Daniel's True Desire

by Grace Burrowes

  As it happened, he lasted five years, before becoming the first instructor at the Haddondale Academy to teach Latin to the young ladies, and the first to suggest that every scholar be permitted to participate in the year-end horse race.

  The girls were fiendishly good on horseback, and at chasing toads and rabbits. They disdained to chase boys…

  Kirsten and Daniel’s five children learned beside the other scholars, who included various cousins, in-laws, and neighbors’ children as well the occasional titled heir whom some public school had nearly wrecked.

  Even the near wrecks came right. They all came right, even if they never mastered the fifth declension nouns or the proper form of address for a retired archbishop. They came right because regardless of the subject matter, the curriculum taught was one of kindness and honesty, compassion and tolerance, hope and forgiveness, love without end.

  Amen.

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  Will’s True Wish

  “We were having a perfectly well-behaved outing,” Cam said, though Cam Dorning and perfect behavior enjoyed only a distant acquaintance. “Just another pleasant stroll in the pleasant park on a pleasant spring morning, until George pissed on her ladyship’s parasol.”

  The culprit sat in the middle of the room, silent and stoic, tail thumping gently against the carpet.

  “Georgette did not insult Lady Susannah’s parasol all on her own initiative,” Will Dorning retorted, for he knew Lady Susannah Haddonfield was adept at avoiding all notice. “Somebody let her off the leash.”

  “Lady Susannah wasn’t on a leash,” Cam shot back. “She was taking the air with her sister and Viscount Effington, and his lordship was carrying the lady’s parasol—being gallant, or eccentric. I swear Georgette was sniffing the bushes one moment and aiming for Effington’s knee the next. Nearly got him too, which is probably what the man deserves for carrying a parasol in public.”

  Across the earl’s study, Ash dissolved into whoops that became pantomimes of a dog raising her leg on various articles of furniture in the Earl of Casriel’s London abode. Cam had to retaliate by shoving at his older brother, which of course necessitated reciprocal shoving from Ash, which caused the dog to whine fretfully.

  “I should let Georgette use the pair of you as a canine convenience,” Will muttered, stroking a hand over her silky, brindle head. She was big, even for a mastiff, and prone to lifting her leg in the fashion of a male dog when annoyed or worried.

  “I thought I’d let her gambol about a bit,” Cam said. “There I was, a devoted brother trying to be considerate of your dog, when the smallest mishap occurs, and you scowl at me as if I farted during grace.”

  “You do fart during grace,” Ash observed. “During breakfast too. You’re a farting prodigy, Sycamore Dorning. Wellington could have used you at Waterloo, His Majesty’s one-man foul miasma, and the French would still be—”

  “Enough,” Will muttered. Georgette’s tail went still, for the quieter Will became, the harder he was struggling not to kill his younger brothers, and Georgette was a perceptive creature. “Where is the parasol?”

  “Left it in the mews,” Cam said. “A trifle damp and odiferous, if you know what I mean.”

  “Stinking, like you,” Ash said, sashaying around the study with one hand on his hip and the other pinching his nose. “Perhaps we ought to get you a pretty parasol to distract from your many unfortunate shortcomings.”

  Casriel would be back from his meeting with the solicitors by supper, and the last thing the earl needed was aggravation from the lower primates masquerading as his younger siblings.

  More aggravation, for they’d been blighting the family escutcheon and the family exchequer since birth, the lot of them.

  “Sycamore, you have two hours to draft a note of apology to the lady,” Will said. “I will review your epistle before you seal it. No blots, no crossing out, no misspellings.”

  “An apology!” Cam sputtered, seating himself on the earl’s desk. “I’m to apologize on behalf of your dog?! I didn’t piss on anybody.”

  At seventeen years of age, Cam was still growing into his height, still a collection of long limbs and restless movement that hadn’t resolved itself into manly grace. He had the Dorning dark hair and the infamous Dorning gentian eyes, though.

  “Shall you apologize to Lady Shakespeare or to Effington’s knees?” Ash asked. “At length, or go for the pithy, sincere approach? Headmaster says no blots, no crossing out, no misspellings. I’m happy to write this apology on your behalf for a sum certain.”

  Ash had an instinct for business—he had read law—but he lacked the cunning Cam had in abundance.

  “Ash makes you a generous offer, Cam,” Will said, stowing the leash on the mantel and enduring Georgette’s But-I’ll-Die-If-We-Remain-Indoors look. “Alas, for your finances, Ash, you’ll be too busy procuring an exact replica of the lady’s abused accessory, from your own funds.”

  “My own funds?”

  Ash hadn’t any funds to speak of. What little money Casriel could spare his younger siblings, they spent on drink and other Town vices.

  “An exact replica,” Will said. “Not a cheap imitation. I will inspect your purchase to be complete by the time Cam has drafted an apology. Away with you both, for I must change into clothing suitable for a call upon an earl’s daughter.”

  Into Town attire, a silly, frilly extravagance that on a man of Will’s proportions was a significant waste of fabric. He was a frustrated sheep farmer, not some dandy on the stroll, though he was also, for the present, the Earl of Casriel’s heir.

  So into his finery he would go.

  And upon Lady Susannah Haddonfield, of all ladies, he would call.

  * * *

  “A big, well-dressed fellow is sauntering up our walk,” Lady Della Haddonfield announced. “He’s carrying a lovely purple parasol. The dog looks familiar.”

  “That’s the mastiff we met in the park,” Susannah said. “The Dorning boys were with her.” A trio of puppies, really, though the Dorning fellows were growing into the good looks for which the family was famous.

  “Effington said that mastiff was the largest dog he’d ever seen,” Della replied, nudging the drapery aside. “The viscount does adore his canines. Who can that man be? He’s taller than the two we met in the park.”

  Taller and more conservatively dressed. “The earl, possibly,” Susannah said, picking up her volume of Shakespeare’s sonnets and resuming her seat. “He and Nicholas are doubtless acquainted. Please don’t stand in my light, Della.”

  Della, being a younger sister, only peered more closely over Susannah’s shoulder. “You’re poring over the sonnets again. Don’t you have them all memorized by now?”

  The genteel murmur of the butler admitting a visitor drifted up the stairs, along with a curious clicking sound, and then…

  “That was a woof,” Susannah said. “From inside this house.”

  “She seemed a friendly enough dog,” Della replied, taking a seat on the sofa. Della was the Haddonfield changeling, small and dark compared to her tall, blond siblings, and she made a pretty picture on the red velvet sofa, her green skirts arranged about her.

  “She’s an ill-mannered canine,” Susannah said, “if my parasol’s fate is any indication.”

  Though the dog was a fair judge of character. Lord Effington fawned over all dogs and occasionally over Della, but Susannah found him tedious. The Dornings’ mastiff had lifted her leg upon Lord Effington’s knee, and Susannah’s parasol had been sacrificed in defense of his lordship’s tailoring.

  Barrisford tapped on the open door. One never heard Barrisford comin
g or going, and he seemed to be everywhere in the household at once.

  “My ladies, a gentleman has come to call and claims acquaintance with the family.”

  The butler passed Susannah a card, plain black ink on cream stock, though Della snatched it away before Susannah could read the print.

  “Shall I say your ladyships are not at home?” Barrisford asked.

  “We’re at home,” Della said, just as Susannah murmured, “That will suit, Barrisford.”

  She was coming up on the seventy-third sonnet, her favorite.

  “We can receive him together,” Della said. “If Nicholas knows the Earl of Casriel, he very likely knows the spares, and Effington fancied that dog most rapturously.”

  “Effington fancies all dogs,” Susannah said, and he fancied himself most of all. “But you’ll give me no peace if I turn our caller away. Show him up, Barrisford, and send along the requisite tray.”

  “I’ve never drunk so much tea in all my life as I have this spring,” Della said. “No wonder people waltz until all hours and stay up half the night gossiping.”

  Gossiping, when they might instead be reading. Was any trial on earth more tedious than a London Season?

  “Mr. Will Dorning, and Georgette,” Barrisford said a moment later. He stepped aside from the parlor door to reveal a large gentleman and an equally outsized dog. Susannah hadn’t taken much note of the dog in the park, for she’d been too busy trying not to laugh at Effington. The viscount prided himself on his love of canines, though he was apparently fonder of his riding breeches, for he’d smacked the dog more than once with Susannah’s abused parasol.

  Barrisford’s introduction registered only as the visitor bowed to Susannah.

  Will Dorning, not the Earl of Casriel, not one of the younger brothers. Willow Grove Dorning himself. Susannah had both looked for and avoided him for years.

  “My Lady Susannah, good day,” he said. “A pleasure to see you again. Won’t you introduce me to your sister?”

  Barrisford melted away, while Della rose from the sofa on a rustle of velvet skirts. “Please do introduce us, Suze.”

  Della’s expression said she’d introduce herself if Susannah failed to oblige. The dog had more decorum than Della, at least for the moment.

  “Lady Delilah Haddonfield,” Susannah began, “may I make known to you Mr. Will Dorning, late of Dorset?” Susannah was not about to make introductions for the mastiff. “Mr. Dorning, my sister, Lady Delilah, though she prefers Lady Della.”

  “My lady.” Mr. Dorning bowed correctly over Della’s hand, while the dog sat panting at his feet. Like most men, he’d probably be smitten with Della before he took a seat beside her on the sofa. Only Effington’s interest had survived the rumors of Della’s modest settlements, however.

  “Your dog wants something, Mr. Dorning,” Susannah said, retreating to her seat by the window.

  Mr. Dorning peered at his beast, who was gazing at Della and holding up a large paw.

  “Oh, she wants to shake,” Della said, taking that paw in her hand and shaking gently. “Good doggy. Very pleased to make your acquaintance.”

  “Georgette, behave,” Mr. Dorning muttered, before Susannah was faced with the riddle of whether manners required her to shake the dog’s paw.

  Georgette turned an innocent expression on her owner, crossed the room, and took a seat at Susannah’s knee.

  Presuming beast, though Georgette at least didn’t stink of dog. Effington’s endless canine adornments were the smelliest little creatures.

  “My ladies, I’m here to apologize,” Mr. Dorning said. “Georgette was in want of manners earlier today. We’ve come to make restitution for her bad behavior and pass along my brother Sycamore’s note of apology.”

  “Do have a seat, Mr. Dorning,” Della said, accepting a sealed missive from their guest. “At least you haven’t come to blather on about the weather or to compliment our bonnets.”

  Bless Della and her gift for small talk, because Susannah was having difficulty thinking.

  This was not the version of Will Dorning she’d endured dances with in her adolescence. He’d filled out and settled down, like a horse rising seven. Where a handsome colt had been, a warhorse had emerged. Mr. Dorning’s boots gleamed, the lace of his cravat fell in soft, tasteful abundance from his throat. His clothing fit him, in the sense of being appropriate to his demeanor, accentuating abundant height, muscle, and self-possession.

  Even as the man sat on the delicate red velvet sofa, a frilly purple parasol across his knees.

  “This is for you, my lady,” he said, passing Susannah that parasol. “We didn’t get the color exactly right, but I hope this will suffice on short notice to replace the article that came to grief in the park.”

  Susannah’s parasol had been blue, a stupid confection that had done little to shield a lady’s complexion. That parasol hadn’t made a very effective bludgeon when turned on the dog.

  “The color is lovely,” Susannah said, “and the design very similar to the one I carried earlier.”

  Susannah made the mistake of looking up at that moment, of gazing fully into eyes of such an unusual color, poetry had been written about them. Mr. Dorning’s eyes were the purest form of the Dorning heritage, nearly the color of the parasol Susannah accepted from his gloved hands.

  Willow Dorning’s eyes were not pretty, though. His eyes were the hue of a sunset that had given up the battle with night, such that angry reds and passionate oranges had faded to indigo memories and violet dreams. Seven years ago, his violet eyes had been merely different, part of the Dorning legacy, and he’d been another tall fellow forced to bear his friend’s sisters’ company. In those seven years, his voice had acquired night-sky depths, his grace was now bounded with self-possession.

  Though he still apparently loved dogs.

  “My thanks for the parasol,” Susannah said, though she might be repeating herself. “You really need not have bothered. Ah, and here’s the tea tray. Della, will you pour?”

  “Georgette likes you, Susannah,” Della said as she poured the tea. “Or she likes that parasol.”

  The dog had not moved from Susannah’s knee, though she was ignoring the parasol and sniffing at the sonnets on the side table.

  “Georgette is shy,” Mr. Dorning said, “and she’s usually well mannered, save for occasionally snacking on an old book. Her mischief in the park was an aberration, I assure you. Lady Della, are you enjoying your first London Season?”

  For the requisite fifteen minutes, Della and Mr. Dorning made idle talk, while Susannah discreetly nudged the sonnets away from the dog, sipped tea, and felt agreeably ancient. Without Nita or Kirsten on hand, Susannah had become the older sister suited to serving as a chaperone at a social call.

  “I’ll bid you ladies good day,” Mr. Dorning said, rising.

  “I’ll see you out,” Susannah replied, because that was her role, as quasi-chaperone, and having Barrisford tend to that task would have been marginally unfriendly. Mr. Dorning, as the son of an earl, was her social equal, after all.

  “Georgette, come.” Mr. Dorning did not snap his fingers, though Effington, the only other dog lover in Susannah’s acquaintance, snapped his fingers constantly—at dogs and at servants. He’d snapped his fingers at Della once, and Susannah had treated Effington to a glower worthy of her late papa in a taking.

  Georgette padded over to her master’s side, and Susannah quit the parlor with them, leaving Della to attack the biscuits remaining on the tea tray.

  “You didn’t used to like dogs,” Mr. Dorning observed.

  “I still don’t like dogs,” Susannah replied, though she didn’t dislike them. Neither did she like cats, birds, silly bonnets, London Seasons, or most people. Horses were at least useful, and sisters could be very dear. Brothers fell somewhere between horses and sisters.

  “George
tte begs to differ,” Mr. Dorning said as they reached the bottom of the steps. “Or perhaps she was making amends for her trespasses against your parasol by allowing you to pat her for fifteen straight minutes.”

  Susannah took Mr. Dorning’s top hat from the sideboard and passed it to him. “Georgette ignored the new parasol. I think my wardrobe is safe from her lapses in manners, though the day your dog snacks on one of my books will be a sorry day for Georgette, Mr. Dorning.”

  Despite Susannah’s stern words, she and Mr. Dorning were managing, getting through the awkwardness of being more or less alone together.

  “You’re still fond of Shakespeare?” Mr. Dorning asked as he tapped his hat onto his head.

  A glancing reference to the past, also to the present. “Of all good literature. You’re still waiting for your brother to produce an heir?”

  Another reference to their past, for Mr. Dorning had confided this much to Susannah during one of their interminable turns about Lady March’s parlor. Until the Earl of Casriel had an heir in the nursery, Will Dorning’s self-appointed lot in life was to be his brother’s second-in-command.

  “Casriel is as yet unmarried,” Mr. Dorning said, “and now my younger brothers strain at the leash to conquer London.”

  He exchanged his social gloves for riding gloves, giving Susannah a glimpse of masculine hands. Those hands could be kind, she hadn’t forgotten that. They’d also apparently learned how to give the dog silent commands, for at Mr. Dorning’s gesture, Georgette seated herself near the front door.

  “I’m much absorbed keeping Cam and Ash out of trouble,” he went on, “while allowing them the latitude to learn self-restraint. Apparently I must add my loyal hound to the list of parties in need of supervision.”

  The dog thumped her tail.

  Did Will Dorning allow himself any latitude? Any unrestrained moments? He’d been a serious young man. He was formidable now.

  “We’ll doubtless cross paths with your brothers, then,” Susannah said, “for Della is also determined to storm the social citadels.” Once Della was safely wed, Susannah could luxuriate in literary projects, a consummation devoutly to be wished, indeed.