Miss Wilton's Waltz

by Josi S. Kilpack

  All that angst seemed behind them now, and it was such a relief to be back to an easier, if not easy, relationship. He put out his arm and bowed to her somewhat dramatically. “Might I escort you home, m’lady?” he said in exaggerated tones.

  She looked at him as he straightened, then rolled her eyes and walked ahead. Sheepish, Aiden put down his arm and caught up with her, hoping no one had seen him be spurned by a child. Perhaps they had not overcome the difficulties as well as he’d hoped. He decided to act as though nothing had happened. “I enjoyed spending the evening with you, Catherine,” he said, trying to soften her a bit.

  “I think you mean that you enjoyed spending the evening with Miss Wilton.” She smiled with self-satisfaction as he startled.

  “I beg your pardon,” he said, truly stunned by the accusation.

  “You watch her,” Catherine said in a knowing voice.

  Aiden forced a laugh. “I do not watch her.”

  “Yes, you do,” she said. “You looked her direction sixteen times during the time between our arrival and going in to dinner. Then you looked her way two dozen times when she was playing the pianoforte.”

  “I don’t think that’s true,” Aiden said, still trying to chuckle, though it was hollow even to him. Had he watched her? Well, he’d noticed she glanced at the clock quite often. He was uncomfortable about Miss Wilton going out alone tonight, that was the reason. If indeed he glanced at her more often than was proper, he couldn’t tell Catherine that. And he hated that she’d noticed.

  “It is true,” Catherine said, assured of her certainty. She looked at him, her eyes dancing with mischief. “And she watches you, too. When you aren’t looking. Nervous, though—like you are the cat and she is the bird.”

  Aiden swallowed but managed to keep his smile in place. He rolled his eyes and shook his head, but he wanted to groan and ask what she meant. He certainly hadn’t noticed Miss Wilton watching him, but then he hadn’t noticed himself watching her either.

  “You are making up stories,” he finally said with a sigh. “If indeed she was watching me, it was surely to figure out how such a nice man could have a niece that caused so much trouble for her this week.” He ruffled her hair, and she pulled away and scowled at him. He felt that she was a tiny bit embarrassed about her behavior at school. Good.

  “And you looking at her?” Catherine said after a few minutes. She watched her shoes as she walked, her hands inside her pockets.

  “I do not think I did that.”

  She snapped her head up. “You did!” she said with accusation, and he realized that he’d inadvertently called her a liar.

  “All right,” he said, thinking of an explanation fast. “I might have noticed how different she looked tonight as compared to how she looked at the school when I first met her.” It had been surprising to see her in such different costumes, as though the woman underneath changed with each set of clothing. Though she didn’t, not really. The schoolteacher he’d spoken to on the riverbank Monday was the same woman he’d walked with yesterday—one who spoke her mind and did not simper beneath his dominance the way the woman in Mrs. Henry’s office had. She was a puzzle, this Miss Wilton, but he was not trying to solve her. Only ensure Catherine’s success. Any way he could.

  A wide smile split Catherine’s face, giving Aiden a niggling suspicion that he should have thought longer and harder before he answered. Sometimes talking to Catherine felt like handing over arrows she would store in her quiver for later.

  Aiden cleared his throat, determined to change the subject and wishing he’d done so earlier. “You seem to like Mrs. Simmons.”

  Catherine shrugged. Aiden clenched his teeth. “And we quite enjoyed hearing you play. You are quite talented. I was very proud of you.”

  She looked up at him, doubtful, then away without a word. What had earned him that look? That he was proud of her?

  “Did you enjoy performing?”

  She didn’t answer, running her fingers along the fence posts of a small park they passed on their way toward the bridge. “Yes,” she finally said.

  Aha, progress! “Is that your favorite piece—Greensleeves?”

  She shrugged.

  Heaven help me! He nearly commented on Miss Wilton’s playing—she was very good—but remembered that he did not want to bring her up. At all. In fact, he felt this entire conversation had run its course. He was not going to pander to Catherine for the duration of the walk.

  He put his hands in his pockets and began whistling under his breath, realizing after a minute that he was whistling one of the tunes Miss Wilton had played. Beethoven, he thought, but wasn’t sure. Though he could play the pianoforte, he didn’t. A decade in Jamaica without an instrument or reason to keep his skills sharp meant he had almost forgotten he had ever known how to play. He would like to try again, if he had the chance. Perhaps the ability would come back to him if he practiced.

  “How do you do that?”

  The softness of the question took him off guard, but he tried not to show his surprise as he looked down at Catherine, who was walking slower and looking up at him.

  “Do what?”

  “Whistle.”

  Was that sheepishness in her tone? He worked hard to keep from smiling too much.

  “Oh, well, the skill is a bit different for each person, but you, um—” He had to practice the right position with his tongue before he could explain it. “You put your tongue against your bottom teeth, then narrow your lips so only a small amount of air comes out.” He had to whistle a note to come up with the next instruction. “Then sort of lift your tongue a bit, but keep it against your teeth.” He whistled again.

  With an expression of deep concentration, she pursed her lips and blew, but did little more than blow spittle. She harrumphed, her fists clenched at her sides. She seemed to take any failing as a personal fault of character. He hurried to encourage her.

  “Good, you’ve got the position of your lips right,” he said, though he had no idea, really. “Hold them tighter together, try to flatten out the back of your tongue, and lift the center.”

  “That makes no sense at all!” she said and stormed forward. He caught up with her.

  “Giving up is what makes no sense, Catherine.” He was nervous as he spoke the words; it didn’t take much to make her turn on him. “Just keep practicing between here and home. No one can see you, and the only way to learn to whistle is to keep trying. I tried for years before I mastered the ability.”

  Actually, he’d learned from watching his brother—Catherine’s father. For the first ten years of his life, he’d wanted nothing more than to be like his older brother, but Edmund wanted nothing to do with a shadow, which left Aiden to observe and imitate as best he could. And he was a quick study. He’d learned to whistle like Edmund, dismount like Edmund, and even laugh like Edmund. Aiden’s admiration of his older brother had been endless, until he was ten years old.

  They had gone fishing—Aiden ecstatic to have an outing with his brother—only to have Edmund break Aiden’s pole and push him into the river. Aiden had thought it an accident, but Edmund had watched his brother with a strange smile, then walked away while Aiden sputtered and tried to call for help even as the water quickly swept him downstream. A fisherman nearly a mile downriver had pulled Aiden from the water, barely conscious and with his lungs filled with water. Edmund had claimed Aiden ran off, and Aiden did not dare tell his mother the truth.

  Aiden avoided his brother after that, and there had been no love lost on Edmund’s part, which made it all the more surprising when Aiden had received notice from the family solicitors that he had been granted guardianship of Catherine as well as named the custodian of the estate left to her until she married or reached the age of twenty-nine.

  At first Aiden had been angry that Edmund would take such liberties with Aiden’s future. He knew Aiden had meant to stay
in Jamaica and make a life for himself there. But after some time to come to terms with things, Aiden had accepted this change of circumstance. The truth was that he missed his homeland, missed the connection of family. Catherine was nearly all he had left, and he had felt driven to rise to his responsibility. How often since then had he wondered if Edmund’s decision had been rooted in his desire to torture his younger half-brother, even after death.

  Catherine pursed her lips together again, slowed her walk, and kept trying. Within a few yards, she made a single wisp of a whistle.

  “There,” Aiden said. “Now try to find that same position.”

  Catherine nodded quickly, her face bright and focused, and made another attempt but without the same success. For the rest of the walk home, Aiden encouraged her and prodded her forward. They had just reached the first house on their block when she made a clear whistle that lasted nearly a full second. Aiden applauded. Catherine grinned and whistled the rest of the way home. All in all, it had been a pleasant evening.

  They entered the house, met by Hyrum, the man-of-all-work Aiden had hired with the house. He helped them with their coats, and Aiden said good night to Catherine. He turned toward the parlor, where he planned to enjoy a glass of brandy before going out to meet Miss Wilton. The reminder sent a rush of heat through him as though he already had the drink in hand.

  He was simply doing the right thing, he told himself, and yet that did not explain the rush of pleasure he’d felt when she’d accepted his offer of escort. Nor the sensation he’d experienced just now. Surely all his awareness was due to his having forced her into helping him secure Catherine’s place at the school. They were a team, of sorts, both working toward the girl’s success. And it was such a relief to have another person involved in her care.

  He had lifted the decanter to pour when he thought of Miss Keighly. Wasn’t Miss Keighly involved in Catherine’s care? She was the one who had found Mrs. Henry’s school, after all, and sent the first letter of request for special consideration. Aiden hadn’t been particularly pleased that she had sent the letter without informing him, but it was easy to forgive when Mrs. Henry had responded with a willingness to explore the idea. He shook his head, not wanting to think on that. Tonight had been a success on many fronts—Catherine had showed how well-behaved she could be, Aiden had met other people here in Bath, which helped him feel more settled, and he felt that he and Miss Wilton had smoothed over some of the tension between them.

  A sound behind him made him turn so quickly that he sloshed brandy on the sleeve of his coat. He muttered a curse, then realized the interruption was Catherine. She smiled at having caught him using foul language. “You were supposed to go up to bed,” he said.

  “I’m not tired.”

  “You go back to the school in the morning, and it is nearly ten.” He glanced at the clock for confirmation. He would be meeting Miss Wilton in an hour. He looked back at his niece. “Tired or not, it is time to go to bed. Where is Paulette?”

  Catherine shrugged. Aiden let out a breath and replaced the decanter.

  “Come with me,” he said, heading toward the servants’ quarters, where the silly maid was surely flirting with Hyrum instead of tending to her responsibilities. Catherine needed to be in bed and asleep before he left. She was entirely too observant for her own good, and he did not relish her asking him any questions if she knew he’d gone out again.

  At five minutes till eleven, Lenora, dressed in her men’s clothing, slipped through her window, made her way to the street, and looked around. They had not discussed a time, but Mr. Asher had referenced eleven o’clock during their promenade Saturday morning, and she assumed he would comply with that.

  But maybe she was wrong and he wouldn’t be here. That might be the best of everything. She would have her walk alone and, should he call her out for it, she could explain that it was a misunderstanding regarding what time to meet. Yet she already felt more anxious knowing she was not as invisible as she’d believed she was before last week. She glanced around again, wondering if a dozen sets of eyes were following her. The idea made her shiver, but she lifted her chin and began walking toward the river.

  Within a few yards, Mr. Asher melted out of the shadows ahead of her but stayed close to the building where he’d been waiting. Lenora swallowed before moving toward him, her palms sweating. She was embarrassed to have him see her dressed this way, and also for allowing his escort. She felt as though she were admitting a weakness, and she was worn out from all the weakness she’d endured for so many years of her life. Being independent here in Bath had made her feel strong, and yet she’d agreed to let this man—this blackmailer—escort her as though she were a frightened little child.

  “Good evening,” she whispered when she reached him.

  He put a finger to his lips, then pointed in the direction of the river.

  She paused another moment, but then began walking, expecting him to fall in step beside her. Instead, he let her move several feet ahead before he followed. It seemed Mr. Asher was honoring her need for solitude, which was thoughtful of him.

  When she reached the wall behind the shops, she looked back at her silent escort, feeling as though she should say something but not knowing what. There was an odd kind of intimacy between them, and yet he hadn’t said a word or gotten within ten feet of her for the duration of their walk.

  Mr. Asher lifted his pipe in salute and waved her toward the stairs. He took one of the crates from a pile that hid the gate from the alley and turned it over for a seat.

  The briefest skiff of disappointment washed over her, knowing he would not be coming to the river, but she quickly quashed the regret. He shouldn’t come with her to the river. This was her time, her meditation, and if he were there, she would not get the full effect.

  She gave him a grateful nod—without a smile so as not to seem too grateful—then climbed ungracefully over the wall and moved down the stairs. At the riverbank, she brushed off the stone wall with the sleeve of her coat and took up her usual position of knees to chest and chin on knees. She stared at the water that glittered with the quarter moon as she’d known it would.

  She tried to review the last week and make a plan for how she would deal with Miss Manch in the coming one, but the man at the top of the stairs kept invading her thoughts. If she thought about him enough, would she understand why he cared so much about a niece who was so difficult? And was he becoming more handsome each time she saw him, or was that simply a trick of her imagination?

  Lenora divulged Miss Manch’s illiteracy at the teacher meeting Tuesday morning. The writing teacher admitted to having suspected the same thing, but she’d been unable to test it as Catherine had manipulated her way out of both assignments the week before.

  “The girl is smart,” Madame Hargreaves, the French teacher, said. “Her memorization skills are sound. And, truly, she has not been difficult for me.” She shrugged, but could not hide how pleased she was to have good behavior from the girl every other teacher struggled with. Since memorization was the focus of beginning French, rather than writing or reading the language, it wasn’t surprising to Lenora that Miss Manch had done well in that class. She was smart. Too smart in some ways.

  “Yes, her memorization is excellent,” Lenora said, wishing she wasn’t so nervous about leading this discussion. She was usually on the listening end of these meetings. “She’s a gifted musician despite being unable to read a single note.”

  “She’s been a terror for me,” Miss Carlyle said, her eyes magnified by her thick glasses. “She stabbed me with a needle yesterday.” She held up a finger as though they could see the pinprick. “She does not like needlework and is very agitated by the time our hour is up.”

  “Which explains why she’s always in such a state when she arrives in my classroom.” Miss Bowman taught etiquette. “She’s been difficult but not impossible. She’s been taught manners, which mak
es her far above some of my other students who don’t know their salad fork from a curtsy. I think it helps that we are always moving and practicing things. Some students are better with action than with lecture or recitation.”

  Miss Carlyle shifted in her chair, apparently displeased with the remark since needlepoint could be considered an active class.

  Mrs. Henry listened to everyone’s comments, then turned toward the writing teacher. “Miss Grimes, would you be willing to implement the skill-building methods you used for Miss Jonavin a few years ago?”

  Miss Jonavin was before Lenora’s time, but she’d heard of the girl. She was slow-witted, but her older sisters had attended Mrs. Henry’s institute, and their parents had begged Mrs. Henry to allow their youngest daughter to attend as a day student. By the time Miss Jonavin finished her fourth year, she was improved beyond what anyone had expected and now served as a companion to her grandmother in London. She was an example of what effort and dedication could bring about. However, all accounts indicated that Miss Jonavin was sweet and eager to please both her teachers and her parents.

  “I could help Miss Manch build her skills,” Miss Grimes said with reluctance. “But I would need one-on-one time to implement the exercises. I only taught three hours when Miss Jonavin was a student here, and now I teach five. Beyond that, I feel Miss Manch rather undeserving of special attention. We are not a school that caters to misbehavior.”

  “Illiteracy is not misbehavior,” Mrs. Henry said.

  “Being incorrigible and disruptive certainly is. Why are we so determined to give this girl additional attention? We’ve dismissed other students for far less serious offenses than what she has already shown in barely a week.”

  Mrs. Henry and Lenora exchanged a glance. Miss Grimes had a point. That Mrs. Henry had trusted Lenora with the truth tugged at Lenora’s loyalty. Mrs. Henry had her reasons to make exceptions for Miss Manch, and Lenora had her own.