The Amorous Education of Celia Seaton

by Miranda Neville

  His suspicions of the night before returned and he again examined the woman with whom he had reportedly fallen in love at first sight. In the morning light the only new detail he could add to the picture of a lady neither plain nor pretty was the color and quality of her hair. Freed of its moorings and lit by the sun it was definitely more red than brown, but on the gingery side of Titian gold. And though he could hardly expect shining locks when she was out in the wilds without a comb, her hair, springing energetically from her head in wild kinks, probably never gleamed. And he liked to be able to run his fingers through a woman’s silky tresses . . .

  Yet while dispassionate examination told him she was nothing out of the ordinary, he had to admit she possessed a certain appeal, an almost animal energy that made her a perfect companion for an adventure in the wilds. Most women, he had a feeling, would not be enduring the situation with such equanimity. He found her to be quick-witted, humorous, and uncomplaining, three excellent qualities. But not qualities that were revealed at first sight. If she’d told him he’d fallen in love with her after a normal acquaintance he’d have believed it. But that meeting of strangers’ glances across a crowded room was too far-fetched.

  His scrutiny went on too long when food awaited the starving. She raised her brows—quite elegantly arched ones—in question. As befitted an aspiring parson, he murmured a quick grace. “Let’s eat.”

  By silent mutual agreement they made it last, savoring each ambrosial mouthful. Only an occasional sigh of appreciation competed with the hum of insects and the occasional bird call. All too soon, the dock leaves were wiped clean. Celia eyed the carcass hungrily.

  “Go ahead,” he said.

  “I’ll split it with you.” She snapped the spine and handed him half.

  Following her example he sucked every flake of flesh from the bones. He couldn’t believe he was doing anything so crude. When nothing was left they tossed the remains in the fire. He offered her the cup he’d filled with water from the brook and their fingers brushed. Their gazes met as they held the crude tin vessel between them. Time stopped.

  “ ‘Drink to me only with thine eyes, And I will pledge with mine,’ ” he said softly.

  “ ‘Or leave a kiss but in the cup, And I’ll not look for wine.’ ” She capped the quotation in a throaty whisper. “Ben Jonson.”

  He remembered the title of the poem. “ ‘To Celia.’ ”

  Her awkward laugh broke the spell. Their gazes parted and he relinquished the cup. “I always liked the poem,” she said. “I imagined it was written for me.”

  “It’s one of my favorites too.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Just another of those things I recall. There’s no pattern to it.” He frowned. “I know I like poetry.”

  “So do I. I always read a lot of it.”

  “In India?”

  “I never had much of an education but my father liked to read and ordered books from England.”

  “Do they have schools in India?”

  “None that I ever attended. Until I was twelve we lived in Madras and I took lessons with the wife of another company official. My formal studies stopped at that point so I never learned to play or draw.”

  “How did you manage as a governess?”

  “I was lucky to get a position in a family of boys who only needed reading, writing, and elementary figuring before they went to school.”

  She had been, he thought. Despite her season in London, her background in India had given her little of the knowledge usually required by a governess of well-bred English children.

  “We should toast the trout,” he said.

  “To a most excellent, noble fish!” She took a draft and returned the cup to him.

  “May he find a special place in watery heaven for sacrificing his life for the needs of others.”

  She laughed. “Much choice he had. Yet I do wish him well in the afterlife, for that was easily the best meal I ever had.”

  “Let’s hope we have another one soon.”

  She stood up and pointed. “You see that hill? I predict that a delicious dinner awaits us just over the ridge.”

  Chapter 6

  The way to a lady’s heart is through her stomach.

  Crossing the stream presented a problem. They had to walk several hundred yards in each direction before they discovered shallows they could ford without soaking their clothing. As it was, his pantaloons were wet below the knee. On the positive side, he cheerfully ignored her request to look away and enjoyed another glimpse of Celia’s legs when she removed the blanket to make the crossing.

  It proved impossible to get his boots back on and he lacked the incentive to try very hard. The blister on his heel was sore and he couldn’t think of a way to have Celia help him that would involve her raising her bottom to him. Seeing her like that, vainly trying to suppress her indignation, was his favorite moment on the journey so far. The view had been nice too.

  So he stuffed them into the sack which he, like a gentleman, insisted on carrying. In his own mind he needed to brush up his gentlemanly credentials because, as he wrestled with the footwear, one of those visions flashed through his mind: a well-appointed shop staffed by the most superior of tradesmen; plaster casts of his feet; obsequious attention to his demands; the magical name of Hoby, boot maker to the haut ton. He began to fear he was no gentleman. On the other hand he might be a nobleman. A member of the aristocracy up to no good.

  The hill grew steeper, the sun higher and hotter. The day that had started so well descended into sullen discomfort. What should have been an hour or two’s brisk walk stretched out as they picked their way, bare-footed, through prickly shrubs over the rocky moor. Judging by the sky it was near noon when they reached the top of the hill. Celia let out a brief moan of disappointment at the sight of unrelieved gorse, grass and rocks disappearing into the horizon.

  “I was wrong,” she said. “There’s nothing to eat here.”

  “I can’t tell you how sorry I am.”

  “Not as sorry as I.” She smiled without humor. “I hate to be wrong.”

  “Somehow I guessed that.”

  “You don’t like it, either.”

  “Do I not?” He frowned. “I don’t feel like the sort of person who insists on being right.”

  “Well, you are.”

  She rubbed the soles of each foot against the opposite calf, looking comically annoyed as she hopped from one to the other. With a sigh, for the dozenth time that morning, she adjusted the blanket that served as her skirt. “This wretched thing won’t stay up and the cloth is scratchy.”

  “Let’s sit and rest for a few minutes,” he said, drawing her down onto an unbrambly patch of grass. “Perhaps later we’ll find a stream and I can tickle another fish.”

  Hugging her knees, she glared at the endless moors. Oddly, the discontented expression suited her: with the strong bone structure of her face she looked haughty and handsome while the pout of her generous mouth had him thinking about kisses again. He found her perfectly justified ill-temper endearing.

  “I’m sorry I am grumpy,” she said after a few minutes. “I’m footsore but you must be too. How’s your head?”

  “Still empty but it doesn’t ache anymore.”

  “I’m hungry again. That trout wasn’t very large and I ate nothing all day yesterday, either, except a bite of breakfast.”

  “I’m sorry,” he said and put an arm about her shoulder with no intention to do other than comfort. She stiffened under his touch, confirming his impression that their relations had included little physical contact.

  “Many have suffered far worse than a missed meal and a blister or two,” she said briskly. He could imagine her addressing her charges thus. Whatever she might say, he’d wager she was an excellent governess. “I just remembered something my ayah said, my Indian nurse. When we eat and drink the water and food of a place, we draw strength from the land.”

  “In that case, what are we waiting for? Tha
t one small trout must have imbued us with the vigor of giants. We should be able to walk all day.”

  Then her face changed. Her mobile features registered every shift in emotion, though he couldn’t always interpret them. “I forgot. She said it’s the food of our home that gives us strength. Indians like to eat food from home, even when they travel.”

  “Is India your home?”

  “I was born there and lived there most of my life,” she said. “But I don’t think I really belonged. How could I? How could any English? It isn’t our country.”

  “I don’t think that fact troubles the East India Company, or the British goverent.”

  “No. In fact many of the English try and build their own little corners of England on Indian soil. From what my father told me, their efforts can be quite comical, given the climate.”

  “You didn’t live like that?”

  “After we moved from Madras my father’s situation was obscure. We saw very few English.”

  He wanted to probe further but something told him, not for the first time, that she found the topic of her life there distressing. She had, after all, lost both her parents in that distant land. “Where is home, then?” he asked.

  “Not Lincolnshire. I only spent a few weeks at my uncle’s house and since he died there’s nothing for me there. I’ve been in Yorkshire for a year so it must be home.” She shook off the air of melancholy that had settled on her when they spoke of her past. “Splendid. I’ve had half a fish and a cup of water. I should be ready to walk ten or twenty miles today.”

  “It won’t do me much good. I’ll have to work hard to keep up with you. I’d have to have brought something from Cornwall, wouldn’t I?”

  For a moment he thought she was going to argue with him. That one of her expressions he knew, because he’d seen it before. Instead she shrugged. “So you would. Perhaps you could eat those boots.”

  Idiot. Celia had been about to contradict him, tell him that he was at home. For as she spoke she remembered something about Mr. Tarquin Compton. The Duchess of Amesbury had commended him to her London chaperone with the information that his estates were in Yorkshire, not far from the duke’s secondary residence. She’d implied that the duke’s sister had made something of a misalliance when she’d wed Mr. Compton’s father. At the time Celia had found it amusing that the duchess was apparently the only person in London to speak of the reigning dandy with what bordered on contempt. Of course the duchess hardly accorded her, Celia, much respect, either. But that was to be expected. Anyway, the fact that the Duchess of Amesbury despised her nephew wasn’t relevant. What mattered was that her companion was a Yorkshireman, unlike any inhabitant of the doughty county she’d ever met, but nonetheless a local. He must have been visiting his lands when he was robbed.

  Perhaps they were even on his lands. The first person they met might recognize him and her lies would be exposed. She watched him stand and survey the rolling moorland, fearing every second he would recognize a landmark and come to his senses. He stroked his chin thoughtfully. As he’d predicted, dark bristles covered his jaw. She found the disheveled, faintly disreputable appearance far more attractive than the sleek perfection of his other self.

  “I believe I see smoke,” he said. “Some distance off, but the air is so clear now I don’t think it’s mist. There must be a house or a village over that rise.”

  With mixed feelings and because there was, after all, nothing else to do, Celia agreed they should head in that direction. Perhaps she faced exposure the other side of the hill, but why expect the worst? They might find a square meal and directions to her destination.

  Civilization at last!

  Of a kind. It wasn’t a village, or even much of a hamlet: a handful of small gritstone houses nestled in a shallow vale, a shepherding community judging by the white blobs that dotted the surrounding fields. There was no inn and it was likely several miles to the nearest mail stop or post road. Nevertheless, someone there should be able to point them in the right direction. Perhaps they could even beg a ride in a cart with the promise of reward at the other end. Celia assured him that Mrs. Stewart would take care of things. Best of all, the inhabitants there, however poor and rustic, had to eat.

  A disadvantage of livestock was the gifts of dung they left in the fields. By the time they scrambled over the last stone wall at the end of the village street—if the single narrow earthen track could be so dubbed—his feet were soiled by substances he’d rather not identify. He wondered if the place would run to the comfort of a hot bath. Without ready money it seemed unlikely. Still, he was prepared to exercise the considerable powers of persuasion that instinct told him he possessed.

  He never had the chance.

  A small child emerged from one of the buildings, stared at the pair of them, and started to cry.

  “Gypsies, Ma!” the urchin shrieked.

  Half a dozen doors burst open to release a crowd of women, children, a couple of men, and several dogs. All were barking, shouting (the people) and waving sticks (again the people). At them.

  “Be gone! You dirty heathens.”

  “Stealing varmints.”

  “Horse thieves!” That one rankled.

  He made one attempt at reasonable discourse. “Good people, we are not Gypsies. We are the victims of robbery.”

  The dictum that a soft word turneth away wrath was proven eminently false.

  “Set the dogs on them!”

  The dogs, each one large and loud with enormous teeth, didn’t need any setting. At least six were headed in their direction.

  He grabbed Celia’s hand. “Run!”

  He learned that he could run fast and so could she. Only a slight moderation of his pace was needed and she kept up. Not that the hounds snapping at their heels couldn’t have caught them. But once clear of the hamlet their owners called them back. No one was looking for trouble.

  Celia collapsed on the grass, emitting great gasps of breath. She’d done well but with the danger passed she appeared to be suffering an attack of the vapors. Perhaps she was terrified of dogs. Kneeling, he took one shoulder in a firm grasp and raised her chin with his other hand. “Listen, my dear. We are safe now. The dogs have gone.”

  She shrieked. With laughter. She was laughing.

  “What, may I ask, is so amusing about our current predicament? I for one am disappointed not to be enjoying a meal, a bath, and a carriage.”

  That set her off even worse. He sat back on his heels, stared at the sky, and waited for the restoration of her wits. A final splutter, a quick back of the hand over her wet eyes, and she looked almost rational. He raised an eyebrow. “Yes?”

  “It’s you. Being mistaken for a Gypsy. It’s so funny.”

  “Not just I. You were too.”

  “But I am a kind of Gypsy, if you think about it. A wanderer, anyway. But not you. You are such a very proper man.”

  He still didn’t understand what merited such excessive mirth. Mildly amusing, he’d call it, at best. Even if he were a very proper man, a fact he had every reason to doubt.

  She stood up. “Come on, Terence, let’s go.”

  By Zeus, he hated that name. But until his memory returned it was the only one he had.

  Chapter 7

  Beware of Greeks following bloodhounds.

  Nick Constantine despised the countryside. He been born in a Greek village and once he reached London, after a few years’ detour around the oceans as a sailor on a ship of dubious legality, he’d left the comfort of fog and pavement as rarely as possible. The Governor had brought him to this benighted part of northern England for what promised to be an easy job. How hard could it be to snatch and rob a governess?

  But everything had gone wrong. He blamed the rolling moors and rocks and endless green stuff. The way he figured it, if God had intended man to live in the wilderness, He would never have created pavement. The Governor, of course hadn’t come with him on the chase. He’d stayed comfortable at the inn, enjoying the local ale,
while Nick did the dirty work. That was the Governor’s way.

  They walked for hours behind the hideous, sniffing, slobbering dog and his boots hurt. The trail from the cottage led them to a deep brook. The bloodhound appeared baffled.

  “He can’t smell naught. Reckon she must have gone in the water,” Hobbs said. To add insult to injury, Nick had been landed with a local as a guide, a rustic with an almost impenetrable brogue. “Give him that hankie again. See if the man was still with her.”

  With great reluctance Nick pulled the handkerchief from his pocket again. Oversized and of the finest cambric, he expected to get several shillings for it when he found a customer with the initial C. He didn’t want any canine tooth marks reducing its value.

  The dog drooled on the linen square and took off along the bank, downstream.

  “He’s got the scent,” said Hobbs. “Happen we’d have her by now if she didn’t have the fellow with her.”

  Nick didn’t need to hear any cheek from Hobbs. He’d taken enough grief from the Governor when they arrived at the cottage and found her gone. The ruby wasn’t in her baggage and Nick reckoned she’d lost it long ago. But the Governor wanted to question her himself.

  He had not been amused when he learned she now had a companion.

  Yet Nick couldn’t regret robbing the gentry cove that had come to the door. He’d got a fine horse, a fat purse, a gold watch, and some first-rate togs out of the deal. If the handkerchief could be sold for shillings, the coat and waistcoat were worth pounds. Too bad he hadn’t been able to get the boots off. They might have fit him, better than his own. His only slip-up was leaving the man alive. He wouldn’t make that mistake again.

  The stupid animal lumbered up and down the bank several times until they found a place that looked fordable. Crossing the stream ruined his damn boots, but on the other side they picked up the trail again.