“Of course she matters to me. She’s the dearest child, and I’m responsible for her happiness and well-being.”
His lordship was clearly not playacting. In the space of a week, Daisy had captured his heart, or at least his sense of duty. Many daughters commanded less loyalty from their blood relatives, and nieces were fortunate to have a roof over their heads.
As Uncle Walter so kindly reminded Lily at every opportunity.
“Do you think she might be lost?” Lily asked as his lordship silently stalked across the room. “It’s so very dark out tonight. Not a sliver of a moon in the sky.”
“Daisy is too clever to be lost,” Grampion said, pushing back the curtain. “But she’s not too clever to be found.”
A small blond child sat hunched on a window seat. She peered up at the earl, saying nothing. Most parents would have launched into a vociferous scold. Grampion instead sat beside the child and tucked her braid over her shoulder.
“I couldn’t sleep,” the girl said, ducking her head. “I miss home.”
“So do I,” the earl replied. “Are your feet cold?”
Bare toes peeked out from beneath the hem of a linen nightgown. “Yes.”
The earl scooped her up and settled her in his lap. “You gave me a fright, Daisy. Another fright, and you promised not to do this again.”
She sat stiffly in his arms, like a cat who had pressing business to be about in the pantry. “Will you beat me?”
“Never.”
He should probably not have admitted that, and Lily should not be witnessing a moment both awkward and intimate. She took a step back, and the child’s gaze swung to her.
“Who’s she?”
Grampion rose with the girl in his arms. “Miss Lily Ferguson, may I make known to you Miss Amy Marguerite Evers, my ward. Daisy, this is Miss Lily.”
He’d chosen informal address, which made sense. “Hello, Daisy. The earl was beside himself with anxiety for you.”
“Worried,” Grampion said. “I was worried, and now I’m taking you up to bed, young lady.”
“May I have a story, please?”
Grampion should refuse this request, because naughty behavior should be punished rather than rewarded.
“His lordship has many guests who will all remark his absence,” Lily said, holding the door open. “I know a few good stories, though, and will stay with you until you fall asleep.”
Grampion led the way up two flights of stairs, pausing only to ask a footman to call off the search. The nursery was lavishly comfortable, but all the furnishings looked new, the toys spotless and overly organized on the shelves.
Where were the girl’s brothers, when her toys wanted a few dings and dents?
“You will behave for Miss Lily,” his lordship said. “Do not interrupt to ask why nobody has ever seen a dragon, or how dragons breathe fire without getting burned.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Try to go to sleep,” Grampion went on, laying the child on her bed and brushing a hand over her brow. “Miss Ferguson, a word with you, please.”
“I’ll be right back,” Lily told the girl.
His lordship plucked a paisley shawl from the back of a rocking chair and led Lily into the corridor.
“One story,” he said, draping the shawl around Lily’s shoulders. “No more, or you’ll still be reading when the sun comes up. And you may slap me for asking, but are you enamored of Lord Stemberger?”
The shawl was silk, the feel of it lovely against Lily’s skin. What sort of bachelor earl kept silk shawls for the nursery maids?
“I am in no fashion enamored of Lord Stemberger. Why?”
“He…” Grampion appeared to become fascinated with the gilt scrollery framing a pier-glass across the corridor. “He did not conduct himself as a gentleman ought at table. Sitting beside him, you might not have noticed where his gaze strayed, but I will not invite him back. He lacks couth.”
Lily approved of Grampion very much for speaking up when many other men would have looked the other way or, more likely, guffawed in their clubs over Stemberger’s coarse behavior.
Grampion lacked warmth, but he was honorable, and to an orphaned child, he’d been kind.
“See to your guests, my lord,” Lily said. “I’ll tend to the dragons and be down shortly.”
“Miss Lily?” came a soft question from the child’s bedroom. “Are you coming?”
Grampion bowed over Lily’s hand, his grasp warm in the chilly corridor. “One story. Promise me. The child needs to know I mean what I say.”
“One story,” Lily said. “One happily ever after complete with a tamed dragon. I promise. Now be off with you.”
Chapter Two
* * *
Hessian rode along, resentful of the advanced morning hour, resentful of the odd looks from nursery maids and dairymaids alike, resentful of everything.
Except the child. He could never be resentful of Daisy. He did resent worrying about her though.
Daisy said not a word, despite having begged for this outing. She’d earned a boon by going for an entire day without running off, destroying a fragile heirloom, or spilling a drink “by accident.”
Hessian nodded to a vis-à-vis full of young ladies, all of whom he’d probably danced with, none of whom he recognized. He resented that too—why must London be so full of marriageable young women and so devoid of interesting company?
Daisy sighed, an enormous, unhappy expression in which Hessian mentally joined.
“Shall we return to the house, poppet?” At the plodding walk necessitated by having a child up before him, the day would be half gone before they were home, and yet, this was one way to spend time with Daisy that both she and Hessian seemed to enjoy.
“I like it here. I like the trees.”
If Hessian set her down, she’d likely be up one of those trees, thoroughly stuck, before he’d even dismounted.
“When we come again, we can feed the ducks.” Every self-respecting earl longed to stand about among quacking, honking, greedy ducks, risking his boots and his dignity at the same time. For her, he’d do it though. In the damned rain if necessary.
His generous offer earned him no reply, but what had he expected? Daisy was becoming a withdrawn child, and that had him close to panic. Her mother had been pragmatic and good-humored. She’d loved Daisy madly, of that Hessian had no doubt.
Daisy sat up so abruptly, the horse halted. “It’s the dragon lady!”
A woman in an elegant blue riding habit sat a chestnut mare, a groom trailing her by several yards. Her hair was looped in two braids over her left shoulder, and those braids—glossy auburn, nearly matching the color of the horse’s coat—confirmed her identity.
“Miss Ferguson,” Hessian said as she halted her mare. “Good day.”
Long ago, as a boy quivering to begin his studies at university, Hessian had occasionally accompanied his father to London. He’d known Lily Ferguson then because her uncle and Papa had been acquainted, but the girl Lily Ferguson and this grown version had little in common.
In Hessian’s unerring adolescent opinion, little Lily had been a brat; and in her estimation, he’d doubtless been a rotten, self-important prig. The passage of time had wrought substantial improvements on her side of the balance sheet. For all she was petite, Miss Ferguson made an elegant picture on her mare.
She inclined her head. “My lord, and Miss Daisy. What a pleasant surprise. Shall we enjoy the park together?”
The lady’s greeting to Hessian was cordial, but upon Daisy she bestowed a beaming, conspiratorial smile. To a small child, that smile would hint of tea parties in the nursery, spying from balconies, and cakes smuggled up from the kitchen.
“Daisy, can you greet Miss Ferguson?” For the child who’d nearly leaped from the saddle at the sight of the lady had remained silent.
“Good day, Miss Lily.”
“What is your horse’s name, Daisy?”
The girl squirmed about to peer up at He
ssian, but he busied himself with turning the gelding to walk beside Miss Ferguson’s mare.
“Hammurabi.”
“Ah, the lawgiver,” Miss Lily said. “What is his favorite treat?”
After several minutes, Hessian realized that Miss Ferguson was asking questions that required answers other than yes or no, and by virtue of patient silences, she was getting those answers. Daisy’s replies gradually lengthened, until she was explaining to Miss Lily that the tree branches outside her bedroom window made patterns on the curtains in the shape of the dreaded Hydra from her storybooks.
“That cannot be pleasant when you are trying to fall asleep,” Miss Ferguson said. “When next this Hydra tries to prevent your slumbers, you must banish him.”
“But the shadows are there, every night. Even if there isn’t any moon, the torches in the garden make shadows on my curtains. How do I banish shadows?”
Interesting question.
“You open the curtains of course,” Miss Lily replied, “and then you can see that the same old boring trees are in their same old boring places in the garden, night after night. No wonder they delight in dancing when the breeze comes along.”
Daisy looked around at the plane maples towering overhead. “They dance?”
“A minuet, I think, unless a storm is coming, and then it’s more a gigue. Grampion, do the trees dance up in Cumberland?”
“Oh, routinely. They’re almost as lively as debutantes during the first reel of the evening.” And ever so much more soothing to a man’s nerves.
“My mama danced.”
Hessian fumbled about for a response to Daisy’s first mention of either parent.
“My mama loved to dance,” Miss Lily observed. “I’m an indifferent dancer, though a dear, departed friend once told me that dancing improves if a lady stands up with the right fellow.”
“My papa is dead. That means he’s in heaven, except he was put in a box when he died. Does the box go to heaven? Like a package?”
Why did this topic have to come up now, without warning, in public, in conversation with a young lady whose company Hessian found a good deal more bearable than most of her kind?
“Perhaps now is not the time—” Hessian began.
“Daisy, do you remember the story about Moses?” Miss Ferguson asked. “He made the sea step aside so he could take his people to safety?”
“I remember.”
“Well, the sea doesn’t normally have such accommodating manners, does it? Something unexplainable and wonderful was involved, like dragons breathing fire without scorching their tongues. Getting to heaven is something like that. You needn’t drag along the part of you that got sick, and had megrims, and suffered nightmares. The forever part of you slips into heaven like Moses dashing right across the sea.”
“Wonderful, but we can’t explain it,” Daisy said, petting Ham’s withers. “Only good people go to heaven.”
Miss Lily guided her mare around a puddle, and just as the trees overhead were mirrored on the puddle’s surface, insight reflected off of Daisy’s comment.
Good people went to heaven; therefore, bad little girls did not go to heaven, and they thus avoided ending up in a wooden box beneath the churchyard.
No wonder Daisy saw monsters in the night shadows. Quite logical, from a child’s point of view.
“Daisy, have you ever had a good dream?” Miss Ferguson asked. “One where you could fly, or glide up the steps without your feet touching the carpet?”
“Yes. I dreamed I was a kite, and I could see all of Cumberland like a bird. It was very beautiful, and I wasn’t afraid at all.”
“You’re an astute little girl,” Miss Ferguson said. “You know that was a dream. When you were dreaming it, did you know it was a dream?”
This was all tiresomely abstract—Hess couldn’t recall when last he’d dreamed of anything more interesting than a well done roast of beef—but as the horses clip-clopped along, Daisy appeared to consider Miss Ferguson’s question.
“I thought I was a kite. I didn’t know it was a dream when I was in the sky. When I woke up, I was sorry it was over.”
“That is what heaven is like,” Miss Ferguson said, “but it’s real. When you dreamed, you forgot all about the part of you that was kicking at the covers, or a little chilly for want of an extra blanket. In heaven, you get to keep the good parts—the love, the joy, and the laughter—but you don’t have to carry along any of the hard parts.”
No vicar would explain death and heaven to the child thus, and Hessian wouldn’t either. The words sounded right to him, though, and he appreciated that Miss Lily was making the effort.
Appreciated it greatly.
“Does my mama still love me?”
Hessian could answer that. “Your mother loved you and loves you still, the way Ham loves his carrots. Even when the carrots are stored away in the saddle room, Ham loves them. Even this minute, far from his stall, he’s enthralled with the notion of his next carrot. Your parents love you, always, ten times more than that.”
Carrots. Not his most inspired analogy. Miss Ferguson hid a smile under the guise of adjusting the drape of her habit over her boots.
“My mare adores a big, crunchy carrot too,” Miss Ferguson said. “I’m not that fond of them myself. What about you, Daisy? What is your opinion regarding carrots?”
The ladies chattered back and forth about vegetables, rabbits, and dragons who ate toasted rabbits, and all the while, Hessian wondered how long it would have taken Daisy to ask him about heaven. They ambled beneath the maples, until the horses approached the gate onto Park Lane.
“I have very much enjoyed today’s outing,” Miss Ferguson said. “My thanks to you, Lord Grampion, and to you, Miss Daisy. You will remember to pull the curtains back, won’t you?”
The reminder was for him, though directed at the child.
“We will remember,” Hessian said, “and thank you, Miss Ferguson, for bearing us company.”
He inclined his head and nearly steered Hammurabi across the street, except he could feel Daisy lapsing back into a silence too brooding for one of her years. With Miss Ferguson, the girl had actually chattered, and if ever Hessian longed to hear a female chatter, it was Daisy.
“Miss Ferguson,” he said, “might you pay a call on us Tuesday? I would not want to impose, and I know the Season is demanding of a lady’s time, but—”
“Please say you’ll come,” Daisy said. “Please?”
The smile came again, the soft, sweet, slightly mischievous smile. “I would love to see you on Tuesday, Daisy. I will count the hours until we meet, and I’ll want to hear about your dreams then, so be sure they are grand.”
“I’ll be a kite again,” Daisy said. “Is Tuesday soon?”
Well, no. Tuesday was four entire, long, dreary days and nights away. “Soon enough,” Hessian said. “My thanks again for your company, Miss Ferguson.”
And for aiming just a bit of that dazzling smile at him too.
* * *
“What sort of sister dies as the Season is about to begin?” Roberta Braithwaite asked as she paced the confines of her private parlor. “Most inconsiderate of dear Belinda, but then, she was a trifle on the self-centered side.”
Belinda had been the pretty, younger sister. Her death was unfortunate, of course, but then, Belinda would never have to grow old—another injustice.
“The timing of your bereavement is lamentable, ma’am,” Penelope Smythe said.
Dealing with Penelope’s soft voice, bland opinions, and mousy ways took an endless toll on Roberta’s patience, and yet, a widow who lived alone risked talk. Penelope was the companion hired to prevent talk and boredom, though she fulfilled the first office more effectively than the second.
“You have been working on that nightgown since Yuletide, Penelope. What does it matter how many flowers you wear to bed?”
Penelope blushed, which on such a pale creature was sadly unbecoming. “The needlework soothes my nerves, Mrs.
Braithwaite. If you’d rather I start on a pillowcase, I’ll happily—”
Roberta swiped her finger over the center of the mantel and revealed a thin layer of gray dust. Time to threaten doom to the housekeeper again.
“Spare me your pillowcases. I’ll not become one of those pathetic creatures whose parlor is overrun with framed cutwork, lace table runners, and scriptural samplers. The weather is lovely. Isn’t it time for your constitutional?”
Time for Roberta to enjoy a solitary tea tray. If Penelope noticed that her walk coincided with the afternoon tea tray, she never mentioned it. Perhaps she met a beau in the park and created her flowery nightgowns with him in mind.
Doubtless, he’d have spots and only one set of decent clothes. His name would be Herman, and at best, he’d clerk for a tea warehouse in the City.
“I’ve already taken my walk today, ma’am. I happened to see Lord Grampion, and he had a small child up before him.”
“Grampion rode out with a child?” The Earl of Grampion was a widower whom polite society claimed had spent too many years rusticating in Cumberland. “I had no idea he’d remarried.”
On one of Roberta’s duty visits to Belinda, she’d met Grampion. He’d been a complete waste of good looks on a fellow with about as much warmth as a Cumbrian winter night. He’d put Roberta in mind of the proverbial bishop in a bordello.
And he was guardian of all three of Belinda’s children now. Such a pity.
Penelope bent closer to her hoop. “The child bore a resemblance to you, ma’am, though her hair was fair. She was very quiet, from what I could see.”
“She bore a resemblance to me? Do you think he hauled my poor Amy Marguerite the length of the realm? Tore an orphaned child from her home with her parents barely cold in the ground?”
“I couldn’t say, ma’am.”
Then Roberta would consult with somebody who could say, for Grampion turning up in the company of a child was a very great coincidence.
“I have neglected dear Lady Humplewit for too long,” Roberta said, moving a candlestick and revealing more dust. “Mourning for my sister has made a complete wreck of my social life, but Dorie Humplewit is an old acquaintance. She’ll understand that one needs the occasional breath of fresh air and a cup of tea shared with a good friend.”
His Lordship's True Lady (True Gentlemen Book 4) Page 2
