"Yes, you are certainly going to have to meet them." A faint sigh quivered from his mother. "I insist you have fortification first."
Wynter's smile faded. While his son Robbie found England a fascinating adventure, Leila threw tantrums and begged to be taken home. Taken back to El Bahar, when in fact he'd left that place for her.
She didn't understand. How could she? She'd only known the wild freedom of being his little daughter, of riding and training horses, of traveling with the caravans and ordering the skinny native boys about. Only the skinny boys were becoming men and Leila…Leila would soon be a woman. Whenever Wynter struggled with the restrictions of English society, he had only to think of Leila to know he had done the right thing.
Several footmen were bringing in the baggage from the carriage, and Charlotte suddenly called, "Wait! I need that bag!"
Wynter watched with interest as she retrieved a large carpetbag from one footman. It was heavy, its sides bulging. Again he moved closer and studied her. She placed the bag against the wall and allowed the maid to help her from her coat. She seemed everything his mother had hoped to find: cold, impersonal, emotionless. He couldn't imagine a woman like this dealing with a volatile child like Leila. If Charlotte showed herself incapable of handling Leila, she was useless.
Charlotte untied the bow under her chin and lifted the hat from her head—and Wynter found himself fascinated. Fascinated as he had not been for too many years. "My God, woman," he boomed, "why didn't you tell me you had red hair?"
Charlotte froze, her arms raised.
With his index finger and thumb, Wynter took the strand that swooped from the peak of her forehead into her chignon. "I've never seen anything like this. A man could warm his hands by your fire."
Then he became aware of a muffled sound from his mother. A laugh.
When he looked at her, she hastily moved toward her seat—but not before he saw her hand pressed over her mouth or the dancing amusement in her eyes. Another fatuous English dictum broken.
Charlotte handed her hat to the maid, then took his wrist in her hand and moved it aside. "Actually, my lord, it is considered uncouth to comment so freely on another's physical attributes."
"But what is the point of a woman displaying her charms if a man may not like them?"
"I am not displaying my charms! My red hair is…" She took a long breath. "You may appreciate a lady's attributes, only…more quietly."
Her fingers shook where she held him. While he could see her chagrin in the color that flooded her pale complexion, it in no way commanded her voice. Charlotte had a formidable facade, and he wondered at the need for it. "Then may I say—your coloring is most agreeable to me."
"That is better, yes, but it actually would be best in our roles of employer and employee if you give me no compliments at all."
"But I do not find that pleasing."
She dropped his wrist. "To conform to society's edicts, it is sometimes necessary to do that which does not please one."
He scowled at her. "This I remember."
She brushed at her gown, her gaze fixed on her hands. "I don't believe that you would make such a comment to a lady of the desert."
"I would not so regard a lady of the desert. Only girl-children are allowed to roam uncovered."
Curious, she drew her gaze to his, and her eyes, as green as the spring fields, rounded. "You mean the women are truly kept in a harem?"
His friends' women had asked such questions, but their queries had been made in shrill, scornful tones. Charlotte was fascinated, so fascinated she dropped her cool mask.
"The wives of wealthy men who live in the city are kept in a harem," he explained. "I spent my time with the Bedouins, the wanderers of the desert. Our wives walk among us, but with their heads covered."
"Your wife…" Charlotte hesitated. "Wives? Had to keep their heads covered?"
"My wife"—he emphasized the singular—"kept her head covered, and usually her face, too. But so did I. The sand and the sun are relentless."
"Of course." Charlotte's generous lips were pursed as she assimilated the facts.
He assimilated the facts, also. Perhaps Charlotte's decorous demeanor hid an adventurous soul.
"Come and sit down, dears," Adorna called.
Charlotte looked startled, then guilty, as she realized that everyone stared at her. "Forgive me, my lord. I had no right to question you."
"Is that another rule I should know? English people in pursuit of knowledge must not seek it?"
"No! No, that's not what I meant at all. Only that you wish to take tea, and the time and the place was not right for such interrogation."
"Later, then." He turned away before she could respond, and went to take his leisure in the largest armchair.
Adorna had taken a seat behind the gilt tea tray, and like a dog on a chain, Bucknell came to her call. Still Charlotte hesitated.
"Charlotte"—Adorna gestured to the barbacked sofa at her side—"would you assist me, please?"
As the younger woman moved toward her, Adorna poured tea. "Cream only, I believe, Lord Bucknell." She passed the cup to Charlotte, who delivered it to Bucknell. "With sugar, Wynter."
Charlotte delivered Wynter's, not meeting his eyes.
"While I pour yours, Charlotte, would you pass Wynter the almond biscuits? As a boy, Wynter was very fond of those particular biscuits."
Wynter accepted the plate and took two biscuits, valiantly resisting the urge to eat them all, and from the serving plate yet. Charlotte would be aghast. Perhaps so aghast as to allow her cool mask to slip and allow real indignation to show through. But while he found appeal in such exposure, he did remember the basics of English social graces.
"Sandwiches, Lord Bucknell?" When Bucknell refused that, Adorna offered, "Seedcake?"
Bucknell accepted a slice.
Adorna loaded a plate with sandwiches, seedcake and currant cake and handed it to the seated Charlotte. "Ladies are too delicate to experience something so vulgar as hunger, but Charlotte and I are feeling peckish."
Wynter chuckled, and even Charlotte smiled faintly as she stripped off her gloves and prepared to eat.
But Bucknell nodded. "Quite right. Quite right. Englishwomen are not like your savages, you know, m'boy."
Wynter still smiled as he asked, "What savages are those? The savages like my wife?"
Bucknell started; his gaze flew to Wynter's, and he looked, if not horrified, then appalled. "That was thoughtless of me, my lord. Forgive me." Bucknell balanced his cup and the saucer on his knee and gazed earnestly at Adorna. "I, for one, was quite startled to discover Wynter in residence, Lady Ruskin, I admit I'm not in the mainstream for gossip, but I hadn't heard even a rumor of his return."
Wynter blandly interrupted. "I've been back a little over a fortnight and haven't felt the need to start any rumors."
"No, of course not." Bucknell stared at Wynter, and his starchy accent grew even starchier. "But usually such news would have flown the length and depth of Britain."
"Mother believes it would be easier for my children if they first learn the rudiments of English civility before venturing into public, and so we remain anonymous." He cast a humorous glance at Adorna. "Or—almost anonymous. I swear, ma'am, when I was in town Howard recognized me and invited himself down."
"Howard is frequently without funds," Bucknell added. "If not for Young Wynter's ridicu, er, unique opinions, Howard and his party would be here until forcibly removed."
Wynter pretended not to notice Bucknell's slur.
"I hope while you were in London you didn't have to go into your company, my dear." Bucknell spoke to Adorna, but the comment was obviously aimed at Wynter.
"No," Adorna said. "With Cousin Stewart's help, Wynter has taken up the reins."
"You should never have had to sully yourself with such plebeian proceedings." Emboldened by Wynter's apparent good nature, Bucknell chided him. "Lady Ruskin is a delicate flower."
Wynter could scarcely conta
in his impatience. "If you believe that, you know her not at all."
Bucknell reared back, an elder statesman insulted by a young buck.
Then, from abovestairs they heard the racket of heels on the wooden floor and a faraway call. "Papa!" Leila's yell echoed down the long upstairs corridor. "Paaaapaaaa."
Wynter imagined her sliding down the banister.
"Don't go in there." Robbie was yelling as loud as Leila, fondly imagining his reprimand made the volume acceptable. "You're going to get in trooouuublllle!"
But the lighter clatter of her boots outdistanced his stomping, and with a flourish Wynter's daughter came sliding around the corner into the long salon. She was skinny, a bunch of bones connected with skin and tissue, and tall, much taller than most children her age. She had her mother's dark hair pulled back in a braid and a beautiful olive cast to her complexion. Though her appearance was demurer, Leila's eyes were alive with mischief, wide, dark and sparkling as she giggled and wriggled, and the dust that covered her dimity red gown had not been there an hour ago.
Wynter held out his arms. "Come on, then, baggage."
She launched herself at him at the same moment Robbie raced in the door. "I tried to stop her!" Tall and broad-shouldered, with the same coloring as his sister, he was already showing the signs of the handsome man he would become—but his voice squeaked and broke as he pointed at his sister, snuggled in Wynter's lap. "She's been in the attic, and she made a mess again."
"Don't carry tales," Wynter rebuked, and gestured Robbie over. The boy came and perched himself on Wynter's knee, and Wynter embraced him, too.
Then he and his family of outsiders looked out at the others, those representatives of the pinch-mouthed English society.
Adorna stared at her son and grandchildren with mingled despair and love. Bucknell, predictably, couldn't mask his antipathy. And Charlotte…ah, Lady Miss Charlotte.
For the first time since he'd met her, her green eyes were not cool. She looked on his children with…assessment?
Wynter jiggled Leila and Robbie to get their attention. "This lady is the governess your grandmama promised you. Her name is Lady Miss Charlotte, she is clever and, as you can see, very beautiful, and she will teach you."
A smile crooked Charlotte's mouth as she gazed at Leila, and she nodded at Robbie in a comradely way. "I'm so pleased to meet you. It is always pleasant to make new friends."
Wynter jiggled them again, and both children murmured, "I'm pleased to meet you, Lady Miss Charlotte." But they didn't stand, and they didn't bow.
Adorna would have reprimanded them, but before she could, Charlotte said, "Robbie, if you would bring me my bag, I will find the gifts I brought you."
Ah, the magic word! Robbie stood at once, eager for his gift, and fetched the carpetbag Charlotte had so craftily kept near.
Leila shrank back against Wynter. In the past months she had met too many new people, struggled with too many new experiences, and occasionally she suffered from shyness. And tantrums. And nightmares, but Charlotte didn't need to know that yet.
Charlotte paid no heed to Leila's reserve. Instead, when Robbie delivered the bag, she patted the place beside her. As he sidled up and seated himself, she opened the bag and drew out a carving of a horse some twelve inches high. A master craftsman had shaped the polished wood; the animal seemed to be in motion, its hooves flying, its mane and tail fluttering with the speed of its passing.
As Charlotte set the carving on the floor by her feet, Wynter felt Leila lean toward that horse.
"This is Leila's gift," Charlotte said.
Charlotte was clever.
Again delving into the bag, Charlotte plucked from it something that looked like a thin, three-inch pale ivory handle.
Wynter knew at once what it was. Charlotte was clever. Dangerously clever. He would remember that.
As Charlotte held the object out to Robbie, Adorna moaned softly and dropped her head into her hands. Robbie frowned and warily took the handle from Charlotte's palm.
It took him only a minute to unravel the mystery of his gift. "Papa! Look!" He extended the pocketknife, blades out. "I can carry it with me and I can throw it…" He paused and looked warily at his grandmother. "Except not in the house."
"Then we'll have to practice outside, won't we?" Charlotte said. "We'll do that during our walks. I was hoping you could show me the correct way to throw it, and Leila would show me how to ride." She turned to Leila. Leila, who had not yet taken her gaze from the horse. "Leila, her ladyship tells me you are a magnificent horsewoman."
Leila glanced suspiciously at Charlotte. "Yes. But I won't ride sidesaddle."
"Oh, dear." Charlotte picked up the horse and stroked it. "I didn't know you couldn't ride sidesaddle."
"I can, too!" Leila stood up from Wynter's lap in a sweep of indignation. "I don't want to."
Robbie didn't even look up from his labor of extending and replacing the knife blades. "How would you know? You won't even try."
Before Leila could shout an answer, Charlotte stood. "Girls can do anything, Robbie. Leila, come and fetch the horse."
Leila marched over and took the carving, held it against her chest and stroked it. "It's beautiful," she said in tones of awe. "Thank you, Lady Miss Charlotte."
"Girls have better manners than boys do, too," Charlotte said.
Robbie understood the hint. "Thank you, Lady Miss Charlotte."
"You are welcome, both of you. Robbie, would you bring my bag? With your permission, Lady Ruskin, these two can show me to my bedchamber."
"Yes. Good. You have my permission," Adorna said faintly.
Charlotte took Robbie's free hand and Leila's free hand, and as they exited the long salon, Wynter heard her say, "Did you know it's more difficult to ride sidesaddle than a regular saddle?"
Standing, Wynter walked to the door, stepped out and, hands on hips, stared after his children and the governess. Charlotte handled Robbie and Leila with such ease, they didn't even know they had been handled.
She would do very well. Yes, very well indeed.
CHAPTER 5
A few moments later, Charlotte shook her head at the irrepressible gamine dressed in one of Charlotte's hats, a pair of full-length gloves and a plain corset cover. "I struggle to maintain an orderly appearance, and that's what I look like?"
Leila grinned, not at all impressed by Charlotte's mock reproof, and donned Charlotte's spectacles. Her eyes looked bigger behind the curve of the glass, and she blinked as the world took on a sudden tilt.
"What's this?" Robbie pulled the long case of Charlotte's precious slide rule from her open bag.
"Bring it here and I'll show you."
Leila staggered across the floor of Charlotte's bedchamber, arms outstretched, lifting her feet high.
Charlotte accepted the well-worn leather case from Robbie. "Do you know how to add and subtract?"
"Yes, ma'am." Robbie's language was more strongly accented than his father's, but he spoke the queen's English without faltering. "And multiply and divide, too."
Charlotte lifted her brows at him. "Very good. I didn't know how much formal education you had had. Who taught you?"
"My father. Papa is…was the man of business for our tribe, and he says one had to be learned in all matters of commerce to earn respect."
Charlotte lowered her gaze to her hands as she pulled the slide rule free. "Your father is a wise man." She manipulated the shifting pieces of marked and polished wood. "You'll be pleased to hear that when you've mastered the slide rule, you'll have a way of doing mathematics without using pencil and paper."
Robbie frowned. "Oh, I never use pencil and paper. I just do it in my head, like Papa."
Charlotte stared. "Large numbers? Like…six hundred and thirty-two times four thousand four hundred and eighteen?"
"Two million seven hundred ninety-two thousand one hundred and seventy-six," Robbie said promptly.
"No, you can't do that in your head. You see the answer is…" Ha
stily Charlotte ran the calculations on the slide rule. "Two million seven hundred ninety-two thousand one hundred and seventy-six." She looked at the boy again. "How did you do that?"
"Papa taught me."
"Your father taught you?" Astonished, Charlotte wondered if the lack of civilization had so sharpened Lord Ruskin's innate wits. "What an extraordinary talent the two of you share!" She wanted to question him further, but Leila careened into the washstand and the porcelain pitcher and wash basin fell onto the hardwood floor. The basin cracked in two. Water from the pitcher splashed out in a wave. Leila wailed.
"That was dumb," her loving brother said.
Charlotte rose unhurriedly to her feet and went to where the child sat on the floor, clutching her shin. "Are you wet?" She plucked her spectacles off Leila's nose and tucked them into her own pocket.
"Yes, and I hurt myself."
"Not badly. Here's a towel; let's clean up the water. Can you multiply like your brother?"
"No." Leila grudgingly took the towel and swiped at the floor. "I can't do more than one hundred times a thousand."
"I'm very impressed." Charlotte knelt beside the girl and used a rag with more efficiency. "Has your father taught you how to read?"
"I know how to read," Robbie said.
"You do not." Leila's accent, too, was stronger than her father's, but the girl's high, clear voice could be trained. "You just recognize a word sometimes."
"I'm better than you."
"I can do it; I just don't want to."
Charlotte righted the table and stacked the broken pieces of porcelain on the surface. "Of course you don't. But I know how to, and I have a book you might like."
"Not if I have to read it," Leila said truculently.
"No, I'll read it to you." Charlotte yielded, setting her trap without a trace of conscience.
Rising, she went to her bag. Most of the contents were scattered across the floor. The clothes she brought in case the servants didn't get around to bringing up her trunks—until correctly trained, servants failed to succor the governess—her slate, her mobile secretary with her papers and quills and a few very carefully selected books. She picked up the one with the green leather binding and looked around the large, sunny, east-facing bedchamber.
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