by Cheryl Bolen
He demonstrated a portion of a piece, showed her the written music, then asked her to play a few bars. She played very slowly. The tempo was off, but she did not hit a single incorrect note.
When she finished, she burst out laughing.
"And what are you laughing at?" he asked with affection.
"I was remembering the dowdy little woman back in Chelseymeade who gave pianoforte lessons. Of course, not owning an instrument, I was never fortunate enough to patronize her. But I was just thinking how unlikely it is that a baron is giving lessons at the pianoforte."
He laughed, too. "I'm likely the only peer of the realm ever to instruct young ladies on the instrument."
She set a hand on his sleeve. "You are so very giving, my lord. I cannot tell you how indebted I am to you for your many kindnesses to me."
God's teeth, but the girl's touch had the same effect on him again! He fought a strong urge to take her in his arms. He must have been too long without a woman. "You repay me most generously with your adeptness--as well as with your excellent drawings for our book."
"Your book," she insisted, "on which I am only too honored to be an insignificant worker."
He was drawn by her sweet, gentle voice and humble ways. But he must think of her as one thinks of a daughter. "Back to the music."
She removed her hand from his sleeve, and he congratulated himself on his resolve not to sully her.
***
When her lesson was finished Freddie remained in the great hall, furiously practicing at the pianoforte, driven by a raging need to cleanse her mind of Dr. Edgekirth's outrageous charges against her guardian. Staying occupied with challenging work was the only way she knew to push away troubling thoughts.
She commended herself on how well she had hidden her distressed state from Lord Stacks. She had even been able to laugh and to make him laugh.
After she finished at the musical instrument, she went to her room and sat at her desk to sketch more flowers. She had long since dismissed trying to sketch on her bed for Marmalade simply could not resist plopping himself squarely in the middle of her pad. Now she set down her pencil and gazed at her cat, curled in a sleeping ball on her bed. She smiled, remembering how well he liked to nestle under the covers with her each night, even resting his head on her pillow.
But her smile vanished when she thought of Lord Stacks. Despite all her efforts to keep so busy she could not possibly think of him, Freddie realized she could no easier forget him than she could cease to draw breath.
Her talk with the doctor had left her shaken. Not only had she realized that she loved Lord Stacks, but she also knew with the clarity of spring water how hopeless a situation hers was. First, Lord Stacks would never consider her as anything but a girl--never a suitable candidate to replace the beautiful Lady Stacks.
Then, too, the man himself had insisted he would never marry again.
This she could accept. All she asked was that she be allowed to stay with him. She needed him as his plants needed soil and water.
But underlying all of today's troubling revelations were the accusations Dr. Edgekirth made against her guardian. Should she believe him or dismiss his charges as the rantings of a jealous man? She knew the doctor to be an honest man. She did not believe Dr. Edgekirth would make up so grave an accusation.
She knew, too, there was plausibility to his accusations. They would explain Mrs. Greenwood's behavior, why she had been so hostile when Freddie first came. And, now that Freddie had Mrs. Taylor to protect her against Lord Stacks, Mrs. Greenwood treated Freddie with civility.
There was, too, Maggie's chance comment about the wicked things said about Lord Stacks. And--most incriminating of all--there were Lord Stacks' own words. Hadn't he told her himself he was not worthy of her adulation? Hadn't he admitted that God himself had turned his back on him?
What was not plausible to contemplate was that in his wildest, bleakest mood, Lord Stacks could ever harm anyone. The very idea rankled every instinct in her being.
Though she knew the doctor's words to most likely be true, Freddie knew, too, there had to be another explanation for Elizabeth's injuries--mere chance perhaps?
Never would Freddie believe her guardian capable of inflicting injury on anyone.
If she asked him for an explanation, Lord Stacks likely would give it. But Freddie wondered if she had the right to demand it.
Perhaps she would.
Chapter 13
As she was standing back to gaze at her work-in-progress — a watercolor of Marmalade playing with a ball of yarn — Eason strode into the chamber. "A package has arrived for you, miss."
Her eyes widened. She had never received a package. Never. "Are you sure?"
"Yes, miss, his lordship said to bring it to you."
"It's from Lord Stacks?"
"From his solicitor, I believe."
Why would Lord Stacks's solicitor be sending her a package? She eyed the box Eason was setting on the table. It was the size of a small desk drawer. Perhaps it had something to do with her father's papers, though she'd thought she had all of them.
After setting down her brush and cleaning her hands, she opened the box. Not papers. Something much more exquisite, a shawl perhaps. No nubby wool, either. Her fingers sank into the incredibly soft, asparagus colored knit. A Kashmir shawl. She had never owned anything so beautiful. Or so costly.
A diamond necklace could not have been more appreciated. Though she had long needed a shawl, she had never thought to have one this fine. Powerful emotions nearly swamped her. More than its beauty, more than the excitement of receiving a gift, she was deeply moved by her guardian's thoughtfulness.
She hurried to drape it over her shoulders, unable to resist stroking its softness. Not normally one to peer at herself in a looking glass, she rushed to the gilt mirror and stared. The color of her eyes perfectly matched the shawl. She had always thought her eyes ugly, but not now.
Her guardian must be thanked.
She bent to scoop up Marmalade, but stopped. His claws might get caught in the fine knit and ruin it. "You're to stay here, Mister Fluff Muffin."
Leaving the cat behind, she rushed to the quadrangle. Lord Stacks, looking devilishly handsome, his muscled arms flexed over his head, stood pruning a rhododendron which had spent the last of its scarlet blooms.
When he heard her approaching, he turned. The sunlight stamped into his tanned face. For the briefest of seconds, his eyes glittered and his mouth curved into a satisfied smile as his lazy gaze fell on her, then his face went somber. "I see you got the shawl."
"Oh, yes, my lord!" She twirled around, lifting the shawl as if it were bat's wings. "It's quite the loveliest thing I've ever possessed. I don't know how I can ever thank you."
"I don't wish to be thanked. As your guardian, it's my duty to see to your needs, and you needed a shawl."
"But not one so fine."
His gaze lit on the shawl. "It's you, Miss Lambeth, who make it look fine. It becomes you."
She shook her head. "A beggar would look like a queen in this."
Despite his stiffness, his mouth eased into a smile. "I had hoped it would match your eyes."
It seemed unfathomable to Freddie that he had ever noticed her eyes. And even more surprising, he must like them, or else he would not have wished to accentuate them! She wanted to reiterate her thanks, but she knew it would make him uncomfortable. "It was very thoughtful of you, my lord."
He returned to his pruning. With his back to her, he said, "I'm glad you like it."
She was clearly being dismissed.
***
The abbey seemed unusually noisy the following morning, Freddie mused as she made her way from the cloister toward the great room amidst the steady hum of busy servants and the sounds of furniture scraping against the stone floors of the great hall. On entering the great hall, she stopped and gazed at the small army of servants scurrying back and forth. Sunlight bathed the normally dark room from windows now bare of th
eir heavy velvet draperies.
One crew of footmen, having shed their lime liveried tail coats, removed the dusty Turkey carpets just after another crew had removed the furniture, stacking it against the north wall. Housemaids in caps teetered on tall ladders to clean chandeliers while others were in the process of polishing the vast stone floors.
Freddie was puzzled. She knew it was too late for spring cleaning.
"We're getting the abbey ready for a grand ball!" a nearby maid happily informed Freddie.
An older maid looked up from her floor scrubbing, a smile on her ruddy face. "It'll be just like in the old days," she said. "The abbey's coming to life again."
"Yes, indeed," the first maid said, "Marshbanks Abbey will be filled with grand ladies and gents dressed in their fancy clothes, and the front drive will be lined with fine carriages." The maid's eyes sparkled as brightly as the chandelier she was cleaning.
"How many you reckon can dance in this room?" one of the footman asked his partner.
"They said over three hundred have attended balls here in the past," the other footman answered.
Freddie raised a brow. A significant number, indeed. "Tell me," Freddie asked, "is this the room that will serve as the ballroom?"
"Indeed it is, miss," the second footman answered.
She sidestepped her way across the room, avoiding rolled carpets and piles of dusty velvet draperies. She did not wish to get in the way of the workers as she picked her way to the breakfast room. There she found her guardian perusing his newspaper.
"I trust you slept well, Miss Lambeth," he asked, not really removing his eyes from his paper.
"Yes, thank you." She sat beside him and poured herself a cup of steaming tea. "Your preparations for the ball have not escaped my notice. When is it to take place?"
He put down his paper. "Three weeks from tonight."
"Why--why so soon?" she asked, deeply disappointed. Was her guardian in so great a hurry to be rid of her? And why must he fill his life with varied social obligations that would rob her of his time?
Concern etched across his rugged face. "I had thought you would be pleased. After all, the abbey is rather a gloomy place to raise an eligible young lady. I want you to be surrounded by people who are of your own age." His face went soft, reminding her of a kindly uncle. But a kindly uncle was the last thing she wanted Lord Stacks to be. "It does you no good to spend so much time with me, Miss Lambeth."
Her back went ramrod straight. "I beg to differ," she responded firmly. "My happiest moments are when it is just you and I."
He gave her a strange look that she was unable to read. "You have, unfortunately, led an extremely dull life if that is the case."
She grabbed her cup and a scone and followed him to his library.
Indignation in her face and in her stance, she crossed the room and settled comfortably on the settee near his desk before taking up her notes. "Either you have been taking extra care with your handwriting or I have become most adept at deciphering, for there were only three words in the new chapter I was unable to read."
"Come now, Miss Lambeth," he said, an amused expression on his face, "only three?"
"Not counting your inability to correctly spell the plurals," she added, a giggle in her voice.
"Now that's more like it. I suppose you're referring to gladiolas. I never can remember the confounded spellings of those wretched plants. Why can't one just stick an "s" on every word to make a plural is beyond me."
"You must remember, my lord, that you do not make the rules."
"Have I told you that you remind me very much of my old governess, Miss Linscombe?"
She sighed and put down her papers. "Many times, my lord. You also told me you called her Dragon Lady. Fortunate I am that you have yet to add that moniker to me."
"I may yet," he grumbled. "Bring those notes here and let me tell you what they are."
She rose, notes in hand, and walked to him. Flipping through her papers, she came to her first question mark. Leaning over him, she pointed to it.
"That," he announced triumphantly, "is hog's fennel, you know, like sow's fennel."
She burst out giggling. "But you wrote hawgsfinal--one word. It's two words, my lord, neither of which you spelled correctly."
"That is why I have you, Dragon Lady," he grumbled. He took the other papers from her and ran his eyes over them until he found her question marks. The first was beside i-b-r-y-t. "That is eye bright," he told her.
A gleam in her eye, she nodded. "Two words."
He ignored her while searching for the last question mark beside see holy. "And this is sea holly," he proclaimed.
She burst out laughing. "I am convinced you truly do need me," she said as she went back to her seat and took up her pen and paper.
The two worked quietly, facing each other.
Stacks felt exceedingly sorry for the girl if she was so unused to people her own age that she found his company desirous. He had done her a great disservice by monopolizing her time. A girl her age should be entertaining morning callers daily. She should have young lady friends with whom to share confidences. And she should have soirees and fetes and balls galore to attend. Her head should be filled with ball gowns and beaus. Not with genuses and species and preparing elixirs for old men plagued by gout and foul-smelling wind.
Above all, he needed to find her a husband who would be worthy of the girl. He had already dismissed Edgekirth and John Rountree. What of Rountree's brother who was a curate? Surely he was a learned man. Stacks had already established that the Rountree family lineage was perfectly acceptable for his young ward.
He smiled to himself. Luke Rountree might just be the very man for Freddie. Would that he were not a second son.
Many preparations needed to be made between now and the night of the ball. Stacks lifted his quill to begin compiling a list of those who would be sent invitations. Lamentably, he would need to discuss the menu with Mrs. Greenwood. A pity Freddie had not the experience to take over that chore from him. A pity, too, that Mrs. Taylor was so utterly incapable.
He supposed he would have to trust the woman to help Freddie select a ball gown at Mrs. Baron's for he could no longer commence on a journey to York with his ward now that he had decided not to send her back down south. Remembering Freddie's unerring judgments during their first visit to York, Stacks did not really worry about Freddie selecting an unsuitable gown. The girl did possess extraordinary taste. Far better than that odious companion of hers. He supposed he would have to pay for a gown for Mrs. Taylor, too, he thought grimly. That meant she would be underfoot the night of the ball, no doubt babbling about her glorious season of indeterminate years ago.
He would also need to retain the services of an orchestra. All of a sudden, a frightening thought occurred to him. He leveled a gaze at Freddie across the broad desk from him. "Can you dance, Miss Lambeth?"
She put down her sketch pad and met his gaze with a challenging spark in her green eyes. "Not at all, my lord."
He a mumbled curse under his breath. "I shall have to teach you myself for there is no time to send for a dancing master." He rang for Eason.
When Eason responded to the call, Stacks told him to have the pianoforte moved into the library from the disheveled great hall.
Eason lifted a quizzing brow but only said, "Very well, my lord."
Within minutes, a half a dozen footmen carried the instrument into the library, and Stacks directed them to place it on the west wall. "While you men are here," he instructed, "I desire that you remove the rug from the center of this room in order that we can dance."
The servants removed the furniture, then rolled up the rug. "And," Stacks said, "please inform Mrs. Taylor that her presence is required in the library immediately."
Turning to Freddie, he said, "She will play while I teach you to dance."
Momentarily, Mrs. Taylor entered the library, once again with the widow's cap smashed on her head, and Stacks told her what he desired. H
e thumbed through a great stack of music and made several selections.
"We shall practice every day until the ball," he told Freddie, meeting her frightened gaze. "You will know the steps so very well that on the night of the ball, you will not have to give them a thought. They will be second nature to you."
"Pray, I hope you are right," Freddie said.
"Dancing is really rather simple. It's all in the counting," he said. "And one counts to the tempo of the music."
He turned to Mrs. Taylor, who had settled on the bench in front of the pianoforte. "Play the one on top, if you please."
The first tune was quite slow. He demonstrated the steps to Freddie, showing her the count. "Now, we will do it together, Miss Lambeth," he said, facing her.
She slid her feet to the steps and count.
"No, Miss Lambeth," he said patiently. "Your feet actually leave the floor."
They did the first sequence of steps again. This time her feet lifted from the floor but in too exaggerated a fashion.
"Remember, Miss Lambeth, one's head is not to bob about when one is dancing gracefully," he said. "Were I to place a board over your head, it should scarcely move as you dance if your movements are to convey the necessary grace."
After nearly two hours, Freddie had come close to mastering the country dances. Stacks vowed to reinforce what she had learned every single day until the ball.
Perhaps next week he would introduce her to the waltz, he thought, his heart racing as he recalled waltzing in the capitals of Europe with many a beautiful woman held close as they danced to heavenly music. Of course, that was before the wicked dance had been permitted at decent English assemblies.
Would he be able to hold Freddie in his arms and not want to ravish her? he wondered grimly.
***
Freddie could not fight the inevitable. So she might as well embrace the idea of the ball and use it to her advantage. Though her chances of engaging her guardian's amorous affections were no greater than the likelihood she would marry the Prince of Wales, Freddie allowed herself the luxury of dreaming. Dreaming that she would look so beautiful on the night of the ball, Lord Stacks would only have eyes for her. They would dance together every dance, and everyone would say what a lovely couple they made.
