by Darcy Burke
Miranda blinked at her. “My father is the Duke of Holborn. I wouldn’t recognize a louse if it appeared at my mother’s bi-weekly tea and engaged my father in a political debate.”
Mrs. Gates chuckled. “Now, that would be a sight. My apologies. I should have realized someone of your station wouldn’t have this sort of experience.” Mrs. Gates smiled apologetically, and Miranda felt a trifle guilty. The woman was trying to give her the benefit of the doubt—no one ever did that. People made their assumptions based on her appearance and social status, and that was simply the way things were. “If you find an infestation, come find me in the kitchen, and we’ll take the child to the bathing chamber.”
Before Miranda could stall with further questions, two boys strode into the hall. “Ah, here are Philip and Bernard.” Mrs. Gates beckoned for the children to come forward. They appeared to be about ten years old. “This is Lady Miranda. She is going to check your heads today. Don’t give her any trouble, now.”
The boys eyed Miranda and grinned.
“You’re pretty,” the taller of the two said.
Miranda had heard much lovelier praise, but was surprised at the nerve of a ten year-old country boy. “Thank you.” Normally, she would turn the flirtation back on the instigator, but…what did one do out here? Since she knew nothing else, Miranda continued on as she would have done in London, giving the boy a slight curtsy. “You are a handsome lad yourself.”
The other boy laughed while the first one turned the color of her favorite ruby necklace.
Mrs. Gates nodded approvingly at Miranda. “I shall leave them in your capable hands.”
Miranda didn’t want her to leave, but if she stayed what was the point of Miranda doing the task at all? The headmistress departed, and the boys stood rooted to the floor.
“All right then. Who’s first?”
Each boy pointed at the other and said in unison, “Him.”
“How about you?” She gestured to the taller boy, wondering if he was Philip or Bernard, whose color had faded to normal.
“Sure, Philip, you go.” Bernard pointed to the chair positioned next to the table.
Philip’s shoulders drooped, and he took his seat. Miranda stepped behind him and contemplated the top of his sandy brown head.
“Are you going to gawk at ‘im all day then?” Bernard folded his arms across his chest.
“No.” Miranda refused to be cowed by two young boys with a legion of bugs on their heads—God, she hoped they were lice-free. She turned to the table and studied the combs. They looked dirty. Swallowing her trepidation, she plucked one up using the very tips of her fingers. Upon closer scrutiny, she determined they were clean, just stained from age. Allowing her fingers to curl about the implement more securely, she thrust it into Philip’s hair with a quick, jerky motion meant to minimize her contact with the boy and his potential lice.
“Ow!” Philip flinched as she caught a knot.
“Sorry.” She recalled the brutal hair brushings from her nurse and didn’t want to unduly torture the boy. She tried again, more gently, but with the same elevated concern for her cleanliness. After several moments, relief poured through her and she declared, “I don’t see any lice.”
Bernard took his turn in the chair. “My ‘ead’s been itching a bit.”
“I’m sure it’s, er, the cold weather.” Miranda prayed it was so.
“I had lice last year. Felt the same.”
He’d already had lice. Miranda swallowed against the bile rising in her throat. Best to be done with this.
Thrusting the comb into the boy’s thick mop, she shrieked at the sight of a small creature leaping from his scalp. Dropping the comb, she jumped back and shook her hands furiously. At once, she felt a thousand tiny legs crawling over her body.
“That’s quite a racket you’re making. Am I infested again, then?” He turned in his chair and Miranda realized she was still squeaking.
“What’s the matter?”
Miranda had no idea who had spoken. After a moment, hands grabbed her upper arms. “Are you all right, Lady Miranda?” Mrs. Gates studied her with grave concern.
Her body shaking, Miranda managed to stifle her screeching and nod. “There was a…thing…bug…louse.” She pointed at Bernard, now vigorously scratching his head.
“I see. We’ll have to cut your hair again, Bernard.”
The boy sighed heavily, but nodded.
“And Philip, you’ll need a good scrubbing. I bet you’ve got an egg or two since you and Bernard share a bed.”
Miranda lifted her hands, raking them for a telltale sign of anything moving. Or anything egg-like. One day in the country, and she was going to have lice.
“Come, boys.” Mrs. Gates put an arm around each of them and stopped short. “Oh, Fox, maybe you can help Lady Miranda. She’s had a fright with Bernard’s lice.”
Miranda spun toward the doorway leading to the back of the house. A tall man stood just inside the hall. Thick, too-long, brown hair swept back from his face. Garbed in simple brown woolen breeches and topcoat, he was utterly undistinguished.
“I wondered what the screaming was about.” He came toward her, his gait and stature quite confident for a retainer. He passed the departing Mrs. Gates and assumed a stance before Miranda. “Lady Miranda, I presume? Montgomery Foxcroft at your service.”
He offered a courteous bow and when he raised his gaze…she froze. Completely. Never had she seen such eyes. They were blue. Or green. Or maybe amber. All of them, she realized. Cobalt at the outside, they shaded to rich jade toward the middle and were flecked with gold just around the pupil. And upon closer inspection she couldn’t exactly discount the rest of his face either. He was rather handsome, in a rugged sort of way, she supposed. His jaw was quite square and his lips—which she shouldn’t be looking at, but that had never stopped her—were just full enough to provoke the notion of a kiss… She abruptly raised her gaze to his eyes again, noting the tiny lines that fanned out making him look as if he smiled often, something her family rarely did.
He looked at her hand, and she suddenly remembered she could be crawling with lice.
“Do I need a bath? That boy’s head…”
“No, a simple hand-washing will suffice. I’ll show you the washroom.” He held out his arm.
“I, ah, you don’t mind my touching your arm? I could be infested.”
He laughed, the rich, dark timbre of his voice warming her in the way she’d sought that very morning. “I doubt that. Have you no experience with lice?”
“No, I’m from London.”
He laughed again. “And you expect me to believe there are no lice in London?”
“There aren’t at Holborn House.” Miranda wasn’t wearing her finest gown, she had no jewels on her person, and her hair had been pulled into a rather severe style, but surely he recognized her station? “I’m Lady Miranda Sinclair. My father is Holborn. I’m visiting Birch House. Miss Carmody invited me to join her here this morning.” Never mind this wasn’t precisely the truth.
“Ah yes, Miss Carmody. She gives Stipple’s End so much of her time. Come.” He tucked her hand over his arm and led her from the hall. “You make time for charity work, then?”
Had he heard nothing she said? Or were pedigrees unimportant in the country? “Er, no. Though, I’m certain my father—the duke—donates to several charitable causes.”
“Which ones?” Those unique eyes of his bored into her, the amber-flecked centers sizzling like burning embers. She felt strangely hot beneath his regard.
He steered her into a small room at the end of the back hallway.
“I don’t know.” Unless a topic pertained to her future marriage or her behavior, her father didn’t discuss it with her.
He gestured to a large basin set into a long table beneath a small window overlooking the rear yard. “You can wash there.”
A girl entered just then bearing a large bucket of steaming water. “Mrs. Gates thought you might need some ho
t water to clean up.”
“Thank you, Flora.” Mr. Foxcroft took the bucket and poured the water into the basin beneath the window.
Flora gaped at Miranda. “Are you really a lady?”
“Yes.”
“And you live in London?”
“Yes.”
Mr. Foxcroft interrupted. “Flora, Lady Miranda would like to wash up. You can interrogate her later.” He’d set the bucket on the table and now leaned against the edge.
“But, I just have a few—”
“Go.” His tone was kind, yet firm.
The girl obeyed, but not without casting a longing glance over her shoulder at Miranda.
“I didn’t mind answering her questions. The girl was positively charming.” In fact, she’d given Miranda her nicest reception since arriving in this backwater.
“If you come back another day, you can do so. Forgive me for saying, but you don’t seem the type to visit orphanages. In truth, you seem as if you belong in a ballroom.”
How…expected. He saw her beauty and judged her a mindless ninny. She peeled back her sleeves from her wrists as she walked to the basin. Eagerly, she thrust her hands into the hot water, closing her eyes briefly as the heat seeped into her flesh and raced up her arms. The comfort banished the sensation that her skin crawled with lice. When she opened her eyes, she found Mr. Foxcroft staring at her. He was quite presumptuous for his station. Adopting her haughtiest tone, she endeavored to remind him of his place. “Have you worked at the orphanage long?”
He didn’t flinch. “I own Stipple’s End. My family founded this orphanage over four hundred years ago.”
“Pardon, I assumed you were an employee.” She cast him a glance, her gaze flicking down to his dirty fingernails. Now he reacted, quickly clasping his hands behind his back, and she felt a moment’s regret. She’d judged him as certainly as he’d judged her.
“I do work here, but I also have my own estate to look after.” He stood only a foot or so away, and from this distance she caught the scent of raw earth and something else. An herb. Rosemary, perhaps? His eyes glimmered in the gray light filtering through the window.
Miranda looked around for soap just as he handed it to her. The small cake felt greasier than she was used to and wasn’t fragranced with roses or honeysuckle.
“The orphans make the soap. That’s a special kind for lice, but the older girls make some flowery-smelling cakes which we sell at Mrs. Abernathy’s in the village.”
“How curious.” Miranda couldn’t imagine making soap, especially for the purpose of eradicating vermin. She scrubbed her hands and murmured her thanks when Mr. Foxcroft set a towel next to the basin. “Does everyone here have a specific job?”
He nodded. “I suppose so. Except the younger children. Although learning to read and figure is probably a job to them.”
She dried her hands and turned, resting her hip against the table. “You teach these children to read?” What sort of lives could these orphans possibly aspire to? Miranda had no idea, but assumed they would end up as chimney sweeps or scullery maids.
He crossed his arms over his chest with a half-smile. It was the kind of smile that didn’t readily expose his emotion. Amusement? Annoyance? “We teach them to do any number of things.”
She was surprisingly interested in this conversation. “And where do they go from here?”
His shoulder lifted slightly. Still no clue as to what he thought behind those peculiar eyes. “Wherever they want.”
“You pay for them to travel somewhere?” She found this not only odd, but…charming. And that in itself was odd.
He dropped his arms, his left hand smacking down against the rim of the basin, crushing a large spider she hadn’t seen crawling toward her. “Excuse me.” He moved to take her place in front of the basin, and she barely jumped back before their bodies could occupy the same space.
He rinsed his palm in the water and then grabbed the towel she’d so recently discarded. “You misunderstand. We do our best to find a place for them, either here in Wootton Bassett or elsewhere in the district. Some leave and find their own way. It’s entirely up to them what they make of themselves. We merely try to give them some useful skills and at least a rudimentary education.”
“How kind of you.” That seemed an inadequate observation, but she could think of nothing better. She’d never before met anyone who would invest such time and energy. “And what is it you provide?”
He blinked. “Everything.”
“Well, if that’s the case, you should repair the leak in the hall. It smells dank and the chill is pervasive. I’ve the impression it’s been leaking for quite some time.”
His eyes narrowed, and his lips pressed into a firm line. She caught herself staring at them again and shook her head at her fancy.
“It hasn’t been leaking long, actually. And I will repair it. I’m certain things happen very quickly and perhaps without due consideration in your sphere. How fortunate you must be to have the benefit of time, wealth, and ability.” Ice hung from his tone. He might be able to match her father in haughtiness. And she was right sick of being talked to that way, by her father, her mother, everyone.
Miranda turned toward him and propped her left fist on her hip. “There is no call to be rude. You don’t know anything about my ‘sphere.’”
“I can well guess. Just look at the gown you wore to delouse orphans.” His gaze flicked over her, further pricking her ire.
Miranda gritted her teeth. “I didn’t know I would be delousing orphans.” What else could she say? She’d no idea dressing for a tiny hamlet would be as complicated as dressing for London. “Don’t you have a roof to fix?”
His eyes were ablaze with emotion. “I’ll leave you to your chores.” He turned away, and she wilted a little without the fervor of his stare.
What a disagreeable man! As he strode toward the door, she gave in to devilish impulse. “I’d be happy to give you a lesson in wardrobe selection and the latest fashion in men’s hairstyles.”
Mr. Foxcroft paused but didn’t turn. Miranda waited, breathless, for his response. He left without another word.
Mrs. Gates appeared in the doorway. “Are you ready to continue? Neville is waiting for you in the hall.”
Miranda’s stomach knotted. She’d rather hoped she was finished. No. She could do this. She’d prove to all of them—her parents, the Carmodys, that insufferable Foxcroft—that she was made of the sternest stuff. She squared her shoulders. “Lead the way, Mrs. Gates.”
The headmistress’s eyes lit with appreciation. “Since Bernard’s infested, you’re like to find other cases. I’ve asked Beatrice to help. She’s got enough experience with this for both of you.”
Beatrice rounded the corner just then. “Are you coming, Lady Miranda?” Her sharp tone and pursed lips revealed her judgment: she found Miranda as empty as Mr. Foxcroft had.
Oh yes, she was ready to prove them all wrong. Miranda smiled sweetly. “Of course.” Then she carried herself into the hall with all of the regal poise her three governesses had instilled. She’d conquered London. Wootton Bassett couldn’t possibly be more difficult.
Resolved to show Beatrice she was no London ninny, she faced the young boy awaiting her on the chair then bit her cheek to keep from cringing. For he was quite earnestly and thoroughly scratching his scalp.
Chapter Three
THE Thursday afternoon was far too cold for June. After scraping frost off the orphanage roof that morning, Fox and Rob had studied the hole and concluded the repair would be costlier than anticipated. In the meantime, they’d done what they could and managed to plug the leak, if not completely fix the damage. But now Fox’s visit to the vicar’s tea was suddenly quite necessary.
As was launching his courtship of Miranda. With luck, she would be here at the vicarage today. He hadn’t exactly made a grand first impression last week at Stipple’s End, but then she hadn’t made things easy with her arrogance and presumption. Still, he had t
o make this work.
Fox handed his reins to the stable boy and turned toward a carriage rattling up the drive. He inwardly groaned at the sight of the scarlet coat of arms emblazoned on the ebony door.
Stratham.
Fox balled his hands into fists, the worn leather of his gloves pulling taut over his knuckles. Should he do the socially appropriate thing and await Stratham’s arrival, for surely the man had seen him standing in the drive, or should he ignore the insufferable rotter and go into the vicarage? Fox turned and rapped on the large oak door. Social graces were for Society, and he wasn’t Society.
The vicar’s housekeeper, Mrs. Wren, greeted him. “Good afternoon, Mr. Foxcroft! We haven’t seen you at tea in some time. Mrs. Johnson will be thrilled.” Her gaze darted to the drive behind Fox. “I see Mr. Stratham is here and the Carmodys arrived with a special guest. Oh, this shall be the vicar’s most illustrious tea ever.”
She was here.
“I am pleased to be included in such an event.” He stepped over the threshold and down the short corridor to the solar, where the vicar and his wife gave tea every other Thursday.
Perched on a settee in the center of the room, drawing the attention of probably every person there, Miranda—he simply couldn’t think of her as Lady Miranda after having kissed her—held a teacup to her mouth. Fox watched as she puckered her pink lips and took a delicate sip. Sparkling aquamarine eyes peered at him over fine porcelain. He’d been right about their color—a fact he’d relished upon “meeting” her at the orphanage in the light of day.
“Fox!” The vicar, Samuel Johnson, jumped to his feet and clapped Fox on the back. “Pleased to see you. I’ve been meaning to stop by and discuss the planting…”
Fox listened to the vicar with one ear while the other picked up Mrs. Wren welcoming Donovan Stratham into the cottage. As Mr. Johnson droned on about which fields he ought to leave fallow, Fox covertly eyed Stratham. Of average height and build, with dark, wavy hair, and a ready smile, women generally found him attractive. He was also wealthy, well-dressed, and the hardest work his hands ever saw was extorting “tribute” money from his constituents. Fox looked to see Miranda’s reaction to him.
