Learning to Waltz (14 page)

“No indeed; but I do think you might find it more fun with some company, ma’am.”

This very improper exchange seemed to cause Blythe no embarrassment whatsoever. Just as well she did not hear the ribald comments that followed her departure.

The breakfast parlor was quite full when Alberta arrived the next morning. All the gentlemen were there, seven or eight of them, fortifying themselves for a day of hunting. Most of the women were doing the same. Miss Moreton, Lord Hartwell’s young fiancée, had never hunted before but proclaimed herself all excitement at the prospect. With some luck, she wouldn’t injure herself or her mount; Alberta was certain her inexperience would put a crimp in Hartwell’s day.

Plans had been laid over tea the previous evening. Lady Honora did not hunt—she would stay at the house and write letters. Alberta did not hunt, either. And Evan, to her surprise, announced that he would keep her company.

Last night’s protests resumed over the breakfast table. Lady Blythe was the most vociferous. “Really, there’s nothing better than a good day’s ride over good country. And there’s no better country than right here.”

“Why would I risk my neck chasing down a creature I have no desire to kill?” asked Alberta. “Sidesaddles are dangerous enough on the road.”

“You don’t
have
to jump the fences, Lady Witney. With a rank novice like Miss Moreton along, you won’t be the only one. There are always grooms to open the gates for—um—the faint of heart. In fact, you could keep
her
company, and then Mr. Haverfield wouldn’t need to keep
you
company.”

So that was it.

“That’s quite all right,” said Evan. “I look forward to hearing all the family news.”

Rebuffed, Blythe stuck out her lower lip and pouted, for all the world like Alberta’s ten-year-old. Then she went to change her clothes. When she came back downstairs, stunning in a tightly fitted riding habit, she ignored Evan entirely. Instead, she fluttered her eyelashes at Captain Westwood, tickled his nose with the preposterous plumes on her hat, and led him out toward the stableyard, all swaying hips and flirty glances.

“Hmmph,” Berta said as she watched them leave. “Bit early in the day for a show like that.”

“How stuffy you’ve become,” Evan murmured. “Westwood didn’t seem to mind.”

Alberta was happy enough to accompany her brother on a leisurely ride down the country lanes, coming back along the river road where he had searched for Julian Moore, and winding up at the cottage where the boy lived.

Alberta had heard the story of Evan’s heroism, of course. Amanda told it admiringly to each successive party arriving at the Manor, while Lady Blythe supplied suggestive commentary.

His sister found it a curious tale. It was not inconceivable that Evan might have heroic potential. But his manner seemed so altered. He was not ill-tempered, but distant and abstracted, and far more easily annoyed than amused by the foibles of their fellow guests. Was this what happened to heroes? If so, she thought it a good thing so few men indulged in the exercise.

He’d said nothing about visiting Mrs. Moore and her son, yet Alberta had the distinct impression, as the cottage came into view, that this had been his ultimate objective all morning. He suddenly lost track of their conversation, trailing off in mid-sentence to peer ahead and see who it was sweeping the front walkway.

It was a child, a boy not long graduated to jacket and trousers, wielding a broom in inexpert fashion. With him was a woman wearing a long apron and carrying a bucket, preparing to follow after the broom with her scrub-brush.

Of the boy’s identity there could be little doubt. He dropped his broom as they approached and jumped onto the old wooden gate that looked as though it might not survive the experience, shouting out that Mr. Haffield had come at last. The woman must have spoken sharply to him, though too softly for them to hear, for when he turned back to them, he looked rather abashed and climbed down to open the gate and greet them like a proper little gentleman. He was a slight, attractive child, all straight dark hair and dark eyes that glowed with excitement despite the reprimand.

Alberta turned her attention to the woman, surprised to hear Evan address her as Mrs. Moore—she had taken her for the housemaid. Closer inspection showed her error; the woman was no servant. Her voice was genteel, her curtsy perfectly calculated from one lady to a greater one. Could she really be reduced to scrubbing her own front step? And if Evan had indeed saved the life of her child, how to account for the spectacularly blank expression on her face? Was she witless?

Evan gave Mrs. Moore no opportunity to refuse their visit, swinging himself down from the saddle and lifting Alberta to the ground even before making the appropriate introductions. Mrs. Moore conjured up a smile that did not reach her eyes and said everything that was proper and civil. No, the look in those eyes was not welcoming. If it had not been ridiculous, Alberta would have said she looked afraid.

Evan either ignored or failed to notice the constraint in her welcome. He ruffled the boy’s hair fondly, squatting down on the barely swept walk to converse with the child face-to-face. This left Alberta to receive Mrs. Moore’s invitation to step inside for some refreshment. Left to her own inclinations, Alberta would have politely refused and ridden on her way. Clearly, however, Evan expected her to accept, so accept she did.

The boy gravely secured their reins to that old gate, and they stepped into the cottage. Heaven forbid anything should happen to spook the horses, for Alberta could easily envision them flying down the street in terror with the gate clattering at their heels.

Alberta ended up by setting down Mrs. Moore’s ambivalence to embarrassment. Hers was indeed a modest establishment in which to entertain a countess, and while clean, the cramped little parlor was in a state of some disarray. The boy’s mother put him quietly to work gathering books into a neat pile and placing his toys in a basket, and then excused herself.

The child’s presence prevented Alberta from asking Evan the question that burned on her lips. Which was, what on earth do you want from this woman, who lives no better than our tenants at home though she might—or might not—be entitled by birth to her quiet dignity? A flirtation she could understand, but there was nothing of flirtation in her manner or his. Pity she could likewise understand, and a desire to improve the lot of the child whose life he had saved, but that would not account for the intensity in Evan’s eyes when he looked at her. In Alberta’s experience, charity was easily given by those who could afford it, and rarely refused by those who could not.

Master Moore finished his task and came to stand by Evan’s knee. One small hand rested familiarly, almost possessively, on the leather breeches, and the serious little face looked shyly up at his benefactor. “Mr. Haffield, when will you take me for a ride on Lookout? You promised when I got well…”

“I have not forgotten. Do you think you are quite well again?"

“Yes, sir, I’m strong as an ox. Or maybe I should say, strong as a horse!”

Evan chuckled at this humorous gambit. “We shall have to see what your mother says. That’s one reason I came this morning.”

“What is the other reason, sir?”

“Why, to introduce my sister, of course.”

Julian looked sidelong at Alberta. He said in a rather fierce whisper, “Did you say she is a
countess
?”

Evan grinned, his eyes sparkling with laughter. “Why yes, she is. But even countesses don’t eat little boys, you know. In fact, Lady Witney has three boys of her own. And one of them is named Julian.”

Master Moore turned his head to gaze at her, round-eyed. Though she felt disinclined to encourage familiarity, she had to smile. Perhaps that persuaded the child to risk a direct address.

“Does your Julian like horses, ma’am?”

“Indeed he does.”

“I’ll bet he has his very own pony.” He sounded wistful.

“He does not, as yet.”

A pause.

“Does he like to read, as well?”

This made Alberta laugh, and the boy looked anxiously back at Evan. But Evan was still smiling, and he turned back to her.

“To tell you the truth,” she said, “my Julian is most interested in escaping from his nurses and making as much noise as he can.”

Julian looked like this was an activity that had never crossed his mind, and as serious as he seemed to be, Alberta did not doubt it. In defense of her offspring, she offered, “You must understand, he is not yet three years of age,
much
younger than you are.”

Another pause while Julian apparently reflected on this news. “Did you bring him with you to Whately, ma’am?”

“No, I regret I did not.”

“There is a stable full of fine horseflesh at the Manor, however,” said Evan. “Perhaps you could ride there with me and point out all their faults.”

The two males pursued this suggestion with enthusiasm under Alberta’s curious eyes. Though he stayed quite often with Theo and herself on his way between London and Northridge, she had never seen Evan behave so naturally with his own nieces and nephews. She was only slightly inclined to take umbrage at this—she supposed there might well be a quite unusual bond between saved and savior. She could certainly not accuse this sweet, soft-spoken child of putting himself forward unbecomingly.

Things were different among the lower classes, of course. When her own children appeared in the drawing room, they were there for show, not conversation. Evan saw more of them than the typical guest, but they took their meals in the nursery, and though they could often be found out and about on the estate, they were then under the jealous care of nursemaids, tutors, or grooms. Yes, her brother was acquitting himself very well—and obviously had an avid devotee in the little boy, if not in his mother.

In the kitchen, Deborah’s hands measured out her precious tea while her mind ran riot.

Lord, his sister is married to an earl!
She poured the boiling water over the leaves, nearly scalding herself in her hurry.

Why would he bring her here?
She took her prettiest little plate down from the dresser and arranged a small selection of ginger and caraway biscuits.

He ignores us completely for five whole days and then descends upon us with a countess in tow; what nerve!
She strained the tea into the pot and put it on the tray with the sugar, the cups, and the biscuits.

Pull yourself together, Deborah…
She wiped her hands on her apron, remembered to take it off, and tucked an errant hair into the knot at the back of her head. Then she schooled her face into its well-worn mask and returned to her guests.

Conversation was proceeding merrily as she entered the parlor. Julian was laughing, a rare enough occurrence, little to be seen in his face of the serious boy she knew. It was a happy sight. It took sane, stable people like Mr. Haverfield and his sister to generate gaiety.

Julian fairly danced over to her, his whole little body aquiver with excitement. He uttered “Mama” but seemed unable to proceed, overwrought. She had to stop abruptly and step around him in order to deliver the tea tray safely to the table—she hoped that would excuse the rattling of the dishes as she set it down. In honor of the company, she did not reprove him as she might have done.

“Julian, what is it?” she asked as she began to pour out the tea. “Do you think you could take this
carefully
to Lady Witney?”

He calmed himself sufficiently to accomplish the task, but of course could not manage to talk at the same time. Evan spoke for him. “Julian has been invited to accompany us back to the Manor to inspect the stables. Please say he may come.”

Deborah seated herself and her teacup, sorry she had no more chores to keep her occupied. “Does not Miss Latimer have a houseful of company? She will hardly appreciate a five-year-old underfoot.”

“Miss Latimer and the whole houseful are out hunting, with the exception of my sister and myself. They will be gone for some hours yet, I should think. In any case, I expect we will restrict ourselves to the stables and perhaps a brief visit to the kitchens.”

Deborah could think of nothing to say that would not make her sound like a shrew.

“I promise to take very good care of him and to bring him home at the first sign of mischief.”

At this Julian whispered earnestly at her knee, “I’ll be really,
really
good, Mama.”

And then Lady Witney added her entreaties. “’Tis not far, after all. He’ll come to no harm, Mrs. Moore.”

“It is time for his nuncheon. Also, there are medicines he must take. And I simply cannot ask you to take charge of him for so long a time.” Now she sounded mulish.

“You don’t trust me?” Evan asked her, smiling.

Deborah felt her face flood with color. “You know that could not possibly be at issue, Mr. Haverfield.” Why would he smile? Had he meant it as a joke?

He cleared his throat, the smile fading. “Well then…  I understand that you ride, Deborah?”