Schooling the Viscount

by Maggie Robinson

  She really couldn’t abide that.

  “Dr. Oakley thinks it’s a good idea. Says it will cheer us up.”

  “Really?” Rachel asked doubtfully. She didn’t believe anything would cheer her up, at least not in the immediate future. Ten years from now, who knew?

  “Aye. And Vincent’s to come with us.”

  She plucked a daisy and pulled off its petals. He loves me not. “I’m not interested in your matchmaking, Dad. You know Vincent is spoken for, even if it’s a secret.”

  Eventually Greta would be free. Someone would have their happily ever after.

  Pete chuckled. “I wouldn’t want a parson in the family. Never did, despite what the local gossipmongers have tried to promote between you two. Why, I’d have to be on my best behavior all the time, never say bloody or fuck, and that would get tiring pretty fast. But Vincent has some business in the city, and wondered if we’d like to come with him for a day or three. He can help out if either one of us decides to faint at the excitement of it all.”

  “Are you sure Dr. Oakley approves?”

  “Would I lie to my only daughter?”

  He very well might.

  “I don’t know, Dad.” She’d talk to the doctor herself.

  “Vincent’s leaving the day after tomorrow. We need to let him know.”

  Her holiday was more than half over. She’d done nothing but mope and mend so far.

  She should go. If it was safe for her father’s health. Maybe she’d see something she could use in her lessons.

  “I’ll think about it.”

  Her father clapped his hands. That woke Rufus up from his sleep.

  “Oh, dear. What about the dog?”

  “Ham will take him. It’s all settled.”

  “You’re really set on going, aren’t you?”

  “It will do us both good, Rachel. It’s time you saw the sights.” Her father stood and reached for the cane that was now to accompany him everywhere. “Nature calls, my dear.”

  She watched as he made his way on the slate path to the privy. His step was sure, even jaunty.

  In a trice she snatched up the book and unfolded the letter. The handwriting on it was practically illegible, and from what she could read had nothing but a list of famous battles and commanders on it. It made no sense, and was unlike any sort of letter she’d ever seen. She stuffed it back into Gibbon’s The History of the Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire, regretting she’s been so nosy. The two old soldiers were probably playing at codes.

  ***

  Two days later, she was on the train to London—in a first class carriage! Her father had insisted on splurging, and Rachel worried if he had in fact hit his head when he fell. She was to have a new dress from Harrods, a department store he’d read about, once they got there, and they were staying at Claridge’s Hotel. Claridge’s! Rachel was afraid they’d be laughed out of the lobby in their country clothes. But her father had shown her the wire confirming their reservation. The telegram was safely in her handbag in case a snooty concierge attempted to turn them away,

  Vincent would not be staying with them, but with a friend. He was in alarmingly good spirits, and Rachel wondered if perhaps he was going to have an assignation with Greta.

  It was none of her business. It might be spring, the birds and the bees busy, but there was no lover in London for Rachel Everett.

  They were met at the station by a liveried driver in a magnificent carriage belonging to the hotel. Rachel dropped her handbag right onto the pavement in shock. The man bent elegantly to pick it up.

  “You don’t want to misplace your purse, Miss. Hang on tight to it—there are thieves and pickpockets about.”

  Precisely why coming to London was such a bad idea. The Everetts were honest folk—usually, unless it came to shovels and fibbing—and didn’t belong here.

  “Dad, I can’t do this,” she whispered.

  “’Course you can! You’ve nothing to be ashamed of. Prettiest girl on the train, you were.”

  “No, I mean the…carriage! I—I—I’m afraid!” It was much too plush, shiny and…new. Cinderella would have been right at home in it.

  “Pooh. We haven’t that far to go, and if it wasn’t safe, the hotel wouldn’t offer its services to their guests. Don’t want to kill us, do they, before we pay the shot? Get in. The chap’s holding the door for you.”

  Their battered baggage, pitiful as it was, had already been stowed in the back of the carriage. There was nothing to be done but put her foot on the step, sit down in the smooth leather seat and hold onto her hat.

  Her father seemed to enjoy the brief ride very much, poking her with his cane to make her open her eyes and see the buildings fly by. She’d have to take his word for it. The sounds of London were enough to stimulate her—the frightened whinnies of horses, the bleating of carriage horns, the multitudes who were embroiled in a conversation where all the words were shouted.

  And the smell! Horse droppings. Humanity. Rachel was a country girl, but she felt queasy.

  Fortunately they arrived at the stately hotel in jig time, its brick façade bright in the sunlight. It was the highest building Rachel had ever seen. She tried not to gawk and strain her neck as the doorman summoned a porter to retrieve their suitcases from the carriage.

  “Sergeant Everett? We have been expecting you. I hope you had a pleasant journey. Your guest is waiting for you, and your suite is ready.”

  She tugged her father’s tweed-covered arm. “Guest? What does he mean, Dad? And suite? What on earth are you thinking of? Have you gone completely mad?” They’d be broke before tomorrow’s breakfast. She was already making plans for them to check into a much less expensive hotel once she talked some sense into him.

  “Don’t worry about a thing, Rachel. Be a good girl and let me go. You’re causing a scene. Go sit down somewhere and be comfortable.”

  Comfortable! Most unlikely. She found a squashy chair in the lobby and reluctantly dropped into it while her father checked them into the hotel. He spoke too softly for her to hear anything useful, but she was becoming very uneasy. How could they afford such luxury? Claridge’s was absolutely stunning, with every amenity, according to the brochures on the marble table in front of her. If she’d felt gauche before, she was positively stupid now.

  Her father returned, leaning on his cane. “I’m going to wet my whistle in the bar, my girl. You go on up with the porter and get yourself settled.” He dropped a key in her lap.

  “You’re meeting your friend?”

  “Just so. Run along, and try to relax.”

  Relax! As if she could. The very word was an irritant. But she did need freshening up, and her good shoes pinched her toes. It would be heaven to kick them off and loosen her corset.

  She followed the porter and the baggage cart to a bank of elevators, where another young man in the Claridge’s livery operated the lift. The close of the door made her feel trapped, and the rapid ascent made her heart drop to her sore feet. This day had too many firsts altogether. But at least she wasn’t climbing up the stairs. She handed the key to the porter and he unlocked the door of their rooms.

  And then she took one look inside and slid to the floor in a faint.

  Chapter 46

  “Rachel. Darling.” He waved the smelling salts under her nose and she shuddered.

  There were too many people in the room—the porter, the hotel doctor, someone from the front desk. Pete Everett, too, who was supposed to stay out of the way while Henry surprised Rachel.

  Well, he guessed she was plenty surprised.

  “Wh-what are you doing here?” She was parchment white, except for the blue lips. It would have been a fascinating medical study except he wanted his fiancée well.

  Henry patted his pocket. “I have a special license. Vincent will marry us tomorrow if it’s all right with you.”

  She tried to get off his lap but he was having none of it. “I say, Pete, can you
get these fellows out of here? Drinks are on me.”

  “You heard the viscount,” Pete said in a voice he once must have used in battle. “Out!”

  Pete failed to follow his own edict. Leaning over the couple, he said, “You two better not disappoint me. That’s an order.”

  Henry gave him a left-handed salute since his right hand was busy keeping Rachel from escaping. “Yes, sir.”

  Rachel waited till the door closed. “I don’t understand. You left me. You left me!” She gave him a little shove. Ah, there was his Rachel, feeling more the thing.

  “You never got my note? I explained the plan in complete detail.” Or as much detail as he’d managed to come up with at the end of the school day.

  “What note?”

  “I put it on your desk with the children’s papers.”

  Rachel blinked. “I—I threw all the papers away. I could barely see for the tears.”

  He wiped away the ones that coursed down her cheeks now. Days had passed, and she hadn’t known he loved her. She must have wished him to the devil every waking minute.

  “Didn’t that idiot Vincent tell you I had everything in hand?”

  Rachel sniffed. “I thought he meant about the school. Or Greta. Sir Bertram told everybody your father made you change his mind about marrying me.”

  “As if he could! I can’t believe you didn’t have faith in me!”

  “How was I to know? You never even tried to see me those last three days, and then you disappeared. I didn’t know about any note.”

  “I am sorry for that. But I wanted no word to get back to my father. Mrs. Grace is his spy, you know. And maybe his mistress, although I could be wrong about that. Apparently he had an encounter with a bull in a field when he went walking early one morning and he—oh, never mind.” Rachel frowned in confusion, but he wasn’t going to waste precious time talking about the pater.

  “Anyway, I wanted nothing to interfere with my father helping Greta. He’s quite chivalrous, you know, but if he thought he was being defied, he would have refused to speak to the archbishop. And the attorneys—there’s a whole hive of them on Greta’s team. It’s all in train now, and nothing can stop it. Briefs filed, court dates appointed. It’s amazing what a powerful man can do in a very short amount of time if he wants to. She should be free by the end of the year. Poorer, too. Her hideous husband is still making things difficult, but he’ll be bought off in the end if someone doesn’t shoot him first. No one messes with the Marquess of Harland.”

  “Or Viscount Challoner.” She nestled into his shoulder. “I thought I’d never see you again.”

  “Poor lamb. I couldn’t write to you—the damned post office is run by those Stanchfield people and Vincent told me they steam open suspicious letters on orders from the Foundation. But I did contact your father.”

  “That was your letter! But it was gibberish! How could you know he’d understand?”

  “Your dad studies history. I knew he’d figure it out, and Vincent got one too. Only his had Bible verses.” Henry thought he’d been pretty damned clever.

  Rachel almost smiled, but then she shook her head. “You’re going back on your word to your father if you marry me.”

  “I never gave it. Oh, I may have inclined my head when he made his ridiculous demand, but that was his interpretation of acceptance. Who can say? I might have just had a crick in my neck. Or was avoiding a bumblebee.”

  “In Sir Bertram’s dining room? Oh, Henry! He’ll be so angry!”

  “Will he? I wonder. I think he knows I’ve changed, and for the better. And however he shows it, he wants me to be happy. You make me happy, Rachel.”

  The tears were flooding now, and he kissed them as they slid down her pale cheeks. He would pink her up again. Everywhere. The past few weeks had been hell for both of them.

  “School starts in a week.”

  “Hand in your notice. You’re going to be Lady Challoner, and we might be in…Switzerland? Would you like that?”

  “I hardly know. I’ve never been anywhere,” Rachel said, smiling through her tears.

  “I’d like to show you the world.” Not the sad, difficult parts, though if he knew Rachel, she’d want to fix them. She’d never be satisfied unless she was taking care of someone.

  Soon she would be taking care of him, and Henry swore by all that was holy, he’d take the very best care of her too.

  ***

  Henry’s first opportunity to do so arrived the next morning. He had taken a risk, but risk had its reward, did it not? He’d said so to Charlie Motley anyhow.

  He wanted to make things right. Proper. Henry had turned over a new leaf—hell, he was a whole new tree.

  The Marquess of Harland was admitted to the suite by Henry’s valet, who was relieved that he still had a job and a young gentleman to do for. The man had had fussed so around Henry since he’d come back from Puddling that he almost longed for Mrs. Grace.

  “What’s this about, Henry?” He held the telegram out, as if Henry might have forgotten he wrote it.

  “I’m glad you came, sir. I didn’t want to have the most important day of my life without you.”

  The pater’s eyes narrowed. “What nonsense are you up to now?”

  “No nonsense, just sense. I am marrying Rachel Everett today.” Henry waved his arm at the baskets of white roses that decorated his suite. Pete had already been in, and didn’t think much of London florists.

  His father sat down on a brocade sofa. “I see.”

  This was not the reaction Henry expected. “You do?”

  “I had a rather eloquent letter the other day from the young lady’s father. Peter, I believe?”

  “Y-yes.” Henry sat down too.

  “I may have misjudged her. Greta sang her praises too. She was very kind to her during that difficult time in Puddling.”

  The pater had fatherly feelings for Greta, and was casting about ways to help old Vincent too. Greta had confessed all, but the pater was not going to steal the vicar from Henry’s soldiers’ retreat.

  “So I have your blessing?”

  “You don’t need it. As you’ve pointed out often enough, you’re of age, you have your own funds, and certainly your own ideas. Your scheme for your troubled soldiers shows great merit. I’m proud of you, Henry.”

  “Thank you,” Henry said, when he’d finally found his voice.

  “I think Miss Everett will keep you in line. If she can put a marquess in his place, dealing with a mere viscount should be easy.”

  “She doesn’t think she’s suitable, Father, although I’m pretty sure she loves me,” Henry blurted out. He didn’t want his father to make Rachel feel inadequate on this day of all days.

  “Pretty sure, eh? Still pressing your luck.”

  “But I am lucky. Undeservedly so. Rachel is…well, she’s Rachel. I’d like for you to get to know her.”

  His father nodded. “She shan’t hear any criticism from me. She may not be a typical Challoner bride, but perhaps that’s a good thing. None of them were as sweet as your mother.” The marquess reached into his pocket and brought out a velvet box. “I expect you’ve already bought a ring, but your wife should have this necklace. My grandmother wore it on her wedding day. Awful woman, but the diamonds can’t be sneezed at.”

  Henry walked across the room, his heart much lighter. Even his foot felt better. “Thank you. I hope to make her as happy as you made Mama.”

  His father rose and, by the gods, hugged him. “Do better, my boy. There’s always room for improvement.”

  Epilogue

  June 1881

  They’d been to Paris. Rome. Florence. And now Venice, the most beautiful city Henry had ever seen. His wife sat straight up in the gondola, looking worried that if she breathed too deeply—or breathed at all—they’d tip over.

  If Henry had planned this as a romantic interlude—and he had—he’d failed miserably. Rachel was tense and pale, and no
half-baked singing from the gondolier made headway to squelch her terror.

  And she’d been ill this morning—too much wine and pasta the night before, poor girl. The foreign food had not agreed with her the last few days.

  “Relax, my love.”

  “Henry, you’re an intelligent man. Don’t you know when you ask someone to relax, you only drive them deeper into distress?” she hissed.

  “We are not going to fall into the Grand Canal. Or if we do, we wouldn’t be the first. I’m sure the gondolier would save us. Stick out a paddle at least,” Henry teased.

  “No fall, no fall, no drown,” their gondolier said, tipping his hat. He was not fluent in English, but probably had had enough anxious passengers so these words were in his vocabulary.

  Rachel’s face lost the little color it had. “I can’t swim.”

  “I’ll teach you when we get home. When we have a home. Someplace with a pond, or maybe by a river, where the children can sail an armada of wooden boats.”

  “That will be dangerous! What if they fall in?”

  “I’ll teach them to swim. Their nanny too. Here, lean on me.” He slipped his arm around her and felt her shiver.

  “A nanny. I cannot imagine it.”

  “You’ll want the help. We’re going to have a lot of children if we are so blessed, Rachel—a whole classroom full,” he teased. Pray God their children would be nothing like the little Puddling people. He was not climbing up a tree to retrieve someone again, especially when Holly bit him when he was trying to be heroic.

  Rachel grew very still beside him. “About that.”

  “About what? Never tell me you miss teaching school.”

  “No, how can I? You’ve kept me much too busy on our honeymoon. But I think, that is I’m almost certain, that…that…”

  Henry grew equally still. “Rachel, what on earth are you trying to say?”