Schooling the Viscount

by Maggie Robinson

  “Don’t be silly! Lord Challoner’s just bored. And sad, too.” For all his alleged wild ways, she’d seen the melancholy streak in him. And her father’s eyesight wasn’t what it was.

  “Don’t tell me you’ve got a soft spot for that bounder. He’d not a bird with a broken wing.”

  Wasn’t he? Rachel shrugged. “I do feel a bit sorry for him. He feels isolated.”

  “He’s supposed to be isolated! No loose women, no alcohol, no opium. How can he be cured of his addictions, unless his father puts him in a sanitarium? That will be next if he doesn’t improve here, and much worse. If he’s unhappy here, just imagine how he’ll feel there.”

  “I’m sure you’re right.” It was unusual for her father to be so grumpy, but his sleep had been disturbed.

  At least he could sleep. Poor Lord Challoner seemed to have difficulty doing so, wandering around Puddling at midnight.

  “Let’s go back to bed,” she said with a brightness she didn’t feel. Her father shuffled down the dark hall to the parlor, and she climbed the steep stairs to her bedroom. Pulling the window curtain back, she looked for Lord Challoner on the street, but he’d disappeared. Not even the tap of his cane was audible in the spring night.

  Rachel took a deep breath. Even though he’d tried to trick her, Rachel couldn’t fault the man. He’d been lonely and wanted a few more minutes of her company. Rufus had been more interested in his stick than his flesh, and if given the chance, would have licked him to death.

  She thought of the dog, naughty little imp. Her father and Ham had been so busy discussing the excitement of the day that Rufus had eaten the first round of fruitcake they’d cut for their tea. He’d been put outside since his digestion was always a tricky thing—he was not only an unattractive dog, but somewhat sickly. Ordinarily he’d have been curled up next to Rachel, snoring the night away, his misshapen head on her pillow.

  If Rufus was the closest thing she’d ever come to a husband, Rachel’s life was in a sorry state.

  She’d been proposed to today. Yesterday, now. True, it was in jest. But what if she took Captain Lord Henry Challoner up on it?

  Rufus wasn’t the only imp around. How ridiculous she was being, imagining she could be the wife of a viscount, whether he was deranged or not. One day he’d come to his senses, look over at his frumpy schoolteacher wife, and commit himself to Bedlam.

  But still. To leave Puddling and its limitations behind was a very tempting thought. Most every other young person had done it, despite the lure of the annual Puddling pounds. Farm and wool prices were low, and there had never been manufacturing in the area. There was simply no way for a young man to earn his way here.

  Of course, there was her father to think of. He’d have to come too. Surely a viscount’s house had a spare room? But he wouldn’t like London much. Rachel wondered where the Harland family’s country seat was.

  Good grief. She needed to go to sleep and stop daydreaming such nonsense. Or nightdreaming. She’d be exhausted tomorrow, and the challenges of dealing with ten mischievous children were not inconsequential.

  She was a planner, though, and had lessons ready for tomorrow and beyond. Much like the Puddling Rehabilitation Method, there was a sequence to everything, although sometimes Rachel broke her own rules.

  Like Lord Challoner, who’d turned right instead of left. She could have hidden in the schoolhouse until Mary Ann stopped screaming. Eventually Lord Challoner would have become bored or deafer and turned around. There had been nothing to see but children running in circles.

  But Rachel, fatefully, had stepped outside, and now Lord Challoner knew of her presence, even where she lived. She had altered his treatment schedule and didn’t know how to fix it.

  Didn’t want to fix it. God help her, she wanted to see the man again.

  Chapter 9

  Henry had arrived home last night in what could only be called a snit. He considered himself an even-tempered, jolly fellow—as did Francie and Lysette and all the rest of those fluffy girls he’d met recently—but that night-capped old man had ruffled Henry’s feathers almost as badly as the pater did.

  Everyone was so self-righteous. So bloody perfect. It all amounted to “Do your duty and shut up about it.” Well, Henry had, and he couldn’t seem to. Not that he was whiny and feeling sorry for himself. But he simply could not stop the jerky images of carnage in his head when he closed his eyes.

  So much suffering, and for what? Diamonds? Gold? Oh, Henry knew there were other reasons for the war, but his bitterness made him disgusted with the whole thing. Ordinary farmers had nearly handed the United Kingdom its honor on a platter.

  The most inglorious aspect? Facing his superiors to determine if he’d be charged because he’d been captured. He knew the pater had interfered there too. He was not the man his father wanted him to be. Trouble was, Henry didn’t know what man he wanted to be.

  He was twenty-five, his careless youth behind him. He’d discovered the army wasn’t a lark of dressing up in braided uniform and dancing with pretty girls. He was half-deaf and, as Mrs. Grace said so succinctly, crippled. It was time for him to…do something. But what?

  The idea of going home to slide under his father’s thumb didn’t appeal. The marquess would probably live forever out of spite, so Henry felt disobliged to learn all the ropes of estate management just quite yet. His father was only forty-eight, and Harlands usually lived to a ripe old age when they weren’t tempting fate on the South African plain.

  His father wanted him to marry. Just because he’d done so at an early age and had a son before he was Henry’s age didn’t mean that was a suitable course for his heir. But one couldn’t argue with the pater. When one did, one wound up in Puddling-on-the-Wold.

  Henry adjusted his necktie in the mirror, noting the blue circles under his blue eyes. Well, at least his skin matched his irises. Dr. Oakley’s bandage was still mostly in place, giving him a linen halo, the closest he’d ever get to one. According to his father, hell was in his future if he didn’t reform. Henry tore it off and replaced it with a much smaller sticking plaster. The stitches were black and ugly but would be removed soon enough.

  He’d heard Mrs. Grace let herself in half an hour ago, so odds were his breakfast was awaiting him in the conservatory. Henry relished the bright heat of it in the morning, even if he sometimes felt exposed behind the glass windows. But so far his neighbors had not climbed up the stone walls to get a look at him as he tucked into his eggs and bacon. He felt like a bug under a microscope anyhow—the entire village knew of his embarrassing lack of control.

  Drink. Drugs. Too many women. But never the right one.

  Except…No. Henry shook his head. No point to letting his mind wander. He was just in a desperate case letting his imagination run away with him.

  Rachel Everett. Thick dark hair, cool silvery eyes, a lush figure that would tempt a saint to fall from grace. Lord knows, Henry wasn’t a saint, and couldn’t afford the temptation if he was to ever break out of here.

  And there was her sharp tongue too. Henry didn’t relish being flayed alive.

  He decided to whistle his way down the stairs, remembering to duck on the low crossbeam. Already this morning he’d achieved a modicum of success. He was one day closer to leaving Puddling and his inadequacies.

  “Good morning, Mrs. Grace,” he said with a brio he wasn’t quite feeling.

  “My lord.” The woman made the words sound like a pejorative. She disapproved of Henry thoroughly, and no matter how he tried to charm her, he met an implacable wall.

  “What’s for breakfast today? Steak and ale? Apple pie and warm custard?” Henry asked, knowing the absurdity of his wishes.

  “The usual, Lord Challoner. You will find your breakfast in the conservatory. Ring if you require anything else.”

  Oh, Henry required, but was not going to acquire—he knew that much by now. Meekly nodding, he entered the bright room and sat at the wicker table on
his wicker chair. A dish of gray porridge, steam rising, awaited him. There was no sugar or cream for it. A sullen dish of prunes was beside it, along with a single cup of black coffee and a silver-plated rack filled with cold dry toast. No butter, no jam. All that was missing was a foul-tasting restorative tonic, no doubt because its contents would be ninety percent alcohol. God forbid Henry had too much stimulation—the prunes would have to be the pinnacle.

  He passed the bake shop on his daily walk. Perhaps he could stop in later and buy something with his very limited funds. He’d never had much of a sweet tooth before, but now he could have eaten an entire Victoria sponge in one sitting and yearn for another.

  There was, of course, no newspaper. The intention was to cut him off from the world to reflect upon his sins. Forty days in the desert, or in his case, twenty-eight. A week had already gone by. Surely Henry could manage three more.

  It wasn’t as if he missed his friends. Hell, those closest to him the last six years were all over the world now, if they had survived. The old school chums he’d bumped into in London seemed rather callow and had little in common with him, except for the pursuit of dubious pleasure. When Henry got back—

  But would he be allowed to go back, or be buried on his father’s estate learning the latest farming techniques? Henry shuddered. Kings Harland was not all that far from Puddling actually, maybe fifteen miles away. Nestled in a valley, its aspect was one of tranquility on the surface. Beneath, it was an entirely different story. It took a great deal of effort to achieve such perfection. Henry had even caught his father with hedge clippers trying to prune the yew trees himself.

  Puddling had yew trees—one hundred uniform pyramids in the churchyard, guaranteed to make his father jealous. It was a very restful place, with ancient table tombs whose inscriptions had been lost to the elements. Maybe Henry would sit in the churchyard with his shop-bought bun later, admiring the order and greenery, listening to the church bells.

  Faugh. How his life had devolved. All that was missing from the scenario was a book of sermons in his bun-less hand. Life couldn’t be that flat, could it?

  Apparently, it could. Henry swallowed his breakfast manfully and watched birds fly over the cottage. He didn’t know what kind of birds they were, and refused to find out.

  He usually took his walk after lunch, but there was no reason why he shouldn’t alter his routine. Mrs. Grace would be happy to be rid of him—she was a demon at dusting and Henry often felt in her way. The usual master-servant relationship was not established at Stonecrop Cottage; if anything, Henry obeyed her dictates.

  He carried his breakfast tray into the kitchen, something he never would have done at either of his houses. Correction: his father’s houses. Henry owned no property of his own. After spending some of his inheritance from his grandmothers on his commission, there was still plenty of money left for his future. Enough to purchase a small estate far from the pater’s, if he had the inclination to manage one. Technically, he was still in the army, but the orders would be completed any day now to release him. His injuries precluded him from further service, for which Henry was heartily grateful.

  “I’m going out, Mrs. Grace,” he said, setting the tray on the table.

  She gave him her usual disapproving frown. “Is that wise, after your injury? Dr. Oakley recommended quiet.”

  So, she hadn’t heard about his midnight ramble. That was a bit of a miracle. Henry imagined Puddlingites semaphoring his exploration with their morning wash.

  “You can’t get much more quiet than Puddling-on-the-Wold. I thought I’d look in at St. Jude’s.”

  Mrs. Grace’s nostrils flared in disbelief. “Suit yourself. Don’t be late to lunch.”

  Ah, lunch. Clear broth. A gristled mutton chop if he was lucky. Rice pudding. What was that? A raisin and a speck of cinnamon? Nirvana!

  His warden was not impressed with his birthright that was for sure. And why should she be? Being born into the peerage was sheer luck, though some might find it anything but. If Henry had been an ordinary soldier, he might be limping up Bond Street right now instead of visiting a graveyard.

  Or begging. To his shame, Henry had passed veterans on his wild nights out. The few coins he’d tossed did nothing to alleviate their suffering.

  And then, Henry knew what he must do. How to do it was the question. He would talk to Mr. Walker. Surely this would count toward his mysterious Service.

  Theirs not to make reply,

  Theirs not to reason why,

  Theirs but to do and die.

  The army’s incompetence had been going on forty years or more. The history books were full of glory, but Henry knew otherwise.

  Mr. Everett. Henry would talk to him, too. Find out how he’d come back from the Crimea and soldiered on in civilian life. There was a key here somewhere. A purpose. He’d been too shallow and obsessed with his own misery to find it before, but things were almost clear in the bright morning light.

  He turned left at his gate, as he was meant to do, even though he felt the distinct pull of the schoolhouse. He’d save Mr. Walker for later—the man would come for tea, the only meal for which Mrs. Grace seemed to make an effort. Of course, Henry was forbidden the treats on Mr. Walker’s plate. Just bread and butter for him. By the time he left Puddling, he’d be a wraith.

  Curtains twitched as he walked by, swinging his stick in a faux jaunty manner. There were bites on it from that wretched beast, and for a moment Henry wondered about the wisdom of his course. But he’d faced worse than a bedamned dog, and perhaps the thing was still tied outside out of harm’s way.

  Up Honeywell to St. Jude’s, right on Vicarage, around Market to New. Henry hadn’t noticed cottage names in the dark, and wondered which house the Everetts lived in. That dog had come barreling out of a narrow alley, but there were several interspersing the cottages. It wasn’t until Henry heard that unique frenzied bark that he knew where he was.

  He knocked on the ancient studded front door with no result. Well, there was nothing for it but to traverse the alley to the back yard as he’d done last night. Perhaps the old gentleman was in the kitchen having his breakfast, a feast far better than Henry’s own, he was sure.

  Rufus erupted, heralding Henry’s arrival. The animal was loose behind the wooden gate, and wasn’t the only creature in the garden. There, in a calico apron, her hair covered by a kerchief, was Miss Rachel Everett herself.

  Chapter 10

  Lord Challoner was the very last man she expected to see approach the back gate. Her father had properly repelled him last night. Blistered him, really. Yet here he was, resplendent in finely tailored clothes meant for the country, his boots polished and his longish golden hair curling at his starched collar.

  “This is beginning to become a habit. No school today?” he asked, tipping his cap. The bandage at his temple had been reduced in size and was nearly covered by his tousled hair.

  “Down, Rufus! Right this minute!” Amazingly, the dog slunk off from his post at the fence to the doghouse, growling only a little. “My father isn’t well. Mr. Walker is taking over for me today.” Vincent was good about substituting for her. Good with the children, too, even though he would much rather be reading Scripture or writing a sermon.

  Rachel knew he was her champion when it came to school matters, and was excellent at soothing the occasional ire of the three members of the parish school committee. They thought Rachel was too “modern.” Too lax. She couldn’t in all conscience cane little children when they were naughty, even if doing so meant she’d keep her job.

  It was Lord Challoner’s fault that her father and she had had such a difficult night. Dad had been terribly agitated after the viscount was patched up for his nonexistent dog bite, and had tossed and turned, crying out so often in his sleep that Rachel sat with him until he quieted. Sitting in the dark at his bedside had given Rachel ample time—too much time—to think.

  “I’m sorry to hear it. Has Dr. Oakley be
en to see him?”

  “He isn’t really ill—that is to say, my father didn’t sleep well and isn’t feeling like himself. I didn’t want to leave him alone.” When her father was overtired, he became somewhat absent-minded. Rachel didn’t think he’d actually burn the house down, but one never knew.

  “That’s too bad. I was hoping to speak to him.”

  Rachel felt the ground slip beneath her feet. “You were? I thought after last night….” Truthfully she’d thought Lord Challoner so offended she’d never lay eyes upon him again except in a clipping in Vincent’s scrapbook.

  “Yes. Well, we didn’t get off on the best footing, but I got an idea I wished to explore with him.”

  An idea? To explore with her father? Lord Challoner really did hit his head yesterday.

  “I’ll just see if he’s awake.” Rachel left Lord Challoner at the gate, with a glare at Rufus to behave. She knew she wasn’t being hospitable, but she was nervous. If the neighbors saw him here hanging about, there would be trouble for them all. Rachel’s father depended on their yearly supplement for being Puddling citizens. If they broke the terms of the Puddling Rehabilitation Rules, the allotment could be withheld.

  They wouldn’t starve. Her father had his army pension. Rachel’s salary was very modest, but then they had modest needs. The garden was productive, and they usually bartered for meat or other staples. There were some savings, too, although her father never quoted an exact figure. Enough to get them through the coming year, she hoped, until all memories of Captain Lord Henry Challoner had passed.

  That’s what Puddling did, serve as a temporary retreat with no strings attached and no friendships formed. Except for that baron’s son who’d given the town a conservatory in thanks for his humane treatment, there was no trace of previous Guests to be found anywhere but the scrapbooks, carefully hidden away in the parish records. Puddlingites were generally kind, but businesslike. And right now, Rachel knew her little family risked censure.