Learning to Waltz (4 page)

Molly carried in tea and the cakes the visitors had brought, and the conversation resumed. Deborah struggled through it as well as she could—she was far more interested in what was happening beside her on the sofa.

Mr. Haverfield had taken no part in her conversation with Miss Latimer, devoting himself to Julian. Her son had had limited contact with men since his father’s death and needed little encouragement. He stared, fascinated, as Mr. Haverfield pulled out his watch. Julian took it in both hands like it was something holy and examined it at length, and then did the same with the attached fob, a miniature globe. Deborah saw Mr. Haverfield point something out to him—England, perhaps? Could such a tiny thing even show England?

The man surprised her. Hartley had been a good father in some ways, but always more inclined to spend money than time. No man she knew had any interest whatsoever in other people’s offspring.

“I think you must have children of your own, Mr. Haverfield,” she said.

“No, ma’am, not even a wife. Seven nieces and nephews have taught me a few things, however.”

A bachelor.
And what possible difference can that make to you, you fool?

When the proper half hour had elapsed, Miss Latimer rose to take her leave. As Mr. Haverfield followed suit, Julian’s little hands clutched at his sleeve, and a very small voice asked, “Would you read me a story? Please?” The blood rose hot to Deborah’s cheeks.

“I would be delighted, but we must ask your mother.”

Two pairs of eyes turned toward Deborah, one pleading, the other amused. Busy noticing the way his eyes crinkled up at the corners, she did not say
no
fast enough.

Mr. Haverfield pressed the negotiations. “Perhaps if we promise to entertain ourselves and not keep her from her chores…”

“We cannot possibly take such advantage of your good nature, Mr. Haverfield.”

“Oh, pooh,” Miss Latimer said. “My brother’s out shooting and won’t be back for hours, and I’ll be at Isabella’s the rest of the day. What better way for him to spend the afternoon?” Deborah saw her wink at him, and Mr. Haverfield smiled blindingly back.

Deborah blinked.
Goodness me.

“Shall I take your horse to the Restons, Evan?” Miss Latimer asked him. “It’s too cold to leave him standing in the street. If you’re willing to walk home…”

Another obligation. They’d backed her into a corner where further objection would have seemed discourteous. And it would be callous to make him walk home.

“There’s a shed in the yard. For your horse, I mean.” It had formerly sheltered her own carthorse; now it was only the goat.

“But just one story,” she cautioned her son. “It would not be polite to take advantage of Mr. Haverfield’s good nature.”

Evan had thought her lovely yesterday, distracted and distraught, dressed in little better than homespun. He’d waited all morning for proper visiting hours so he could have those dozen words with her that Amanda had promised—but when she looked up into his face, her eyes and smile alight, speech deserted him.

Her dark hair was braided and coiled neatly at the nape of her neck. Her eyes were not gray but green, with silver sparks lit up by the sunshine pouring through the windows. Though only wool, and still not in the latest mode, the dark blue of her gown flattered her. Today she looked very much a lady.

Slender and graceful, she walked out of the room with Amanda. Evan turned his attention to her son. They looked through the pile of books on the table by the sofa. These were items likely to appeal to children: nursery rhymes,
Robin Hood
, a little chapbook about King Arthur and his knights. There was a well-used copy of
Little Goody Two-Shoes
inscribed with the name Deborah Carlington in a child’s painstaking hand, and an old edition of
Pilgrim’s Progress
, dedicated:

14 October 1804

To my dear Deborah on your 14
th
birthday—

May you one day have all the books you can possibly read.

With much love, Aunt Matilda.

Evan glanced over his shoulder at two large bookcases behind him, filled to overflowing. It was an impressive collection for a widow in straitened circumstances. Few ladies of his acquaintance—or gentlemen, for that matter—seemed interested in much beyond the latest novels and popular poets. Never mind that they stocked their libraries with volumes that were never touched by anything but a dusting cloth.
She puts us to shame.

He stood when Mrs. Moore returned to the room,
Pilgrim’s Progress
in his hand. “I ran across the inscription here.” Then he gestured toward the bookshelves. “It seems your hopes have been fulfilled. Unless you’ve read all these?”

Mrs. Moore blushed, but her voice was cool as she replied. “No, but I intend to do so. I confess I love books.”

“I thought perhaps they were your husband’s.”

She shook her head. “My husband was not a reader. And you, Mr. Haverfield?”

“I fear I must disappoint you, ma’am. I’ve read the classics, of course, and some of the current novels, but I’m afraid my only regular reading is the newspaper and a bit of poetry.” He put down
Pilgrim’s Progress
and picked up another volume. “But I do enjoy learning about exotic places, and Julian wants to introduce me to these
Tales of the East
. They’ve not yet come my way.”

He looked back at her where she stood, one hand on the back of a chair, eyeing him uncertainly. She was so serious. Evan smiled. “I’m quite happy to look after your boy for an hour. I’m sure you have things to do, even if it’s only to spend some time with a book of your own.”

All sorts of feelings flitted across her face in succession, too quickly to identify. Then it was as though she slipped on a mask, showing the same face but made of wood. She replied in a voice to match, “I will be in the kitchen if you need me.”

“Mr. Haffield?” The little voice was accompanied by a tentative tug on his breeches. Evan turned from his woolgathering and sat down again. “Do you have any horses, Mr. Haffield?” The boy sounded shy, but his gaze was direct and curious.

“The only horses I have with me in Whately are my two carriage horses.”

“What color are they?”

“They’re gray with a bit of dappling on the hindquarters. Very handsome.”

“Is it a barouche?” Julian pronounced the word carefully, as though he’d just learned it.

Evan quelled a laugh. From an adult, those same questions would constitute an inquiry into his financial status. “No, just a phaeton.”

“We used to have a gig and a brown pony to pull it. He was handsome too.” The corners of his mouth turned down. “Mama sold them.”

“That must have been a disappointment. I gather you like horses?”

“I
love
horses. And dogs and kittens. And cows too. The dairy is my favorite place in the whole world.”

The whole square mile of world the child had seen. “Are there any animals you
don’t
like?

“Geese.” Julian wrinkled up his nose. “And turkeys.”

“No, they’re not good for much, are they? Except at dinnertime.”

“I’d rather just eat strawberries for dinner.”

Evan laughed. “I expect you’d want some variety before long.” He rubbed his chin. Despite all those nieces and nephews, he’d never really conversed with a child. “What do you do with your friends?”

Julian picked at his bandages, his brow creased in thought. “I climbed a tree once with Harry.”

Evan waited for more, but it didn’t come. “That’s it? No games? No sports?” Incredulous, Evan spoke without thinking and regretted it. The child looked bewildered.

“Sometimes Mama plays fox and geese with me, or spillikins.”

Good Lord
. “What about Molly?” She was still a child herself, after all.

“She’s silly, and she can’t even read. I can read as good—as
well
—as her, and I’m only five.” He held up one hand, displaying the five digits.

“Perhaps she didn’t have a room full of books when she was five.” Evan spread his fingers to match.

“Hmmph,” was the boy’s only response. Evan opened up
Tales of the East,
the book Julian had insisted upon.

Evan had his doubts. Exotic places were all well and good, but this was no book of nursery rhymes—there were no illustrations, and the text was dense on the page. It certainly would have daunted
him
at age five. He chose the shortest story he could find.

The boy listened quietly for the most part, coughing occasionally. But he used his finger to follow along as best he could and asked “Mr. Haffield” to identify several words. He lasted through the first tale, but as they continued into a second story, the child’s weight grew heavy against Evan’s side, and he slept.

After a few minutes, Evan slipped off the sofa and inserted a pillow under Julian’s dark head. Surely the boy’s skin was rather warm? Should he go find Mrs. Moore? He’d promised her an hour… no, probably it was just the fire. He adjusted the screen a bit and then surveyed the room.

It had looked better last night. At the highest levels of society, one could hear “the noble cottage” proclaimed as the most romantic of residences, but by daylight this cottage fell far short of nobility. Humble, mean, wretched—all those words applied. She’d made an effort, hanging drapes at the windows and bird prints on the walls. But the ceiling fairly hit his head when he stood up straight and was stained with damp besides. If it weren’t so depressing, he might have laughed at the image of his sisters living here. They wouldn’t last the afternoon unless they found something good to read.

He strolled over to the bookcases, rough-built things like the dining table where he had sat last evening. They held an eclectic mix of titles—essays and poetry, some Shakespeare, and plenty of more serious volumes on history, nature, and religion. They were far from new, with broken spines and a faint smell of mildew. He wasn’t sure what his sisters read these days, but anyone should be able to find something to amuse them for a few hours.

There was little else in the room to attract his interest. But a fine mahogany writing table stood by the door, incongruous among the other furnishings, and on it sat one silver-framed miniature. It depicted a plain young woman with a mild, kindly face, not quite smiling, but thinking of something pleasant. Mrs. Moore herself? The coloring was similar, but the features… no, he thought not.

Julian spoke, abrupt and unintelligible, and Evan turned to respond. But the child’s eyes remained closed, though he shifted restlessly among the blankets. The picture still in one hand, Evan checked his forehead again—hotter.
Damn.

As he turned toward the hall to find her, Mrs. Moore returned to the room, pushing the door wide. She shied away from him, avoiding collision but losing her balance. He reached out to catch her arm, juggling the picture. When she was steady on her feet, he placed it back on the table.

“I thought at first it was you,” he said.

“My aunt,” she replied with the economy of words he was coming to expect from her.

“Matilda? The one who gives you books? She looks… kind.”

“Oh, she was!” The fervency of her reply took Evan by surprise. Mrs. Moore too, perhaps—she bit her lip, looked down at her hands clenched together at her waist, and stepped quickly away to Julian’s side.

Evan followed her. “I’m no expert—could he be running a fever? And he’s been coughing.”

Mrs. Moore frowned as she smoothed the hair back from her son’s forehead. “Oh, sweetling.” He muttered something but did not awake.

“Shall I carry him up to his bed, ma’am?”

“No, it’s easier for me to have him here. I can keep an eye on him while I do some sewing.”

“You did not accomplish all your chores during the last hour?”

Her eyes jerked up to meet his, hard and angry. “I think you do not quite understand my circumstances, sir. I am very glad to have Molly, but she is only fourteen, which is why I can afford to keep her, and while she is much better than I at keeping the fires going, and quite capable of doing the washing and plucking those fine pheasants you brought, she is no cook, and certainly no seamstress.” She stopped with a gasp, lowering her eyes to the floor, one hand fluttering as though to wave away her speech. “Forgive me.”

Evan caught her hand, reddened and rough, crossed and recrossed with scratches. “No, I am the one who must apologize. It was a thoughtless question. I know you’ve been wishing me at Jericho all afternoon. May I call again tomorrow to see how the boy goes on?”

She pulled her hand away and glanced up, but her eyes got no farther than his cravat. “Of course.” Hardly louder than a whisper.

After a glance at Julian, she led Evan into the hall, helped him shrug into his greatcoat, and handed him his hat, gloves, and riding crop. Nodding toward an open door at the end of the hall, she said, “Molly is in the kitchen. She can help you with your horse.”

Evan sighed as she disappeared into the parlor. He’d gotten his dozen words and more, but she seemed mighty eager to get rid of him.