Sheri Cobb South (3 page)

“I—do you know me?” James asked, his words somewhat slurred by his rapidly swelling lip.

Transferring the reins to one gauntleted hand, she extended the other to James. “I waited for you at the Pig and Whistle, but I fear we must have missed one another. I am Miss Darrington. It was I who engaged your services,” she added, as if this information should explain everything. In fact it explained nothing, but it was reassuring to James to learn that he was not expected to recognize her.

“Pleased to meet you, Miss Darrington,” he said, bowing unsteadily over her hand.

The lady’s eyebrows descended ominously. “Mr. Fanshawe, are you given to strong drink?”

“Why, no! That is, I—no.” James had no recollection of his past habits, but vague memories of other nameless men suffering the aftereffects of that particular vice were enough to convince him that he would not have willingly joined their ranks.

By this time Miss Darrington had had ample time to assimilate James’s swollen lip, blackened eye, and blood-encrusted nose. “Good God, Mr. Fanshawe! What has happened to you?”

“Forgive me, Miss Darrington, but I am not myself.” In fact, James reflected, he wasn’t anyone—at least, not that he could tell. Had the young lady in the gig not come along when she had, he would not even know his own name, much less his destination. “I don’t recall exactly what happened, but I must have set out on foot, and been waylaid by ruffians.”

“If you set out on foot for Darrington House, the ruffians may have done you a service, for you are headed in quite the wrong direction.”

Miss Darrington’s mouth was too wide for beauty, but her smile was infectious. James smiled in spite of himself, and winced at the pain in his lip. “At the risk of seeming ungrateful, I could wish they had been gentler in their attempts to set me to rights.”

“Oh, dear!” exclaimed Miss Darrington, sliding to one end of the seat so that he might climb up beside her. “Now you think I am laughing at your misfortune! I assure you, nothing could be further from the truth. Only think how shocking it would have been if you had walked all the way to Montford looking the way you do!”

With an effort, James tossed the portmanteau into the gig and climbed up onto the seat. “Do I look that bad?” he asked, exploring the planes of his abused face with a tentative hand.

“You look a positive fright,” she replied candidly. “But we shall take you to Darrington House at once, where your injuries may be cleaned and dressed. Then I daresay you will feel much more the thing. You will wish to meet Philip as soon as may be arranged, of course, and I assure you, he will not think the less of you for your adventures.”

“Philip?”

“My brother.”

This revelation, combined with the Greek and Latin texts he had discovered amongst his scattered possessions, gave James to understand that he had been engaged as tutor to young Philip Darrington.

“And how old is your brother. Miss Darrington?” he asked, then hastily added, “I’m sure you must have mentioned it in our correspondence, but I fear I don’t remember.”

“Philip is fourteen,” said Miss Darrington, apparently finding nothing to wonder at in this half-truth.

James was slightly taken aback. “Fourteen? I should think he would be at school by now.”

“As I told you in my letter, he was always sickly as a child, and so has been privately educated at home.”

“And is he to be my only pupil?”

“Yes. With the exception of my brother, we are a household of females. My youngest sister Amanda is eighteen, and will make her come-out next spring. Then there is myself, of course, and my Aunt Hattie—my father’s widowed sister, Mrs. Harriet Blaylock. As for staff, we employ a cook, and we have a man who comes up from the village to serve as both groom and gardener. Then there is Tilly, the maid of all work. If you wish, Tilly will launder your linens for two shillings a month or, if you prefer, you may make your own arrangements.”

“Thank you, but I shall be happy to give Tilly my custom.”

“And so you may tell her very shortly, for here we are.”

In proof of these words, she skillfully maneuvered the gig down a narrow lane, at the end of which lay a fine old Tudor dwelling. Though neither large nor particularly elegant, the house was a splendid example of the architecture of its day, and had obviously been well maintained. The half-timbered upper floor boasted diamond-paned windows, while the ancient brick of the lower was partially obscured by a blanket of ivy.

As the gig rolled to a stop before the front door, James stiffly disembarked and turned to hand Miss Darrington down. The effort this simple gesture cost him was not lost on his employer.

“How kind of you, Mr. Fanshawe, when I should be the one assisting you! I can see we shall deal extremely well together.”

This last was said with another wide smile as she looked up into the tutor’s bruised face. And up. And up. As Miss Darrington was a tall lady, she was not in the habit of tilting her head back when conversing with gentlemen. She found the sensation oddly pleasant. Then she stepped up onto the first of the three stairs leading to the front door, raising her almost to eye level. With the return to more normal proportions, the curious feeling vanished. She supposed she would grow accustomed to it in time.

She opened the door and led him across the paneled entryway and into the drawing room, where a plump lady in a frilled white cap sat knitting before the fire.

“Aunt Hattie, I have returned with Mr. Fanshawe, Philip’s new tutor,” Miss Darrington announced. “Mr. Fanshawe, my aunt, Mrs. Harriet Blaylock.”

“Do call me Aunt Hattie, dear, everyone else does,” said Aunt Hattie, her needles clicking together at a rapid pace. “Tell me, Mr. Fanshawe, have you lost a finger?”

The tutor glanced down at his hands, as if this possibility had not occurred to him. “No, Mrs.—Aunt Hattie, all ten appear to be present and accounted for.”

“Oh, dear! What a pity,” sighed Aunt Hattie, who then hurried to add, “Not a pity for you, of course, for I am sure it must be most unpleasant to lose a finger. But I have lost count of my stitches, and now it appears that this glove will only have four fingers. I thought perhaps if you had lost a finger, I could give this pair to you. One hates to see so much effort go to waste, you know.”

“Perhaps the workhouse might know of an eligible, er, four-fingered party,” suggested James.

“But of course! What a clever young man you are, to be sure. But then, you must be clever, mustn’t you, to be a tutor? Such a good thing, I feel. One is not always so fortunate with governesses. I have known some governesses who appeared to know little more than their pupils.”

James said solemnly that he would do his best not to disappoint.

“Oh, I am quite sure you won’t,” said Aunt Hattie placidly. “I only hope you will not be disappointed in Philip, for he is not at all studious. In fact, he is very much like his father at the same age, and
he,
you know—”

“Aunt Hattie,” interrupted Miss Darrington, “have you any wormwood in your medicine basket? Or perhaps some mustard for a plaster?”

“Wormwood, my dear? I don’t recall. Why do you ask?”

“Because Mr. Fanshawe is sorely in need of it, along with a quantity of hot water.”

Aunt Hattie, having been previously occupied by the condition of the tutor’s hands, now fixed her myopic gaze upon his bruised and battered face. “Good heavens! My dear boy, what has happened to you?”

“He erroneously took the road to Montford, and was set upon by footpads.”

“Footpads?” echoed Aunt Hattie. “In Montford? Depend upon it, this is what comes of that great house standing empty. First gypsies in the home wood, and now this! In the old duke’s day, such a thing would have been unheard of. Footpads, indeed! Although, I must confess, I have often wondered why they are called
footpads.
The ‘foot’ part one can understand, since they are not on horseback, like highwaymen, but to my mind, the word ‘pad’ suggests something soft and gentle, and if you will forgive my saying so, Mr. Fanshawe, you do not look as if they were at all gentle—”

“The wormwood, Aunt Hattie!” urged Margaret.

“Yes, dear.” Aunt Hattie rose, laid aside her knitting, and waddled from the room.

She had not been long absent when the door burst open to admit a very young man with the slightly unfinished look of the adolescent who, having reached manhood’s height, had yet to attain the corresponding musculature.

“Aunt Hattie says the tutor is here, and that he was set upon by footpads—or highwaymen—or perhaps gypsies? Can’t imagine what any of ‘em would want with a tutor, but to hear Aunt Hattie tell it—”

“Philip,” said his sister, interrupting this burst of eloquence, “you may make your bow to Mr. Fanshawe. As you can see, it is quite true:
Mr. Fanshawe met with a mishap on the road.”

“Famous!” exclaimed Master Philip Darrington, regarding his instructor with a look of admiration not unmixed with awe. “Oh, how I wish it might have happened to me! Nothing exciting ever does, you know.”

James’s lips twitched, but he answered with mock solemnity, “I assure you, had I known of your wishes, I should have been happy to give up my place to you.”

“Never say you should have wanted to miss such an adventure, for I won’t believe you,” declared Philip.

“I daresay Mr. Fanshawe thirsts for adventure as much as any other red-blooded Englishman,” said Margaret, sponging her employee’s injuries with a wet cloth. “Still, one has only to look at him to see that he has had rather too much excitement for his own good.”

“In your place, I should have shot them!”

“You will no doubt think it very remiss of me,” James confessed, wincing slightly as Miss Darrington touched a tender spot, “but I fear I lacked the foresight to provide myself with pistols.”

“Oh,” said Philip, manfully concealing his disappointment. “Well, I daresay you hardly expected to happen upon such an adventure. But are you perhaps handy with your fists? Did you draw their cork? Darken their daylights?”

It was a very queer thing, reflected James, that while he could remember nothing of his past life, he had no difficulty in interpreting Master Philip Darrington’s store of boxing cant. “Alas, I fear I made a very poor showing,” he confessed, fully aware that he was rapidly losing face in his pupil’s eyes. Recalling the scattered articles of clothing, he added, “Although I fancy I may have landed a blow or two with my portmanteau, much to its detriment.”

“You need not worry about that, at any rate, Mr. Fanshawe,” said Margaret, “for I hope you will not be needing your portmanteau anytime soon.”

“I should think not!” concurred Philip. “I hope you will be with us for a very long time, Mr. Fanshawe, for it is plain to me that you are a great gun!”

James, having been granted the highest praise of which an adolescent schoolboy was capable, acknowledged this tribute with a slight bow. “I thank you, Master Philip, and only hope you will feel the same when I am excoriating you for neglecting your Latin.”

Master Philip received this threat in the manner in which it was intended, and his elder sister, listening to the pair of them, could not but feel that she had been extremely fortunate in finding such a tutor for her lively young brother. The true test, however, still lay ahead, for Mr. Fanshawe had yet to make the acquaintance of Miss Amanda Darrington.

Her self-satisfied smile faded at the prospect.

* * * *

At the same moment in which the very thought of her erased the smile from her sister’s face, Miss Amanda Darrington, all unknowing, descended the path leading from the duke of Montford’s orchards to the gurgling stream separating the Darrington property from that of the duke. She made a fetching picture, with a basket of rosy (albeit contraband) apples on her arm and a broad-brimmed straw hat tied with a wide blue ribbon over her golden curls. But Miss Amanda had no thought for her appearance, for her mind was occupied with weightier matters.

Her steps slowed as she began the descent toward the stream, for she wanted to take in every detail of the countryside’s autumnal splendor. She might never see it again. With the spring would come her removal to London, and the brilliant marriage it was her duty to make. The prospect, which so consumed her elder sister’s waking hours, held no appeal for Amanda. Although she liked new dresses and fine jewels as much as the next damsel, she had lived in Montford all her life, and had no ambitions beyond its borders. To her sister’s predictions of her becoming a fine lady, she would have said (had she been allowed to get a word in edgewise) that the only fine lady of her acquaintance was the squire’s wife, and if that overbearing female was characteristic of the breed, she would prefer not to join its ranks.

She heaved a sigh, and the small, unhappy sound seemed to be picked up by the air itself, and repeated in the breeze stirring the leaves of the apple trees. How lovely it would be if the new duke of Montford would come and fall in love with her at first sight! He would be young and handsome, of course, and she already knew him to be very rich. They would be married at Christmas, and she would never have to leave Montford. Philip could go to school, and then to University, and Aunt Hattie could have a generous pension, and Margaret could have—whatever it was that Margaret wanted. Amanda was not quite certain, as her sister’s ambitions always seemed to center around the other members of the family.

But Life, as she had already discovered, was nothing at all like a fairy tale, and when the duke finally deigned to appear—if he appeared at all, which she was beginning to doubt—he would no doubt be middle-aged and paunchy, with a wife and half a dozen ducal children. No, it appeared she was doomed to London and a brilliant marriage.

Lost in thought, she failed to notice the patch of loose stones until she stepped squarely in the midst of it. The pebbles shifted beneath her feet, briefly upsetting her balance. She was never in danger of falling, but the abrupt movement was sufficient to dislodge one of the apples. It fell to the ground, bounced once, and began to roll down the hill.

“Oh, bother!” muttered Amanda, giving chase.