Schooling the Viscount

by Maggie Robinson

  Henry felt a shiver of fear. He cradled Pete’s head in the crook of his elbow and touched a withered cheek. It was warm enough, but again Henry didn’t know what signs to look for.

  They sat on the floor for what seemed like hours. Pete’s breathing was regular if rattled. Suddenly, Rufus took off like a shot and ran barking into the kitchen. “We’re in here!” Henry called. “Hurry!”

  Fuck. It wasn’t Dr. Oakley.

  The Marquess of Harland gave a quelling order to Rufus and the animal sat and cowered, knowing instinctively he was outmatched. “How is he?”

  Every hair was in place, every button buttoned. The pater was a quick-change artist, and made no excuses for his earlier whereabouts.

  “I don’t know, Father. He’s gone to sleep.”

  “I’ve sent my coach for the doctor. He should be here shortly—he’s at a local sheep farm. There’s some sort of hospital in Stroud to which Mr. Everett can be transported.”

  Henry stared down into Pete’s ashen face. “I don’t know if he should be moved.”

  “Well, the man can’t lie in your lap forever, Henry. Use your head.”

  “We’ll see what Dr. Oakley has to say. He’ll know best.”

  His father’s lip curled. “A country doctor? There must be someone more qualified in Stroud. It’s a good-sized market town, from what I understand.”

  “That country doctor you’re so contemptuous of is skilled. A good man. After all, you left me in his care.”

  “That’s entirely different. You are not an elderly pensioner with a heart condition.”

  “True enough.” Henry wanted to be elderly one day though, so he refused to rise to his father’s bait. The pater could make Henry’s blood sing in his veins and cause his ears to buzz, but not this morning. Some problems were greater than dealing with an annoying parent.

  “Is his daughter coming?”

  His father shrugged. “I have no idea. I gather there’s an issue as to who will take over the school for her. The vicar cannot be found. The village is in quite an uproar. The family is apparently very well thought of.”

  Henry wasn’t going to peach on Vincent. Let him have his fun with Greta while he could. If, God forbid, he was needed here for the Last Rites, Henry would fetch the vicar himself.

  “Well, she should close the school down then. It’s more important that she come home to be with her father,” Henry said.

  “I’m sure the people here will work something out. They seem a capable lot.” His father picked an invisible speck from his cuff and cleared his throat. “I suppose you’d like to know what I was doing in Mrs. Grace’s cottage.”

  “Not really.” Henry certainly didn’t want to hear a blow-by-blow description.

  “It isn’t what you think.”

  “I don’t think anything. It’s none of my business, Father. This isn’t the time for a family row anyway. We’re both adults and should be able to take pleasure where we may. Life is short.” Henry hoped Pete didn’t hear him and take the wrong meaning.

  There were flags of color on his father’s usually composed countenance. “Yes. Well. We’ll talk about it later.”

  “Unnecessary. Where the hell is Oakley?’

  “He was with some sheep farmer, as I said. He’s coming. What can I do to assist?”

  The front room was darkish despite the morning sun. “Open the curtains and windows. Some fresh air would be good.”

  The marquess was as efficient as any upstairs maid. After performing that task, he added some coals to the flagging fire—it was still cool inside the stone cottage despite it being spring.

  “Henry—”

  Whatever his father planned to say would have to wait. Help had finally arrived.

  Chapter 38

  Henry. And his father. Oh, God. How was this even possible?

  Rachel dropped gracelessly to the floor. She’d run all the way up the hill once she’d gotten permission to dismiss the children and could barely catch her breath to ask what happened. She must look a fright—again—but it didn’t matter when her father lay lifeless in Henry’s arms.

  “Miss Ever—um—green! Oh, no, it’s Everett, isn’t it. How do you do? I—I was just passing by and heard Rufus making a fuss. I knew something was wrong from the sound of him. I let myself in and found your father on the floor. He took a fall. He was conscious and talking a little while ago. I’m sure he’ll be all right.” Henry’s words were brisk for the benefit of his father, but his blue eyes were sympathetic as they searched her face.

  Rachel didn’t have Henry’s confidence. Her father’s skin was the color of wallpaper paste and his breathing, while steady, was labored. “He’s asleep?”

  Henry nodded. Her father was curled up half in Henry’s lap like an overgrown child. The viscount didn’t seem to mind though; he was absently stroking her father’s shoulder while he slept.

  “The doctor is on his way. Miss Everett, I believe you met my father briefly the other day. Father, do you know which farm Dr. Oakley was visiting?”

  The Marquess of Harland shook his head. “I’m afraid not. I must apologize for my presumption the other day, Miss Everett. I’m afraid I didn’t quite understand your situation.”

  The man was apologizing? Rachel looked up at Henry, who wore a somewhat bemused expression.

  “No harm done,” she said, trying to keep her voice smooth as if she talked to marquesses all day long instead of ten drippy-nosed children. “I do have nursing skills, but I immediately notified Reverend Walker to take my place. It was inappropriate that I remain at Stonecrop Cottage unchaperoned.”

  “I quite agree. The last thing my son needs is an impediment to his recovery.”

  An impediment, was she? Not according to Henry. He gave her all the credit for his new lease on life, which was, of course, ridiculous.

  Rachel put a hand on her father’s clammy brow, and his eyelids fluttered.

  “I’m here, Dad.’

  “He promised.”

  Her father’s words were wheezy but clear.

  “Who promised?”

  He jerked his chin up in Henry’s direction.

  Oh, Dad. Not you too.

  Rachel straightened up as tall as she could go while sitting on the floor. “I want to thank both of you for being here and helping, but I’m sure you have other things to attend to. I can take care of my father until Dr. Oakley comes.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous, Ra—Miss Everett. I’m not leaving. Father, you can go if you wish.”

  “I’ll stay. My coach will be here shortly for your father’s convenience, Miss Everett.”

  “Y-your coach?” She remembered that coach—a behemoth that splashed muddy water all over her.

  “To transport him to hospital.”

  Cold fear washed over her. Surely her father couldn’t be that ill. He’d fallen, that’s all. Old people were not always steady on their feet.

  “He might do just as well at home,” Henry said reassuringly. “We’ll see what Dr. Oakley says.”

  The marquess gave a little snort but said nothing.

  Rachel knew her father would not live forever; he was eighty-four, after all, a great age. She’d watch his abilities diminish, particularly after her mother died. He’d moved downstairs to the front room, and Rachel wondered apart from the steep stairs if he just couldn’t bear sleeping in the room he’d shared with his beloved wife.

  He’d worked so hard to win her. Proposed at least a dozen times, according to her mother. It wasn’t until she was satisfied with his reformation that she accepted his suit. They had been happy together, especially after what they considered to be a miracle—Rachel’s birth.

  Her father clutched her sleeve. “No hospital. Saw enough of one in the Crimea.”

  He had been quite an old soldier when he was sent home, returning to the village he’d left when he wasn’t much more than a boy. Then, he hadn’t wanted to be a weaver, but chang
ed his mind once he was courting one.

  “I’m sure medicine has improved since then, Dad.” She felt helpless and awkward sitting cross-legged on the floor, but the need to be near him was strong. And Henry was close, too, cradling her father on his lap. She could feel his support, even though he was careful not to touch her, or even look at her much.

  “Don’t trouble yourself with talking, Pete. We won’t do anything you don’t like.”

  Rufus decided he’d obeyed the marquess long enough. He crept over to his master and put his muzzle on her father’s thigh. Rachel scratched behind his ears.

  “You’re a good dog,” she said softly.

  “He is, you know. If he hadn’t made such a racket, I wouldn’t have come in.”

  “I’m grateful you did.” Her eyes were filling with useless tears. Rachel needed to pull herself together. It wouldn’t help her father any if she lost her self-control. And she had completely forgotten her manners.

  “Lord Harland, will you not sit down? The chair in the corner is very comfortable.” Patched and boasting of Rufus’s shed fur though it was.

  “I’m fine.” Henry’s father was staring at the little tableau on the ancient carpet before him—an ugly dog, a wind-blown woman, his wayward son, and a poor old man. What must he be thinking? It was impossible to tell from his face—he might as well be carved of marble.

  The rumble of the traveling coach on the narrow lane heralded that Dr. Oakley was here at last. The marquess himself left the parlor to let him in, and Rachel took the opportunity to lean over and kiss Henry full on the mouth.

  Not nearly long enough, either.

  “What was that for?”

  “For being you, Henry. Thank you.”

  His eyes were bright. “I would do anything for you, you know.”

  “I’m beginning to realize that. But I still don’t see how—never mind.” This wasn’t the right moment to talk about the future.

  If there was one.

  Dr. Oakley entered the room, shooing her out with a few kind words. He must know how worried she was, but it probably was best. If she stayed, her father might try to be brave and pretend everyone was just making too much of a fuss. Rachel reluctantly rose to her feet and put a kettle on in the kitchen. The marquess had disappeared into the garden. She could see him through the window examining one of her father’s prize peony bushes with considerable interest.

  Henry had remained to help get her father back into bed once the doctor had deemed there were no bones broken. Fingers crossed—she had seen many elderly people take too long to heal—sometimes never heal. She could hear the low male voices, her father’s included. That was an encouraging sign, wasn’t it?

  Rachel carried a tray outside. It wasn’t fancy, certainly not what the Marquess of Harland was accustomed to. No sterling silver tea service on New Street. But she had used her mother’s best flower-sprigged teapot and matching cups, china that was meant for “special occasions.”

  This probably was not what her mother had in mind.

  “Will you have a cup of tea, my lord?”

  The marquess turned and quickly took the dented toleware tray away from her, looked around in vain for a table and then set it on the weathered barrel.

  “You shouldn’t have gone to the trouble, Miss Everett.”

  “I needed something to do. It’s hard to wait.”

  The marquess took a seat on the bench, and Rachel busied herself fixing the two cups of tea. There was a spare cup for Henry when he came out.

  The marquess took a sip, then cleared his throat. “You are an only child?”

  “Yes. The heiress to all this.” Rachel smiled at her cheek. The Marquess of Harland probably thought their cottage was a hovel.

  “And you teach.”

  “Since my mother died. Before that, I took care of her and my father.”

  “A dutiful daughter.”

  “I’ve tried to be.” She’d even delivered an unconscious viscount to the graveyard at her father’s direction.

  The marquess set his cup next to him on the bench. “Explain to me why my son calls you Rachel and then claims he cannot remember your surname.”

  Oh dear.

  Chapter 39

  “Miss Everett, Dr. Oakley wants to see you now.”

  Perfect timing, Henry old boy. A few seconds later, and Rachel would have been forced to deal with his father’s inquisition. Henry knew from experience his father was a skilled interrogator. One dismissed him at one’s peril. Nothing much got by him. And here Henry thought he had been so careful Miss Everett-ing. He must have Racheled at least once.

  Rachel stood up quickly. “Is my father…”

  “In his bed, resting comfortably. No hospitalization required. Oakley feels the carriage is unnecessary at present, Father. Shall I go tell your coachman to expect you shortly?”

  “It’s a fine morning. I’ll walk back to Sir Bertram’s in a bit. First I think I shall finish my tea and catch up with Henry for a few minutes if you don’t mind, Miss Everett. My best wishes for your father’s recovery.”

  So much for hint-taking. Henry resigned himself to his father’s displeasure. It was the usual state of affairs, wasn’t it? At least Rachel had got out of the line of fire, rushing through the kitchen door.

  “Pour yourself some tea. Miss Everett brought an extra cup.”

  “No, thank you.” After a busy morning like this, what Henry wanted was whiskey. But that would be falling back into bad old habits, and wouldn’t do at all.

  He was a new man, or so he kept saying to anyone who’d hold still to listen.

  His father looked extraordinarily comfortable on the bench, as if the garden and all its gardeners, birds and butterflies belonged to him. Henry recollected the man preferred country living, and was happier at his Cotswold estate than anywhere. But duty called, and the man had never missed a vote in Parliament.

  He must be missing some now. Henry had not expected the pater to stick around to monitor his recovery.

  Henry took Pete Everett’s usual seat. “What did you want to talk about?”

  “I had a productive day yesterday with Sykes. We interviewed the villagers about your progress.”

  Henry had had very little to do with anyone aside from Dr. Oakley, Vincent and the Everetts.

  And Mrs. Grace, of course.

  What could anyone have said? Yes, I saw your son stumbling along the lanes. Poor crippled fellow. Yes, he came in for forbidden gingerbread. He’s got a sweet tooth, hasn’t he, poor lamb. Yes, I heard him sing in church.

  Off-key.

  “And the verdict?”

  “You’ve settled in nicely, apart from your unfortunate tendency for injury and illness. It’s a wonder you survived South Africa.”

  Wasn’t it just? “I’m too stubborn to succumb.”

  “Apparently so. But it wouldn’t hurt to bolster your good behavior once your stay is up. There will be temptations, even at Kings Harland, not to mention Harland House in Town. I’ve hired Mrs. Grace to assist you.”

  It must have been an interesting job interview in their dressing gowns. Henry’s throat closed. When it opened, he was very much afraid he was going to leap across the grass and throttle his father, possibly to death.

  But he wasn’t about to duplicate a Greek tragedy, and took a calming breath. “I don’t need a nursemaid, Father. I’m twenty-five years old. Perhaps my wife can see to my health and happiness.”

  “Your wife? What is this nonsense?”

  “I understood from my treatment plan you want me to marry as soon as possible. I am willing.”

  His father’s golden eyebrows met in a frown. “But you haven’t even met Miss Clark yet. Her father and I have not quite come to terms.”

  “Father, this is the nineteenth century. Arranged marriages are passé, don’t you think?” Whoever this Miss Clark was, Henry had no interest in her, her father, or any terms the pater was trying to
hammer out.

  “As my only son, you have a duty to the family name to marry a suitable girl. Miss Clark is entirely unexceptional. She’s handsome enough, and a niece to her godfather, the Duke of Welford, who has taken an interest in her education. She knows what’s what, and will make an excellent marchioness when the time comes. Between her and Mrs. Grace, your household will be well managed.”

  Managed. Henry was not some child to be denied pudding or told where to sit. When to wake up or when to go to bed. What to read. What to think.

  And he’d hire Mrs. Grace over his father’s dead body.

  Was there something Henry didn’t know? He gave his father a thorough look. The man could have stepped out of a gentleman’s fashion plate. His silver-gilt hair was gleaming, his color healthy—even his fingernails were shiny.

  “Father, you aren’t dying or anything, are you?”

  His father’s cheeks reddened. “Of course not. But one must think to the future. Anything could happen. We never expected your mother to pass at such an early age, did we? I’d like to see you settled.”

  “I don’t mind settling, but I’ll pick a bride of my own, thank you very much.”

  “You haven’t had time to meet anyone proper since you’ve come home.”

  Henry snapped off a bloom and tucked it into his lapel. “Oh, but I might have.”

  It was best to get this godforsaken conversation over with. Puddling was about to be rocked by scandal, and the sooner Henry and Rachel could skate through it, the better.

  Henry’s father rose unsteadily. “You don’t mean to make some actress your viscountess! I’ll not have it, Henry! I’ll see you institutionalized before you bring further shame to me.”

  Henry stood too. “Relax, Father. You’ll have an apoplexy, and then it won’t matter whom I marry. You won’t know from inside your silk-lined coffin, will you? My unsuitable wife and I might be doing the cancan on your grave.”

  Although it would be difficult for Henry to find his balance, not to mention he’d look damned silly in a skirt.

  “Don’t be disrespectful!”

  His father was angry. It never took much for the marquess to go off like a rocket, especially if he was thwarted. Henry attempted to rein in his own temper. “Father, you’re making it far too easy for me. I am of age. I served the queen for six very long and eventful years and have seen a bit of the world. I’m sorry if it threw me off kilter temporarily. I’m lame. I’m a quarter deaf. Perhaps I felt sorry for myself for too long. But I doubt any qualified physician would declare me incompetent, so kindly refrain from threatening me with further incarceration. Unless, of course, you mean to bribe someone to lock me up. That would be very much beneath you.”