The Elusive Miss Ellison

by Carolyn Miller

  “They are both strongly opinionated.”

  “Heaven forbid anyone hold a strong opinion.”

  She smiled.

  “It surprises me you do not become more involved.”

  “I am trying not to air my opinions so much.”

  “Why?”

  She glanced up. “Because I’m now aware how often pride has carried me into argument.”

  He almost stumbled. He offered his arm to hide his misstep.

  “Besides, I do not want to be accused of being a bore.”

  “Miss Ellison, I do not think you could ever be a bore.”

  The roses in her cheeks bloomed. “Where is this thing you would like me to see?”

  “The stables.” Her hand clenched on his arm. “Do not fret. It’s not a horse.” He led the way to the stables’ back corner where McHendricks sat on a bale of hay. His groomsman nodded and then glanced at the reverend’s daughter, his face softening. “Miss Livvie.”

  “Hello, Mr. McHendricks.”

  Nicholas guided her forward until the beagle bitch and four puppies came into view. “Surprise.”

  “Oh! They’re adorable!” She bent to give the nearest bundle of fur a gentle rub. “How old are they?”

  McHendricks cleared his throat. “Five weeks. She dropped a week before you got sick.”

  “They look so much like—”

  “Aye. This is Dora, one of Mickey’s little sisters.”

  The stable’s dim light could not hide the sheen of tears or the rapid blinking as she held a squirming body to her face.

  Nicholas moved closer. “They are still too young to leave their mother, but we wondered if you might like one when it comes time.”

  “Oh.” She hugged the pup. “That’s very kind of you.”

  “Not at all.” He bent down to gently touch a rolling ball of tan and white with two fingers. “Just be sure this magnanimous gesture goes unmentioned.”

  “I’ll be sure to do that.” She smiled up at him. “There’s just one thing.”

  “What’s that?”

  “I have a tradition of naming my dogs after my benefactors, and I couldn’t have another Mickey.”

  “Of course not.”

  “And Early would not work. Perhaps it will have to be Nicky?”

  McHendricks gave a dry laugh that quickly turned into a cough at Nicholas’s frown. “I’m sure you can do much better than that.”

  She laughed and picked up—unsurprisingly—the runt of the litter and ran her hands over his wiggling body, crooning to him tenderly.

  And the frustration of past days dissipated as his heart glowed with satisfaction.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  LAVINIA WALKED INTO the stables’ dim interior and smiled a greeting at McHendricks. “Good morning! How are you today?”

  “Well, thank you, lass.”

  “I’m glad. And how are they?”

  “Keeping well, though the young ’un seems a trifle out of sorts.”

  She hurried to the corner where the scamper of paws met her arrival. “Hello, Dora. May I play with your babies?” Dora’s deep brown eyes gazed unwaveringly as Lavinia gently rubbed her head. “I promise to be careful.”

  She sank onto the seat of hay, waiting for the pups to draw closer. When the smallest nudged her slipper with his nose she rubbed his ears. “Hello.”

  He licked her hand and butted her arm with his head. She laughed as the puppies continued their antics. The past two days of stable visits had lifted her spirits immeasurably. The earl’s thoughtfulness in keeping her amused—and out of his mother’s way—helped her feel more relaxed, more herself, his offer of the pup tantalizing with the prospect of freedom again.

  The puppy rolled over, flashing his tan-and-white belly and growling softly. She scooped him up and called over her shoulder to McHendricks, “Nicky seems quite happy!” She hugged him close, drinking in his delightful puppy smell. “You’re such a darling, aren’t you, Nicky?”

  Someone coughed behind her. “It appears all manner of creatures delight in the receipt of Miss Ellison’s endearments.”

  At the well-known drawl she turned and smiled.

  “But when you address me, I’d much rather you use my full name, or at a pinch, Nick.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind.”

  He grinned. “Please do. Although”—he leaned close—“I’d prefer my mother not hear.”

  Her heart scampered at his nearness. She pulled back, and thrust the puppy toward him. “Does he seem healthy to you? McHendricks thought he seemed a little off-color, but I believe he is well.”

  A smile glinted before he shook his head. “I have never laid claim to animal expertise.”

  “Except when it comes to horses?”

  “Except that.” His gaze grew tender. He stepped closer. “Miss Ellison, I was hoping—”

  “Excuse me, my lord. Your horse is ready.”

  A rueful expression filled his face, and then he nodded to the stable hand. “Thank you.” He offered Lavinia a small bow. “I will see you later, Miss Ellison.”

  As he mounted the big black horse and rode away, she returned her attention to the puppies, wondering why his words made her heart flutter, and what exactly he hoped for.

  Nicholas shuffled the papers on his desk, fresh from his London solicitor. The Welsh investments seemed to be improving, and that little issue regarding the Scotland estate had been resolved, leading to more revenue this year than the previous. But while this was good news, his mind refused to settle as thoughts of his guest continued to intrude.

  How long would she stay? Was she truly well? What would he do when she returned home? What would he do when parliamentary duties necessitated his return to London?

  “Nicholas.”

  He glanced up, looked at the door. “Yes, Mother?”

  “Tell me you are not serious about her.”

  “About whom?”

  She snorted. “Don’t play games with me. I refuse to allow an opinionated nobody from the country to hold influence over my son.”

  “And what makes you think I allow any such person to influence me so?”

  “Why, you have changed!”

  “You say that like it is a bad thing, Mother.”

  “It is! You seem to have forgotten your status and what your title represents.”

  “My title demands a duty of care to those for whom I am responsible.”

  “But your status! You cannot socialize with those not from our rank.”

  “Do you really believe we are superior to those born with lesser means? That my life holds more value than that of one of my tenants?”

  She stared at him, as if he uttered Portuguese. “Nicholas, that is the way of the world. One cannot treat the poor as one’s equals.”

  “Mother, one can.”

  He held her gaze until she blinked and turned to examine two small pictures. He exhaled.

  A knock heralded Lavinia’s arrival. She looked fresh, rose-cheeked. “My lord—” She stopped, glanced at his mother’s stiff back. “Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t know you were busy.”

  “What can I do for you, Miss Ellison?”

  She opened her mouth to speak when his mother interrupted. “These watercolors of the Hall, Nicholas. Do you know who painted them?”

  “A local artist I believe.” He glanced at the door. “Miss Ell—”

  “I suppose Robert commissioned them. Just the sort of thing he would do.”

  He met Lavinia’s amused eyes. She shook her head slightly at him and lowered her gaze, sunlight from the window glinting golden in her hair as his mother kept talking.

  His heart skipped a beat. Lavinia’s particular brand of loveliness well suited his study’s simplicity. She required few adornments, her open countenance a respite from London hauteur, her modest, uncomplicated ways soothing his spirit in a manner unlike any other young lady he had met.

  “Nicholas?”

  At his mother’s querulous tone he hauled
his gaze away to meet his mother’s hard stare, forcing him to grope for something innocuous to say. “I believe they were of Uncle Robert’s choosing.”

  “Robert was never known for his taste.”

  “I find them quite charming, so I’ve never changed them.”

  She moved to examine them more closely. “Very pretty, if a little amateurish.”

  He restrained a sigh. His mother’s critical nature couldn’t help but assert itself.

  He glanced at the door.

  Lavinia had gone.

  TWO DAYS LATER, familiar restlessness continued to make it impossible for him to focus on the figures Banning had presented that morning. He tried, but knowledge of the coming event continued to steal his concentration. The past weeks had proved a revelation—of himself, of God, and of his hopes for the future. Miss Ellison’s presence lit his world with faith and assurance. How would he fare when she was no longer here?

  He glanced out the window, lip curled in disgust. Depending on a woman? “You’re a fool, Stamford.” And the seventh Earl of Hawkesbury bent his will to the accounts again.

  A half hour later, after laborious strain finally produced a result, he escaped the room. Giles emerged from the servants’ quarters, to which Nicholas had never ventured, although he knew Miss Ellison had—and would bet his last guinea that she had learned every servant’s name.

  “Good morning, m’lord. The carriage has been sent for. Miss West waits in the library.”

  “And Miss Ellison?”

  “I believe she is in the stables. Shall I send for—?”

  “No, I’ll go.”

  Ignoring Giles’s small smile, Nicholas hurried outside. Fresh air tingled, the tang of crushed leaves further reminder of autumn’s approach. He strode to the stables and nodded hellos in response to the greetings of the stable hands as he moved through to the rear of the building. As expected, Miss Ellison sat on the floor playing with the tumbling tan-and-white balls of energy.

  He stood in the shadows, watching her face as she patted and murmured to her favorite. The dog’s wriggles became less pronounced, his ears flattened, and his head drooped as she continued her ministrations. Envy rode hot and high. Lucky dog, to be the object of her affection.

  McHendricks sat on a bale of straw nearby, hands in his coat pockets, his expression tender as always in Lavinia’s company. “I be thinkin’ he’ll be right in two or three days.”

  “Oh, that’s wonderful!” She hugged the dog to her chest. “Did you hear that, Nicky?”

  The pup uttered a soft bark.

  “Miss Ellison.”

  She jumped. “Lord Hawkesbury!”

  “I believe your carriage is ready.”

  “Oh.” She gave the runt a final hug and then carefully placed him on the floor. She stood, shook off the bits of straw clinging to her skirts, and turned to McHendricks. “Thank you for finding Dora. I still cannot believe it.”

  “Aye, ’tis the master ye should be thanking, lass.”

  “The master?” Lavinia stared at Nicholas. “Surely you did not find Dora.”

  McHendricks’s grizzled countenance creased into a rare smile. “He commissioned me to.”

  Her expression grew soft. She opened her mouth as if to say something before closing it again and turning back to the old man. “Well, thank you. Thank you so very much.”

  She hugged him, taking the groom by surprise as much as Nicholas, judging from the apologetic look he sent Nicholas over the slight shoulder.

  Nicholas frowned. One simply did not hug the servants. “Miss Ellison, it is time to go.”

  Her brows knit, as if surprised by his—unintended—harsh tone, before she turned, offered McHendricks a final small smile, and hurried from the room.

  He caught up to her as she crunched across the gravel. “Miss Ellison—”

  “Thank you, Lord Hawkesbury, for your exceeding kindness.” Her relaxed manner had dropped away, replaced by poker-straight shoulders and a cool expression.

  “Miss Ellison, your manner appeared to have embarrassed McHendricks.”

  “I have known him since I was a girl; he is like a grandfather to me. He was not the one embarrassed.”

  “But he is a servant! Surely you are not in the habit of hugging your servants.”

  She smiled sweetly.

  He sighed. “You are, aren’t you?”

  “Mr. McHendricks is my friend. Perhaps one does not hug friends when one is an earl, but I am not so bound by any such strictures of society.”

  He stayed her with a gentle hand, kept his voice low. “Am I your friend, Miss Ellison?”

  Her gaze faltered, her cheeks pinked. “That is something only you can answer, sir.”

  She eased her elbow from his grasp and hurried to join her aunt, who spoke with Giles and Mrs. Florrick near the front steps. Ivy in the urns drooped sadly, as if in agreement with the general mood.

  His mother appeared beside him. “Why are the servants lined up like that, Nicholas? It’s not as if you or I were departing.”

  “Apparently Miss Ellison has made quite an impression.”

  “Most unfortunate.”

  The horses nickered, flicking their tails, jostling the reins as they awaited the coachman’s signal.

  “Surely you do not allow them use of the best carriage?”

  “Would you prefer our guests depart in a pony trap?”

  “Well …”

  He restrained a sigh just in time and moved closer to his guests.

  “Thank you, Giles, Edwin.” Lavinia gave them both a sunny smile before turning to the housekeeper. “Mrs. Florrick, you have been kindness itself. Thank you so much.” She lightly clasped the older woman, Lavinia’s head angled so she met Nicholas’s gaze. Her smile widened.

  “Oh, my dear girl.” His housekeeper drew back and dabbed at her eyes with a handkerchief. “Now stay warm, Miss Livvie. No sense letting that nasty wind carry you off.”

  “I’ll be sure to keep my feet firmly on the ground.” Lavinia turned and curtsied to his mother. “Lady Hawkesbury.”

  “Miss Ellison. Miss West.”

  Lavinia glanced at him and curtsied. “Thank you again, Lord Hawkesbury. I hope I haven’t been too much of a burden for you.”

  “Not at all.”

  “I’m sure you will appreciate some peace and quiet.”

  His heart tugged. Peace and quiet? Loneliness, rather.

  “Thank you, Hawkesbury.” Miss West stepped into the carriage, followed by Lily. “Come, Lavinia.”

  Nicholas assisted her inside. “Miss Ellison, I trust you’ll be sensible and refrain from any visits to the poor and needy until such time as you are fully recovered.”

  “I appreciate your trust in me, my lord.” Dancing eyes belied her meek words.

  He smothered a laugh by clearing his throat. “I’ll check on your progress tomorrow.”

  She settled into her seat and smiled down at him. “Until tomorrow.”

  “Until then, friend.” He closed the door and with a word to the coachman, stepped back and watched them drive away, schooling his features to something appropriate for the countenance of the seventh Earl of Hawkesbury—and to cover his dismay.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  THE MEMORY OF the earl’s farewell smile lingered, a pocket of sunshine in her heart, even as she received a welcome home that was everything a beloved daughter could wish for. Papa’s hug felt so much stronger. Hettie’s happy squeal could have been heard two counties over. Even Albert had a tear in his eye as he expressed thanks for her safe return. And throughout, that special light in her father’s eyes continued to glow.

  Lavinia traced the textures of the wallpaper, reacquainted herself with her mother’s paintings, the objects collected over the years, everything strange yet familiar. Here, love saturated every inch—unlike the Hall’s grandeur which made it most definitely a Hall, not yet a comfortable home. She touched the pianoforte keys, marveling that such a simple instrument could hold as
good a tone as the earl’s. She gazed out at a vista of gardens and hills. The scenes she had known all her life now seemed freshly painted. She said hello to chickens, roses, fruit trees. Everywhere seemed to sing a welcome.

  Hettie’s welcome-home dinner seemed to outdo even the meal served to the bishop last year, with its number of courses and delicacies on offer. When Lavinia protested, Hettie said it was mostly donations from the village: the squire had sent a pork, there were sweetmeats from the Winthrops, a berry pie from Eliza, on and on it went.

  “Everyone has been so kind already. I’ll be writing thank-you notes for a week!”

  “No doubt you will be called upon to give account for each food item as well.” Aunt Patience lifted her brow.

  “Then I shall attempt to do them justice, even if it seems enough will be left over for the next week.”

  And throughout the chatter and laughter ran a frisson of anticipation induced by the happy knowledge the Earl of Hawkesbury was coming to visit her on the morrow.

  AFTER A GOOD night’s sleep, Lavinia spent the morning in a state of nervous expectation. She attempted to read. Attempted to play the pianoforte. Attempted to draw. She even picked up the embroidery of long ago but that—unsurprisingly—could not hold her attention either.

  Papa looked up as she entered the drawing room—again—on the pretext of searching for a book. She felt his gaze as she stroked the leather bindings and as her thoughts refused to settle.

  “What is wrong, my child?’

  “Nothing, Papa.”

  “You seem anxious.” His brow furrowed. “Are you happy to be home?”

  “Of course!” She moved to kiss his cheek. “I am extremely happy to be back.”

  “Surely your time at the Hall was not unpleasant?”

  “No, not at all. The earl was kindness itself.”

  He nodded, his gray eyes watchful. “He has been most solicitous toward you.”

  The warmth in the earl’s gaze, in his smile, his insistence on being called Nicholas, that he was her friend … She swallowed, striving to hide the heat in her cheeks by pretending to look for a piece of music through the pile atop the pianoforte. “I’m sure he is like that with most people.”