Schooling the Viscount

by Maggie Robinson

  “Comes along with a pack of temporary reprobates and lunatics, does it? Is there anyone else here like me?”

  “There is no one like you, Lord Challoner. Each of us is a responsible individual with our own blessings and burdens given us by God.”

  “I see Walker’s gotten to you,” he muttered. “I mean, another Guest, as you so quaintly call me?”

  “We try to provide services for one Guest at a time. Occasionally there are overlaps, but not at the moment.”

  Not that he could have gone carousing anywhere with a like-minded irresponsible individual. The graveyard? The bake shop? They had their charms, Henry was sure, but there was nothing like a smoky pub or music hall to get his blood flowing.

  “These services. Just what exactly do they consist of, besides the daily lecture over the tea table?”

  “You’ll see,” Miss Everett said primly. “Now, I really have to go. Will you be able to manage the hill?”

  It had been all he could do not to hurtle downwards this afternoon and fall flat on his pretty face. It was damned steep—no wonder he hadn’t attempted it before. But the green beyond had beckoned. As far as Henry could tell though, the track ended at the schoolyard gate. Unless he wanted to wade through a stream and climb up another hill and commune with the sheep, he was doomed.

  “I was a soldier. I’m used to marching in unideal conditions. I don’t suppose I could persuade you to keep me company?” he asked, already knowing the answer.

  Miss Everett shook her head. “I’d get in as much trouble as you would.”

  “Well, then. It was…lovely to meet you. I don’t expect I’ll ever see you again, will I?”

  Another head shake.

  Damn, this place was brutal.

  “In that case…” Henry took a step toward her. She was so startled she didn’t have time to shrink back or dash for help with the school bell.

  He was going to kiss her again. Make the kiss last for as long as he was interred in this bloody place with its blasted hill and invisible beautiful women. Kiss her until she fainted or begged for more. Kiss her until he forgot who he was and why he was here. Kiss her—

  And that was his last thought until she snatched his stick and knocked him to the ground.

  Chapter 4

  It was his own fault. She’d only meant to shake the stick at him, but somehow he’d lost his balance again and hit his head. Again. This time there was no “Where am I? Who am I?” business. Lord Challoner lay inert in the grass. Cotswold stone walls were lovely yet sharpish on top, with a row of triangles meant to deter any intelligent animal. Unintelligent Lord Challoner had pitched sideways on the schoolyard wall and the amount of blood at his temple was rather gruesome.

  Rachel had gathered her skirts and run to the cottage closest to the school, where her father’s best friend Ham Ross lived. Thank heavens he was home and his wheel barrow mostly empty of manure. Between the two of them they stuffed the unconscious man in it and rolled him up the hill into the center of the village, huffing and puffing all the way.

  Puddlingites had lined the cobblestone street or looked out their windows at the grisly procession. The doctor had been called for, and Rachel knew she was in deep trouble.

  The worst bit was hauling him through the iron gate and up the staggered stone steps that led to his cottage. Fortunately some of the observers pitched in to help and pushed the wheel barrow up the long path to the front door. Rachel couldn’t help but notice Stonecrop Cottage’s garden was quite beautiful, as nice as her own, and the view over the village and hills was spectacular. St. Jude’s spire was visible over the hawthorn hedges, a vigilant reminder of why the man was here.

  St. Jude was the patron saint of hope and impossible causes. Nothing but the best for their Guests.

  Now she had to explain what happened to Mrs. Grace, and the vicar was due any second for tea. Rachel was certain they’d take one look at her and know she’d been kissed, and kissed well. Lord Challoner had been about to try again, the bounder, and she’d reacted swiftly with little thought of the possible consequences.

  She’d never meant to injure him, just scare some sense into him. But he’d tripped as she’d raised the stick, and somehow he and the stones had collided him into unconsciousness.

  He couldn’t go around kissing her, or anyone else. It was totally against the Rehabilitation Rules that had been so painstakingly negotiated between the vicar and Lord Challoner’s father, the Marquess of Harland. The rules changed depending on the Guest. In Rachel’s opinion, Lord Challoner was not apt to follow them no matter who they were written for. She was afraid he was not destined to be a Puddling success.

  There had been failures, but never on Mr. Walker’s watch. Of course, he’d only been in Puddling four years.

  Lord Challoner was carried into the small glass conservatory and laid on a wicker chaise, Mrs. Grace determining that he should not bleed on the good sofa and carpet in the front parlor. Stonecrop was one of three cottages reserved for Guests, and the nicest of the lot. It had been built within the past three years in Mrs. Taylor’s back garden at exorbitant expense, since previous guests had complained bitterly about the primitive accommodations of the ancient crumbling cottages that regular Puddlingites lived in. There were two spacious bedrooms and a proper bathing chamber with a flushing toilet upstairs, and a large kitchen and reception room on the ground floor.

  A few years ago, the town fathers received a gift of a conservatory to be added on from the son of a baron who’d had a worrisome habit of talking to plants. The greenery in the walled garden had flourished during his three-month stay, and he’d left clutching his journals to prove to his papa that he was not, in fact, crazy. Much to his father’s chagrin, the young man had secured a position at an agricultural college. He might never make a proper baron, but he was certainly amongst friends in his laboratory.

  Nothing grew in the conservatory right now except a spindly brown fern on a plant stand. The room was furnished with wicker, and had an excellent view of the private garden. Rachel sat down on one of the chairs, admired the pelargoniums outside and waited for the interrogation to begin.

  Mrs. Grace fixed her with a grim gray stare. Her eyes looked like chips of ice, and Rachel knew if she had any sense, she’d be afraid.

  “What did you do?”

  “I? Nothing! The man tried to jump over the schoolyard wall and fell.”

  “Tried to jump? Why would he do that when there’s a perfectly good gate and he’s a cripple?”

  He wasn’t precisely crippled; he just limped a little. “I have no idea.” That, at least, was the truth. Rachel could not begin to fathom what was in Lord Challoner’s mind, or even if he had one.

  “Did you speak to him?”

  “N-not really.”

  “Rachel Elizabeth Everett,” Mrs. Grace said, “I know a fib when I hear it.”

  “Well, I mean, I said good day. I was just dismissing the children when he came by. It would have been rude to ignore him.”

  “You are supposed to be rude!” The housekeeper brushed Lord Challoner’s long fair hair back from his wound. It was saturated with blood. “He’ll need stitches, I think.” She took a sniff. “And his clothes—fit for the burn pile. I had misgivings when he left today. I don’t trust this man at all. He’s much too charming. Used to getting everything he wants. Spoiled, that’s what he is.”

  Mrs. Grace didn’t get to be a Guest housekeeper-cum-jailor for nothing. She was a very astute woman, but Rachel found some fault with her conclusions.

  “He was in the army. He can’t have had it easy there.”

  “Faugh! Those officers just send out the enlisted men to be slaughtered. He probably just sat in a silk tent with all the comforts of home and a cigar and brandy.”

  Rachel had read the reports in the newspapers, and doubted very much that Captain Lord Challoner’s war had been a picnic, but she kept her thoughts to herself.

  “Perha
ps you should fetch water and towels for when the doctor comes,” Rachel suggested.

  “I can’t leave you here alone with him!”

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake. He’s in no shape to attack me. My virtue is safe.”

  Mrs. Grace sniffed again but left. Rachel examined her hands. The wheelbarrow’s handles had been rough and blisters were forming.

  “Is the dragon lady gone?”

  Rachel jumped. Lord Challoner had one eye open and a rueful grin on his face.

  “How long have you been awake?”

  “Oh, I’d say when you lot nearly tipped that wheelbarrow into the ditch at the bottom of the hill. Couldn’t you have found me better transportation? I smell like shit.”

  He did, too. Rachel felt her face grow hot. “You ungrateful beast! Awake all that time, yet you made us push you up the hill? Ham Ross is seventy-seven years old!”

  “Well, I thought it was safer to pretend I was knocked out. You might have murdered me else. You are a violent woman, Miss Everett. I don’t think I’ve ever encountered such ferocity, not even when I was luxuriously camped out with my cigars and brandy on the African plain.”

  “You fell. It was an accident,” Rachel said, thoroughly mortified. He’d heard every word.

  “You took my cane. My lifeline.”

  “Oh, pooh. You do very well without it.” All of his movements had been recorded, and most days he managed to cruise around Puddling unaided.

  “You raised it at me!”

  “And you hit yourself on it.” As he fell sideways onto the jagged edges of the wall. It had happened so fast Rachel hadn’t even had time to blink.

  “Yes,” he said dryly, “I can see now the entire incident was all my fault. And now my favorite jacket is ruined. What the devil is this?” He put his hand in a pocket and drew out a deformed carrot. “Mr. Ross’s, I presume? I hope he wasn’t counting on it for his dinner.”

  Where was Dr. Oakley? Or Mrs. Grace? Rachel plucked at her skirt nervously.

  “You owe me, Miss Whosit, I mean Miss Everett. You’ve probably set back my recovery by eons. I will not spend more than the next twenty-one days here if I have to cover myself with that sheepskin rug over there on the floor and crawl up the hill on all fours and baa. Just what exactly can I do to repent and get out of here?”

  Rachel knew the marquess’s demands by heart. Every Puddlingite did. “Your father wants you to settle down and become respectable. Find a proper vocation for one of your status. Get married.”

  “Very well. Will you marry me, Miss Everett, so I can get the hell out of here?”

  Chapter 5

  Ha. That rendered her speechless. Served her right, after attacking him. Twice.

  To be fair, the last time wasn’t exactly her fault. He’d lost his balance and tripped. Henry used to be so light on his feet, too. Dashing in his regimentals on a ballroom floor, a much sought-after partner on a girl’s dance card, don’t you know. The hole in his foot seemed to put a period to that phase of his life, which was a pity. It had been great fun snuggling up against various female forms as he spun them around the room no matter what continent he’d been on.

  Miss Everett’s female form was sublime, but Henry didn’t expect to get anywhere near it again. Sparks were shooting from the young woman’s mercury-like eyes and he felt rebuked. Singed. Not to mention that a river of blood was working its way down his face. Where was the water and toweling? Mrs. Grace was surprisingly inefficient.

  “M-m-m…” Miss Everett was still robbed of coherence.

  “Marry? Why not? We are both healthy young adults. That’s if I recover. I suppose I could get an infection and die before the vows, but let’s not borrow trouble. If I didn’t die in Africa, why should I die in this Puddling paradise? I should warn you—but you probably know this—in fact you probably know my hat size—that I’m slightly deaf in one ear. You may have to shout your “I do” to make yourself heard. Having a deaf husband is an advantage, you know. You might scream at me like a veritable fishwife with few if any consequences. Whisper your dressmaker’s bills and I’ll be unable to take exception.”

  Miss Everett sat in a block of sunshine gaping like a landed mackerel. No, that was unfair. She really wasn’t very fishy, more like a mermaid than anything. Henry imagined tangling himself in the long dark hair that had fallen out of her bun during her exertions up the almost-mountain to the heart of the village. He might be caught for days and never mind her net.

  Wouldn’t the pater spit bullets if he brought home a Puddling bride? The idea was so preposterous it had a great deal of merit.

  He heard the rap of the knocker at the front door and closed his eyes again. Mrs. Grace’s grumble and a man’s low voice wafted into the sunroom. The doctor or the vicar, most likely, here to save the day or his soul, depending.

  Henry noted Miss Everett had covered up their amorous encounter, which was all to the good. Apparently he was to be denied association with any females younger than his grandmothers here, and they, the poor women, were dead. And then he was somehow going to be cured of drink and his very natural desire for a warm woman—or two—and go home and marry some frigid girl of his father’s choosing. There were so many things wrong with this plan, Henry didn’t have enough fingers and toes to count.

  He wondered how long he should pretend to be unconscious. If he refused to wake up, would they ship him off to some sanitarium? Escape might be possible. He could jump out of the carriage and roll under a hedgerow, steal a horse and ride to—

  “I believe he’s just coming around, Dr. Oakley. He spoke just a minute ago.”

  Thwarted. Was the little witch a mind reader? Henry fluttered his lashes.

  “Well, lad, I see you’ve made a proper mess of your head. Millie, is that hot water you have there? Excellent. Now, this will smart, and it’s a pity I can’t give you a wee nip to get through it, but that’s against your Plan. You’ve been stitched up before, aye, being a soldier and all?” The doctor applied a scalding hot towel to his forehead and Henry flinched, then nodded. He was sure he could withstand anything this country sawbones could mete out.

  Until the man poked the giant needle into his brain.

  “Yow!”

  “Stay still or it will hurt worse. Don’t want to be scarred for life, do you, a handsome young man such as yourself? You may have to part your hair in a different direction for a while.”

  Henry was sure he heard Miss Everett snicker. It was all her fault, being there in that grassy schoolyard, her curves blinding, her voice the sort of thing that washed sailors up on rocks. Yes, she was a mermaid, about to fillet him and discard his bones.

  Did mermaids eat fish? The thought was rather cannibalistic.

  “Now then,” the doctor said patiently as he pierced Henry’s skin with a hundred pricks, “what were you doing so far afield? You’re meant to be walking in the village center. Lured by the green, green hills? There’s no way out for you, my boy. The road ends. Best get used to it.”

  “I wanted a change,” Henry said stiffly, when he stopped biting his tongue to prevent screaming.

  “Aye, you young people are all alike. Don’t appreciate what’s in front of your face. Puddling has lost its share of youth, but not one of our Guests in a long time. Stick to the main streets, that’s my advice.”

  “All five of them?”

  “And what’s wrong with that? Would six make a difference?”

  “I don’t know if you noticed, sir, but there’s nothing to do here,” Henry ground out.

  “Precisely. Puddling is a very soothing place. You’ll get used to it, as I said.”

  Henry doubted that, no matter how many times the doctor repeated it. He sat up and tried to touch the bandage on his head.

  “Leave it! You don’t want to ruin my handiwork, do you? I’ll let the vicar know you’re indisposed. I advise rest and quiet. No tea today.”

  Thank the Lord for small mercies. No lecture ov
er the sugar lumps.

  “Rachel, are you still here? You’d better come with me. Millie, thank you for your assistance.” The doctor packed up his bag and disappeared, pushing Miss Everett ahead of him. Henry was deprived of a last look at Miss Everett’s bottom.

  Rachel. It was all rather biblical. Henry had forgotten what Rachel had been up to in the Old Testament but was determined to find out.

  “I say, Mrs. Grace, do we have a Bible in the cottage?”

  His housekeeper looked at him as if he’d grown another head. “Yes, my lord. In the parlor.”

  “Fetch it for me, please. I’m not sure I’m steady enough to get it right now, being a cripple.”

  Mrs. Grace had the grace to blush and hurried out of the conservatory.

  It was devilish hot in the room and Henry loosened his necktie. Such pointless things, neckties. Who had thought it was a good idea to strangle oneself every day? In a fit of pique, he ripped it off, only to discover it was blood-stained anyhow.

  Mrs. Grace returned with an enormous leather-bound Bible that appeared virtually untouched. No doubt the other Guests had avoided it and their own many sins. After reading a very depressing account in Genesis of poor Rachel, Henry wondered why anyone would curse a girl child with such a name.

  The whole story was scandalous—trickery, disguised brides, theft, affairs with servants, death in childbirth. Counting up all the sons and daughters by numerous wives and mistresses, old Jacob certainly had not walked the straight and narrow. And Henry’s father had been so testy about Lysette and Francie. Had the man not read his Bible?

  He would discuss this very issue with Reverend Walker when he came to visit tomorrow. Henry could barely wait to see the expression on the young vicar’s face. Just explain all that, if you please. Such carrying on defied strict Victorian society’s every edict.

  Feeling one hundred percent better, Henry rose from the wicker chaise and went out into the lush little garden. He could see the church spire and its new weathercock over the chimneypots. Mr. Walker had confided that not long ago, some Puddlingite was fined for putting thirty bullet holes in the old one, preventing it from spinning correctly.