She had apologized, assuming he was offering a rebuke. Her uncle and the woman who at that time had been her aunt had complained without fail whenever she’d rambled on too long.
But he had taken her little hand in his, just as he’d so often done. “No gentleman of sense would ever be anything but delighted to have you choose to share your thoughts with him.”
“You are not angry?” she had pressed.
“I am honored.”
She pressed her hand over the single bead hanging from her neck. Years had passed since any gentleman had shown an interest in her conversation. But Mr. Lancaster had. And she had enjoyed herself, none of her usual nervousness encroaching on their interaction. She had always imagined that living at the Park would change her for the better, that the influence of the earl would buoy and support her. Perhaps she had been right after all.
That sent a wave of hope over her. Perhaps she was not destined to be as lonely as she had so long feared.
Chapter Seven
“My boat is sinking, Uncle Linus!” Oliver made the observation with all the panic one would expect if an actual ship were succumbing to the waves and not merely a folded section of the Times. “Help the people!”
“Which one is the captain?” Linus asked in his most solemn voice.
Oliver pointed at one of their handmade twig sailors.
Linus nodded. “You can save the rest, my boy, but the captain goes down with his ship.”
Horror filled his sweet little face. “He drowns?” Oliver’s characteristic use of the w sound in place of his rs rendered the question all the more heart-tugging.
“He does,” Linus answered.
Oliver’s brow puckered in thought. “You were a captain.”
“I was going to be.” I was going to be a lot of things. “Being a captain is a fine thing.”
“Not if you die.” Oliver had a knack for making observations in the same tone of questioning the hearer’s intelligence that his father had perfected. He watched as Linus removed all but the ill-fated twig captain from the sinking boat. “Why does the captain die?”
Heavens, this was proving a grim topic. “Because he doesn’t abandon his duties. He is brave no matter what.”
Oliver seemed to accept that answer. “My papa is brave.”
“Yes, he is.” Linus had long ago lost track of how often Oliver spoke of Adam’s bravery. Something about that aspect of his character was a source of pride and, if Linus didn’t miss his mark, reassurance to the little boy.
“But he isn’t a captain,” Oliver added with an earnestness that bordered on a desperately asked question.
Linus pulled his nephew into an embrace, recognizing the declaration for what it was. “I don’t believe he has any plans to pursue a captaincy.”
“And you aren’t a captain,” Oliver said. “So you won’t die.”
Oliver clearly had full faith that Linus would have the fortitude to go down with his ship were he a captain. “I appreciate your confidence in my bravery. I am not always courageous.”
“You’re scared?”
“Sometimes. Just last evening, I had a conversation with someone who made me very nervous.” Looking back on his brief exchange with Miss Hampton, Linus was at a loss to explain why she rendered him so unaccountably ruffled. He was absolutely certain he’d rambled and generally made himself a little ridiculous. He’d had conversations with admirals and dukes. He’d even spoken with the Prince Regent once. None of them had upended him the way Miss Hampton did.
“Was the person mean?” Oliver asked.
“No.” She had been rather charming in her quiet way. Still, he had turned into something resembling a molded jelly inside. That never happened to him. He hoped he’d hidden his inner struggles.
“You shouldn’t be scared of someone who isn’t mean. I’m not.” Oliver spoke with all the dignity of a future duke. He was, Linus imagined, very much like his father had been at this age but softened by Persephone’s influence.
The last bits of their ill-fated ship disappeared beneath the water, illuminated by the midmorning sun. Oliver turned his heartbroken gaze on Linus. “Make another one?”
“Do you remember how?”
Linus had spent some time with Harry and Athena’s children, who were unfailingly energetic and enthusiastic and highly prone to gleeful outbursts of excitement. Oliver was so very different from them. He had enough of both his parents in him to make him quietly observant but a force to be reckoned with when he so chose.
“I don’t remember.” Oliver made the admission with all adorable ws for rs and with such an unnecessary tone of disappointment in himself.
“You have only watched me do it twice,” Linus reminded him. “Most people don’t learn the trick of it that quickly.”
“We’ll make boats every day?” Oliver asked.
“Every day that I am able.” He, after all, was at the mercy of Adam’s dictates as well as the dowager countess’s scheduled diversions.
While Linus set himself to the task of folding a new boat, Oliver poked at the water with a long stick. Footsteps sounded from nearby, pulling Linus’s gaze away from his task. Charlie Jonquil was walking up the bank in their direction, a girl of likely five or six walking at his side. For a moment, Linus could only stare. The little one bore a striking resemblance to Artemis at that age: eyes eagerly taking in every detail, perfect golden ringlets held back by a ribbon tied in a bow.
Artemis had been this small when Linus had been pulled from her life. She was all but grown now; he’d missed everything in between.
Charlie offered an apologetic dip of his head as he and his little companion arrived near them. “We hadn’t intended to interrupt. We were merely out for a walk.”
“You are welcome to join us,” Linus said. “We are folding paper boats and sailing the seven seas.” He met the little girl’s eye. “Do you know how to fold paper boats?”
Her gaze drifted lower, away from his, her cheeks heating on the instant. Linus’s sister Daphne had always been bashful. He had long since learned to recognize the look of timidity.
He turned his attention to Charlie. “I didn’t mean to embarrass her.”
Charlie bumped the little girl with his hip. “You haven’t been bashful in months and months, Caroline. What has come over you?”
“Does she not care for strangers?” Linus guessed.
“She warms to people very quickly.”
The little girl’s gaze rose once more, meeting his for the briefest of moments. There was no fear in her expression but something more like hesitant hope. If he did not miss his mark, she wanted to make his acquaintance but felt a little overwhelmed. Her physical resemblance to Artemis and the closeness of her expression and mannerisms to Daphne gave her immediate place in his heart, and he would grant her all the time she needed to decide if she meant to accept him or not.
“You are welcome to sit with us if you’d like,” he said. “If you do not know how to make boats, your—” He shot a look at Charlie, unsure what his connection to the child was.
“Uncle,” Charlie supplied.
“Your uncle will show you how.” A little under his breath, he asked Charlie, “You do know how, don’t you?”
Charlie smiled, his countenance lighter than Linus had yet seen it. “I’ve made a good number of paper ships in my time. My brothers and I used to set them afloat very near this spot.”
Linus eyed the little eddies in the current. “It is proving a difficult harbor to launch from. The water is a bit rough.”
“Yes, well, we lost a lot of ships.” He sat near the stack of newspapers. Little Caroline sat on his lap and watched as he began folding.
“Do you live nearby, Caroline?” Linus asked.
She nodded. Linus smiled at her, and she reddened further but did not shy away.
; Linus had learned a little of the Jonquil family during his nearly twenty-four hours at Lampton Park. There were seven brothers, the oldest five being married already. Like Linus, Charlie must have had a good number of nieces and nephews.
Linus watched him as he folded his ship and explained to Caroline what he was doing. He was patient with her whispered questions and didn’t balk at the childish undertaking. There was very little on the surface to indicate that he was anything but perfectly content, but Linus suspected that was not entirely true. He’d seen frustration in the young man’s face as they’d sat in the library.
Charlie turned his attention to Oliver. “Do you not make paper boats?”
“I’m too little.” It was not a statement of fact but a clear and obvious complaint.
Charlie nodded gravely. “I was always the littlest. I didn’t get to do a lot of things.”
“I’ll be big. Like Papa. Then I can do anything I want.” Oh yes, he had a great deal of Adam in him.
“I could make you a boat,” Charlie offered. “I’ll even launch it for you.”
Oliver nodded eagerly. He looked up at Linus. “We’ll make the stick people?”
“Of course.” Linus set aside his unfinished paper boat. “Should we also make the captain?”
“We have to. Someone has to die.”
Linus laughed right out loud, unable to help himself. Oliver was a joy, an unmitigated joy.
As the morning passed, Caroline moved to sit closer to Linus, while Oliver very nearly adopted Charlie as another uncle. Linus sensed a deep and abiding goodness in Charlie Jonquil as well as a loneliness that he himself knew all too well.
“If you’ve no other plans, I had intended to go for a ride in the morning,” Linus said, hoping the invitation might be welcome. He’d appreciate the company. “Being on ship for most of the last thirteen years of my life, I’ve missed riding.”
His offer clearly surprised Charlie. “You’re inviting me?”
Linus watched him closely. “Is there some reason why I shouldn’t?”
Charlie shrugged. “I’m not usually the one who gets asked.”
Hmm. “One of the perils of having so many brothers, no doubt.”
A chuckle. “One of many perils.” With a grin, Charlie asked, “Do you have brothers?”
That was not a topic up for discussion. “I have a plethora of sisters, which comes with its own set of dangers.”
“I would imagine so.”
They returned to the task at hand, the subject of families left where it was.
After they had used up all their paper and sunk a great many ships in the depths of their substitute sea, they walked back to the house, Linus carrying a very nearly asleep Oliver and Charlie walking hand in hand with Caroline.
They had taken only a few steps inside when Artemis accosted them. “Where have you been, Linus?”
“Seeing to matters of great naval importance.” He spoke in his lieutenant’s voice.
Artemis released a puff of exasperated air. “You have missed everything.”
“Everything?” Linus attempted to match her aura of theatricality.
“Today’s guests are due to arrive in only a few hours, and Persephone refuses to tell me what activities have been decided upon. How am I to arrange for the proper partner if I don’t know what that partner will be undertaking?”
“Did it occur to you, dear sister, that your partner might be chosen for you?”
“Oh, pish.” Artemis waved that off like so much smoke. “I am not so helpless as all that.”
Out of the corner of his eye, Linus caught sight of Charlie’s bewildered expression. Artemis could be a bit overwhelming to those who did not know her well. Linus turned and, with utmost solemnity, said, “You had best make a hasty retreat, Mr. Jonquil, lest you find yourself one of her unwitting minions.”
Charlie executed a very brief bow. “I thank you most sincerely for the warning and will make good my escape.”
He, with Caroline still in tow, had only just disappeared down the corridor when Artemis spoke again. “He is not taking the least interest in me. It is very frustrating.”
“You can’t expect all the young gentlemen to fall head over heels in love with you.”
She rolled her eyes. “I said nothing of love. He is handsome and seems charming, even if he is a little young.”
“I would wager he is the same age as you are,” Linus said.
Artemis didn’t acknowledge the truth of that. “It is very odd that he won’t flirt even a little bit.”
“He is not the only one.” Linus indicated his now-sleeping armful. “Lord Falstone here is so unimpressed that you’ve bored him into a state of slumber.”
She smiled at her little nephew. “Is it not rather amazing that Adam, of all people, should have a son who is so very darling and sweet?”
“He is his mother’s child as well, you will recall.”
“That is true enough. After all, it does not do to place too much emphasis on a father’s influence.” She spun and walked away with an air of dignity so overblown no one would have believed it.
Though it pained Linus to think ill of their father, he had been neglectful of them all. Father had, at first, been paralyzed by grief, then by the fear of stepping out of his self-imposed exile. Before he’d found any degree of healing after Mother’s death, Father’s mind had begun to deteriorate. Linus had memories of him as the thoughtful and kind father he had once been, but Artemis never knew that part of him. More devastating still, she had never experienced the love of a parent, their mother having died shortly after Artemis’s birth.
Oh, Artemis. Are you hurting more than you let on?
Linus slowly made his way up the stairs. He worried for Artemis, just as he had all his sisters over the years. He was every bit as helpless in her case as he had been in theirs. He was a rather pointless brother.
He’d only just reached the second-story landing when Miss Hampton appeared there.
“Mr. Lancaster.” She appeared pleased to see him.
“Miss Hampton,” he returned. “I apologize for not offering the expected bow. Little Lord Falstone’s mother would likely wring my neck if I woke him.”
Wring my neck. That was hardly a gentle turn of phrase. He was making a mull of this. Why was he so nervous in her company?
Miss Hampton’s gaze settled on Oliver. “You appear to have exhausted him quite thoroughly, which should please your apparently violent sister.”
With that quip, offered in unmistakable but subtle levity, she eased a degree of his inexplicable discomfort.
“I do all I can to keep my oldest sister happy, I assure you. She has access to a gibbet, you know.”
She made a show of being impressed. “Her husband allows her to borrow it?”
He shook his head. “She allows him to borrow it.”
“Sisters truly are a sore trial,” she said.
“The sorest.”
A soft smile touched her lips, gentle amusement in her eyes. For a moment, he couldn’t breathe. His brain turned to useless mush even as his tongue tied itself in knots.
His reaction to her was wholly ridiculous. He hardly knew her, after all. “I should allow my nephew to rest.” He moved past her. “A good day to you, Miss Hampton.”
“And to you,” she returned.
With determined steps, he strode down the corridor. After a moment, he paused and looked back. She was gone.
Chapter Eight
The dowager had taken Linus’s suggestion regarding the afternoon’s activities. The east lawn of Lampton Park was set up for lawn games. Tables and chairs had been placed around the area with awnings erected to provide shade. In addition to Linus’s family, that afternoon’s gathering included a few neighbors. The family who had been mentioned earlier, who boasted two soci
alizing-aged daughters, had arrived, as had the second of the Jonquil brothers. The local curate, whom Linus had not yet met but suspected, based on the tall, slender build and golden hair, was a relative of the Jonquils, attended as well.
He did not spy Miss Hampton. Did she not care for lawn games? Perhaps she simply didn’t care for crowds. During their brief conversations, he’d come to suspect she preferred quieter, more personal interactions. Truth be told, he rather did as well. But his place amongst his family was trivial enough without making himself socially pointless. He would do well to see to it he was friendly.
He made his way to where Mr. Layton Jonquil and his wife, a lady with a head of shockingly red hair and a brilliant smile, were talking with the dowager. Layton’s wife held a young child in her arms, one likely not yet a full year old. Little Caroline stood with her hand in Layton’s, and the mystery of her place in the broader Jonquil family was solved.
“Good afternoon, Miss Caroline,” Linus said, offering a bow.
She blushed and smiled. “Good afternoon.”
“Have you come to play lawn games with us?” he asked.
She nodded. “Papa said I could. He said Olive would be here too.”
Olive? “Do you mean Oliver?”
She nodded again.
Linus hadn’t heard that his nephew would be taking part. He hoped it was true. Oliver’s quiet disposition coupled with the intimidating nature he had inherited from his father would make friendships more difficult to come by down the road if he were not afforded opportunities to practice interacting with others. Beginning that practice early seemed a good idea.
“Do you have a favorite lawn game?” he asked little Caroline.
“I like bowls.” She faced him fully, though with her hand still in her father’s.
“I am quite good at bowls,” he said. “I enjoy it very much.”
“As much as making paper boats?”
He thought on it a moment. “Probably, provided I have a fun partner.”
Her eyes dropped, and her mouth pressed closed. Bless her dear little heart.
“Would you be my partner?” he asked.
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