by Regina Scott
It struck her suddenly that worse than her own situation was Dottie’s. The head mistress would be sure to withdraw all privileges, and none of the other teachers would dare give Dottie the attention she needed. The child was once more alone at the school. And this time there was nothing Eleanor could do about it.
“Do other schools accept kittens?” Dottie asked hopefully.
Eleanor glanced down at the black kitten who wriggled in her arms. Jingles glared up at her in high dudgeon. Smiling at his utter ferocity, she bent to let him free on the hardwood floor. He scampered away, losing his footing with every other step on the polished wood, until he fetched up against the far wall. There he sat, as if he had intended to arrive at that position all along, and began licking his paw. The king was graciously allowing his subjects a moment to converse in private before attending to his needs. She should be suitably grateful.
The antics of the eight-week-old kitten, the runt of the litter Farmer Hale had called him, had never failed to raise Eleanor’s spirits. Now her smile faded into despair. How was she to find a position with no recommendation, limited funds, and a small black kitten?
As if she had followed Eleanor’s thoughts, Dottie spoke up. “You must take him to my Uncle Justinian. He’ll know what to do.”
Eleanor started. Face Justinian again? She wasn’t sure she had the strength. She had carefully avoided the public sitting room whenever he called on Dottie. Even ten years later, she had not forgotten the shy, gentle young man with whom she had fallen in love. The earl his father had made it clear when he had sent her back to the school in shame that she had no right to tell his son good-day. She could hardly go now and ask him something as important as what to do about her future. It had been all she could do to convince the late earl to keep from having her turned out then and there for her brazen behavior. A penniless nobody, daring to love a Darby? Perish the thought!
“Somehow I don’t think your uncle can help me, Dottie,” she replied as gently as she could.
“Uncle Justinian helps everyone,” Dottie corrected her. “He might even have a post for you himself.”
“Your uncle is still a bachelor, I believe,” Eleanor tried tactfully. “He’ll hardly have use for a governess or a nanny.”
“Take Jingles to him,” Dottie insisted. “He’ll know what to do.”
Perhaps he might at that, Eleanor thought suddenly. At the very least, the staff of Wenworth Place might be prevailed upon to keep the kitten for Dottie, leaving Eleanor with one less impediment to finding another post. She could go to the kitchen door. She wouldn’t even have to see Justinian. And perhaps she could mention to Mr. Faringil, if he was still the butler, that Dottie might need a different school after her confrontation with the volatile head mistress. Perhaps she could even convince him to ask Justinian to bring the girl home. It would certainly ease her mind knowing that Dottie and the kitten were well cared for.
She bent and hugged the girl. “All right, dear. I’ll take the kitten to your uncle. Don’t worry. Everything will come out fine.”
Chapter Two
Justinian Darby, the recently declared ninth Earl of Wenworth, stared at the stack of papers his steward had brought him and sighed. He couldn’t help glancing at the credenza next to the doors to the patio. Raindrops reflected in the cover of a small leather-wrapped portfolio. With the work before him, it would be days if not weeks before he could touch his writing again. He ran his hands back through his hair and bowed his head. How had his brother managed all this and still found time to gallivant all over the Continent? The answer lay before him: his brother had sadly neglected the estates and now Justinian was left to pick up the pieces.
It was hard to be angry with a man who had died in his prime with his devoted wife beside him. He missed Adam and Helena terribly. But the truth of the matter was that Adam had had the training and personality to be a great earl had he chosen to be. And Justinian had the disciplined mind and introspective personality to be exactly what he had planned to be, a scholar. It was duty that found him over a hundred miles from his beloved Oxford, wrestling with matters of enclosures and harvests rather than the lofty realms of literature and philosophy.
Everywhere he looked he found more problems awaiting his attention. His younger brother, Alexander, had refused to resign his commission after the war, staying on in France while their mother despaired of seeing him again. His youngest brother, Jareth, had set himself on the path of a wastrel and just as firmly refused to be pried from the pleasure dens of London. Neither had even returned home for Adam’s funeral. He could count on them only to provide additional headaches.
His niece Dorothea seemed unsettled in the Barnsley School, although he understood from his mother that the girl had been happy there before her parents died. The seven times he had visited over the last three months, he had noted only minor improvements, all of which could be attributed to the child’s fondness for her literature teacher. The head mistress had been adamant that it was inappropriate for him to thank Dottie’s “Miss Eleanor,” as the woman was only doing her job. However, even with her thoughtful efforts, Dottie still appeared tired and depressed to him. She had never spent much time with her parents, yet she seemed to be missing them more than he did.
Upstairs, his mother was nearly an invalid and relied on him for all companionship. He had attempted to get her to hire someone, but she told him in no uncertain terms that she vastly preferred the company of family to that of strangers, however kind or well trained. Dr. Praxton, the local physician, assured him she was healthy enough to rise from the bed if she chose, yet she refused, and nothing Justinian had said or done since becoming earl had persuaded her otherwise.
From the few reports he had uncovered in the little-used library, the estate was also in dire straights. The levees on the River Wen, which flowed along the southern boundary, were crumbling. Unless he devised a plan to shore them up, his crops would be ruined and all his tenants would be flooded from their homes next spring. Of course, that might be a blessing, as these latest reports showed that the houses were in ill repair and barely habitable. His logic told him there was simply too many tasks for one man. A smaller part of him urged him to flee for the halls of Oxford and never look back.
Someone moved silently into his peripheral vision. He did not have to look up to guess it was Faringil, his butler. He stifled another sigh, trying once again to find an ounce of patience for the man. Faringil had the dignity and bearing of the butler to a great earldom. His thick hair, now a snowy white, was always pomaded in place. His posture was erect, his gaze serene. When he looked down his bent nose and set his thin lips together, the other servants scurried to do his bidding.
However, Justinian had only recently noticed how utterly deferential the man could be. Faringil entered a room as if he tiptoed toward a death bed, gliding to a spot just to one corner of his master and waiting patiently to be noticed. He paused respectfully before speaking and waited to be granted permission to continue. Both habits only served to further Justinian’s frustrations.
“Yes?” Justinian dutifully asked.
“Sorry to disturb you, my lord.”
Justinian waited. The butler waited as well. Justinian grit his teeth and took a deep breath. “What is it, Faringil?”
“There is a woman at the door,” the butler replied calmly. “She claims to be from the Barnsley School.”
A sense of foreboding struck Justinian, and he rose, dreading his butler’s next words. “Has something happened to Dottie?”
“I do not believe so, my lord,” Faringil replied with measured calm, and Justinian felt himself relax. The butler’s next statement only served to make him tense again. “However, the woman appears to be ill and isn’t very coherent.”
Justinian frowned. If it were merely another request for donations, he would have had Faringil refer the woman to his steward. However, if Faringil wasn’t certain the woman wasn’t here about Dottie, he should probably handle the matter h
imself. “I’ll see her, then. Is she in the sitting room?”
Faringil wrinkled his nose, making him look a bit like a rabbit. “Certainly not, my lord. I would not bring an ill person into the house, not with her ladyship’s delicate constitution.”
“My mother is safely in her room, a story above us,” Justinian replied. “Somehow I doubt any infection could pass through the floor to reach her.”
“Yes, my lord, of course,” Faringil said, but Justinian knew the butler was placating him. Annoyed more than he should be, he allowed the man to lead him back through the corridors to the kitchen, where the woman waited.
Eleanor huddled miserably on the oak bench that stood in the many-windowed breezeway between the back coaching yard and the kitchen. For the fourth time since setting out from the Barnsley School she wondered what had possessed her to agree to take the kitten this far. True, it was only five miles across the fields from the school to the house’s rear door, but she somehow hadn’t reckoned on the rain. She also hadn’t reckoned on the sodden state of the fields or the fact that she had to walk the whole way with all her possessions in a carpet bag Miss Lurkin had been persuaded to part with and carrying a black kitten who only wanted to escape. He had actually slipped through her grip twice, forcing her to drop the bag and prevent him from conquering the muddy grain. As a result, she was soaked, filthy, and thoroughly tired.
Mr. Faringil had not recognized her, which she supposed was something for which to be grateful. Unfortunately, the man had also been unable to comprehend what she was asking and had gone off to seek assistance. To make matters worse, she seemed to have developed a sudden case of the sniffles.
Jingles poked his head out of her cloak, where she had put him for safe-keeping, and rubbed his wet head against her chin. She sneezed six times in rapid succession. For once, she succeeded in startling the little tyrant, sending the kitten cowering back under her cloak. Unfortunately, the sneezes did her no more good, leaving her feeling bleary eyed and exhausted.
Something moved in her peripheral vision, and she grabbed her bosom to make sure Jingles hadn’t gotten farther than her waist. She was certain kitten claws could do no damage to the flagstone floor at her feet, but she wasn’t going to take any chances that Lord Wenworth might take the kitten in dislike. She felt the comforting wiggle in her lap and patted him through her sodden cloak.
Someone cleared a throat. Looking up, she saw that Mr. Faringil had returned with a tall gentleman. Even though her eyes refused to focus, her heart told her who it was. Clutching the kitten to her, she rose and dropped an unsteady curtsey. Her only hope was that he might not recognize her any more than the butler had.
Justinian stared at the apparition before him. From the light brown hair escaping her limp straw bonnet to the hem of her serviceable brown cloak, she was dripping wet. Her half boots and the bottom quarter of the cloak were caked with mud and leaves, and dead grass flecked her slender figure to her waist. Although she kept her head bowed as she rose from her curtsey, he could hear her sniffing and had no doubt that her eyes would be as red as the pert nose he had glimpsed.
Eleanor could not resist a quick glance up at him, blinking her eyes to focus them. She had always thought Justinian Darby handsome. Ten years had hardened the youthful face into clean lines of maturity. But the heroic aspects that had attracted her in the first place were still there. He had shared her love of literature, and she remembered thinking that he embodied so many of the traits common to the heroes of old. His hair was as tawny and thick as Samson’s must have been. His brow was a wide and as thoughtful as surely King Arthur’s had been, and his eyes were a gray as deep and sharp as those she would imagine belonged to Merlin. His shoulders were broad, his waist narrow, and his legs long enough to resemble any god in the Greek pantheon. At the moment, all of him was clothed in the immaculate black of mourning.
“Lord Wenworth,” she said breathlessly and had the misfortune to start sneezing again, seven times in a row.
When she sniffed her way to silence once again, she found the butler staring at her in alarm and Justinian frowning. Whether it was concern or annoyance, she couldn’t tell.
Justinian was certain he knew the woman before him. It did not seem possible, for the young lady he had known ten years ago would surely have married and left the school by now. In fact, he had long ago resigned himself to the fact that he would never see her again. He tried once more to get a better look at her, but she proved adept at avoiding his gaze.
“Faringil,” he said, “will you introduce the young lady?”
Faringil shook himself and collected his bearing. “Of course, my lord. Justinian Darby, ninth Earl of Wenworth, may I present Miss Aledor Brigid.”
Eleanor winced. No doubt that was exactly what she sounded like with this infernal sniffing. Still, it was probably better if she did not correct him.
To her surprise, Justinian bowed deeply, and she was afraid he knew the truth. “Miss Brigid,” he said in a voice that was as deep and comforting as she remembered, “an honor to make your acquaintance. If I’m not mistaken, it’s Miss Eleanor, isn’t it? You are my niece’s literature teacher.”
Eleanor nodded, swallowing around the scratch in her throat. “Yes, that’s right.” She told herself she should be glad he didn’t recognize her and ordered the part of her that was hurt to be silent.
Justinian also ignored that part of him that fell with disappointment that it was not his Norrie after all. The last thing he needed right now was a romantic entanglement. “I’ve heard a great deal about you from my niece.” He smiled politely. “What can I do for the school today?”
Inside her cloak, Jingles squirmed, reminding her of why she was here. She pulled him gingerly into the light. Faringil recoiled as if she had pulled out a bludgeon. She opened her mouth to explain, and her nose exploded again. The rapid succession of sneezes doubled her, and with a surge of panic, she realized the kitten was dropping from her grip. She snatched at him, but two large, long-fingered hands came between her and the little animal. By the time she could recover, Justinian was staring down at the black ball of matted fur that crouched in his open hands, hissing in annoyance.
“It’s a kitten,” she offered.
The kitten returned Justinian’s stare with unblinking yellow eyes. He stopped hissing and cocked his head. Justinian had the strange sensation that his soul was being examined and felt an absurd surge of relief when the kitten nodded approval.
Eleanor felt a similar relief. “He likes you,” she noted. “I’m so glad. Dottie was hoping you might be willing to keep him for her. There is a policy against pets at the school.” There, she’d made it sound like a logical turn of events rather than the tragedy it had nearly turned out to be.
The kitten rose with the obvious intention of exploring the palms of Justinian’s hands, and he turned to offer the little animal to Faringil. The butler took a step back, blinking, then seemed to recall his duty. With a sigh, he accepted the kitten, holding it at arms length so that its muddy back feet dangled. Jingles’ ears went back.
Justinian frowned at his butler before turning to Eleanor. “Of course we’ll keep the kitten for Dottie,” he replied. “Please assure my niece that . . .” he paused with upraised brow.
“Jingles,” Eleanor offered helpfully.
“Jingles will be well taken care of and waiting for her when she comes home at the end of the month for Christmas.”
Eleanor’s smile froze. She’d love to be able to tell Dottie exactly that, but she wasn’t very likely to be allowed inside the door of the school again in the near future. Besides, if he went to visit soon, perhaps Dottie would confess how unhappy she was and he would be moved to take action. “Thank you,” she replied. “But perhaps you could tell her yourself? I know she would love to see you.”
The noble brow clouded, and Eleanor knew she had gone too far. No Darby ever accepted suggestions from anyone outside their exalted social circle. She had thought she’d learned th
at lesson on her first visit to Wenworth Place.
Justinian grit his teeth to keep from offering a sharp rejoinder. How dare the woman imply that he was neglecting his niece! She clearly had no idea of the work he was forced to do. It wasn’t as if he had time to visit even once a week. The kitten hissing in Faringil’s grip suddenly seemed like one more burden.
“Christmas will be here soon enough, Miss Brigid,” he replied coldly. “Now, if you’re quite finished, I must see to other matters.”
His tone left no question in Eleanor’s mind that those matters were far more important than a small black kitten and a wet, impertinent school teacher. She hurriedly dropped another curtsey as he turned away. Be thankful he took the kitten, she told herself firmly. You have no right to expect more. Remember your place.
Justinian paused, catching sight of a bedraggled carpet bag sitting in a puddle of water near the door. Had the woman walked all this way with the kitten in the bag? “Faringil?”
“My lord?” This time the butler’s step forward was quick enough even though he had to juggle the kitten in his grip.
“Have the carriage brought around to return Miss Brigid to the school.”
“That won’t be necessary,” Eleanor put in before the butler could promise to comply. As two pairs of inquisitive eyes turned in her direction, she struggled to think of some logical reason why she wouldn’t be returning. “I’m not going back to the school,” she hedged. “I’m . . . I’m returning home . . . to York . . . on holiday. Yes, for Christmas.” She felt the guilt of the lie as much as she felt the tickle in her nose, but she couldn’t bear to have Justinian know she had been disgracefully dismissed.
He glanced out the multipane windows, noting how the day was rapidly darkening. “It is late. You’ll never make Wenwood before nightfall. Faringil?”
“My lord?” The answer was not quite so swift. The butler had made the mistake of pulling the kitten closer and was now engaged in a battle over the possession of the top button of his waistcoat. The kitten’s claws were firmly imbedded in the patterned satin on either side of the gleaming metal button and his tiny teeth nipped at the Darby crest. What the king wanted, he generally got.
