by Carla Kelly
The man laughed. “You’re too polite, dear Lucy,” he replied, and gave his niece a squeeze before he released her. “He refers to me as the patron saint of lost causes.” He gestured toward Cecilia. “Come indoors, Miss Ambrose. You’re looking a little chilly.”
The foyer was as beautiful as she had thought it would be, soft color on the walls, delicate plasterwork above, and intricate parquetry underfoot. “What a wonderful place,” she said.
“It is, indeed,” Lord Trevor agreed. “I know there are many country seats larger than this one, but none more lovely, to my way of thinking.” He rubbed his hands and looked around. “I love to come home, now and then.”
“Where is Mama?” Lucy asked as a footman silently approached and divested her of her traveling cloak.
“Lucy! Thank God you have come! This family is beset with Trying Events!”
Well, I suppose I can safely say that others in this family besides Lucy tend to speak in capital letters, Cecilia thought as she allowed Lord Trevor to help in the removal of her cloak. Lucy ran to her sister Janet, who stood with her arms outstretched dramatically.
“I do believe the most trying event is Janet’s propensity to be Yorkshire’s premier actress of melodrama and melancholy,” Lord Trevor murmured to her as he handed her cloak to the footman. “I have only been here three days myself, and already I want to strangle her.”
She looked at him in surprise, then put her lips together so she would not laugh.
Lord Trevor only grinned at her, which made the matter worse. “Such forbearance, Miss Ambrose,” he said. “You have my permission to laugh! If you can withstand this, then you must be the lady who teaches deportment at Miss Dupree’s Whatchamacallit.”
“Far from it,” she replied. “I teach drawing and the pianoforte.”
He took her arm through his and walked her down the hall toward the two young ladies. “My dear Janet, wouldn’t this be a good time to tell your sister what is going on, before she thinks that pirates from the Barbary Coast have abducted your parents?”
“Lucy would never think such a thing!” Janet declared, looking at him earnestly. “I doubt there have ever been any pirates in Yorkshire.”
Lord Trevor only sighed. Forcing down her laughter, Cecilia spoke up in what she hoped were her best educator’s tones. “Lady Janet, perhaps you can tell us where your parents are? Your sister is concerned.”
Janet looked at her, a tragic expression on her lovely face. “Oh, Miss … Miss Ambrose, is it? My parents have bravely gone into a charnel house of pestilence and disease.”
Lord Trevor glowered at his older niece. “Cut line, Janet,” he said. He put his arm around Lucy. “Amelia’s brood came down with the measles three days ago, and your parents have gone to York to help. I expect them home tomorrow. Amelia is the oldest of my nieces,” he explained to Cecilia over his shoulder. “It’s just the dratted measles.”
“Only this afternoon I wrote to my dear Lysander, who will drop everything to hurry to this beleaguered household and give us the benefit of his wisdom,” Janet said.
“Janet, we can depend upon Uncle Trevor to look out for us,” Lucy said shyly.
“Uncle Trevor is far too busy to worry about us, Lucy,” her sister replied, dismissing her sister with a wave of her handkerchief. “And didn’t he say over breakfast this morning that he must return to London immediately after our parents are restored to us? Depend upon it; Lysander will hurry to my side, and all will be well.” She nodded to Cecilia. “Come, Lucinda. I have much to tell you about my dear Lysander.”
“But shouldn’t I show Miss Ambrose to her room?” Lucy asked.
“That is what servants are for, Lucy. Come along.”
After a backward glance at Cecilia, Lucinda trailed upstairs after her sister. Cecilia’s face burned with the snub. Lord Trevor regarded her with sympathy.
“What do you say, Miss Ambrose? Should we wait until Lysander arrives, tie him up with Janet, and throw them both in the river? It’s too late to drown them at birth. Ah, that is better,” he said when she laughed. “Do excuse my niece’s manners. If I ever fall in love—and the prospect seems remote—I promise not to be so rude.” He indicated the sitting room, with its open door and fire crackling in the grate. “Come sit down, and let me take a moment to reassure you that we are not all denatured, drooling simpletons.”
She needed no proof of that, but was happy to accompany him into the sitting room. He saw that she was seated close to the fire, a hassock under her feet, and then spoke to the footman.
“Tea or coffee, Miss Ambrose?” he asked. “I know coffee isn’t ordinarily served in the afternoon, but I am partial to it, and don’t have a second’s patience with what I should and should not do.”
“Coffee, if you please,” she answered, amused out of her embarrassment. She removed her gloves, and fluffed her hair, trapped too long by her bonnet.
The footman left, and Lord Trevor stood by the fireplace. She regarded him with some interest, because she remembered now who he was. Miss Dupree, considered a radical by some, subscribed to two London newspapers, even going so far as to encourage her employees to read them. The other female teachers seldom ventured beyond the first page. The Select Academy’s two male instructors read the papers during the day while they drank tea between classes. When class was over, and if the downstairs maid hadn’t made her circuit, Cecilia gathered up the papers from the commons room. She took them to her room to pore over in the evening hours, after she had finished grading papers, and when it was not her turn to be on duty in the sitting room when the young ladies were allowed visitors.
She knew next to nothing of the British criminal trial system, but could not resist reading about the cases that even Mrs. Dupree, for all her radical views, must have considered sordid and sensational. No matter; Cecilia read the papers, and here was a barrister well known to her from criminal trials, written up in the florid style of the London dailies.
I should say nothing, she told herself as she sat with her hands folded politely, her ankles together. He will think I am vulgar. Besides, I am leaving as soon as I can.
He cleared his throat and she looked up.
“Miss Ambrose, I am sorry for this disorder in which you find us.”
He is self-conscious about this, she thought. I think he even wishes he had combed his hair. Look how he is running his fingers through it. She smiled. I suppose even brilliant barristers sometimes are caught up short. Well, join the human race, sir.
“Oh, please don’t apologize, Lord Trevor,” she said. She hesitated, then gave herself a mental shrug. This is a man I do admire, she thought. What can it hurt if I say something? I will be gone tomorrow. “Lord Trevor, I … I sometimes read in the newspaper of your legal work.”
“What?”
She winced inwardly. How could one man invest so much weight in a single word? Was this part of his training? Oh, Lord, I am glad I will never, ever have to face this man in the docket, she thought. Or over a breakfast table.
She opened her eyes wider, wondering at the origin of that impish thought. She reminded herself that she was a teacher, and dedicated to the edification of her pupils. Breakfast table, indeed! She dared to glance at him, and saw, to her temporary relief at least, he had not turned from the fireplace, where he warmed his hands.
“I beg your pardon, Miss Ambrose,” he was saying, “I must have misheard. Do forgive me. Did you say that you read the newspaper?”
“I do,” she replied simply. She discovered that she could no more lie to this man than sprout wings and fly across the plain of York. In for a penny, she thought grimly. “And … and I am a great admirer of your work.”
It must have been the wrong thing to say, she decided. Why on earth did I admit that I read the paper? she asked herself in misery as he slowly turned around from his hand warming. As he raised his eyebrows, she wished she could vanish without a trace and suddenly materialize in her Bath sitting room, grading papers and waiting
for the dinner bell. “Well, I am,” she said.
He smiled at her. “Why, thank you, Miss Ambrose.” He seated himself beside her. “Do you pass on what you learn to your students?”
She listened hard for any sarcasm in his voice, but she could detect none. She also did not see any disparagement or condescension in his face, which gave her heart. “No, I don’t pass it on,” she said quietly, then took a deep breath. “I only wish that I could.” She sat a little straighter then, suddenly feeling herself very much the child of crusading evangelists. “I believe you should receive great credit for what you do, rather than derision, Lord Trevor. Didn’t I read only last week that you had been denied a position of Master of the Bench at Lincoln’s Inn?”
“You did, indeed,” he replied. “Sometimes I imagine that the Benchers wish I had been called from another Inn.” He shrugged. “Even my brother Hugo calls this my ‘deranged hobby.’”
The maid came in with coffee, which Cecilia poured. “You are going back to London tomorrow?” she asked.
“I am, as soon as Hugo and Maria arrive. Lowly Magistrate’s Court does not sit during the holiday, but I have depositions to take.” He took a sip and then sat back. “I know my solicitor could do that, but he wanted to spend the week with his family in Kent. I am, as you might suppose, a soft touch for a bare pleading.”
“I am delighted to have met you, Lord Trevor,” she told him.
The housekeeper stood at the door to the sitting room. Lord Trevor rose, cup in hand, and indicated that Cecilia follow her. “She’ll show you to your room. We keep country hours here, so we will eat in an hour.” He winked at the housekeeper, who blushed, but made no attempt to hide the smile in her eyes. “As you can also imagine, there’s no need to dress up!”
Smiling now, the housekeeper led her upstairs. “He’s a great one, is Lord Trevor,” she said to Cecilia. “We only wish he came around more often.”
“I suppose he is quite busy in London,” Cecilia said. “Indeed he is,” the woman replied, “even though I sometimes wonder at the low company he keeps.” She stopped then, remembering her position. “Miss Ambrose, your pupil is across the hall. You’ll hear the bell for dinner.”
Cecilia decided before dinner that it would be easy to make her excuses the next day when Lord and Lady Falstoke returned, and take the mail coach back to Bath. She would express her concerns about Lucy to the marchioness before she left.
To her consternation, David looked as glum as his sister when he came into the dining room with Lord Trevor, who carried a letter. The man seated himself and looked at his nieces. “I received a post not twenty minutes ago from your parents,” he said.
“They’re not coming home tomorrow,” David said. He looked down at his plate.
“Why ever not?” Janet asked, indignant. “Don’t they know we need them? I mean, really, they took Chambliss with them, and Cook!”
“Chambliss is our butler,” Lucy whispered to Cecilia.
“It seems that your older sister needs them more,” Lord Trevor replied, his voice firm. “Do have a little compassion, Janet. They have promised to be here for Christmas. I’ll be staying until they return.”
Janet turned stricken eyes upon her uncle. “But they are to host Lysander!”
“Perhaps the earth will continue to orbit the sun if he has to postpone his arrival for a few days,” Lord Trevor remarked dryly. “David, eat your soup.”
They ate in silence, Lord Trevor obviously reviewing in his mind how this news would change his own plans. Cecilia glanced at Lucy, who whispered, “I will hardly have any time to be with her, before we must return to Bath.”
“Then the time will be all the more precious, when it comes, my dear,” Cecilia said, thinking of her dear ones in India.
David began to cry. Head down, he tried to choke back his tears, but they flowed anyway. Lord Trevor looked at him in dismay, then at Cecilia. As sorry as she felt for the little boy, she almost smiled at the desperation on the barrister’s face. You can argue cases for the lowliest in the dockets, she thought, but your nephew’s tears are another matter. She rose from the table. I have absolutely nothing to lose here, she thought. No one should be crying at Christmastime.
She walked over to David’s chair and knelt at his side. “This is difficult, isn’t it?” she asked him quietly. “I know your mama wishes she were here, too.”
“She’s only twenty miles away!” Lord Trevor exclaimed, exasperated.
“It’s a long way, when you’re only—are you six, my dear?” she asked the little boy, who had stopped crying to listen to her. She handed him her napkin.
“Seven,” he mumbled into the cloth. “I am small for my age.”
“You know, perhaps we could go belowstairs and ask the cook for ….”
“Mama never coddles him like that,” Janet said.
“I would,” Cecilia answered. She looked at Lord Trevor, who was watching her with a smile of appreciation. “Do you mind, sir?”
“I don’t mind at all,” he replied. “Miss Ambrose, do as you see fit.”
Cecilia took David downstairs. The second cook beamed at the boy, and suggested a bowl of the rabbit fricassee left from luncheon. In another minute, he was eating. Cecilia sat beside him, and Cook placed a bowl of stew before her, too. “If you don’t mind leftovers,” he said in apology. “I know Lord Trevor don’t mind, but there are them above stairs who are a little too high in the instep these days.”
“Janet makes us eat in the dining room,” David said when he stopped to wipe his mouth. “We always eat in the breakfast room when Mama is here.” He glared at the ceiling. “She thinks it is not grand enough.”
“I think Janet is going through a trying time,” Cecilia said, attempting to keep her face serious.
He shook his head. “Grown-ups do not have trying times.”
They do, she thought. “Perhaps now and then.”
She sat there, content in her surroundings, as David finished the stew. He pushed away the bowl when the cook brought in a tray of gingersnaps with a flourish, and remembered his manners to offer her one.
“Any left for me?”
You’re a quiet man, Cecilia thought as she looked over to see Lord Trevor standing beside his nephew. David made room for his uncle on the bench. He passed the biscuits, even as the cook set a glass of milk in front of Lord Trevor. He dipped a biscuit in the milk and ate it, then looked at her. “Try it, Miss Ambrose. Anyone who reads newspapers can’t mind dipping gingersnaps.”
“Will I never be able to live that down?” she said as she dipped a gingersnap.
He touched David’s shoulder. “It is safe to go above stairs now. Your sisters have retired to their room, where Janet, I fear, will continue to brag about darling Lysander.”
“Oh, dear,” Cecilia murmured. “I have to speak to Lady Falstoke about that.”
“Then you must remain here through the week,” Lord Trevor told her.
“I couldn’t possibly do that,” she replied as he gestured for her to proceed them up the stairs. “I will write her a letter from Bath.”
The three of them walked down the hall together, uncle and nephew hand in hand. They paused at the foot of the stairs. “David and I will say good night here,” Lord Trevor told her. “I brought my files with me from Lincoln’s Inn, and he is helping arrange my 1808 cases alphabetically.”
“But it is 1810,” she reminded him. “Nearly 1811.”
“I’m behind.” He ran his long fingers through his hair, a gesture she was coming to recognize. “Not all of us were kissed by the fairy of efficiency at birth, madam!”
She laughed, enjoying that visual picture. He smiled at her, then spoke to David, who went on down the hall.
“I can’t get you to change your mind?” he asked, keeping his voice down. “You can see from my ham handling of David at the dinner table that I need help.” He hesitated. “I seldom stay here until Christmas. Well, I never do.”
“I am certain you
will manage until your brother and sister-in-law return.” Cecilia curtsied to him. “Thank you, Lord Trevor, for your hospitality. If you can arrange for a gig to take me tomorrow to the mail coach stop, I will be on my way to Bath.”
He bowed. “Stubborn woman,” he scolded. “What is the big attraction in Bath?”
There is no big attraction in Bath, she thought. “I …. It’s where I live.”
He took her hand. “That is almost as illogical as some of the courtroom arguments I must endure! Good night, Miss Ambrose. We will see you on your way to Bath tomorrow, since you are determined to abandon us.”
“You are as dramatic as your nieces,” she chided him.
“I know,” he said cheerfully. “Ain’t it a shame?”
She wasn’t certain what woke her, hours later. Her first inclination was to roll over and go back to sleep. All was quiet. She sat up and allowed her eyes to focus on the gloom around her. Nothing. She debated whether to get up and look in the hall, but decided against it. That would mean searching for her robe, which she hadn’t bothered to unpack, considering the brevity of her visit.
Then she heard it: someone pounding up the stairs and banging on a door down the hall. She leaped out of bed, ran to her door, and opened it at the same time she smelled smoke. Her hand to her throat now, she stepped into the hall. She thought she recognized the footman, even though he was wearing his nightshirt. “My lord! My lord!” he yelled as he banged on the door.
The door opened, and Lord Trevor stepped barefoot into the hall. “Fire, my lord,” the footman said, breathless from dashing up the stairs. “The central chimney!”
Cecilia hurried back into her room, grabbed her traveling case, and threw it out the window. She snatched her cloak, stepped into her shoes, and turned around to see Lord Trevor right behind her. He grabbed her arm and pulled her into the hall. “Stay here,” he ordered. “You don’t know this manor.” Smoke wafted up the stairs like her vision of the last plague of Egypt. She pulled a corner of her cloak across her face to cover her nose, and watched Lord Trevor go in the bedchambers and awaken his nieces and nephew.