Three Redeemable Rogues
Page 59
Something didn’t ring true.
Ruth hadn’t remained long after delivering the boy to Sarah. She’d left them alone practically at once, and Sarah had thought it rather odd. Were she as concerned for Christopher as she claimed to be, she might have stayed to see that Sarah would not push him too hard on this first day of their lessons. She hadn’t, however, and in fact, seemed eager to leave. Sarah sat puzzling now over Ruth’s contradictory behavior.
Having spent the better part of their hour simply talking, so she might better gauge where to begin teaching Christopher, Sarah found herself with the most incredible urge to take him out of doors, to let him experience the heat of the sun upon his face. The park would be nice, a stroll together. The child knew entirely too much for a boy of his age. But they sat together instead, in a splendid nursery he had never seen, both of them seated at a miniature table with miniature chairs, and surrounded by toys it appeared he’d never played with.
Frowning, Sarah pushed a block at him, one of a set she had purchased long ago with Christopher in mind. She had spied them in a novelty shoppe. It was claimed they had once belonged to Louis Braille, though Sarah highly doubted it.
It had been these blocks that had first given her the notion she could make a difference in Christopher’s life. And it was afterward she had sought out Mel. They would be useful, though it wasn’t precisely the code she planned to teach him.
“The letters of the code shall always be two dots in width by three dots in height... Do you understand, Christopher?”
“Yes, ma’am,” he answered much too shyly.
“Give me your hand,” she urged him. He seemed reluctant to comply, and she said, “I wish to show you by feel, Christopher.”
He offered his little hand, and Sarah couldn’t contain her smile as she reached out and took it. She guided it over the block and closed her eyes, trying to feel the block first with her own hand. After a moment she released his hand, and began to feel the raised dots more earnestly.
Confound it all, she couldn’t do this so easily.
It was difficult to tell where the starting point and the ending point were. She grew frustrated and opened her eyes, peeking at the block. Closing them again, she said, “All right, Christopher, let us try this once more.”
Guiding his hand back to the block, she took his index finger and placed it over the first and largest dot. “I am showing you this, but I’ll not tell you what the letter is, I think, because it is not the code I plan to teach you. This one is quite a bit more complicated, though all six dots are in formation, and I wish you to know how they will feel when they are all together.”
She released him, letting him rub his finger over the raised spots, without any direction. Sarah seized his hand once more, though gently, and guided his finger, setting it firmly upon the first raised dot. “This is the first. Feel it?”
“Yes, Miss Hopkins,” he answered softly.
Sarah frowned at the hesitant way he spoke her name. “No need for such formalities, Christopher,” she admonished him. “You may call me Sarah, please.”
“Yes, Miss Hop—”
“Uh-uh-uh,” she scolded, and laughed.
He giggled—thank God!—and said, “Yes, Miss Sarah.”
Sarah smiled at him indulgently. “Do you feel most comfortable calling me Miss?”
“Yes, Miss Sarah,” he answered once more.
Sarah smiled. “Then Miss Sarah is quite all right with me, I think.”
He beamed at that and announced, “My aunt Ruth says I must be respectful.”
Good Lord, he didn’t even speak like a six-year- old, Sarah thought.
“Oh, but you are so very respectful,” she assured him. “But she is quite right, Christopher. Children must mind their elders, though I cannot imagine you misbehaving at all. Now...” She moved his finger slightly to the right, thinking it best they not discuss his rearing in her present mood. “Do you feel another dot here?”
“Yes,” he answered, and she moved his finger once more.
“There?”
“No, ma’am.”
“That’s because it will always be no more than two dots in width,” she reminded him, and then shifted his finger once more to the left, and then down. “Now?”
“Yes, ma’am.” And then down again. “Yes,” he said, before she could ask him.
“Very good, Christopher. Two dots in width,” she repeated, “by three dots in height. The Braille code will always be no more than that.” She gave his fingers a gentle squeeze. “Very, very good,” she repeated, and he smiled up at her. Unable to bring herself to release his tiny hand, she took the block away and set it aside with her free hand. “I think we shall be fast friends,” she whispered to him, and was pleased to see his smile deepen. “My goodness, you are such a smart little boy! I wonder, however did you get to be so wise?”
His smile widened to such a degree that Sarah thought it would split his face. “My daddy says I am just like my mommy!”
Sarah blinked in surprise, taken aback by the disclosure. He did look like Mary, and Mary was quite intelligent, this much was true, but this mild little boy was nothing like the woman Sarah recalled. Mary had been vibrant and charming, and boisterous and headstrong. Meekness had not been her way at all. And yet he said it so enthusiastically, and it was quite a generous thing that Peter should give his dead wife such credit in her little boy’s eyes...
She frowned at that thought, and felt a growing confusion over her perceptions of Peter Holland.
No.
She couldn’t allow herself to lose focus, she reminded herself.
She’d read all the accounts of Mary’s life as Peter’s wife—just as had everyone else who’d followed the Post.
At the very least, he’d made her cousin miserable.
At worst... well... she couldn’t think about that again just now... or she would burst into tears as she had last night.
Christopher’s little nose began to sniff, and he looked so like a little bunny that Sarah chuckled. “I smell something sweet!” he said abruptly.
“Oh! Do you now?”
Sarah laughed.
The sound of it sent a quiver down Peter’s spine.
He stood in the doorway to the nursery, watching the two of them together, his son and this stranger, who seemed less and less a stranger every instant that passed.
Why was that? he wondered. Why did she seem so familiar?
“I wonder what it might be,” she said, and laughed again.
The sound of it warmed the blood in his veins more potently than any liquor could have.
“Well, perhaps you do, at that,” she teased, and reached down into her dress pocket. “You, Christopher Holland, have a very, very keen nose! Did you get that from your mother as well?”
His son giggled, and Sarah reached across the table, finding his hand still nestled within her own. She pressed a sweet into it and wrapped his little fingers about it.
“There now,” she said to him. “You have done quite well today, but we’ve such a long way to go. Ready to go on?”
Christopher greedily unwrapped his treat and then shoved it into his mouth.
Sarah smiled, and her reaction took Peter aback for an instant.
He frowned, contemplating...
Sarah Hopkins was a lovely woman, that much was certain.
Even her dark, ugly spectacles could not detract from the delicate beauty of her face. She wore an equally unappealing dress, but that did not conceal from his greedy eyes the artful lift of her breasts.
His pulse quickened.
God, he had gone to bed last night with her image in his mind, and he was beginning to feel that perhaps Cile was right.
The bloody truth was that he had not for two consecutive moments managed to remove her from his thoughts.
He told himself it was for his son’s sake, but the fact that he was preoccupied just now with the image of her breasts made that rationale highly questionable.
He didn’t think so.
Even Mary had not invaded his thoughts so thoroughly. He’d adored Mary, thought her charming and sweet and kind. He’d been infected with her enthusiasm for life, and invigorated by her spirit. He’d been challenged by her wit and impressed with her thirst for knowledge, but he hadn’t been in love with her. And he had never, except at the end when he’d been wracked by guilt, been obsessed with thoughts of her.
What was it about Sarah that attracted him so?
Perhaps he simply admired her determination in the face of such a disabling condition. Perhaps it was that she didn’t act blind. There was little about her, save for those dark glasses, that reminded him of her disability. No, Sarah Hopkins was a strong woman whose presence was undeniable—certainly undeniable in his thoughts, because he couldn’t seem to eradicate her from them.
“Are we working too hard for a walk in the park?” Peter asked suddenly, startling himself with the question.
Christ, what the devil was he doing? He was paying her to instruct his son, not to take bloody walks in the park!
Sarah’s head popped up, though she didn’t turn in his direction. “Mr. Holland!”
“Daddy!” Christopher shrieked through a mouthful of chewy sweets, but he didn’t rise from his seat at the table. His face, however, reflected his pleasure, and Peter took joy in that expression so filled with love.
With his gaze fixed not upon his son, but upon the woman seated before him, Peter stepped into the room. She sat still at the little table, her posture straight and her previous good humor seeming to have vanished with his sudden appearance.
“Good morning, Miss Hopkins.”
“We have only just begun, Mr. Holland,” she replied, ignoring his greeting.
He got the immediate impression she was dismissing him, and Peter suddenly refused to take no for an answer.
“A walk in the park will clear our minds, and do us much good,” he suggested.
“A clear mind, at this point, is not what we need,” she countered.
“Perhaps, but I should like to speak with you,” Peter said, and his tone brooked no argument. “Your lessons may continue this afternoon.”
She lifted her chin, and Peter watched her, uncertain what it was about her that left him ill at ease, besides.
“You wish to speak to me?”
“I do,” he said.
“Very well,” she relented, her annoyance quite clear in her tone. “A walk in the park would be lovely,” she said, and rose from the table, bending first to seize her cane from the floor.
Chapter 9
Lovely was hardly the word for their afternoon.
It hadn’t been Sarah’s dislike for the man that had made her reluctant to accept his invitation, but fear, if the truth be known. She scarcely knew how to act around Christopher. Naturally, she was uncomfortable under his father’s careful scrutiny.
And she wasn’t certain which was harder to tolerate, the brisk March winds or the scalding warmth of Peter’s hand on her arm as he guided her through the park.
Blast, but must he touch her so solicitously?
She wanted nothing more than to free herself from his mindful grip. She didn’t need his bloody attentions, nor did she appreciate his guidance. She felt a little, in fact, as though he kept her upon a leash.
Sarah walked along beside him, tapping her cane and listening to father and son’s discourse with a sense of growing hysteria. The two of them were discussing the content of the morning’s lessons, and Sarah was surprised to hear Christopher recite nearly every word she had uttered to him. He certainly was a prodigy, and yet, as she watched him, it was also quite apparent he had never been allowed to be a child at all. Christopher Holland was a little wizened man, and Sarah was uncertain whether to be proud of him or furious with his father.
She tapped her cane a little viciously at the thought.
“And Miss Sarah says Mr. Braille was in an accident like me.”
“Was he?” Peter asked with some interest. Sarah was entirely too aware of his gaze upon her. It was making her quite ill at ease.
“Yes, sir! And he went to school and they made him a teacher! And he made up the whole code all by himself!”
“Not quite by himself,” Sarah interjected, trying to hide her discomfort. “He had a bit of inspiration from a man named Barbier,” she explained. “Mr Barbier was an officer of artillery who was interested in the blind and did what he could to promote their education. It was he who first suggested embossing by means of a point method. Mr. Braille simply restructured the code so it would be easier to use.” She felt Peter’s gaze bore into her, and her heart skipped a beat.
Naturally, she told herself, it was fear that made her react so—fear of discovery.
She certainly didn’t care one whit whether he was attracted to her or not.
Was he?
Mel was wrong. He couldn’t possibly be attracted to her. Nor did she want him to be!
“Miss Sarah is quite knowledgeable, is she not?” Peter said.
“Yes, sir!” Christopher agreed. “And she smells good too!”
“Does she?” Peter leaned closer, and Sarah’s heart tripped. He was so close now that she could swear she felt the heat of his breath upon her face. “She does smell rather nice, doesn’t she?” His grip upon her arm seemed to tighten a bit. Sarah could scarcely breathe as she heard his intake of breath. He held it, and then released it, blowing softly upon her cheek.
The feel of it sent electric tingles down her spine.
What the devil was wrong with her body? Didn’t it seem to care anything at all for what her brain was saying? She couldn’t be attracted to him. Shouldn’t...
Christopher responded with a hearty, “Yes sir!”
Sarah forced herself to breathe.
She hadn’t realized she’d been holding her breath until she went dizzy upon her feet. Her heartbeat, however, was another matter entirely. It began to thump mercilessly, and she couldn’t seem to slow it at all.
Forcing her attention upon Christopher, she doubled her efforts to ignore the man walking at her side.
Unlike other children, Christopher did not run ahead of them, kicking at rocks and climbing atop the tiny hillocks that composed Central Park. Nor did he beg to climb the winter-bared trees or to run and play with his friends. He remained by their side, tapping at the walkway with his cane, and Sarah’s heart ached for him.
She wanted to reach out and scoop him into her arms. She wanted to hold him and tell him that everything would be all right. She wanted to spirit him away and shelter him from harm.
She wanted to beat some bloody sense into his father with her blasted cane.
Her conversation with Ruth plagued her immensely.
“Tell me, Mr. Holland,” she began, her tone quite perturbed, though she tried not to show her ire.
“Peter,” he suggested, his tone warm and gentle in contrast, entirely too charming. It irked her. “Please call me Peter.”
On a cold day in bloody hell!
Is this the way he had spoken to Mary?
Had he wooed her with his wit and charm?
Well, Sarah was very well aware of where it had gotten Mary, and she didn’t intend to fall prey to it as well.
She swallowed her anger, and said, “Peter, it is, then.” Taking a deep breath, she willed her nerves to calm. “Tell me... Peter... why did you not simply enroll Christopher in New York’s Institute for the Blind? Why hire me, or anyone for that matter, when you have at your disposal one of the finer schools for the blind in the entire country?”
He peered down at her; strange how she could sense his gaze so keenly, even when she dared not look at him. “The most obvious reason, his age, Sarah... May I call you Sarah?” he asked her abruptly.
Sarah bristled at the question. Some part of her sensed danger keenly in his familiarity. She wasn’t goi
ng to end like Mary. She wasn’t! She swallowed the tart reply that came to her lips and said instead, “Certainly,” and couldn’t help herself—she swung her cane and smacked him squarely in the shin.
Blackguard!
“Ouch!” he cried.
“Oh, dear!” she pretended to fret. “Was that you?”
“It was,” he said, and hopped along beside her an instant, massaging his leg. She could sense his frown even though she didn’t dare look at him.
“Please do forgive me,” she said, her tone as dulcet as she could manage, and tried not to smile, because the vicious act did indeed make her feel better. Her uncle was right, she feared; she was a termagant.
“Not a problem,” he replied, though she could still hear the frown in his tone. “You have quite a healthy grip on that cane, Miss Hopkins.” And then he continued, “At any rate, they would hardly embrace my son as a pupil at so early an age.”
Sarah tightened her grip on her cane. “Have you considered that there might perchance be good reason for that?”
“With most children perhaps,” he countered, “but I’m quite certain you’ve realized by now that Christopher is different from other children.”
“Yes, he is,” Sarah agreed, her tone carefully subdued, lest she reveal her infamous temper. If Mary had been spirited, Sarah had been labeled temperamental, and rightly so. God help her, but she felt herself ready to explode even now. Her face heated with anger. “I’m uncertain, however, whether it is justifiable to exploit his talents at such an early age.”
“Exploit?” There was genuine surprise in his voice at her veiled accusation. “That is a rather harsh view, Miss Hopkins. As I recall, you did not voice such an opinion at your interview. Why now?”
Sarah was unsure how much to say about her discussion with his sister. She wasn’t even certain whether to reveal it at all. Ruth was hardly her ally in this, and yet she couldn’t blame the woman for trying to protect an innocent child. Sarah had gone to great lengths for just the same purpose.