He did know, all too well, and it was becoming quite clear that he needed to sit down with Seton and obtain a full report of exactly what had been going on in his absence. “And where are the boys now?” he asked Mrs. Richmond.
“Kitchen garden,” she said promptly, waving a floury hand in that direction, and Jamie turned to start down the corridor for the back door. “Setting off a volcano.”
Jamie stopped and took a step back to stare at her through the doorway, not certain he’d heard that right. “I beg your pardon?”
“That’s what they said, my lord. They built a volcano and they’re going to make it erupt, they said.”
“And you let them?” he asked, his dismay deepening as various scenarios of disaster ran through his mind. “Good God, Mrs. Richmond, didn’t the firecrackers demonstrate that the twins can’t be trusted with anything that explodes?”
“Erupts, sir,” she corrected. “They’re making it erupt.”
“Yes, yes, all right,” he conceded impatiently. “Either way, I can’t believe you raised no objection to this—” He paused as another thought struck him. “But where is Seton? Why the devil isn’t he putting a stop to this?”
“Put a stop to it? Oh no, my lord. He’s helping them make it. It’s a—now, what did Mr. Seton call it, Samuel?”
“A scientific experiment,” the footman replied as he took up the now-empty coal bucket and rose to his feet.
“That’s it,” the cook said and resumed rolling dough. “Although it didn’t look very impressive to me. Just a big, gray lump when I saw it.”
Scientific experiment or no, an erupting volcano seemed as fraught with hazard as firecrackers. Given what he’d been hearing about slop water and slugs and having seen for himself just how hapless Seton had proved to be at a simple game of Cowboys and Indians, Jamie decided he’d better investigate this scientific experiment for himself.
When he reached the kitchen garden, however, he found to his relief that nothing was on fire and nothing was erupting—at least, not yet. Seton and the boys were kneeling on a tarp laid in one of the garden’s now-fallow vegetable beds, with their science experiment between them. The volcano seemed to have been painted, for it was no longer the big gray lump Mrs. Richmond had described. Now it was brownish-black in color, with red streaks down the sides, representing—he could only assume—streaks of lava. The volcano reposed on a tray, black pebbles piled all around it, along with a few small twigs and bits of lichen to represent trees and grass.
“But how are you going to make it erupt?” Colin was asking as Jamie approached unnoticed, observing them over the garden’s low brick wall.
“I’m not going to do it,” Seton said, rising up on his knees, a jar in each hand. “You are.”
This news was met with exclamations of excitement, and Jamie, concerned but not sure he wanted to interrupt, paused by the garden gate. Leaning down, he folded his arms on top of the brick wall and continued to watch, prepared to jump in if disaster occurred.
“Now, Colin,” Seton said, “you will take that pitcher of hot water there and pour all of it into the volcano. Owen, once he’s done that, you will add three drops of the soap, six drops of the red dye, and three drops of the yellow, please.”
When Seton instructed the twins to add a quantity of bicarbonate to their experiment, vague memories of Jamie’s own childhood lessons in chemistry came back to him, and when the boys were told to add vinegar to the mixture, he understood what was coming.
The “eruption” was immediate, and so was the reaction of the twins. Jamie grinned as the boys scrambled back from their creation with squeals of delighted astonishment as bright orange foam poured from the top of the volcano and spilled down the sides. It did look rather like molten lava, and though the tutors at Harrow would never have chosen such an unorthodox method for demonstrating a chemical reaction, Seton’s volcano certainly made a much more exciting show than any ordinary glass beaker would have provided.
Pat, Jamie thought, would have loved it.
Science had been her passion, and she’d adored mucking about with chemicals and doing various experiments. She ought to be here now, vibrant and alive and making volcanoes with her boys, not lying in the cold, damp earth of a churchyard grave.
Suddenly, he felt the emptiness—that big, dark space that had been inside him ever since he could remember, a void filled for all too brief a time by the warmth and laughter of a freckle-faced girl.
His eyes stung. Blinking, he looked away, hating that he knew how it felt to have a heart in his chest instead of a gaping hole. He wished he’d never known. Then perhaps having that heart ripped out of him three years ago wouldn’t have hurt so much.
“Papa!”
Colin’s voice rang out, and then both boys were coming toward him at a run, and Jamie ducked his head, savagely dabbing a thumb and forefinger at his eyes so they would not see as he moved toward the garden gate. By the time the boys reached him, his eyes were dry, his face—he hoped—impassive.
He caught both boys up at once, lifting one under each arm as if hefting sacks of potatoes, making them laugh as he carried them through the gate and across the garden to where Seton was standing by their science project.
“We thought you were gone to Yorkshire,” Colin cried, still laughing as he set them on their feet again.
“I was, but I changed my mind.” He nodded a greeting to the tutor, then glanced at the volcano, which was still oozing a bit of orange foam from the top. “Conducting science experiments, I gather?”
“We made a volcano erupt, Papa,” Owen told him.
“Yes, so I saw. Pretty amazing, what?”
“It was! Mr. Seton says it’s because vinegar and bicarbonate make carbon dioxide gas when you mix them together. And the soap with the gas makes the foam. We dyed it to look like lava.”
“Did you come to help us, Papa?” Colin asked.
“Alas, no. I have business to conduct this afternoon—”
Groans of disappointment from both boys interrupted him, but it was Colin who spoke first. “You’re just back. How can you have business? You always have business,” he added accusingly before Jamie could reply.
Guilt pricked him, and he looked away. “It’s tragic, I know,” he said lightly. “Believe me, I’d prefer to remain here, making volcanoes erupt with you.”
Before either of the boys could attempt to persuade him to that course, however, he turned to their tutor and spoke again. “Mr. Seton, might I have a word with you ere I go?”
Seton’s dark hazel eyes widened a fraction, in apprehension or surprise, Jamie couldn’t be certain, but the younger man nodded readily enough. “Of course, my lord,” he said, brushing dirt from his knees before turning to the twins.
“Colin, Owen,” he said, “I want the two of you to take everything back to the kitchen and wait for me there. I’ll be along shortly. While you wait, you will begin recording in your science journals everything we did to build our volcano and make it erupt, including precise measurements of all the chemicals we used and a description of the reaction we obtained.”
To Jamie’s surprise, the boys moved to comply with these instructions without any protest and only a bit of a squabble over who would have the honor of carrying their creation. Once Seton had settled the matter by charging Colin, as the eldest, with responsibility for their science project, the twins folded up the tarp, gathered the various vials they had used, and adjourned to the house with their volcano in a fashion that was almost agreeable.
“Miracles never cease,” Jamie murmured, watching them go.
“My lord?”
“Nothing.” He turned his attention back to the tutor. “I was simply enjoying this rare moment of domestic peace and accord.”
“Moment is probably right.” Seton raked back the longer locks of hair that had fallen over his forehead, giving Jamie a rueful look. “We’ll see how long it lasts.”
“Are you saying it won’t?”
“W
ith children around, domestic peace never lasts, I’m afraid.”
“I daresay you’re right. I’m curious how you intend to manage them when the next skirmish breaks out.”
Seton gave him a cheeky grin. “I have my methods.”
He raised a brow. “Polishing silver?”
The grin faded from the tutor’s youthful, gamine face. “You don’t approve.”
“I am hardly in a position to disapprove,” Jamie countered dryly. “And though I’m not sure their efforts with the silver will pass muster with Mrs. Richmond, I realize that they must be punished for misdeeds.”
“Not punished,” the tutor corrected at once. “I prefer not to use that word. It implies cruelty. Suffice it to say, all actions have consequences, and that is the lesson they must learn, one they have failed to learn in the past.”
“You don’t hesitate to speak your mind, do you, Seton? That wasn’t a criticism,” he added before the other man could reply. “Merely an observation. And rather along the lines of what I wanted to speak with you about.” He gestured to the path. “Shall we?”
They started toward the house, and Jamie went on, “I do appreciate your philosophy of disciplining them when they misbehave, and I recognize the need for it. But I do have concerns and questions.”
“Of course.”
“I would like to discuss them, as well as hear what sort of curriculum you have planned in the coming year and what goals you hope to achieve. I shall be in for dinner this evening, and I would like you to join me after you’ve put the boys to bed, so we can discuss these matters.”
“Dinner?” The lad stopped on the path, turning to give Jamie a confounded stare. “Dinner?”
“Yes, Mr. Seton, dinner,” Jamie replied, stopping as well, and he couldn’t help being amused at the younger man’s continued blank stare. “The final meal of the day, served at some point between tea and bedtime, usually around eight o’clock.”
“It’s quite kind of you, but—”
“If you manage to be here for long, Mr. Seton, you’ll come to appreciate that I’m not the sort to do things out of mere kindness. As I said, I want to discuss the boys, and since I’m free this evening—which is, I assure you, a rarity—I thought dinner would be a suitable time for that discussion.”
Seton shifted his weight and looked away, clearly uncomfortable. “I believe it’s customary for a tutor to take his meals with his pupils,” he muttered, and resumed walking.
“So it is, usually,” Jamie replied, falling in step beside him, “but I think we can make an exception.”
They reached the door that led from the back garden into the house before Seton could reply, and since the younger man had arrived a step ahead of him, Jamie took it for granted that he would open the door, but unexpectedly, the tutor stepped to one side and turned toward him in an oddly expectant fashion.
That took him back a little, but then Seton spoke, and Jamie’s impression that the younger man had expected him to open the door faded as he realized the tutor’s true purpose in stopping.
“I appreciate your interest in what I’m teaching the boys,” he said, “but it’s hardly necessary to devote an entire meal to a conversation about it.”
“But we both must eat, Mr. Seton. And I think it is necessary, for I need to learn more about your teaching methods, and about you.”
“Me?” He looked a bit alarmed by the prospect, and though Jamie was now fairly sure the other man wasn’t about to take off with his sons and hold them for ransom, he found Seton’s hesitation a bit worrisome.
“You will be exerting a great deal of influence over my sons during the coming two years. I would have thought you’d welcome the opportunity to reassure me as to your character.”
“I do welcome it,” the lad said at once. “Of course I do.”
It was a fervent assurance, yet not particularly convincing. Seton sensed the fact, for he spoke again. “It’s just that . . . I’m not . . . I mean . . .” He paused, squirming like a cat on hot bricks, his cheeks as pink as a girl’s. “I don’t go into society much,” he mumbled after a moment.
How terribly young he is, Jamie thought, sympathy mingling with amusement as he noted the lad’s flushed cheeks and nervous manner. His own youth seemed like a long time ago, but he could still recall how awful it was to be seventeen. “We’re just two bachelors having a meal,” he said gently. “It’s not as if you’ll be dining at Buckingham Palace, you know.”
“No, my lord.” His voice was faint, with perhaps a hint of panic in it, but he seemed to realize for himself how out of proportion such a reaction was to a simple invitation to dinner, for he gave a cough and spoke again, more heartily this time. “I accept your invitation, of course. Thank you, my lord.”
“You needn’t look as if you’re bracing yourself for your execution, Mr. Seton. I shan’t be calling you on the carpet for what happened this afternoon, if that’s your fear. Quite the opposite, for I have now seen for myself that you were right.”
“I was?” The younger man blinked, seeming too confounded by this seemingly inexplicable concession to be pleased by it. “Right about what?”
“You are a good teacher.”
Seton stared at him for a moment as if that was the last thing he’d expected to hear. Then, suddenly, he smiled, a wide smile that lit up his entire face, softening the severe, finely cut lines of jaw and cheekbone, reminding Jamie again of how young the fellow was, and how vulnerable.
He felt a sudden, protective instinct rising in him, one he recognized at once—the need to defend and shield from harm those who might not be quite up to defending themselves. It was a feeling akin to what he often experienced if he saw one of the boys take a tumble or have a nightmare, and yet, it wasn’t precisely the same.
Jamie stared, striving to define the feeling more precisely, but then, Seton’s smile vanished, and the feeling slipped away, making him realize how absurd it had been. His only duty to this young man was to be a fair employer. Besides, Seton was an intelligent chap who, despite his youth, had seemingly lived in the world long enough to take care of himself. What need had he for Jamie’s protection?
The younger man stirred, looking away, making Jamie realize he’d been staring, and he quickly spoke again.
“I hope that’s settled then?” he asked, reaching for the knob and opening the door. “I shall see you this evening at eight. And don’t worry any more about putting on your Sunday manners,” he added over his shoulder as he stepped across the threshold into the servants’ corridor. “I’m far more interested in turning your life inside out than I am how you hold your knife and fork.”
Amanda watched Lord Kenyon’s back as he walked away, his last words echoing through her head like harbingers of doom and erasing the all-too-brief moment of exaltation she’d enjoyed over his compliment to her teaching abilities.
. . . turning your life inside out . . .
Amanda closed the door, then leaned her back against the wood, a knot of apprehension forming in her stomach at the thought of having dinner with him.
She’d expected a thorough interrogatory before being hired, of course. She’d prepared for that, and though her infamous past had necessitated several crucial deceptions, she’d striven to stick to the truth as much as possible. But she hadn’t thought Lord Kenyon would take much further interest in her once she’d begun her job as long as she did it well. Most fathers didn’t bother much about their children and were quite happy to leave the care of them in the hands of wives, nannies, tutors, and governesses. Indeed, during the year she’d lived with the Bartlett family, Sir Oswald had never once inquired about his daughters’ lessons, and only rarely about their welfare. At Willowbank, she could count on one hand the number of fathers who had visited their daughters or taken them for outings. And from what she’d observed thus far, Lord Kenyon certainly didn’t seem a more attentive father than the average.
Still, he was within his rights to make inquiries of her anytime he liked,
and she’d better be prepared with satisfactory answers. If he found anything about her odd or out of place, he might start digging more deeply into her life, and that would be disastrous. The life of Adam Seton, though good enough to pass muster in an interview, would hardly bear up under a more thorough investigation.
She thought she’d have some breathing room while Lord Kenyon was in Yorkshire, time and space to rehearse her new role and practice living life as a man before she was put under any serious scrutiny. The boys, after all, were only ten, and weren’t likely to be aware of any subtle differences between their current tutor and the various other men of their acquaintance. Children, bless them, were much more inclined than adults to take things at face value. No, any mistakes she made wouldn’t likely be perceived by the boys.
As for the two servants in the house, they were probably quite relieved to return to their own duties and leave the boys fully in a tutor’s care, and they wouldn’t be likely to notice much either during the brief moments when they brought meals to the nursery or she took the boys down to the kitchens for a round of disciplinary scrubbing.
Lord Kenyon, however, was a different matter. His unexpected return and invitation to dinner left her no time to practice or prepare. She imagined those clear green eyes studying her over a dining table, and her stomach tightened, the apprehension inside her deepening into dread. Those eyes, she’d wager, didn’t miss much.
And she’d already made at least two mistakes in front of him. During her initial interview, she’d almost reached for her handbag before remembering that she no longer carried that useful little item. And just a few moments ago, she’d stopped by the door here and waited for him to open it, something a man, however young and gauche he might be, would never do. He’d noticed that, she knew, and his puzzled frown told her he’d thought it odd. She was reasonably sure she’d covered her gaffe well enough, but knew she couldn’t afford to make another one in front of him.
That fact meant dinner would be fraught with danger. A prolonged meal required a great deal of conversation, not only the sort of an employer probing into his employee’s life, but also the sort of manly conversation no woman was ever privy to. That, she appreciated, left her every bit as vulnerable to discovery as any discussions about her past, because there was no way to anticipate what might come up. What did men talk about among themselves? Port vintages? Horse racing? Football? Politics? She had no idea.
Governess Gone Rogue Page 10
