by Hale Deborah
She froze in his embrace, her whole body going temporarily slack.
It had been far too long since he’d kissed a woman, and never one less ardent than he. Perhaps it was the novelty that made Morse savor his kiss with Leonora.
She tasted of tea. Hot, strong, black tea. With lemon. Her lips had a warmth and provocative softness he never would have guessed to look at her.
At first they surrendered before his onslaught. Falling open. Inviting him deeper.
His body turgid with desire, Morse plunged.
Then, with a shift so sudden it robbed him of breath, Leonora pried herself from his arms and slapped him soundly on the cheek.
“How dare you, Morse Archer?” She leaped to her feet and groped on the table for her spectacles, replacing them with the air of a warrior hefting his fallen shield.
They did not slam into place quickly enough to disguise the film of moisture in her eyes. The sting of her blow almost brought an answering tear to Morse’s.
“If you suppose this show of impropriety will get you excused from retranslating Tacitus, you are quite mistaken.” As she backed away a safe distance from the table, she twisted her hair tightly. Then she jammed a comb in place with a savagery that made Morse wince.
“I have been fool enough to fall for your callous ploy once too often.” When she drew breath, Morse detected the ragged suggestion of a sob.
“I assure you, I have learned wisdom, since. Now get to work if you expect to dine this evening!” She marched to the mantel and pointedly turned her back on him.
Morse sat in stunned silence.
How had she found out? Had he been that transparent? The notion disturbed Morse, for it suddenly dawned on him that his campaign of romantic attentions had not been all bluff.
Hot on the heels of shock came shame. The way Leonora had presented it, his clever plan sounded cowardly and dishonorable.
Lieutenant Peverill would never have approved.
Almost against his will, he got to his feet and approached her. “Leonora, I—”
She must not have heard him coming, for she started when he spoke and touched her shoulders. With a swiftness of reflex any Rifleman might envy, she pivoted and pulled free of his hands.
“Don’t imagine you can win back my trust with more of the same guile, Sergeant.”
In that brief instant of contact between them, Morse had felt her trembling. Now she betrayed no hint of it. Reluctant to show weakness before the enemy, perhaps? It sparked Morse’s admiration almost as much as it wounded him.
He had never wanted them to be enemies.
“And spare me the insult of an explanation.” She tried to back away from him, but found herself trapped against the mantel. “My eyesight may be weak, but I trust the acuity of my hearing. I overheard you boast to your boon companion, Master Dickon, how you had set about to charm your way out of lessons. Perhaps it’s time you learned it takes more than a handsome face and glib tongue to get on in this world.”
Before Morse could recover from the dismay of being denounced, or contrive any sort of accounting for his behavior, a great commotion erupted in the entry hall outside the library.
Dogs barked. A familiar genial voice boomed. The air filled with the sounds of luggage being carted into the house.
Leonora took a deep breath and expelled it in something like a sigh. “Uncle is back, at last. Recopy the translation or not, as you wish, Sergeant Archer. As far as I am concerned, this wager is finished. Even I cannot teach a pupil so intractable he would stoop to toying with a woman’s affections. I wash my hands of you.”
She slipped under his arm and threw open the library door. “Welcome home, Uncle Hugo.”
Morse scarcely heard their exchange of greetings and news. Leonora’s final words whirled in his thoughts, condemning him. His pleasant sojourn at Laurelwood was over and he had been the sole architect of his eviction.
And what would he miss the most?
In that grim instant Morse realized it was the boon of Leonora’s company.
Enveloped in Uncle Hugo’s hearty embrace, Leonora fought back yet more tears.
How glad she’d be when Morse Archer was out of her life for good and all, along with the turbulent emotions he provoked in her.
If only she could convince her heart of it.
“How could you have gone off to London without a word to me?” She gave her uncle a thorough scrutiny from head to toe. He looked well enough. His air of self-satisfaction bordered on smugness. “You didn’t need to consult a physician, I hope?”
“A leech?” Sir Hugo removed his hat, mussing the half-dozen long hairs he kept combed over his bald pate. “Oh, my, no. Whatever gave you such a preposterous idea? Why, I’m fit as a fiddle.”
An apoplectic fiddle troubled by the gout, Leonora thought, but did not say so.
“Went up to town on a spot of business.” He unwound his muffler and began to unbutton his greatcoat. “Though it soon turned into pleasure. Will you look who I met up with in my travels?”
He stepped aside to give her an unobstructed view of a person standing behind him.
It was a man—of sorts. Very tall and spindly. Dressed with more flamboyance than discretion. The creature responded to Leonora’s glance with a guileless grin. Or perhaps witless was a more accurate description.
With a forceful hand on her back, Uncle Hugo propelled Leonora toward him. “Now, don’t say you’ve forgotten Cousin Algie?”
When she responded with a blank look and an embarrassed shrug, he augmented the introduction. “You remember—Algie Blenkinsop, a distant cousin of mine and a friend of Wesley’s from school. The lad’s heir to his grandfather, Lord Biggleswade, and one of these fine old days he’ll come into Laurelwood, too, thanks to the entailment. Algie, surely you recollect my niece, Leonora Freemantle?”
“Mr. Blenkinsop, of course.” Leonora thought she recalled the name—vaguely. Wes had spent a good deal of time at school rescuing the hapless fellow from some trouble or other, as she recalled. So this was the person who would inherit Laurelwood in Wesley’s stead.
Algie Blenkinsop took the hand she proffered, pumping it up and down with a force that set her quivering. “Miss Freemantle, I should say I remember you. Deucedly good to meet you again. I was up to Laurelwood once with Wesley on holiday. You trounced me roundly at chess, as I recollect. And whist. And backgammon. Say, are you still as clever as you used to be?”
An unoriginal pleasantry caught in Leonora’s throat, suddenly constricted with panic.
The beaming of Sir Hugo’s ruddy countenance. The entailment of Laurelwood. Algie Blenkinsop’s gaze of dumb adoration, not unlike an overgrown greyhound. There was no question in Leonora’s mind—Mr. Blenkinsop would be her uncle’s choice of a husband should she lose the wager.
The pair of them were looking at her, expecting some manner of reply. When all Leonora wanted to do was hurl herself onto the floor and wail.
“Welcome home, Sir Hugo.” Morse Archer’s voice from the library door gave her a moment to compose herself.
For an instant Leonora was so overwhelmed with gratitude she would have forgiven him everything. Then she remembered what Morse’s lack of diligence would cost her.
Her heart hardened against him even more.
“Archer, my boy.” Sir Hugo beckoned him close for an introduction. “Algie, this is Morse Archer. He was one of Wes’s comrades in arms against Bonaparte. A stout member of the Rifle Brigade, don’t you know. He’s been doing a spot of convalescing with us since he was discharged from the army.”
Algie exclaimed his pleasure at meeting Morse and shook his hand as thoroughly as he’d shaken Leonora’s. “Sir Hugo promised me plenty of agreeable company if I should come for a few weeks’ visit. I just know we’ll have a jolly time together.”
Leonora took grim glee in watching Morse squirm. Then she considered the jolly time she’d have to endure for the rest of her life as Lady Biggleswade. Suddenly she understood the desp
eration that might lead a wild animal to gnaw off its own leg to escape a snare.
But this snare was one of her own devising.
If only Morse Archer had not proven so impossible. If only she’d discovered the key to winning his loyalty.
“I must go tell Cook you’ve come home with, er…company, Uncle Hugo.”
It was a transparent excuse to get away. By now there could not be a servant in the house ignorant of their master’s return. Leonora didn’t care. She dared not stay another minute in the company of these three men who had unwittingly conspired to ruin her life.
Uncle Hugo with his well-meaning desire to see her married off and mistress of his beloved Laurelwood in the years to come. Morse Archer with his stubborn refusal to apply himself. And Mr. Blenkinsop…the chinless ninny who might well be glad of any wife desperate enough take him.
“You do that, child.” Uncle Hugo exchanged a suggestive look with his guest. “My niece has a good head for all the details that go into the smooth management of a house.”
“Capital.” Algie bobbed his head. Did that absurd grin never leave his face? “I look forward to renewing our acquaintance during my visit, Miss Freemantle.”
When she had not the courage to summon more than a pained smile in reply, Uncle Hugo answered for her. “Oh, I expect you’ll be getting acquainted with Leonora very well indeed, Algie. I just know the pair of you will get on.”
If she had not been certain he was motivated by only the tenderest feelings for her, Leonora would have sworn Uncle Hugo was taking pleasure in tormenting her. Before she disgraced herself by breaking down entirely, she turned her back on the men and fled to the kitchen.
Morse had the uncomfortable conviction there was more going on than the simple introduction of a houseguest. But for the life of him, he could not fathom what.
Leonora wore an even more stricken look than when she’d given him his dressing-down in the library. Sir Hugo’s usual heartiness had taken on a gloating edge. What could he possibly have to gloat over?
As for Algie Blenkinsop, he was clearly the sort of aristocratic boob Morse had long despised. Everything in life handed to them on a silver platter. Trained from the cradle to expect deference from anyone beneath them. Too arrogant to recognize their own stupidity—even when it cost better, abler men their lives.
The notion that Blenkinsop would inherit Laurelwood in Lieutenant Peverill’s place stuck in Morse’s craw till he almost gagged on it.
Perhaps it was just as well he’d be shipping out of Laurelwood soon. Whatever his uncertain future held, at least he would not have to suffer the tedious company of Algie Blenkinsop.
As soon as he could make a polite excuse, Morse slipped away to the library. There he labored over his Latin translation until his eyes fairly crossed and his fingers cramped around the pen.
He left the exercise for Leonora to find, hoping she would read an apology in every meticulously written word.
Dressing for dinner that night, he wondered if he would be allowed to take away the fine clothes Sir Hugo had purchased for him. Morse scrubbed at the ink stains on his fingers. They stubbornly resisted his efforts.
Over and over, he reviewed Leonora’s edicts regarding table manners. He hoped to conduct himself impeccably that evening—for perhaps his last meal at Laurelwood. Then Leonora might see that he had learned something from her, after all. Even if it was far too little and far too late.
To his surprise and dismay, she did not put in an appearance at dinner, nor was there a place set for her. At first Morse wondered if she was too upset to face him again. Then he realized it was Wednesday evening.
What was this mysterious errand that took her into the village two evenings a week? She had never volunteered the information and Morse had been too glad of the respite from lessons to question his good fortune. Now, with his time at Laurelwood running out, the matter was suddenly very important to him.
Making his excuses to Sir Hugo and his guest, Morse left the table at his earliest opportunity. Bundling up in his greatcoat and beaver hat, he borrowed one of Sir Hugo’s walking sticks and set off for the village.
The unseasonably mild night held a distinct promise of spring. Morse inhaled a deep draft of the moist, loamy air that smelled of quickening life. This was a time for new beginnings, yet his heart labored under a burden of regret.
Perhaps it would ease once he’d had a chance to talk with Leonora.
He owed her a sincere apology.
What’s more, he owed her the truth.
Chapter Eight
Leonora looked around the cramped little vestry room at the dozen village girls who made up her class. “I know it’s earlier than usual…again, but I’m afraid we must conclude our studies for the evening.”
From their places around two rickety tables, the girls glanced up at her without a word and closed their books. The genuine regret on their young faces flattered her, even as it provoked a pang of guilt. She had sent them away prematurely on Saturday, too, in her rush to get back to Laurelwood. And Morse Archer.
What a fool she’d been!
In contrast to that stubborn, underhanded Rifleman, it was a joy to teach students like these. So eager to learn, so appreciative of the opportunity she afforded them. But tonight she could not keep her mind on the lesson no matter how hard she tried. Her concentration was continually buffeted by questions and worries about her future.
She had fondly hoped some of the girls in her class might attend her new school once she got it going. With that dream now dashed, she could only wonder whether Mr. Blenkinsop might allow her to continue teaching this class.
Her mood had obviously communicated itself to her pupils, for they donned their wraps in somber silence. Since this might be one of her last classes with them, Leonora regretted even more the necessity to dismiss them early.
“May I have a word with you, miss?” Elsie Taylor edged toward the small table Leonora employed as a desk. The eldest and brightest of her scholars, Elsie was a tiny wren of a girl whose dark eyes held a world of curiosity and whose oft turned and patched clothes belied a natural refinement of manner.
“Surely, Elsie.” Leonora scoured up an encouraging smile and tacked it in place.
“Girls,” she called out to the rest of the class. “Don’t forget to read the next two chapters of The Pilgrim’s Progress before Saturday and be prepared to discuss Christian’s experiences in Vanity Fair and Lucre Hill. Keep in mind what I told you about allegories and see if you can come up with some examples from your own life that relate to Christian’s journey thus far.”
The girls took up their twopenny editions of Bunyan, which Leonora had purchased from her own meager resources. If she could not continue to teach them herself, she wondered if someone else might be found to take on the task. If Mr. Blenkinsop was very rich, perhaps he would allow her to buy books and supplies for the class, at least.
As the last of them filed out with a subdued word of farewell, Leonora turned to her star pupil. “What can I do for you this evening, Elsie? Are you through The Pilgrim’s Progress already and want to start on something more challenging? I can lend you my own copy of Gulliver’s Travels if you promise to take very good care of it. It was the last Christmas gift I received from my cous—”
The girl shook her head. “It’s not that, Miss Freemantle, though I thank you kindly for the offer. I’m sure it’s a fine book.”
She held out her copy of Bunyan. “So was this. I am finished with it, but I’ll not be borrowing anything new.”
To Leonora’s puzzled look she replied, “My auntie’s found me a place in service at a big house in the West Country where she’s the head house parlor maid. I’m to start as a scullery maid, but I can work my way up. Saturday will be my last class, as I’m catching the post coach on Sunday. You won’t mind my coming then, I hope, miss? Even if I don’t mean to continue?”
“Of course not, Elsie. Do come, by all means.” Leonora tried to disguise her di
sappointment lest it distress her young friend. Behind Elsie’s matter-of-fact announcement, it was plain she did not relish what the future held in store for her. “You are welcome to keep your copy of The Pilgrim’s Progress as my parting gift. I can tell you from experience that it improves upon successive readings. And thank you for giving me advance notice of your departure from our midst. We shall all miss you and hope you will enjoy your new situation.”
Precious little fear of that, Leonora reflected to herself as Elsie thanked her for the book and took her leave. A scullery maid’s job was one of the dirtiest, most thankless and most wearisome in any household. Up before dawn to light the kitchen fire, not to bed until the last cook pot from dinner was scoured clean. The poor girl would have little opportunity to keep up her studies, even if she was so inclined.
If only Elsie could have stayed on in the class for a few more months, Leonora reflected. A well-worded letter of character from her might have secured the girl a junior teaching position at some charity school. Not well paid, to be sure, but the kind of work she could enjoy and take pride in.
Packing her satchel, spirits sunk even lower than when she’d arrived, Leonora regretted the loss of her wager. Every bit as much for her pupils’ sakes as for her own.
By the time Morse discovered Leonora’s whereabouts, a tiny cupboard of a room in the vestry of the local church, the girls were already filing out, singly and in pairs.
As he waited for Leonora outside on the brightly moonlit night, he hunted up Lieutenant Peverill’s tombstone in the churchyard and doffed his hat out of respect. The icy breeze ruffled his hair.
Paying him no mind, the girls hung about for a few minutes talking freely of their class, their teacher and their disappointment at another evening’s early dismissal.
It pricked Morse’s conscience to think how he’d relished a premature end to his own lessons. How he’d connived to bring it about, while others hungered for the feast of knowledge he turned his nose up at.
From the sound of their voices, he could tell these girls came from families of local tradesmen and tenant farmers. Common folk who could ill afford an advanced education for their sons, let alone their daughters. His own sisters might have grown into girls like these, if they’d lived.
