Sweet Rogue of Mine (The Survivors)

by Shana Galen

  “How many children were there?”

  Mrs. Northgate’s gaze snapped back to Pru. “I thought you wanted to hear about the peacocks?”

  “I want to hear about everything.”

  “You are too curious by far,” Mrs. Northgate chided before tapping a finger to her chin. “How many children? Let me see. There were the three boys, and goodness, how many girls? The eldest was a girl and there was another in there and then a little one as well. How many is that?”

  “Six children. Three boys and three girls.”

  “The girls were very pretty and well-behaved. At that garden party they all wore white dresses with blue sashes. Very pretty.”

  Before Mrs. Northgate could give more particulars about dresses worn twenty years ago, Pru thought it wise to turn the conversation. “Did they seem to be a happy family?”

  “Happy enough, I suppose. I don’t see how anyone could be happy with those two wild boys. The youngest—your pupil—was the best behaved of the lot. Who would have thought he would have turned out as he has? Though none of us were surprised he went into the army.”

  “Why is that?”

  “Oh, he had a gift. He gave a demonstration that day. It was a shooting competition.”

  Pru gasped. “Not the peacocks!”

  “Oh, you and your peacocks! No peacocks were harmed. The men were shooting at clay pots on a fence.” Her gaze strayed to the window again and she smiled faintly. “The earl had the men stand quite a distance away, and the men complained that no one could hit the targets from that distance. Oh, but they tried. A few hit one or two pots, as I recall. But as more and more of the men failed, they began to complain.

  “And then Master Nash walks up with his rifle—”

  “Master Nash? Is that Mr. Pope?”

  Mrs. Northgate pursed her lips, obviously annoyed at the interruption. “He was Master Nash then. He walked to the line and shouldered his rifle. Well, the other men began to chuckle. How was this boy—he couldn’t have been more than ten—to hit those clay pots?” She chuckled to herself and shook her head.

  “And what happened?” Pru asked, impatience getting the best of her.

  “Well, the earl told his son to wait just a moment. We all thought he would save the boy the pain of embarrassment, but he told the lad to take ten steps back.”

  “Back?”

  “Yes, farther from the pots. Well, everyone was murmuring, and even the women who cared little for such displays had come to watch now. The noise and mutterings did not seem to penetrate that head of Master Nash. He was as cool as could be. He lifted the rifle, sighted the pots, and fired. One by one, he hit every single pot—ten in a row—and knocked them off the fence.

  “You could have heard a pin drop,” Mrs. Northgate said, her gaze finding Pru’s. “We were all so shocked. The boy had focus and steadiness and an eye like we’d never seen. I imagine it was harder on him than it would be for most when he lost his vision. Drove him mad, it seems.”

  Pru sat back now too. “I don’t think he’s mad. I think he’s just sad.”

  “Well, we all feel sad from time to time, but not all of us go about brandishing pistols and shooting Scotsmen!”

  That was true. There was the sound of voices from below, and Pru recognized the low tenor of George Northgate. When she looked back at Mrs. Northgate, the older woman was watching her. “It seems my grandson has finished for the day.”

  Pru straightened. “Do you think I might go to Wentmore now?” Her gaze strayed to the clock. It was still more than ninety minutes before she had planned to depart.

  “I am not the person to answer that question.”

  “Oh.” Pru sat still, but her body vibrated.

  “Go ahead and ask my grandson. I can see we will accomplish nothing else here today.”

  “Thank you, ma’am!” Pru jumped up and ran to the door. Then, impulsively, she ran back and kissed Mrs. Northgate on the cheek.

  “Oh, do control yourself, girl!” Mrs. Northgate said, but she was smiling when she said it.

  Pru made herself walk down the stairs. Halfway down, Mr. George Northgate looked up at her. He was speaking with his mother. The younger Mrs. Northgate glanced at Pru then pointedly ignored her. But her son nodded his head to her. “Good afternoon, Miss Howard.”

  “Mr. Northgate.” She reached the bottom of the stairs.

  “And how is my grandmama? It is so good of you to sit with her. She has been in need of a companion for some time.”

  Pru had not been hired as a lady’s companion, which she thought Mr. Northgate knew well enough, but she ignored the statement for the moment. “Have you been at Wentmore, sir?”

  “I have, but”—and he looked at his mother as though to explain to her as well—“the workers were dismissed early.”

  “Why?” Mrs. Northgate asked, still ignoring Pru.

  “No reason was given. The man who is paying them came out and told them they could go home. He handed out wages, and I sold what cider and apples I could and came home myself.” He looked at Pru again. “Are you done for the day? Is your dress finished?”

  At this, Mrs. Northgate actually looked at Pru, as though she was wondering when this person would be out of her house for good.

  “Not yet, but I have another errand.”

  “I won’t keep you then,” George said. Pru nodded and gave a smile to him and Mrs. Northgate. Mrs. Northgate looked away, and Pru gathered her coat and set off for Wentmore. The day was damp and overcast, and Pru imagined the men who had been let go for the day were glad to be home and before a warm fire. She rather hoped Mr. Pope had a warm fire waiting.

  She hoped he remembered she was coming.

  Mostly, she hoped he didn’t shoot her.

  NASH COULD NOT HAVE said why he was nervous. It wasn’t as though it mattered to him whether or not he learned night writing. Even if he knew it, the only person he would be able to correspond with was Miss Howard. She probably wrote long, rambling letters that went on for pages.

  The door of the dining room opened, and Nash forgot his pacing. But it wasn’t Miss Howard. He recognized the large shape of Rowden.

  “Is she here?” Nash asked.

  “Who? Mrs. Brown?”

  “Miss Howard.”

  “Ah! I forgot she was to come today. I have to go out.”

  “Where?” Nash asked, suddenly not wishing to be alone should Miss Howard not make an appearance.

  “I’m going to Blunley to eat dinner and perhaps raise a glass.” Blunley was the closest village to the east. It was a bit larger than Milcroft and boasted an inn and posting house.

  “Mrs. Brown is making dinner.”

  “Forgive me, Nash, but while your Mrs. Brown makes do with what she has, cooking is not her strong suit. I want music, people, edible fare. You can come with me if you like.”

  “No,” Nash said suddenly. He could not imagine the confusion and disorientation of being in a place like that without his ability to see.

  “Come on,” Rowden said. “Aren’t you tired of this place? Let’s get out. We’ll find some pretty girls, perhaps find some trouble.”

  “You will find trouble and end up in a fight.”

  “Nothing wrong with a good fight. It cleanses the palate.”

  “Miss Howard is coming.”

  “Right.” There was a long pause. “Well, then I’ll see you in the morning. Don’t wait up for me.”

  He closed the door, and Nash reached into his pocket for the pistol. It was still there. He touched it for reassurance, then stiffened as he heard a voice in the foyer. Her voice. She must have been at the door when Rowden opened it. Before he was ready for her, the door opened and she walked into the dining room, crossing directly to him. He almost took a step back, but she grasped his hand and shook it.

  “Mr. Pope, how are you?” Her hand was cold, and she smelled of the wind and the damp fields she must have crossed walking there. “Did I interrupt dinner?” Pause. “Oh, but there’s no fo
od on the table. Why are you in here?”

  “I like it in here,” he said. He was aware he should release her hand, but he liked the feel of it. He wanted to warm it.

  “Perhaps we should sit in a room with a fire,” she said, not trying to pull her hand away. In fact, she squeezed his hand as though she understood his need for contact. Abruptly, Nash released her.

  “You’re cold. I should have thought of that.”

  “I am a bit chilled, but if you prefer this room—”

  “We’ll go to the library.” He didn’t know why he suggested the library. His only association with the library had been his father. But she would think him strange if he changed his mind now. She did not move, and he realized she was waiting for him to lead the way. Idiot! It was as though he had forgotten how to behave when he had lost his sight. “This way,” he finally said, moving around her.

  Of course, as soon as he began to walk, he realized he did not want her following him, watching him. He navigated the house by touch. He could see the outlines of shapes, but he couldn’t always trust his limited vision. Sometimes the shapes were shadows and not objects at all. More than once he had walked into a chair or avoided nothing but a shadow. He debated walking without touching chairs and walls as he went, but then he decided that he would look more a fool if he tripped over something than if he moved carefully.

  “How are the repairs coming?” she asked from behind him.

  “How should I know?” He realized immediately he had answered too sharply, but it was a ridiculous question. “In case my stumbling about hasn’t made it clear enough, I cannot see.”

  “Oh.” The tone of her voice was that of one who has come to understand more than what the speaker has imparted.

  Nash turned to face her. “What does that mean?”

  “Oh? It’s a common acknowledgement used in speech.”

  “That’s not how you said it. You said, oh. Like, oh, now I see.”

  “I suppose you are right,” she said. It surprised him that she did not argue or try to deny it. “I suppose I should have known you would be angry, but I thought you might have moved past that.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “When my sister became blind, she went through a similar phase. At first, she was in denial. Even when the doctor told her she would never see again, she didn’t believe him. She would insist she saw some light or the shape of something.”

  Nash could remember these same feelings when he had been in recovery in France. The doctor had told him he would not see, but he hadn’t wanted to believe. He thought if he just rested his eye longer or tried a salve or prayed hard enough, his sight would come back.

  “When she realized her sight wasn’t coming back, she became angry. She would throw things and scream and...well, she generally made it hard for anyone to be around her.”

  She didn’t go on, but Nash knew she was implying he was similar—difficult to be around. Nash remembered feeling the rage Miss Howard’s sister had exhibited as well. That was when his father had sent him to Wentmore. Nash had gone willingly because he’d been so angry that he wanted to be alone. He wanted to curse and scream and destroy. But he wasn’t about to discuss this with Miss Howard, though it interested him that her sister had a similar experience. He’d thought he was alone in how he’d felt.

  “The library is this way,” he said, feeling his way again.

  “I didn’t mean to suggest you could see the progress of the repairs,” Miss Howard said. Why the devil was she bringing it up again? “There are other ways to evaluate it.”

  “Don’t you think it’s wise to change the topic?” he asked as he finally reached the door to the library. He opened it, and she walked past him to enter.

  “Oh, no. If I show you any sense of fear or weakness, you will exploit it. I can’t back down.”

  Nash stood quite still. She spoke as though she were in the boxing ring, facing off against Rowden. “You are a tutor, not my opponent.”

  “I am probably a bit of both,” she said, sounding good-natured about it. “Do you mind if I put another piece of kindling on the fire?”

  Nash realized Rowden or Mrs. Brown had probably banked the fire, and the room was growing cold. “I should do that,” he said.

  “Oh, I am quite capable. Would you find a few sheets of parchment we might use? I want to teach you the first few letters and corresponding places on the chart.”

  Nash made his way to the desk, managed not to hurt himself going around the sharp corners, and sat in the seat his father had sat in for so many years. He could remember sitting in this chair when he’d been so small his feet did not even touch the ground. He could remember swinging them and playing at being the earl, though even then he had known he would never inherit the title. His father had laughed and tousled his hair.

  Nash pushed the memory away and opened the drawer, feeling for paper. He pulled out several sheets.

  “Do you mind if I light the lamp?” Miss Howard asked.

  “Go ahead.” He refrained from pointing out that it did not aid him one way or the other. She bustled around, seeming more comfortable in the library than he had ever been. Finally, she sat across from him and went to work writing something. At least that’s what he assumed from the sounds of pen nib tinkling as it met the edge of the ink well and then scratching on paper. Nash was content to sit quietly, listening to her write and the crackle of fire.

  He had missed the company of others. Nash didn’t care to admit it even to himself, but he had been relieved when Rowden arrived. The silence and darkness had seemed to be closing in on him, and it was not difficult to imagine he was indeed going mad. But Rowden was a fighter. He lived to rankle and challenge and stir up discord. He clearly saw that as his task with Nash. And while Nash could admit he had needed a kick in the arse, he didn’t like it any more than the next man.

  “Come sit beside me,” Miss Howard said.

  “I thought we would sit across from each other,” Nash said. He didn’t know why he was arguing. He didn’t mind sitting beside her. In fact, he rather liked the idea. But arguing had become second nature, he supposed.

  “No,” she said simply. Her voice was not stern or angry. It was just a statement of fact: No, they would not sit across from each other.

  And Nash, even as he wanted to kick himself, felt compelled to argue. “I would prefer to sit here.”

  “No,” she said again, just pleasant as you please.

  Now, even if he wanted to sit beside her, he could not. Nash did not lose in battle. His aim was always true, and he always brought his opponent down. Even on that day when—no, he would not think of that day.

  “You come sit beside me,” he said.

  “There are two chairs here and room for our legs. Come, Mr. Pope, stop stalling. There is nothing to fear. I can already tell you will catch on quickly.”

  Was he stalling? Was he afraid? He had never been afraid in his life. Not until he had opened his eyes and seen only blackness.

  “Need I remind you, Miss Howard, we have no chaperone. Perhaps it would be safer for you if I remained over here.”

  There was a long pause. “Really?” she said, sounding, not afraid, but amused. “You would behave like a scoundrel?”

  Hold a moment. Now she sounded almost excited.

  “What are you planning? Improper advances or will you go so far as to ravish me?”

  Nash stood. “You think because I am blind I cannot overpower you and have my way with you?”

  “Have your way with me? Oh, my!”

  “Are you laughing at me, Miss Howard?”

  “No! I’m simply amazed, Mr. Pope. Few men have ever deigned to look askance at me, and now one can hardly restrain himself in my presence.”

  “I wouldn’t put it that way.”

  “Then you can restrain yourself?” She sounded almost disappointed.

  Nash placed both hands on the desk. “Should you not be afraid I might carry through on one of these
warnings?”

  “I can defend myself,” she said. “I have had to navigate the streets of Cairo and Paris and London. I’m not one of your ladies who has a footman trotting behind her, so I know the value of a well-aimed kick. Still, I cannot promise to defend myself. Perhaps I might enjoy your improper advances.”

  Nash had to sit again. He had forgotten that he had met her singing “Bonny Black Hare.”

  “I’ve shocked you,” she said.

  “I have not shocked you,” he retorted.

  “I don’t shock easily.”

  Was that a challenge? Nash accepted.

  “If you prefer to sit there, you may, but then perhaps we can chat until you are ready to move and begin the lesson.”

  “You want to chat?”

  “I have been wondering about the peacock we saw a couple of weeks ago. Has he been spotted again?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “I suppose all the workmen frightened him away. Do you think he is one of the original peacocks your father brought here? I was asking Mrs. Northgate about it, and she said there was a huge garden party and a shooting exhibition. Apparently, you amazed everyone with your skills.”

  “I don’t want to talk about that.” He hadn’t thought of that day in years. He did not want to think of it now.

  “She did not say whether the party was to celebrate the arrival of the peacocks, but that was what I assumed.”

  “Who is Mrs. Northgate?”

  Silence. “You do not know Mrs. Northgate? She’s lived in Milcroft for—well, probably all of her life. Which is a long time. She came to the garden party. She would have been younger then.”

  “Obviously.” They had all been younger then. He had been nine? Ten? “What is this Mrs. Northgate to you?”

  “She is helping me sew a dress. Most of mine are quite ugly and Mrs. Blimkin said that Mrs. Northgate has a better sense of fashion than almost anyone else in Milcroft. And of course, if anyone were to look at Miss Northgate or Miss Mary, it’s obviously true.”