While he stood there, blatantly gaping in admiration, she suddenly turned his way and gave a violent start upon seeing him. He expected a forceful rebuke for intruding on her privacy without announcing himself.
She sprang from the bench and flew toward him, her greeting quite the opposite of anything he had expected. “Oh, Sir Robert, I am so glad you have come!”
He struggled to quell the ridiculous surge of elation her words provoked in him.
Jocelyn had been deep in thought about Sir Robert Kerr when she’d glanced up to find the man himself standing there watching her. An irrational spasm of worry gripped her that he could somehow read her mind.
When their eyes met, he seemed to steel himself to speak. Had she given the poor man reason to dread every encounter with her? The remorse that had stewed inside her for the past two endless days came suddenly to a boil. She could not let another moment pass without unburdening her conscience.
When she seized Sir Robert by the arm, his features tensed, as if he feared she meant to strike him.
“My dear sir.” She drew him down to the bench where she had been sitting. “I must beg your pardon for my behavior when we last met. It was wrong of me to assume you had neglected to furnish us with a carriage on purpose. And I had no right in the world to demand that you host a ball for us. I cannot blame you if you think very ill of me.”
The governor looked bewildered by her apology. “I…do not, I assure you.”
He was only being civil, of course. She had overheard his true opinion of her. “I fear I have let my eagerness to succeed in my mission get the better of my good sense and my manners. It is a feeble excuse, I know, but it is the only one I have.”
Suddenly aware that she still clutched his arm, Jocelyn let go abruptly, but with a vague sense of regret.
Sir Robert frowned. “Given my strenuous opposition to your presence in the colony, it is hardly surprising you felt the need to demand my cooperation and entertained doubts about my hospitality.”
“Your hospitality!” Jocelyn cried. “I never even thanked you properly. I had no idea you’d put yourself to so much trouble to prepare this place for us. I must confess, I am at a loss to understand what prompted you. Why go to such lengths to insure our comfort, when you do not want us here?”
His brow furrowed, as if the question puzzled him, too. But when he replied, he sounded confident of his answer. “I did oppose your staying, and I still have doubts about the effect it will have on the colony. But I could not let those considerations make me neglect my duty as a host.”
Duty. That loathsome word almost made Jocelyn grimace. Yet Sir Robert’s use of it took her aback. She had always been made to think of duty as a burdensome debt she owed to her father and her family at the expense of her own happiness. Never as an obligation someone else might feel toward her.
“Your efforts went far beyond the call of duty, sir. I insist you let me reimburse you for any expenses you have incurred on our behalf. I have funds from Mrs. Beamish for our food and lodgings.”
“Very well, I shall have Mr. Duckworth prepare an accounting for you.”
That relieved Jocelyn’s feeling of obligation, though not entirely. “I hope you will accept my apology for thinking ill of you. You have my word that from now on, no matter how strenuously you may oppose my plans, I will treat you with the respect you deserve.”
He seemed to believe her. The tightness of his jaw relaxed and the anxious creases around his eyes eased. “Perhaps we have both been too hasty in judging one another, ma’am. Though we may not see eye to eye, it does not follow we must be enemies. Shall we declare the matter closed and agree to make a fresh start?”
Something about his earnest expression and his frank willingness to share the blame touched Jocelyn’s heart. She shook his hand vigorously. “I should like nothing better!”
The instant she let go, Sir Robert rose from the bench. “Now we have that settled, shall we walk? I have something I wish to tell you…or rather…give you.”
“Indeed?” Jocelyn scrambled up. “And what might that be?”
“This.” Sir Robert pulled out a card, folded and secured with an official-looking wax seal. He handed it to her.
Jocelyn looked the card over with a degree of apprehension before tearing it open. A tiny bubble of laughter burst out of her when she read the message written in a flowing decorative script. “Our invitation to the levee, of course! How very kind of you to deliver it in person.”
“Yes…well…” The governor shrugged off her praise. “I wanted to be certain you received it and to see for myself how you were getting on out here.”
He took a few long strides, then slowed his pace when he noticed her struggling to keep up with him. Unlike the day they had walked to Government House, she did not ask to take his arm. Nor did he offer.
“We are managing very well.” She tried not to sound too winded. “I never expected to be quartered in such luxury.”
“I have long thought it a shame that such a pleasant little estate should sit deserted.” With a sweep of his arm, Sir Robert indicated their scenic surroundings. “But it is far too large for my needs and too far removed from town to be convenient.”
“And you have no French mistress to keep here.” Jocelyn could not resist the quip. The governor’s reserved, earnest manner fairly begged to be lightened with a little teasing.
She repented her glib jest when she saw how it flustered him. His face grew painfully red as he huffed, “I should think not!”
A pity, for the right kind of mistress might do him the world of good. Jocelyn managed to keep that scandalous opinion to herself. But the most amusing image popped into her mind, of Sir Robert Kerr en dishabille with a saucy little minx perched on his lap, kissing him into a frenzy of desire. Her whole body trembled and her eyes watered with the effort to contain an unseemly spasm of laughter.
“Is something the matter, Mrs. Finch? Are you unwell?”
His tone of sincere concern pushed Jocelyn over the edge. She exploded in fit of mirth so wild she could scarcely catch her breath.
“Pray what do you find so comical?” Sir Robert demanded.
“Forgive me!” Jocelyn gasped as she fanned her face with his invitation card and struggled to curb her laughter.
But it was like trying to stuff a cannonball back down the barrel of a gun once the fuse had fired. The governor’s severity only added power to the blast.
“Should I leave you to recover your composure?” Sir Robert tried to mask his embarrassment with gruffness, but he did not quite succeed in fooling Jocelyn.
Remorse smothered her runaway laughter. What an ungrateful way to repay the poor man’s awkward attempts at kindness and to atone for how she had treated him!
“Please don’t go!” Jocelyn struggled to catch her breath. “Truly, I am sorry for making a fool of myself, just now. I don’t know what came over me. You have my word I will endeavor to restrain myself.”
He did not answer right away, but his bristling stiffness began to ease and his stern mouth quivered with the elusive hint of a smile. “Something tells me you do not take kindly to restraint. From yourself or anyone else.”
So he was having a jest at her expense was he? Jocelyn did not begrudge him a little tit for tat. “I admit I have never been one to sit by meekly while others decide my fate and my happiness.”
Something in his expression made her challenge him, “You do not approve?”
He shook his head. “It is not for me to dictate anyone’s conduct but my own.”
“But your feelings are always restrained by reason?” Jocelyn persisted. “And your actions ruled by…duty?”
What business did she have talking to him like this? They were strangers of only a few days’ acquaintance and that short time had been marred by suspicion and hostility. Yet here they were, speculating about each other’s fundamental characters. For her part, Jocelyn could not help it. She found herself curious about Sir Robert Kerr in
a way she had not been about any man for a long time.
“My dear lady.” Once again he looked guardedly amused. “You speak that word as if it were a profanity.”
All her best intentions could not keep a waspish tone from Jocelyn’s voice. “Perhaps it only seems that way to you because you regard duty as sacred.”
Sir Robert did not appear to mind her sharp retort as much as he had her earlier laughter. “I believe you will find it an occupational hazard among soldiers, ma’am. And a good thing, too, in my opinion. If a charge is ordered, one cannot have half the men suddenly deciding their personal fate or happiness is more important than doing their duty.”
Though her sides still ached from laughter, Jocelyn felt her throat tighten and a sob swell in her lungs. “Perhaps more of them should. For it is not only their own fate and happiness they surrender to the cruel demands of duty.”
For the first time since his death, she allowed herself to feel a sharp stab of anger toward Ned.
“Forgive me.” Sir Robert produced a handkerchief from one of his pockets and handed it to her. “I did not mean to distress you with painful memories. I have the most lamentable habit of saying the wrong thing.”
Jocelyn remembered what she’d overheard him tell his aide. She sensed his frustration and impatience with himself.
“Do not fret for me.” As she strove to regain her composure, she pressed Sir Robert’s handkerchief to her upper lip and caught a subtle trace of his scent—clean, astringent and thoroughly masculine. She drew a deeper breath to savor it. “You raised a valid point, sir. If I were a man, I fear I would make a very poor soldier.”
She had not even made a good soldier’s wife. She’d resented the duty that had called Ned away from her too often, the last time never to return. Other military widows she knew had accepted their losses in a better spirit than she, taking pride in their husbands’ sacrifices for King and country.
“It is impossible to imagine you as a man, my dear.” Sir Robert sounded as if he were voicing a private thought. “But it is not difficult at all to picture you as a soldier. I suspect you would make a fine general.”
“You mean that as praise, I suppose?” She gave him back his handkerchief. “The first part is quite flattering all on its own, but the latter part spoils the compliment entirely.”
By this time the meandering path had brought them to the heart-shaped pond that lay in sight of the lodge. Sir Robert stooped and picked up a small stone, which he pitched into the water with considerable force, shattering the serenity of its surface. “I told you I always say the wrong thing.”
“Tush.” Jocelyn imitated one of her governesses. “Flummery and chitchat come easily to some people. Others need to learn and practice them, like any other skill. I expect you never bothered when you were a soldier because you didn’t need them.”
“Quite the contrary.” Sir Robert tossed another stone into the pond, causing more ripples in the water the way his blunt words might cause ripples of gossip in company. “Imagine what would happen if the enemy charged a line and the officer said to his men, ‘My dear fellows, you’re deuced crack shots. How about having a go at that lot?’”
Jocelyn sputtered with laughter. So the man did have a sense of humor under that gruff, dutiful crust! Might there also be a long-smothered ember of affability she could coax to blaze?
“Bravo, sir! Jest can make a point quite forcefully without giving offense. You should use it more often. Tact may be a liability to a soldier, but it is a vital advantage for a governor.”
When he grimaced, she added, “Whether you like it or not.”
“You may be right about the necessity,” Sir Robert grumbled. “But I am not convinced it is a skill that can be learned.”
Ah! Here was the opportunity she had been looking for to make amends to Sir Robert. True, he had accepted her apology, borne some of the blame and declared the matter closed. But that did not lessen her sense of obligation.
She fixed him with a smile that she defied him to resist. “Would you permit me to tutor you in the social graces?”
Chapter Seven
Instruct him how to be tactful and charming? As he prepared for the levee, Sir Robert grimaced at himself in the looking glass. Jocelyn Finch might as well instruct a tiger how to hide its stripes! He was what he was—diligent and dutiful, not affable and outgoing. To pretend otherwise, even if he were able, would feel deceitful somehow.
But he had learned better than to deny the redoubtable Mrs. Finch anything on which she had set her mind. If he indulged her in this whim, it might keep her from undertaking anything more troublesome. Besides, some tiny, foolish part of him had enjoyed her initial efforts.
It had felt strange, the other day at Prince’s Lodge, being with her in such a romantic spot—strange in a rather pleasant way. Despite his doubts, he had exerted himself to absorb her instruction. Tonight he would endeavor to put it to use.
Hurried footsteps approached the door to his private quarters, followed by an anxious-sounding knock.
“Come in, Duckworth!” he called.
The door swung open and his aide entered.
“Is everything in order down below?” the governor asked. “Musicians all in tune? Plenty of punch?”
Duckworth began to nod even before Sir Robert had finished his questions. “All is ready, sir. Most of your guests have arrived.”
“Mrs. Finch and her young ladies?”
“Not yet, sir.”
“But Admiral Porter did send his sloop for them?”
“So I understand, sir.”
What made him so anxious for their arrival?
“It wouldn’t be much of a ball without our guests of honor would it?” Though he addressed the question to his aide, Sir Robert hoped he had found the answer he was looking for.
He adjusted the sash bearing his modest array of medals then assumed his best parade-ground posture. “Will I pass muster, do you think? Suitably viceregal?”
“You look splendid, sir.” Duckworth gave an approving nod. “I just came to make certain you were ready. I’ll return to fetch you once all the guests have arrived.”
“Very good,” said Sir Robert, though it was quite the opposite of how he felt.
He detested viceregal protocol, which dictated he must always be the last to arrive at any event, so as to make a grand entrance. Until his appointment to this post, it had been his habit to slip into any social gathering with as little notice as possible. Being the center of attention made him painfully self-conscious and irritable. Which made it all the more likely he would say or do something to give offense to whomever he met.
His stomach clenched and his palms grew moist just thinking about it. A decanter of port in his private sitting room tempted him with its innocent promise to soothe his nerves. But he dared not imbibe. The last thing he needed was for a guest to smell spirits on his breath at the outset of an official function.
Sir Robert selected a copy of Smollett’s The Life and Adventures of Sir Launcelot Greaves from the bookshelf beside the door, but put it back again when he found himself rereading the same sentence for the fifth time. With no other distraction available, he fell to pacing his sitting room. From a little way up the hill, he heard the bell of Saint Peter’s toll eight. Surely all his guests would be assembled soon, even the habitual stragglers like Chief Justice Sherwood.
The final reverberations of the church bell had just faded when another noise from outside caught Sir Robert’s attention. It sounded like a large flock of birds, chirping, squawking and flapping their wings at one another.
He strode to the window and drew back the curtain to peer out onto the front driveway. It was chocked with carriages—every fine rig in town and several from the country estates beyond. Coachmen and a few footmen had collected in small knots, to pass the time. Small clouds of smoke rose from their pipes into the air above them.
They all turned toward the source of the sound that had lured Sir Robert to the wi
ndow. Up the driveway, in orderly ranks that would have done credit to a military parade, marched the young ladies from the bride ship in their modest finery. Sir Robert’s gaze came to rest upon their chaperone, bringing up the rear.
When he caught sight of her, the tightness in his chest eased a little and one corner of his mouth arched upward. It must have taken a great effort to get so large a party all dressed, groomed and loaded aboard the admiral’s sloop to bring them here. He hoped this evening would provide the young ladies with a more auspicious welcome to the colony than they had received from him a week ago.
Determined to make amends for that scandalous gaffe, he took several slow, deep breaths and vowed to do everything in his power to make the evening a success. After all, it couldn’t be that much worse than charging into battle. Could it?
He was about to step back and close the curtain when Mrs. Finch glanced up. A wide, luminous smile set her whole face aglow. Sir Robert’s pulse, which had begun to slow from the rapid throb of alarm, suddenly picked up speed again. But this time it felt invigorating.
Mrs. Finch lifted one gloved hand. For an instant Sir Robert thought she meant to wave. Instead she lofted a jaunty salute his way. The gesture made him chuckle. Until she disappeared from sight, he could not take his eyes off her.
As a small but skilled group of musicians from the regimental band struck up the strains of “God Save the King,” Jocelyn watched Sir Robert Kerr stride the vast length of the Government House ballroom. When he reached the bowed end of the room, he mounted a low dais and executed a crisp turn. She could not help but admire his dignified bearing.
“I declare,” whispered Sally Carmont, who had edged her way through the crowd to Jocelyn’s side. “The man’s expression would sour milk. It is clear he is hosting this ball against his will and begrudges us every minute of it.”
“Nonsense.” Jocelyn raised her fan to screen her lower face. “This is a solemn occasion and he is representing the King, after all. Would you rather he grinned like a monkey?”
Deborah Hale Page 9