A Lady's Dream Come True

by Grace Burrowes

  “He’s six years old, Forester. You don’t actually use that thing on him, do you?”

  Forester smiled. “Mostly as a threat, and thank God it’s effective in that capacity. The boy has a stubborn streak.”

  Mostly as a threat. Oak disliked the sound of that, but then, he wasn’t a tutor combatting the unscholarly impulses of a little boy. He was an artist.

  “I will have your pupil back in two or three hours,” Oak said, pausing at the schoolroom door, “but might you consider addressing him as Master Alexander? You insist on proper deportment from him, you should at least show him the courtesy of proper address, shouldn’t you? Children learn by example.”

  Forester picked up the old birch rod in the corner and whipped it through the air a few times. “Master Alexander. When he masters something—anything—I’ll happily refer to him as such. How’s that?” Whip, whip.

  That was an infantile display of contrariness, but Oak had made his point. Alexander met him in the corridor, and it was all Oak could do not to put the little fellow on the polished bannister and show him what long staircases were truly meant for when a small boy’s day needed some excitement.

  Perhaps another time.

  “Mr. Dorning has taken Master Alexander with him into Bathboro,” Bracken said, setting a tea tray at Vera’s elbow.

  “He has?” Vera occasionally took Alexander to the village, though not since Jeremy had joined the household.

  “Mr. Dorning’s effects have arrived from Dorset, and he was eager to retrieve them. I gave him to understand that you would support this plan.” Bracken stepped back. “I hope I did not misguide the artist in residence?”

  Yesterday, Oak had taken Alexander for a walk without asking anybody’s permission. Why shouldn’t he take the child into the village?

  “I can’t imagine Mr. Forester was pleased with this development.” Vera did not particularly want any tea, but rather than hurt Bracken’s feelings, she poured herself a cup and dutifully sipped.

  Bracken withdrew a wilting pink rose from among a bouquet on the mantel. “Mr. Forester predicted that the end times would soon be upon us if Master Alexander was permitted fresh air for an entire summer afternoon. This calamity is not to be confused with the apocalypse that will occur if the boy fails to translate Caesar’s Gallic letters by Yuletide.”

  “Were you eavesdropping, Bracken?”

  “Checking the oil in the lamps in the nursery corridor, ma’am.” He tossed the fading rose into the dustbin and peered at the full coal bucket, though the day was too mild for a fire to have been lit in the parlor’s hearth. His next dilatory tactic was to fuss with the folds of the drapes pulled back to let in the afternoon sun.

  Vera was very much aware of the stack of letters in the middle of the blotter and equally aware that Bracken was hovering.

  “You don’t think much of Mr. Forester, do you, Bracken?”

  He moved to another set of drapes. “I believe it more the case that Mr. Forester doesn’t think much of me. His opinion of a butler is of no moment, but he had best remain respectful toward you, madam, or to quote a particularly dull-witted pedant, there will be consequences.”

  Vera had no idea who the pedant—oh. That pedant. “Exactly what kind of consequences does the pedant refer to?”

  “That’s a matter for discussion between you and Mr. Forester, madam. Please do have a sandwich or two, lest Cook be offended.” He bowed and withdrew after a pointed glance at the tray.

  Vera nibbled on an egg sandwich while she went through the correspondence. A single invitation, much to her relief. Only one invoice, from the thatchers who’d repaired a tenant’s sheep byre. Vera unlocked her strong box and counted out the requisite coin, for skilled laborers preferred cash to bank drafts.

  And—predictably—Richard Longacre expressed hopes that she might journey to London for Lady Montclair’s summer reception. Vera would just as predictably decline and took out a sheet of paper preparing to pen her reply.

  “Oh, excuse me, Mrs. Channing.” Tamsin Diggory stood in the doorway. “I hadn’t realized you were in here. I’ve misplaced my penknife and thought to borrow one from the desk.”

  Vera folded up the little note and tucked it under the rest of the stack.

  She opened the desk’s center drawer and found three penknives in a tray. “This one looks sharp.” She passed over a pewter-handled blade. “Would you like some tea or sandwiches? I haven’t much of an appetite, and Bracken will be disappointed if I send the tray back with food on it.”

  “Can’t have that,” Miss Diggory replied, choosing a sandwich and taking the seat opposite the desk. “I never know what to make of that man. If he’s ever smiled, it was in the dark of night long, long ago.”

  “He lost a wife and child to smallpox. Dirk shared that confidence only after we’d been married for several years, and you must never refer to it. Bracken’s lot has been difficult, and he has been unfailingly loyal to me and to the Hall. Tea?”

  “Please. It’s as well I found you here, for I’ve a request.”

  Tamsin Diggory was pleasant company. She had the gift of a light, cheerful touch with everybody, from the servants, to the governesses and companions she socialized with on her days off, to elderly ladies looking for assistance crossing a muddy churchyard.

  And Tamsin was pretty, having the classic blond, blue-eyed coloring of the Saxon maiden. She’d disclosed her age as five-and-twenty. Old enough to claim some common sense, as she’d said, young enough not to take life too seriously.

  “And what is your request?” Vera asked, retrieving a spare tea cup and saucer from the sideboard. “Have the charms of Hampshire in summer paled? Are you ready for a holiday?” Tamsin and Jeremy had begun at Merlin Hall within a fortnight of each other, though Catherine’s adjustment to a new governess had been swift and easy compared to Alexander’s ongoing discontent.

  “No holiday quite yet,” Tamsin said. “Catherine is now putting up her hair.”

  “I thought it was time. Catherine more than agreed.”

  “As do I, but the decision was yours to make and mine to accommodate. We will end lessons a little earlier in the afternoon so Catherine has time to change for dinner.”

  “Gracious. That didn’t take long.” The topic was a happy one, and yet, Vera knew a pang of loss. Must Catherine be so pleased to put childhood behind her?

  Tamsin helped herself to a lump of sugar. “I suspect she’ll lose interest in the preening and fussing once she finds a few hairstyles she likes, but she has mentioned letting her hems down the rest of the way.”

  “Of course.” Except that figure of speech actually referred to making up a young woman’s entire first adult wardrobe rather than turning a few seams. “I have some fabric in the attic suitable for starting that project.”

  “Might we plan a trip into Winchester, perhaps?”

  To buy more fabric, to order slippers, gloves, bonnets, and other fripperies necessary to properly ornament a lady. To acquaint Catherine with the process of procuring her needs from a shop.

  “Next month,” Vera said. “Start making a list, and I will do likewise.”

  “Excellent.” Tamsin chose a second sandwich, having finished the first. “That was not the only question I wanted to ask you, though. With Mr. Dorning underfoot, I thought we might put him to use of an evening.”

  Vera glanced up from stirring her tea. “I beg your pardon?”

  Tamsin grinned. “That came out wrong. What I meant was, Mr. Dorning is clearly a gentleman and can be relied upon to act as one where Catherine is concerned. I thought we might try adding a hand of cards to the after-dinner routine. You have a foursome, if Mr. Forester and Mr. Dorning are both pressed into service, and Catherine can get some experience with polite play before she starts socializing as an adult.”

  Well, of course. Cards were an essential skill for anybody of sufficient station to circulate in society.

  “This is all happening rather quickly,” Vera s
aid. “If you’ll be on hand to partner Catherine, I don’t see that much could go amiss, though.”

  “Me?” Tamsin chose a square of shortbread from the tray. “I would far rather have my evenings at liberty, if you please. I thought you might sit down with the gentlemen over a hand of cards, while I enjoy a long soak in a hot bath.”

  The tea wasn’t sitting well with Vera, or perhaps the conversation wasn’t. “I am happy to play a few hands for the sake of Catherine’s social skills, but you must also take your turn, Tamsin.”

  “Oh, very well.” She chose another piece of shortbread and rose. “I will do my best to be agreeable and ladylike, as ever, but if Mr. Forester is too unbearable, I will kick him under the table.”

  Whatever did that mean? “I’ll see you at dinner.”

  Tamsin left, though she’d forgotten her penknife.

  Vera tried to focus on her ledgers. A household the size of Merlin Hall generated endless ledger entries, each one less interesting than the one before. When the ledgers failed to distract her, she turned to her social correspondence, penning a polite refusal to the Bonners’ invitation to dinner and dancing.

  Soon, she’d have to accept such invitations for Catherine’s sake, and when invitations were accepted, they should also, eventually, be reciprocated. The whole business was tiresome for a farmer’s daughter who longed to spend her afternoons reading in the orchard.

  Vera rose, the small of her back aching from the hard seat of her writing chair. She stretched and went to the window, realizing that half the afternoon had passed, and she had little to show for the time she’d spent at her desk.

  A commotion drew her attention to the bottom of the drive. Oak Dorning sat on the bench of a small farm wagon, a sizable bay horse tied to the back. Large trunks filled the bed of the wagon, and right next to Oak sat Alexander.

  His cap was off, and in his small hands he held the reins to the single horse pulling the wagon, a massive chestnut gelding worthy of a wheeler’s honors.

  Vera was too much of a countrywoman to be frightened by the sight of Alexander learning to guide a ton of horseflesh, and she trusted Oak to keep her son safe in any case, but as a mother…

  Ye gods, they were both growing up. Alexander and Catherine, before her very eyes. Five years from now, Catherine could well be married and starting her own family, and Alexander might be off to public school.

  Oak caught sight of her in the window and waved. Vera waved and smiled back. When Alexander—aided by Oak—brought the horse to a stop at the foot of the manor house steps, he looked up and smiled at his mama for the first time in months.

  Vera vowed, then and there, that Alexander would enjoy more trips to the village, and to hell with Caesar’s letters to the Galatians, or whatever Jeremy thought was so dratted urgent in the schoolroom.

  And she would see about getting Alexander a dog—and possibly one for herself as well.

  Chapter Six

  “A moment, Alexander,” Oak said as a groom came forward to take the cart horse’s reins. “We must attend to the dust of the road.”

  “The dust of the road, sir?” Alexander’s voice had lost yesterday’s hesitant quality, and his gaze was no longer downcast.

  Oak lifted him off the wagon bench and set him on his feet. “Our boots.” Oak flourished a handkerchief. “When it rains, a fellow contends with mud. When it doesn’t rain, the problem is dust. The ladies take a dim view of either on their carpets. Hold still.” Oak dusted off Alexander’s toes, then did the same to his own footwear. In the normal course, Oak would not have bothered, but why give Forester a pretext for criticizing the child?

  “Mama saw me at the ribbons,” Alexander said, bouncing up the steps to the front door. “She smiled at me.”

  “She did, indeed. You should be very proud of yourself, Alexander.” The horse, a stalwart behemoth named Atlas, had probably traveled from Merlin Hall into the village weekly for years and would have trotted the distance with no guidance from a driver.

  “May we drive into the village tomorrow, Mr. Dorning?”

  “Tomorrow, we will see how Charlie has recovered from his travels. A quiet hack will do, and I will take you up before me if you’re amenable.”

  “What’s a menable?”

  “Amenable means agreeable, willing. I will walk with you up to the schoolroom if you’re amenable to having my company.”

  Alexander preceded Oak into the foyer, where they were greeted by an unsmiling Bracken.

  “I took the ribbons, Bracken!” Alexander announced. “All the way back from Bathboro. Is that many miles, Mr. Dorning?”

  “A vast distance,” Oak said, ruffling the boy’s hair.

  “Have we lost our cap, Master Alexander?” Bracken asked.

  Alexander’s hand went to the top of his head, and all the animation in him turned to worry. “My cap! I have lost my—”

  Oak pulled the cap from his jacket pocket. “Right here.” He passed the cap to Bracken, then knelt to unbutton Alexander’s jacket.

  “I can do that myself, sir.”

  “My apologies,” Oak said, undoing the final button. “But now that the task is complete, let’s find your mother so she can fuss over you.”

  Bracken took Alexander’s jacket. “Mrs. Channing is in her private parlor. We’ll have your trunks sent up to your rooms, Mr. Dorning.”

  “My thanks.” Oak extended a hand to the boy. “Come along, lad, and prepare to endure a thorough maternal hugging.”

  “Mama will hug me?” Alexander took Oak’s hand and pulled him toward the steps.

  “And you will allow it. You will even hug her back a little, gently, because the ladies can be delicate.”

  This curious, energetic version of Alexander was a very different little boy from the silent, sullen child who’d trudged down the front steps two hours earlier. Oak felt a peculiar sense of accomplishment for having coaxed the livelier child from the shadows in the schoolroom.

  “Mrs. Channing.” Oak stopped several paces from her desk and bowed. Alexander, who was still hand in hand with Oak, did likewise an instant later.

  “Mama, I took the ribbons. I steered Atlas all the way home from Bathboro, and he never put a foot wrong. Mr. Dorning said I am a natural whip.”

  Vera had come around from behind her desk and held out her arms to her son. “You are a brilliant whip. I saw you with my own two eyes. Come here.”

  Alexander grinned at Oak and scampered across the carpet as his mother knelt to indulge in the predicted affection.

  “Tomorrow we will hack out on Charles II,” Alexander said when Vera let him go. “What color is a lark’s song, Mama?”

  “I hardly know. The color of happiness, maybe?”

  “I asked Mr. Dorning, and he said there is no wrong answer to such a question, because we each hear that song differently according to our moods. Then he asked me what color a nightingale’s song would be, but that’s difficult, because they sing most often in the dark, don’t they, and how does one show a color in the darkness?”

  Oak assisted Vera to rise.

  “Mr. Dorning, my son is becoming a philosopher.”

  “Master Alexander is very bright,” Oak said. “He notices much and thinks deeply, but now I must accompany him back to the schoolroom, or Mr. Forester will fear his pupil was kidnapped by brigands.” Oak again held out a hand to the boy, who was all but skipping around the room. “If you’ll excuse us, Mrs. Channing?”

  Alexander caught Oak’s hand and came to a stop. “Must I return to the schoolroom, sir?”

  “Alas, yes, for all good things must end, but I can see that you arrive to your destination in the style to which a skilled coachy is entitled.” He swung Alexander up onto his back and scissored the boy’s legs around his waist. “Grab me about the neck and off we go.”

  “When you’ve delivered your charge, Mr. Dorning, I’d like a moment of your time, please.”

  “Of course. Alexander, let’s be off.”

  Oak t
rotted from the room, jostling the boy on his back some, but not too much. A piggyback ride wasn’t supposed to be a serious undertaking.

  “You won’t tell Mr. Forester I nearly lost my cap, will you?” Alexander asked when Oak set him on his feet in the schoolroom.

  “Of course not. You were too busy steering Atlas to notice I snatched it from your head before the wind could toss it into the bushes. I’ll look forward to tomorrow’s outing, Alexander.”

  “I will too, sir.” Alexander sat at his desk, once again the unhappy lump of little boy he’d been two hours ago.

  “Alexander, have you Bible verses to copy for today?”

  “Yes, sir. Twenty verses a day, without fail, except on the Sabbath, when I am to do forty.”

  Bloody hell. If anything was likely to put a child on the path to ignoring divine guidance, that would do it.

  “Why not start on today’s verses, and I’ll let Mr. Forester know you’re back at your labors.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Oak left Alexander paging through the Bible on the table at the front of the room, pencil in hand, foolscap on the table beside him. Alexander stood on a box for this effort, much as Oak had stood on boxes to study his father’s maps.

  But Bible verses could not hold a candle to maps in terms of sparking a small boy’s fancy, and the schoolroom had neither a globe nor an atlas. Oak left the scholar to his verses and departed, intent on tidying himself up before he rejoined Vera in her private parlor. He was thus rounding a corner in the direction of the back steps when he heard a soft rustling of fabric and quiet sigh.

  “All I need is five minutes,” Jeremy Forester said. “I can pleasure you thoroughly, Tamsin. You know you want it.”

  His voice held the half-wheedling, half-boasting tone of a man importuning a woman for favors she was reluctant to give—or perhaps unwilling to give so lightly.

  “All you think about,” Miss Diggory replied, “is getting under somebody’s skirts. If Mrs. Channing knew what a strutting cock you are, she’d sack you in a moment.”