightest. “And she is also quite beautiful,” he admitted sheepishly.
“Well, I wish you luck in your endeavor,” Colthurst said, and Terence was not so foolish as to enquire whether his friend was referring to his efforts to find his niece or his courtship of the beautiful widow.
For he was intending to court the lovely Alicia, Terence admitted to himself. Indeed, he found himself quite impatient to begin. If only he did not have to set that undertaking aside until after he located his exasperating niece.
* * * *
Although Alicia Lady Dunmire appeared outwardly calm, Terence was not so inexperienced with women that he failed to notice the subtle signs that indicated the lovely young widow was not as indifferent to him as she was pretending to be.
He could not be sure, but he thought he had seen a flash of pleasure in her eyes when he had first entered the drawing room. On the other hand, that might have been wishful thinking on his part.
“So Mr. Lucaster eloped with the singing teacher and not with your niece?” The widow handed him a cup of tea, and he noticed that her hand was trembling ever so slightly, and her eyes slid away without quite meeting his.
“A Miss Quirin,” he replied, wishing he could catch that fine-boned hand and press a kiss on it. “She was quite outspoken and gave me to understand that my niece has been a most unhappy child, and that I have erred grievously in the manner I have raised her.”
“From what my daughter has written in her letters, I am sure Mrs. Lucaster is correct,” Lady Dunmire said, and now her eyes met his boldly, as if daring him to deny the allegations.
Instead of contradicting her, he smiled at her, and to his delight, she lost her composure, and her cheeks took on a delicate rosy tint.
“Before you also lecture me,” he said, “let me tell you that I have already been raked over the coals by a Miss Medleycote, one of the teachers at the school, and by the aforementioned Miss Quirin—now Mrs. Lucaster. Even Sweeney, my coachman, has had the impertinence to point out to me my errors in child raising, albeit in a rather oblique way. He informed me rather pointedly that one cannot keep a foal shut up in the stables day after day merely because it might break its leg if allowed to run loose in the pasture.”
“I was going to use the analogy of a young bird needing to test its wings,” the widow said with a smile, and Terence noticed that she had a delightful dimple in her right cheek.
The sight of it was so enchanting, he did not immediately reply, and the longer the silence stretched between them, the more pronounced became the tension in the room.
At first the widow glanced nervously away, but when he continued to keep his gaze steady, her eyes were pulled back to his. He smiled encouragingly and finally, to his great delight, she relaxed visibly, and her answering smile was tacit acknowledgment of the attraction between them.
How long he might have basked in the warmth of her smile he was not to discover, for just as he was about to tell her how beautiful she was, the door was thrown open and two young boys barged into the room. Ignoring him, they made straight for Lady Dunmire.
Somewhat older than the two who had interrupted during his previous visit, they were even more disheveled. The one with curly black hair was covered with mud, and the towheaded one had a ripped shirt and a smear of blood on his face, although his nose was no longer actively bleeding.
“He deliberately tripped me and made me fall in a mud puddle,” the black-haired one shouted in an enraged voice. “He is a miserable sneak, and I am not at all sorry that I drew his cork.”
“I did not do it on purpose—it was an accident!” the towheaded one shouted back, then he socked the black-haired one on the shoulder and got a kick in the shin for his reward.
For a moment Terence thought he was going to be treated to the sight of a mill right there in the drawing room, but Lady Dunmire intervened.
“That is quite enough,” she said sharply, and the two combatants merely clenched their fists and scowled at each other. “Both of you are old enough to know that violence does not settle anything.”
“He started it,” the black-haired one said fiercely, wiping his face with his sleeve. Since his jacket was as muddy as his face, little improvement could be seen. “So he needs to be punished.”
“But I am afraid you are not blameless, either,” Lady Dunmire pointed out. “At this point it does not matter who started it or who ended it. Two wrongs do not make a right, so you must share the punishment. But for the present, since I am entertaining company—heads swiveled, and two pairs of eyes stared at Terence. The junior pugilists were clearly astounded to discover they had an audience. The black-haired one immediately gave a squeak of dismay and darted from
the room without a backward glance, but the blond one was made of sterner stuff and was still determined to continue arguing his case.
“No more of this, Cedric,” the widow cut off his protestations quite firmly. “You will clean yourselves up and then wait in the morning room until I am free to deal with you.”
Obviously not satisfied, the boy left the room muttering dire things under his breath that augured no good for his opponent.
“What sort of punishment do you hand out for such offenses?” Terence could not resist asking.
“Well, I do not plan to beat them,” Lady Dunmire said, not quite meeting his eye. “No matter how I am sometimes tempted, I cannot very well lecture them on the futility of physical violence and then resort to it myself. No, I shall have to think of a task for them to do, such as weeding the vegetable garden or scouring out pots or something like that. Whether they like it or not, they will have to spend several hours working together, and that is the best cure for childish disagreements like this.”
“You are exceedingly wise,” Terence said, only just in time stopping himself from adding for a woman. Lady Dunmire had more common sense than most of the men he knew, and to qualify the compliment would be insulting. “Knowing children the way you do, perhaps you can advise me about my niece. I confess, I have not the slightest idea where I should begin looking for her.”
For a moment, Terence thought he saw laughter in the widow’s eyes, but it must have been a trick of the lighting, for she answered quite seriously. “I cannot think of anything to suggest other than questioning Mrs. Wychombe again. Even if she has failed to discover any additional information, she can give you a list of the other pupils’ names and their directions. I am sure if you seek them out, one or the other of them must know something.”
Her suggestion had merit, but he felt a surprising reluctance to follow through on it. After the futile dash to Scotland, he had no desire to set out on a journey that could easily involve the rest of the summer.
Summer Escapade Page 6