Sheri Cobb South (10 page)

If James’s lips twitched at this unflattering assessment, he gave no other sign of having noticed it at all. “Did my playing disturb you? I beg your pardon; I had thought no one would be able to hear it.”

“I daresay I should not, had I been in my bedroom. But I was unable to sleep, so I was in the study working on the accounts.”

“At this hour? It is obvious to me, Miss Darrington, that you shoulder too many responsibilities. Have you thought of employing a steward? You will call it an unnecessary expense, I know, but surely any help in lightening the load must be considered money well spent.”

She crossed the moonlight-dappled terrace and seated herself beside him on the bench. “My father once hired a steward, as he had no head for figures. When Papa died, Mr. Jarvis suggested that he might be in a better position to look after the Darrington interests were he a member of the family, rather than merely a paid employee.”

James cocked his head. “Meaning?”

“He wished to become Amanda’s husband. He was fifty years old if he was a day. She was not quite sixteen.”

“I begin to see why you are, shall we say, a bit protective where she is concerned.” He opened the violin case and began to pack the instrument tenderly away.

“Oh, pray do not stop playing on my account,” Margaret protested. “I should enjoy listening to you, now that I have no fear of being murdered in my bed by violin-playing vagrants.”

“How shocking that would be!” exclaimed James, much struck. “I have always felt that musically inclined criminals must be the worst kind.”

“Very true,” Margaret agreed, entering into the spirit of the thing. “For their music entices one into lowering one’s guard.”

James gave her a quizzical smile. “Hmm, I wonder if anyone could. Tell me, do you know ‘Over the Hills and Far Away?’ Do say you will join me!”

Margaret hastily demurred. “You would very quickly regret extending the invitation, I fear. In truth, Mr. Fanshawe, I have a tin ear.”

“False modesty, Miss Darrington,” he chided, wagging a finger at her. “You forget I sat next to you in church Sunday last. You sing a very pleasing contralto.”

“All right then, suffice it to say that my voice is not well suited to solo performance.”

“Perhaps you were never meant to sing alone.”

Margaret could think of no ready reply. Certainly the words were no compliment to her vocal abilities and yet, left hanging in the night air, they seemed ripe with some unspoken promise. The tutor must have felt it as well, for he cleared his throat, tucked the instrument under his chin, and cleared his throat again.

“Well then, shall we begin?” he said briskly. “ ‘Were I laid on Greenland’s coast, And in my arms embraced my lass . . .’ ”

He sang in a pleasant light tenor, and Margaret was emboldened to join him on the chorus.

“ ‘And I would love you all the day, If with me you’d fondly stray, Over the hills and far away.’ ”

Their voices blended very well, and so pleased were they with this discovery that they launched into the second stanza, with Margaret taking the melody. After repeating the chorus twice, they lapsed once more into silence. A cool breeze rustled the leaves overhead, and Margaret pulled her dressing gown more closely about her throat.

“The summer will soon be gone,” she observed. “The nights are already growing cooler.”

“Perhaps it is just as well, then, that we are not on Greenland’s coast, as the song says.”

“True, but I must confess that the prospect of being ‘sold on Indian soil’ holds even less appeal, however mild the weather. I think I had best take my chances with the Montford winter.”

“I suspect it would take a great deal to budge you from your home.”

She drew back and regarded him with an expression of some surprise. “Do you indeed? I wonder how you came to conceive such a false impression? No, Mr. Fanshawe, I am well aware that Darrington Place is not mine, but Philip’s. Eventually the estate will be turned over to him, and the household to his wife. I have often thought that, when that day comes, it would be very agreeable to have sufficient funds to see a bit more of the world than I have thus far had opportunity.”

James sketched a slight bow. “I stand corrected.”

“And what of you, Mr. Fanshawe? Have you any desire for travel abroad? I find it hard to believe that one could devote one’s life expounding upon the glories of Rome and Greece without wishing to see them just once in person.”

“Very true. Alas, a tutor’s wages rarely stretch to foreign travel.”

“It is a great pity you could not do so with your own tutor, when you were younger. How shabby of Napoleon to ruin the Grand Tour for an entire generation of young men!”

“And even shabbier for your sake that young ladies are denied the opportunity altogether.”

“Oh, but I had the advantage of a scholarly father with progressive ideas. In fact, Mr. Fanshawe, I spent a month in Bath, where I not only danced at the assemblies, but also examined the ancient Roman baths.” She chuckled at the memory. “Poor Aunt Hattie! She was much shocked to learn that the Roman men and women had bathed together unclothed, and decided that it was not at all a suitable place for gently bred young ladies.”

“I can see why she might feel that way. One might at any moment round the corner onto Milsom Street and find oneself face-to-face with a naked Roman.”

Margaret could not help laughing at the image conjured up by this sally, shocking though it was. How very odd, that conversing with a gentleman upon improper topics while
en dishabille
should feel so very comfortable and, yes, so very
right.
The shiver that ran through her might have been caused by the night breeze, or by some other, less readily identifiable source. She crossed her arms, hugging her body for warmth.

“You are chilled,” said James, observing this gesture. He put his violin away almost lovingly, and rose to his feet. “I’m a selfish brute to keep you out here, when you should have been in your bed this past hour and more.”

“No, no, I am glad we had this time to speak uninterrupted. We—we understand each other better now, I think.”

“Indeed we do. Shall we go back inside?”

Margaret agreed, yet it was with an undeniable sense of loss that she allowed James to open the door and usher her into the dark and silent house.

Chapter 7

It would have been an exaggeration to say that their meeting at breakfast the following morning was awkward. Still, Margaret was conscious of a heightened awareness where the tutor was concerned, as evidenced by a certain reluctance to look in his direction and a disturbing tendency to blush whenever she ventured a glance at him and found him looking back. Fortunately, the appearance of Aunt Hattie at the breakfast table in her best bonnet and pelisse quickly banished such foolish notions.

“Are you going somewhere, Aunt Hattie?”

“Indeed, I am!” declared that lady with more forcefulness than was her wont. “I am going to speak to Sir Humphrey about these gypsies. Surely there must be something he can do!”

“The gypsies?” echoed Philip around a mouthful of buttered eggs. “Why? What have they done?”

“Oh, I hope Sir Humphrey won’t be too hard on them, after the old woman predicted such a lovely fortune for me,” Amanda said with a reminiscent sigh. “A handsome husband, beautiful children—”

“Pray do not talk nonsense, Amanda. And Philip, no one is going to take your breakfast away, so you need not wolf it all down in one bite.” Having disposed of her siblings, Margaret turned her attention back to her aunt. “Still, Aunt Hattie, Amanda and Philip have a point. I see no harm in them, so long as they keep to themselves—”

“Ah, but that is just what they
don’t
do! Last night I heard them singing quite near at hand—practically beneath my window, I’m sure.”

Margaret’s arrested gaze flew to James. “Singing, Aunt?” she echoed, her voice trembling with suppressed emotion.

“Yes, and playing fiddles, too. Such a caterwauling you never heard!”

At this unflattering description, the guilty pair’s self-control fled. James abandoned a futile attempt at biting his lip and grinned broadly, while Margaret laughed aloud. At length their private joke was interrupted by the realization that the three other persons at the table were staring at them with varying degrees of bewilderment.

“I’m sorry you were frightened, Aunt Hattie,” James said ruefully. “I fear Miss Darrington and I are the culprits. I had difficulty falling asleep, and took my violin out onto the terrace. Your niece was kind enough to bear me company. I had no idea you would be able to hear us on the other end of the house.”

Aunt Hattie, nonplussed, looked from her niece to the tutor. “Oh. Well, I must say, I thought their voices blended uncommonly well.”

James held up a hand to forestall her. “No, no, don’t spoil it! You said we were caterwauling, and I have no doubt we were.”

Margaret smiled. “If your sleep was disturbed, Aunt, you must blame Mr. Fanshawe. I warned him I was no singer, but he bewitched me with moonlight and violin music.” Too late, she realized that these words carried a context she had not intended. She cleared her throat and added briskly, “Yes, well, Philip tells me you are interested in seeing the Priory, Mr. Fanshawe—the new one, that is, since you have already seen the ruin. Shall I send a note ‘round to the housekeeper and ask if the two of you may visit this afternoon?”

James readily agreed to this plan, but only under the condition that the ladies join the outing as well. And so it was that, at two o’clock, a party of four set out from Darrington House, Aunt Hattie electing to call on the squire’s wife instead. As the Darrington stables did not stretch to mount four persons at once, they were obliged to make the journey on foot, to Philip’s quite vocal displeasure.

“I wish we might have ridden instead,” he complained as they approached the bridge. “What I wouldn’t give for a good gallop!”

“That will do, Philip.” The warning note in Margaret’s voice gave James to understand that the depletion of the Darrington stables was an oft-repeated complaint.

“Besides,” she added in a brighter tone, “you surely cannot expect Mr. Fanshawe to ride poor old Buttercup.”

Philip, unchastened, grinned broadly at the thought of his lanky tutor riding the Darrington siblings’ old pony. “I should think not! Why, his feet would no doubt drag the ground.”

His sisters found the idea equally hilarious, leaving James to smile uncertainly at their laughter.

“We are not mocking you, I promise,” Margaret hastened to assure him. “We all of us learned to ride on Buttercup, and although her best days are behind her, we cannot bring ourselves to part with her.”

“And besides, who else would have her?” added Philip, sentiment yielding to practicality. “Aside from being long in the tooth, she’s grown fat as a flawn in her old age. Still, I’d rather ride even old Buttercup than walk any day.”

“Then you are well named,” James observed.

“Oh?” asked Philip. “What do you mean?”

“Your name is from the Greek. ‘Philip’ means ‘lover of horses.’ “

“I say!” exclaimed Philip, much struck. “Those Greeks may have been right ‘uns, after all! What does ‘Herodotus’ mean?”

“ ‘Borer of schoolboys’?” suggested Margaret.

James grinned at her, his dimples very much in evidence. “Very likely.”

“What about ‘Margaret’?” demanded Philip.

“Also Greek. It means ‘pearl.’ “

Philip hooted with laughter in a manner highly unflattering to his eldest sister. “What about ‘Amanda’?”

James’s ears turned pink. “Latin. It means ‘worthy of love.’ “

“It would,” muttered Margaret, suddenly weary to the teeth with the childish game.

“Lord, who’d have thought those old Romans were such a mawkish lot?” Philip said scornfully, echoing his sister’s sentiments.

Arriving at the Priory, they eschewed the stately front entrance, as they were not invited guests, and presented themselves instead at the kitchen door. Mrs. Collins, the duke’s housekeeper, greeted them with cries of delight, expressing her willingness not only to show them through the duke’s house, but to ply them with tea and cakes at his Grace’s expense as well.

“No, no,” Margaret made haste to decline this offer. “I should not wish to impose upon his Grace’s hospitality. Mr. Fanshawe, my brother’s tutor, merely expressed admiration for the house, as well as a desire for a closer acquaintance with it.”

Mrs. Collins, who had been inclined to look askance at James’s shabby clothing and unassuming manner, now realized that he was a sensitive and discerning young man who felt just as he ought. “And quite right, too,” she said, beaming her approval. “No one can truly say they’ve been to Montford until they’ve had a look at the big house, now, can they? You’re quite sure you wouldn’t care for a cup of tea?”

James, to whom this offer was tendered, echoed Miss Darrington’s refusal as firmly as he dared. Mrs. Collins clicked her tongue over this, protesting that heaven only knew Mr. Fanshawe could use some meat on his bones. Eventually she was obliged to surrender with a good grace, and escorted the party to the foyer whence the tour began.

As they made their way through the elaborately furnished rooms on the ground floor, Margaret was moved to compliment Mrs. Collins on the efficiency of her staff.

“Not all servants would be so painstaking, given the extended absence of their new master,” she observed, running a gloved finger over the shining surface of an elegant piecrust table and examining it for traces of dust.

“That’s true, more’s the pity,” nodded Mrs. Collins. “But I never did hold with laziness. Whether the late duke was here or in Timbuktu, it makes no never-mind, as far as I’m concerned.”

“Well spoken, Mrs. Collins. I only hope the new duke will realize how fortunate he is.”

The housekeeper preened. “As to that, miss, I’m sure it’s not my place to say. I just do my poor best, knowing that one day his Grace will turn up, and I’ll have no cause to be ashamed.”

James, lacking Margaret’s familiarity with the house, was less interested in housekeeping than in examining his surroundings. These were certainly impressive, particularly the marble floor laid out in diamond patterns of black and white, and the two suits of fourteenth-century armor flanking a staircase so wide that the entire Darrington party might have walked up it abreast. Mrs. Collins delivered with all the pride of ownership a brief lecture on the room’s most significant features, then led the group into what she called the Red Saloon.