Man Most Worthy

by Ruth Axtell Morren

  He nodded, his dark eyes meeting hers, their formality lessening as he gave her a slight smile. “Good morning, Miss Shepard.”

  She tilted her head. “Ready to have another go?”

  “If you’ve the patience and fortitude.”

  Her smile widened in relief. She handed him the extra racket. “You did very well for your first time. Come, I’ll serve first.”

  “Very well.” He shed his coat this time and laid it carefully on a wrought iron chair by the side of the court.

  She began gently, giving him a chance to review what she’d taught him the day before. They played for about twenty minutes before taking a break.

  “I brought some water for us,” she said, leading him to the yew hedge where she had stashed two stone flasks. “It should still be cold.”

  “Thank you.” He took the one she handed him then waited until she had uncapped hers and brought it to her lips before following suit. “How did I do today? Any improvement?” he asked, lowering the flask.

  “Oh, a vast amount. You’re a natural athlete.”

  He made a sound of disbelief.

  “You don’t believe me? It’s the truth. I can tell. You’re nothing like most of the boys on the court who try and act as if they knew something.” She studied his face, hoping she was convincing him not to give up, but the steady way he regarded her was hard to read.

  Mr. Tennent wiped his brow with his handkerchief, pushing back his dark curls.

  Hoping to draw out more about his fascinating past, she said, “Tell me more about your mother.”

  He looked away from her, and she bit her lip, afraid she had offended him. Her governess had always said she was too direct.

  But he answered with no sign of displeasure. “She had to take us into the mill with her when we were young, and put us to work as soon as we could wind a thread around a bobbin.”

  “She must have been a brave woman to raise four boys all alone.” His tale had haunted her last night. It had sounded so unbearably romantic.

  He pocketed his handkerchief. He was standing in his vest and shirtsleeves. Even in his typical clerk’s attire, he stood out. There was something distinguished about him. “No matter how tired she was,” he continued in a quiet tone, “she always gave us a lesson after dinner in the evenings before we went to bed. She had saved a few school-books and one or two storybooks from her teaching days. Those and the Bible formed our only amusement at home.”

  She pictured the cozy scene, a mother with her four boys surrounding her on a settee, or with her arms around them on a wide bed flanked by soft pillows. “It must have been nice to have a mother read to you at night.”

  “Didn’t anyone ever read to you at bedtime?”

  She blushed beneath his close scrutiny. “My nurse told me stories when I was very young, and then Miss Duffy, my governess, read to me when I was a little older.”

  “I’m sorry you didn’t have a mother to read to you at bedtime,” he said softly.

  His tone was so gentle it was as if he had known how lonely her childhood had been. Afraid he’d pity her, she set down her water bottle and picked up her racket. “Come on, let’s get back to our game before you have to work.”

  He followed her out to the court. This time, she hit the ball a little harder and enjoyed watching him run to meet it. She, too, was forced to run across the court when he returned it equally forcefully. Laughing from sheer joy at the physical exertion, she swung at the ball and watched it clear the net.

  By the time they finished their lesson, they were both red in the face, but never had she had more fun on the court.

  “What about tomorrow morning?” she asked him, hoping she didn’t sound too eager.

  “It depends on your father. I might be called back to London.”

  Her shoulders slumped in disappointment. “Of course.” Trust Father to ruin her fun. “Do you think he’ll bring you back out again?”

  “I have no way of knowing.”

  “Well, if you should come back, I challenge you to a match.”

  He nodded slowly, his deep set eyes looking into hers. “You’re on.”

  As soon as he had a free moment back in London, Nick inquired of one of the clerks in the firm and found out where he could get tennis lessons. It meant money he could ill afford, and having to go across town to Regent’s Park, but he was determined the next time he faced Alice Shepard across the court, he would no longer be a clumsy novice.

  He hadn’t been able to get the young girl out of his mind since he’d returned to the city, no matter how many times he’d told himself he was being silly to keep thinking about her.

  But her smiling face wouldn’t leave his thoughts despite the effort he put into studying his employer’s files and tallying columns of numbers.

  He’d never been in love. No young woman had yet caused him to veer from his single-minded focus on the path to success.

  The feelings Miss Shepard elicited in him were a puzzle to him, not least because he didn’t know how to classify them. She was too young for it to be love, he felt. But if it wasn’t love, it certainly was a sort of obsession, which he’d have to eradicate sooner or later. He could ill spare time for such dangerous complications.

  In the meantime, however, at a safe distance in London, he preferred to postpone the moment and content himself with daydreaming about her as he rode the early morning ferry to work, as he walked the distance to the office, as he made the return journey in the evening.

  And every evening, after work and a light supper, he stood across the net from his new instructor, imagining Miss Shepard in his place. He’d spent part of his last salary on a lightweight pair of twill trousers and a linen jacket, vowing to look as dapper as any young gentleman when they next met.

  Back and forth went the ball, the instructor calling out advice as he sent it across the net to Nick. Nick grew to enjoy the thrill of competition. He found it as thrilling as predicting the direction of the price of a company’s stock.

  He remembered Miss Shepard’s words. You’re a natural athlete. Did it mean she’d actually looked past his shabby frock coat and seen something more than just her father’s secretary? He’d never thought of himself as athletic, even though until coming to London, he’d spent any spare moment outside when he wasn’t working in the noisy, dusty environment of the mill. But that was playing in the street with boys his age, with no sports equipment. A ball was a rotten cabbage, a cricket bat a broken chair leg. But even those had been few and far between as any piece of wood was quickly consumed in the stove, and extra food was rarely to be found.

  Nick had no idea when and if he’d be going back to the Shepards’ country house, but he’d be prepared just in case, even if it cost him a fortnight’s wages.

  He wanted to match Miss Shepard’s skill and show her he was a worthy opponent.

  Each morning he joined the hundreds of anonymous young men clad in black frock coats and top hats hurrying down Fleet Street to their offices. He pulled open the brass-handled door, glancing a moment at the understated plaque to the right: Shepard & Steward, Ltd., Investments.

  Some day it would read Shepard, Steward, Tennent, & Partners.

  He hurried down the corridor to his office, nodding his head to the various clerks he passed. “’Morning, Harold. ’Morning, Stanley.” Rushed syllables as everyone hurried to his place in the maze of corridors and cubicles.

  He entered the quieter sanctuary upstairs in the rear, the executive offices of the full partners. His own desk, situated in a small corner of an office he shared with the senior secretary, was neat, the way he’d left it the evening before.

  Nick sat down and opened the file he’d been studying the previous day, glad for the momentary solitude. Mr. Shepard would expect a report by noon on the assets of the small factory, which manufactured iron fastenings.

  “Shepard wants you.”

  He looked up to find Mr. Simpson, the other secretary, walking to his own desk, the larger of
the two in the room. The old man guarded his boss from all he considered intruders, including Nick.

  Nick stood now and grabbed up his pad and pencil. “Yes, sir.”

  The man stood by the doorway, as if to make sure Nick obeyed the summons. His bristly gray eyebrows drew together in their customary frown as Nick passed him with a curt nod.

  Dark walnut wainscoting covered the walls of Mr. Shepard’s private office. Oil landscapes in heavy wooden frames lined the space above. Some day he would have an office like this one.

  Shepard stood at a window overlooking the busy street below, his hands clasped loosely behind them. He turned only slightly at the soft sound of the door closing.

  “Ah, Tennent, have a seat. I need you to take a letter.”

  “Yes, sir.” Nick crossed the deep blue Turkish carpet and sat in the leather armchair facing the wide desk.

  Mr. Shepard twirled his reading glasses in his hands. “This is to the Denbigh Coke Company, Denbighshire, Wales.

  “Gentlemen—After a careful review of your firm, it is with regret that we inform you that we must decline the opportunity to offer you the venture capital you requested to expand your colliery. Although your firm’s net profits for the preceding year showed…”

  Nick’s pencil hurried across the paper, his mind unable to suppress the satisfaction at Shepard’s decision. It mirrored the one Nick would have made in his place.

  Mr. Shepard’s peremptory tone interrupted his thoughts. “Read it back to me.”

  “Yes, sir.” He began at the top.

  “Very good. I’ll sign it as soon as you have it ready. Make sure it goes in today’s post.”

  Nick stood.

  “I will be heading back out to Richmond this weekend. I have various projects that need catching up on. I trust you will be free to accompany me?”

  Unable to help a spurt of excitement at the announcement, Nick’s fingers tightened on his pencil. It was quickly doused as he realized his employer would keep him too busy to allow him any free time for recreation. “Yes, sir.”

  “Very good.”

  Nick reached the door.

  “Bring enough to stay a week.”

  Nick turned slowly. A week in Richmond? His heart started to thump. “Yes, sir.”

  An entire week in the same house as Miss Shepard. This time he couldn’t contain his excitement. He even began to whistle as he made his way back down the dark corridor.

  Alice returned from church at noon on Sunday.

  She stopped short in the doorway, her hands flying to her cheeks as at the sight of the tall young man emerging from her father’s library. “Mr. Tennent!”

  To her further surprise, he smiled, looking as glad to see her as she felt to see him.

  “When did you arrive?”

  “Early this morning,” he said. “Your father was going to come Friday evening but was delayed with other engagements.”

  She moistened her lip, trying to appear collected. “I—I’ve just come from church.”

  “I see.”

  An awkward silence ensued. Then her eyes widened in sudden horror. “Have you been working?”

  He colored. “I was just going to read up on some documents.”

  “On the Sabbath?” She couldn’t help the shock in her voice.

  He looked away as if ashamed. “Yes.”

  She frowned. “Father doesn’t forbid you from attending services, does he?”

  “No, of course not. I…I’ve already been to services.”

  “You have? I didn’t see you.”

  “That’s because I attended chapel.”

  “Chapel?” Her eyes widened in further shock as she understood his meaning. “You’re Methodist?”

  His dark eyes seemed to hold a touch of defiance. “My mother was Church of England, but she attended chapel with my father.”

  “Oh!” She wondered at the thought of a lady leaving her church for the lowly Methodist chapel for the sake of her husband. She thought of something. “Our cook, Mrs. Clayworth, attends chapel.”

  “Does she?”

  She bit her lip, afraid she’d offended him. Did he think she equated him with their cook? Actually, she’d always been curious about those attending this other sort of church. All she’d ever heard of Methodists was disdainful. The only one she knew, the cook, was firmly decided in her faith. “Maybe I can go with you some time?”

  He drew back a fraction as if surprised. “Perhaps.” There was no encouragement in the reserved tone.

  She shifted on her feet, wondering if he was still interested in playing tennis. Then she remembered she had a prior commitment. “A party of us is going riding this afternoon. Would you like to join us?”

  He fingered a corner of the sheaf of papers he held in his hands. “I—I was just looking over some correspondence your father has given me.” He cleared his throat. “He’s away this afternoon.”

  She smiled in relief. “Perfect. Join us at the stables after lunch. We’re riding to Richmond Park. It’s awfully nice there. There’s a wonderful view of the Thames from the top.” When he didn’t say anything, she suddenly understood his hesitation. “Oh, if it’s about proper clothing, you can borrow a habit of my brother’s. He’s a little stockier than you, but he has outfits in his wardrobe from when he was younger. I’ll ask the butler to take something out for you.” When he continued to hesitate, she tilted her head. “What is it?”

  Again came the defiant lift of his chin. “I’ve never ridden before.”

  “Never?”

  A faint smile tinged his lips. “Perhaps I’ve been atop a donkey once or twice when I was a boy.”

  “Well, it’s not so very different. You can have Maud. She’s a gentle mount.”

  He glanced away. “I’d only slow your party down.”

  “Nonsense. It’s not as if we’re racing. It’s to be a leisurely ride to Richmond Park and back. You’ll have a grand time, you’ll see, Mr. Tennent. I’ll meet you at the stables at three. You mustn’t work all day.”

  Before he could refuse her, she hurried down the corridor, calling behind her, “I’ll see you at three!”

  She’d go down to the stables and make sure a groom had Maud saddled and waiting.

  Father would certainly not approve of a Methodist in their riding party. That was worse than Low Church! For once, Alice was thankful her father was away.

  A grand time, indeed. Nick frowned at the pale horse beneath him. With a groom’s help he’d managed to mount the beast—nag, he amended, glancing down as he remembered young Victor’s derisive snort when he’d seen the horse being led out—without disgracing himself.

  Miss Shepard walked up to Nick’s mare and patted her neck. “Hello, there, Maud. Aren’t you glad you’re not being left behind today?” She smiled up at Nick. “She was my first horse after I’d graduated from a pony. Father bought her for me. She’s a trustworthy soul.”

  At the wistful note Nick forgot his discomfort of being atop a horse. He attempted a smile but before he could say anything, he stiffened as the groom bent down to adjust his stirrups. Nick held his tall boots tightly against the horse’s flanks. At least the animal seemed as gentle as Miss Shepard promised. It hadn’t moved since being brought out of the stables.

  “Good for the glue factory,” Victor muttered with a snide look in Nick’s direction, before moving off to his own mount. Nick was tempted to box the young fellow’s ears, but the eager look on Miss Shepard’s face stopped him.

  But how was he was to maintain his balance once the creature started moving? There was no pommel on the saddle, just a smooth leather seat. Nick’s knuckles were white on the reins.

  Thankfully, the horse was relatively small in stature. Not like the great beast that Victor rode. The young gentleman certainly looked elegant seated atop the deep brown horse, holding the reins and riding crop loosely, looking as if he and mount had been born for each other.

  Miss Shepard stood back from his horse and looked Nick up a
nd down. “You need to sit farther back in the saddle and loosen your hold a bit. Remember, it’s not about gripping the saddle, but about balancing on your horse. She’ll carry you.”

  Before he knew what she was about, she moved down to his boots and took hold of one of his ankles, causing him to jerk back in surprise. “Easy there,” she murmured. “Keep your feet bent slightly out, not gripping the horse’s flank. That’s right.” She adjusted the position of his foot to illustrate her point. “Yes, like so.”

  She gave him a few more pointers, all the while touching his legs and boots to demonstrate. Unfortunately, with each movement, he grew more tense, his breathing more erratic.

  She looked up at him, her blue eyes earnest, and took his hand in hers. He realized how unaware she must be of what her touch was doing to him. It only proved how young she was. “Now, hold your hands about that far apart, not closer. Don’t let the reins touch the horse’s neck.” She ran her hands up his arm, adjusting its angle. The more she spoke, the more afraid he became of moving lest he lose the correct position; the mare would undoubtedly know and take advantage.

  As if reading his thoughts, Miss Shepard smiled up at him. “You’ll get the feel of it after a while.”

  Victor maneuvered his horse alongside them. “Are we going or not?”

  “Just a minute.” Miss Shepard’s usually polite tone held a trace of asperity.

  “If I’d known you were going to give a riding lesson, I would have opted out of this excursion.”

  “Well, you may still do so.”

  With a sneer, Victor wheeled his horse about, causing the mare under Nick to shift. Nick couldn’t help splaying his hands on the saddle beneath him, ruining all Miss Shepard’s careful positioning.

  Instead of scolding him, she immediately went to the mare’s bridle. “There, Maud, Mr. Tennent meant nothing by that. You must be patient a moment longer.” She didn’t even turn when Victor spoke to the other young lady in a loud voice.

  “Come along, Lucy. They can catch up when he finally figures out how to get his horse to move.” With a snide laugh, he urged his horse forward, Lucy following behind.