by Emily Larkin
Pip ran the names over in her head while she pulled on her stockings.
Lord Robert Newingham.
Lord Octavius Pryor.
Mr. Decimus Pryor.
She hoped the viscount wasn’t like Rumpole, that he’d have patience with Edie’s and Fanny’s shyness, that he’d talk with the girls, not at them.
But the very fact that Newingham was coming spoke in his favor. It told her that he had affection for Edie and Fanny. Why else would he be visiting?
Pip tied her garters and slipped on her shoes. She headed for the door, in almost as much of a hurry as the maid had been, but—hurry or not—she paused on the threshold and tapped the door jamb with her thumb: tup, tup, tup.
Three times for good luck—something her father had always done.
Three times as a blessing for the day.
Three times for the success of Lord Newingham’s visit.
Some governesses demanded silence during breakfast; Pip saw breakfast as an opportunity to encourage Edith and Frances to speak. She turned the conversation towards Lord Newingham while they ate their toast and eggs.
“What will we say to him?” nine-year-old Fanny whispered anxiously, her gaze fixed on Pip’s face.
“What do you usually say when you meet your uncle?” Pip asked.
Fanny bit her lip.
“Nothing?” Pip guessed.
A nod was her answer.
“Well, this time you’ll bid him good day and tell him that you’re very pleased to see him. And if you wish, you may ask him a question about his journey.”
“A question?” Eleven-year-old Edie shrank back in her chair, seemingly terrified by this idea.
Pip smiled at the girl. “Yes. He’ll have just driven from London. What questions do you think you might ask him?”
By the time they’d finished their breakfast, the girls had thought of half a dozen questions they might ask their uncle—if they dared. Pip wasn’t at all certain they would dare, so she set that as the first English exercise of the morning: writing out the questions they might ask the viscount. When that was done she asked the girls to write replies to questions their uncle might ask them.
“He might ask us questions?” Edie said, her eyes wide with alarm.
“Has he never asked you questions before?”
The girls exchanged a doubtful glance. After a moment, Edie said, “He says hello and gives us each a guinea and goes away again.”
“Perhaps he’s shy with little girls?” Pip said, although it sounded as if Lord Newingham was uninterested rather than shy. But if he was uninterested, then why was he visiting? “Now, what questions do you think he might ask you?”
Edie shook her head.
“He might ask you how old you are now. Or what your favorite subject is. Or what you’ve been doing today. Or how you plan to spend your summer. How would you reply to those questions?”
The girls glanced at each other, wide-eyed and apprehensive.
The rest of the morning was spent formulating answers.
After luncheon, the girls practiced their curtsies and their greetings. They both stumbled over the name Octavius.
“It’s an unusual name, isn’t it?” Pip said. “It’s Latin. Do you know what it means?”
Both girls shook their heads.
“Eighth. And Decimus is Latin, too. It means tenth.”
Fanny’s brow creased. “Why are they called that?”
“It’s probably a family tradition. Now, let’s practice: Lord Oc-tav-i-us.”
“Lord Oc-tav-i-us,” the girls chorused.
They were in the middle of a lesson in geography when the sound of a carriage arriving rose to the schoolroom windows. Pip thought both girls stopped breathing for a moment.
“Shall we have a look?” she said.
They went to the windows and peered down at the courtyard three stories below.
It wasn’t one carriage, but three. Two curricles, and a traveling chaise for the servants and the luggage. Pip looked down at the milling figures. “Would you like to practice your curtsies and greetings again?”
The summons came ten minutes later. The girls, who’d been jittery with anxious excitement, went quiet. They clung to Pip’s hands as they made their way downstairs. She could feel them trembling with nervousness.
The three guests were in the drawing room with Baron Rumpole. The rumble of male voices drifted out into the corridor, pleasingly deep; at least two of them possessed baritones. Pip halted in the doorway and observed the newcomers for a moment. The blond man must be Lord Newingham, because the other two men were clearly related to each other. They had dark hair and dark eyes and their noses were remarkably similar. They were both tall and good-looking. Better looking than Lord Newingham. She tried to guess which was the marquis’s son and decided he was the one who was ever so slightly shorter. He had a swagger that his cousin lacked, a cockiness. But his swagger wasn’t like Baron Rumpole’s swagger; it said I know I’m handsome, not I am a bully.
“There you are,” Baron Rumpole said petulantly, as if they’d kept the men waiting for hours rather than minutes. “Well, come in, then.”
Fanny and Edie cringed under their father’s attention and shrank closer to Pip, as if wishing they could hide in her skirts. Pip gave each girl’s hand an encouraging squeeze and led them into the room.
Rumpole introduced his daughters perfunctorily, not bothering to name the viscount’s friends: “Edith and Frances, make your curtsies.”
Pip winced internally. Had the man no manners?
Edie and Fanny obediently released Pip’s hands, bobbed their curtsies, and greeted their uncle in almost inaudible voices, and then Edie said, with great courage, “It’s very nice to see you again, sir.” Pip wanted to hug the girl. She restrained herself. At this moment she was little more than furniture, and furniture didn’t hug little girls.
“How do you do?” Newingham said cheerfully. He had a round, good-humored face. “May I present my friends? Lord Octavius Pryor and Mr. Decimus Pryor.”
Pip blinked her surprise. The cocky one wasn’t the marquis’s son.
The girls curtsied again. “Good afternoon, Lord Octavius,” they said, and, “Good afternoon, Mr. Pryor.” Their voices were still barely audible, but at least they’d found the courage to say the words—and they hadn’t stumbled over the lord’s name.
As soon as they were back in the schoolroom Pip was going to lavish them with praise.
The marquis’s son was looking at her. So were his cousin and Lord Newingham. “And this is . . . ?” the viscount said.
“The girls’ new governess,” Rumpole said, brusquely dismissive.
All three men continued looking at her. Newingham and Mr. Pryor appeared faintly bemused, as if she wasn’t at all what they expected a governess to look like, while the marquis’s son was staring with oddly intent curiosity.
For some reason that intent gaze made the hairs on the back of Pip’s neck lift. It was almost a shiver, but not one of fear. It was a shiver of awareness.
Pip looked hastily back at the viscount.
“Miss . . . ?” Newingham prompted.
“Toogood,” Pip said, and made her own curtsy.
“I knew a Miss Toogood once,” Mr. Pryor said. “Jane, her name was. I don’t suppose you’re a Jane, too?” It was said with an easy grin and a light, playful tone.
Was he flirting with her?
No. Wealthy, well-born men with I’m-so-handsome swaggers didn’t flirt with governesses. Especially redheaded governesses with freckles on their noses.
“No, I’m a Philippa,” Pip said.
“Philippa,” Mr. Pryor repeated, and cast a glance at his cousin.
Pip risked a glance at him, too.
The marquis’s son was still staring at her.
There was an awkward moment of silence, and then Baron Rumpole, Lord Newingham, and Mr. Pryor all started talking at once. Fanny’s hand crept back into hers. A second later, so did Edie’
s.
Lord Rumpole offered his guests refreshments in an offhand manner and suggested they entertain themselves with a game of billiards. It looked as if escape to the schoolroom was imminent—but then the marquis’s son stopped staring at Pip and turned his attention to Lord Newingham, giving the man a look that was as strong as a nudge. Newingham immediately declined the baron’s offer and instead proposed an afternoon stroll with the girls. “A little ramble in the countryside.” He rubbed his hands together in an approximation of enthusiasm, but Pip had the impression that the viscount would rather drink brandy and play billiards than go for a walk. “That’s what the countryside’s for, ain’t it? Rambling? And you must come, too, Miss Toogood.”
Lord Octavius smiled.
Mr. Pryor smirked.
And Pip took the girls upstairs to change their shoes and fetch their bonnets.
Chapter Five
They made their way through the gardens Pip had looked down upon that morning, crossed the wide expanse of the lawns, and came into a little woodland area with paths, a pretty shrubbery, a stream, and some beech trees. On the far side of the trees was a narrow country lane.
Pip inhaled deeply, breathing in the scents of honeysuckle and freshly scythed grass. If the viscount and his friends hadn’t been with them, she and the girls could have picked up their skirts and run down the lane. She imagined it: the three of them capering and laughing. But capering and laughing weren’t things one did in the presence of a viscount and a marquis’s son, or even a mere mister, so she walked sedately, as a respectable governess should.
Edie and Fanny stayed close to her, bashful in the company of three men, but by the time they reached the end of the lane, the viscount had coaxed the girls to walk with him and Mr. Pryor.
Pip found herself strolling alongside the marquis’s son. For a moment she felt almost shy and self-conscious. She, Pip Toogood, was walking down a country lane in the company of a marquis’s son. And not just any marquis’s son, but a marquis’s son whose gaze made her heart beat a little faster.
Stop behaving like a goosecap! she scolded herself. You’re twenty-five years old. You’re a mature and responsible adult. You don’t blush. You don’t become awkward or tongue-tied. You’re perfectly capable of conversing sensibly with marquises’ sons, however good-looking they are.
To reinforce this message, she tapped her thumb and forefinger together: once, twice, thrice. Three times for good luck. Three times for calmness and composure.
The three little taps helped, as they always did.
What also helped was that Lord Octavius was remarkably easy to talk to. So easy to talk to that after five minutes Pip had entirely forgotten he was a marquis’s son.
One lane led to another, and then another. The girls hunted for wildflowers along the verge, and the viscount and Mr. Pryor helped them. Pip and Lord Octavius strolled unhurriedly, talking about books and music and the theater. He told her about seeing John Kemble and Mrs. Siddons perform at Drury Lane, and Pip told him about the time she’d been to the Theatre Royal, when one of the actors in the farce had run off the stage into the pit.
Lord Octavius laughed out loud at that, and Pip discovered that when he laughed he stopped being merely good-looking and instead became the most attractive man she’d ever met.
She looked away. Don’t you dare become smitten with him, she told herself sternly. He’s a marquis’s son and you’re only one step up from a servant.
And anyway, he was leaving tomorrow.
She felt a faint pang of disappointment at that thought, and resolutely ignored it. She was not such a fool as to pine over marquises’ sons, however charming they might be and however attractive they were when they laughed. Lord Octavius’s life had intersected with hers for an afternoon, but tomorrow their paths would diverge again, and that was how it was meant to be.
They strolled in companionable silence for several minutes. Pip heard the twitter of birdsong and the hum of bees and the soft crunch of dirt beneath their shoes. The viscount’s voice drifted back to them on the breeze.
The lane curved right, and then left. A farm cart trundled past. Edie and Fanny picked daisies for their bonnets and then hunted for four-leafed clovers. The viscount and Mr. Pryor hunted for four-leafed clovers, too. Pip watched, and while she watched she found herself telling Lord Octavius about her plans for the girls this summer. “There’s a book—perhaps you’ve read it—The Natural History and Antiquities of Selborne, by the late Reverend White?”
“Can’t say that I have,” Lord Octavius said. He bent and plucked a daisy the girls had missed. It had white and pink petals and a bright yellow heart.
“Reverend White lived not a mile from here and he wrote about all this.” Pip’s gesture encompassed the lane and the wildflowers, the trees and the paddocks, the hillside rising steeply. “I’d like to follow in his footsteps with the girls. I daresay it sounds boring to you, but—”
“Not at all. Sounds a dashed sight more enjoyable than sitting indoors with one’s books.” He held out the daisy in an oddly courtly manner. “For you, Miss Toogood.”
“Oh,” Pip said. “Thank you.” And silently, to herself: Don’t you dare blush, Philippa Mary Toogood.
Mercifully, her cheeks stayed cool while she took off her bonnet and tucked the daisy into the ribbon that circled the crown. She told herself that Lord Octavius was just being friendly and that she was not flustered at all. To prove this to both herself and to him, she continued calmly: “And reading Reverend White’s book is study. They’ll learn about plants and insects and animals.”
Lord Octavius picked another daisy and presented it to her. “Did the reverend climb trees?”
“I don’t know,” Pip said, accepting this second offering. “If he did, he didn’t write about it.”
“You should teach them that, too,” Lord Octavius said. “How to climb trees, how to paddle in creeks. Indispensable knowledge for a child, don’t you think?” He bent and plucked two more daisies.
Pip did think so, but she doubted Baron Rumpole would. She bit her lip.
Lord Octavius cocked his head at her. “You disagree?”
“The baron—”
“I asked what your opinion was, Miss Toogood. Not the baron’s.”
“I think that all children should climb trees and paddle in creeks,” Pip admitted.
Lord Octavius grinned at her. “I’m good at climbing trees,” he said. “I offer my services as instructor. We can start tomorrow.”
“You’re leaving tomorrow,” Pip reminded him.
Lord Octavius shook his head.
“You’re not?” Pip glanced ahead to where Viscount Newingham, Mr. Pryor, and the girls were plundering a patch of honeysuckle. “The baron said you were only staying one night.”
“Oh, we’ll be here for a week,” Lord Octavius said blithely.
“A week?”
“At the very least.” Lord Octavius smiled at her as he said this, and there was such warmth in his dark brown eyes that Pip very nearly blushed.
I am twenty-five years old, Pip reminded herself sternly. I am too old to blush. “Oh,” she said aloud. “That’s . . . good.”
“Yes,” Lord Octavius said. “It is. Very good.” He handed her the two daisies he’d picked.
Pip busied herself affixing them to her bonnet. Lord Octavius probably smiled at everyone like that, she told herself as she put the bonnet on again and retied the ribbons. She was not going to be a chucklehead and fancy herself in love with him. Even if she liked him and even if he was staying for a week.
Especially if he was staying for a week.
She tapped her thumb and forefinger together—once, twice, thrice—took a calm, steadying breath, and resumed strolling.
“Creeks and trees,” Lord Octavius said, falling into step beside her. “What else, Miss Toogood? Any other adventures planned for the summer?”
“I’d love to make kites with the girls,” Pip admitted.
“An exc
ellent idea.”
Pip shook her head.
His eyebrows quirked. “Not an excellent idea?”
“The baron wouldn’t like it at all.”
“Kites it is, then,” Lord Octavius said cheerfully.
“Lord Octavius, I daren’t—”
“But I dare,” he said, a glint in his eyes. He raised his voice: “I say, Bunny! Dex! We’re making kites tomorrow!”
Everyone turned to look at them. Pip saw astonishment on all four faces, and then the astonishment transformed into a variety of expressions. Edie and Fanny looked ready to burst with excitement, Viscount Newingham looked resigned, and Mr. Pryor looked as if he’d just heard a great joke. “Kites?” he said, directing a smirk at his cousin. “How simply delightful.”
Chapter Six
Dinner was the most tedious meal Octavius had ever endured in his life. He hadn’t liked Baron Rumpole before they sat down to dine, and he liked him even less afterwards.
Sextus had been spot on in his assessment of the man: he was crass. And not only was he crass, he was brash, boorish, and overflowing with belief in his own superiority. A completely unjustified belief, in Octavius’s opinion; an hour and a half at the dinner table had confirmed that Rumpole possessed neither wit nor breeding. It had also confirmed that the baron’s conversation had only two themes: either he was puffing himself up or he was putting someone else down.
Octavius had never been so glad to see the covers cleared from a table before.
Footmen placed the decanters within easy reach and withdrew. Octavius poured himself some brandy. He leaned back in his chair. “Nice place you’ve got here, Rumpole.”
The baron grunted his thanks.
“I’ve a fancy to stay longer. What do you say, chaps? Shall we stay for a week?”
Rumpole choked on his port.
“A week sounds good.” Dex’s smile looked more like a grimace.
