Carola Dunn (10 page)

As always before leaving her chamber, she glanced out of the window. Looking over the small back garden and the mews, she had a view of the large gardens of Lansdowne House and Devonshire House. It was almost like being back in the country.

She crossed the landing, where lingered a faint, spicy, masculine scent of Imperial water, and entered the schoolroom. The boys all jumped to their feet.

“Let us go to Green Park while the sun is shining,” she said with a smile.

“Oh yes, do let’s!” Colin cried. “Look, Uncle Robert has brought me a new whipping top.”

“And a hoop and a hobby-horse,” Michael said excitedly, rushing to retrieve the toys from where they leaned against the wall. “We can take turns.”

Peter was pensive. “Lissa, I wasn’t sure what to do. Lord Ashe knows Colin can’t run about much, as boys do with a hoop or a hobby-horse. Do you think he really brought them for me and Michael? We oughtn’t to accept them, ought we?”

“If he presented them as gifts for Colin, it was not for you to reject them, whatever you guessed his purpose to be. But you are right that you ought not to accept gifts from Lord Ashe, except on your birthdays perhaps. I am glad you considered the question.” She hugged him.

He wriggled indignantly from her embrace. “I’m too old for that stuff,” he said. “I’m too old, really, for hoops and hobby horses, but I daresay we shall have fun all the same.”

It was past time Peter learnt to ride a real horse, Lissa thought wistfully. Too much to hope for. She was proud of him for making the best of things.

They walked the few hundred yards along Piccadilly to Green Park. Lissa made them carry the new toys, for the wide street was busy as ever, thronged with drays and gigs, stage-coaches, tilburys, phaetons, curricles, even farm waggons. A hoop rolling out into the roadway would scare any number of horses.

The hilly greensward of the Green Park attracted few riders and no carriages, reason enough for its popularity with nurses, governesses, and their charges. The milch-cows pastured there were accustomed to playing children. Lissa had seen one struck by a falling kite, standing patiently with no more than a reproachful
moo
as its attendant milkmaid disentangled the kite-string from its horns.

Lissa had formed the habit of buying a cup of milk for each of the boys whenever they came to the park. Fresh drawn from the cow, it was a very different substance from the thin, bluish fluid sold by street vendors.

Today, with luncheon not long past, she would wait until just before they went home. Besides, she had noticed that when Colin drank milk at the beginning of an outing rather than the end, he wheezed terribly at the slightest exertion. If he had not had any, he was able to run about for several minutes at a time before discomfort slowed him down.

In fact, she had a good mind not to let Colin drink milk at all for a day or two, to see if it made any difference.

The fresh milk could do Peter and Michael nothing but good, though they hardly needed any supplement to the excellent fare provided by Lord Ashe’s kitchen. Michael, especially, no longer thought about food in every spare minute.

The first time Lissa brought the boys to the park, he had been most reluctant to throw to the ducks on the reservoir the stale bread Colin had begged from Cook.

“I’ll just keep some in my pocket in case I’m hungry later,” he had said.

“But it’s old,” Colin pointed out in astonishment. “You can have new bread when we get home, or cakes.”

“Cakes?” asked Michael, round-eyed.

“Yes, cakes. What kind do you like best? I’ll tell Cook to make some.”

“I don’t know. We didn’t never used to have cakes.”

“I’ll tell Cook to make lots of different kinds so you can try them all,” Colin had said importantly.

By now Michael was accustomed to feeding perfectly good crusts to the mallards and swans. He and Peter dashed back and forth, making sure each received its fair share, while Colin kept quite still, enticing the boldest to eat from his hand.

That ritual over, they moved on. Lissa let Colin run about and roll down hillocks with her brothers, but kept a careful eye on him. The slightest cough, the least sign of shortness of breath and she called him to her. To reconcile him to strolling or sitting beside her, she was careful always to prepare a supply of riddles and conundrums and other word games. Not only did he enjoy solving them, he tried them on Peter and Michael on the walk home.

How quickly the house on Dover Street had come to feel like home, Lissa mused, pausing on the pavement to look up at the now familiar façade. The garret in Lambeth had always been a place to be endured. The thought of ever having to return to that dreadful half-life made her shudder.

She followed the chattering boys into the vestibule and up the stairs.

On the table in the schoolroom a note awaited her. Lord Ashe requested her presence in the library that evening after dinner.

Lissa’s breath caught in her throat. Had Lady Orton judged her unsatisfactory and asked her brother to dismiss her? Or was the safe haven about to prove itself a comfortable trap?

Chapter 8

The boys were tucked up in bed. Lissa wondered if it was the last time her brothers’ heads would rest on those plump, soft pillows. She kissed them goodnight--Colin too--then drew the window curtains against the lingering evening light and repaired to the schoolroom.

It was too early to go down to the library. Lord Ashe dined at the fashionable hour of eight, and though the only guest was Lord Quentin, who was to escort Lady Orton to Covent Garden, they would be at table for some time yet. Lissa had already changed into her brown silk before joining the boys for supper. She picked up some mending.

After setting two stitches in Peter’s torn shirt cuff, she put it down again. Her hands were not steady enough to do a neat job.

She would prepare the next day’s lesson, just as if she was not to be dismissed, or driven away by an indecent proposal. She took up Colin’s beautifully illustrated child’s history of England. It was like one she had owned once, so much easier to learn from than the dull tome Peter had had to contend with. But even with a coloured picture of Drake playing bowls and another of Spanish galleons under full sail, she could not concentrate on the routing of the Armada.

She might as well go and await her fate downstairs. This could be her only chance to see the library. It should be interesting, for in the days when she had access to a large collection of books she had been too young by far to appreciate it.

As she pattered down the stairs, she recalled that Lord Ashe knew Wordsworth’s works, so he probably had a reasonable collection even though he was a rake and a fribble.

On the threshold she paused with a gasp. The candles had not yet been lit but the fading light from the west-facing windows showed row after row of books, from floor to ceiling, on three walls. The sight brought back strong memories of Papa’s library, of sitting on his lap while he read
Puss in Boots
and
Sleeping Beauty
to her. How she missed him, even after eight years!

She forced herself to concentrate on the present. Lord Ashe’s collection, limited by the space of a town house, must be smaller than Papa’s, but still there were hundreds, perhaps thousands of books. She had not the faintest notion where to start looking.

* * * *

Dinner dragged on interminably. Daphne and Teague had spent the past half hour discussing whether she ought to carry her pierced ivory fan or the chicken-skin painted with a Chinese scene. They were to be called for by friends, so Ashe could not even point out that they were going to miss the beginning of Don Giovanni. Not that it would have hurried them; they went because it was the thing to do, not for the music.

Cracking another walnut, Ashe had just decided to claim an appointment at his club and leave them tête-à-tête when Halsey came in.

“Lord Prewing’s carriage is at the door, my lady.”

“You are right, Lord Quentin,” said Daphne with her enchanting laugh, “the Chinese fan will be best. Good night, Rob dear.”

“Enjoy the opera,” Ashe said ironically as she glided out on Teague’s arm, ivory satin skirts rustling.

The butler returned after seeing them out. “Will there be anything else, my lord?”

“Light the candles in the library, please, and convey my request to Miss Findlay to join me.”

“Miss Findlay is already there, my lord, so I took the liberty of sending William to light the candles for her.”

“Very good.” Ashe picked up his scarce-touched brandy glass. “Has she taken tea already?”

Halsey looked uncharacteristically flustered. “Miss has never ordered tea in the evening, my lord, and in the absence of instructions....”

Ashe nodded his understanding, but frowned. What other ordinary perquisites of her position had Lissa deprived herself of through diffidence, or ignorance? “Possibly she does not care for it. Bring the tea-tray to the library, in any case.”

Leaving the brandy on the table, he crossed the hall. He was oddly ill at ease, uncertain how to handle the situation, for his relationship with Lissa Findlay was far from straightforward. Did she see him as an employer, a would-be lover, a well-meaning friend, or some blend of the three?

He was not even sure how he regarded himself, he thought wryly, pushing open the door.

“Miss Findlay?”

She started, turning from the long library table where she had been gazing down at the papers thereon.

“Lord Ashe! You took me by surprise.” She curtsied, colour flooding her face, then swiftly ebbing.

“I beg your pardon, ma’am.” He noted with interest that her gown was of silk. It was incredibly badly cut, though, baggy-bodiced and limp-hemmed, and of a singularly ugly brown which suited her not at all. Her dark brown hair was scraped back under a plain white cap, but wisps had escaped to caress her smooth brow and neck.

“I hope you don’t mind....” She gestured at the table. “I did not like to take any books off the shelves.”

“What is it?” Stepping forward, he saw his plans spread out for all the world to see. He had forgotten leaving them there after a last look before the meeting tomorrow morning. Acutely embarrassed, he straightened them and started to roll them up. “Just something I play at in my spare time.”

“You designed that bridge?” she asked in astonishment, then blushed again. “I beg your pardon, I do not mean to pry.”

“Not at all, not at all. It’s...er...it’s just that most of my acquaintance would consider it an odd sort of occupation for a peer. Daphne thinks I’m crackbrained and begs me not to let anyone find out.”

“I think it is admirable. Will you not show me?”

Devil take it, the chit was trying to set him at ease! All the same, she seemed genuinely interested, and it was pleasant to have someone to appreciate his work. Trying to conceal his eagerness, he unrolled the large sheets.

Far from being concerned only with the shape of the arches and parapet and the overall style of his bridge, Miss Findlay proved fascinated by the technical details. For some time the talk was all of spans, piers, piles and abutments, of timber, masonry and mortar. She even asked intelligent questions about the force of river currents and the weight of traffic loads.

“I’m not sure of my calculations,” Ashe confessed. “Thomas Telford, the president of the new Institute of Civil Engineers, has agreed to check the plans tomorrow. If all is well, I hope to start building this summer.”

“Where is it to be erected?”

“At Ashmead, my estate in Gloucestershire. The River Whitewithy forms one boundary. A new bridge will considerably shorten the distance to Bascombe-on-the-Water, our nearest market, especially from the new village.”

“New village?” Miss Findlay queried.

Ashe felt his face redden again. “The old one was badly sited, in an unhealthy hollow, and the cottages were reaching an unrepairable state of dereliction. I could not in good conscience allow my people to go on living in such squalor.”

She smiled, the first wholehearted smile she had directed at him. His heart flip-flopped, and for a moment he remembered only that he wanted her.

Lissa saw the change in his eyes, from the warmth of rather embarrassed enthusiasm to the heat of desire. She could only surmise that the mention of the squalor of the old village had reminded him of the squalor from which he had removed her, and his purpose in so doing.

Moving away, she made as if to study the elevation of the bridge as she said, with an involuntary tremor in her voice, “You designed the new cottages?”

“How did you guess?” he asked ruefully. “A social solecism even worse than the bridge, should it become known. Pray don’t give me away.”

“I shan’t, but I think it still more admirable than the bridge.”

“Confess, you believed me a complete coxcomb, a good-for-nothing wastrel.”

She dared a peek at his face. He was grinning, boyish, no sign now of that frightening passion.

“A coxcomb? Oh no, merely a sad rattle,” she retorted.

Lord Ashe laughed. “Well, you have found me out. I admit to allowing an occasional serious thought into my head.” He sobered. “Indeed, I asked you to join me tonight for a serious enough purpose.”

“W-what purpose?” Lissa moistened suddenly dry lips. Surely he would not joke with her one minute and dismiss her the next, so his “serious purpose” must be seduction. Still, somehow she no longer feared he would threaten her with losing her place if she resisted.

Before he could elucidate, the second footman came in with a tea-tray. Lord Ashe directed him to set it on the large rosewood desk at the end of the room.

“And, Jack, bring up a chair for Miss Findlay. Miss Findlay, pray be seated.” He moved around to the other side of the desk. “Will you be so good as to pour?”

“Certainly, sir,” Lissa murmured. If he was attempting to disarm suspicion, he was certainly setting the scene well.

“Then let us get down to the business of my nephew’s education,” he said as the footman departed, adding dryly as soon as the door closed, “A vastly respectable beverage, tea. But perhaps you don’t care to drink it in the evening?”