A Passionate Endeavor (10 page)

The valley had been reduced to this?

During the sad little meal, Nicholas told
Owen about his idea for a brewery. Owen’s eyes lit up, and he spent
all of ten minutes expostulating on the brilliance of the plan.

“It is a fine idea, Lord Nick. Seeing as how
you’re the heir, that good-for-noth—

.… I mean, your brother and the steward can’t
say nay to you. And the water is the best in all of five counties.
Men will be lining up for the work.”

Nicholas gave a small shake of his head to
Charley, who was reaching for a second slice of bread. Charley
withdrew his hand and glanced at Owen. Out of the corner of his
eye, Nicholas saw his friend’s face turn beet-red. The rest of the
meal was consumed in silence, a vast change from the excitement his
idea of a brewery had conjured up.

At the end of the day Nicholas rode back to
the abbey, Charley riding pillion. Wyndhurst was in a disgraceful
state of affairs. He was ashamed. Why had his family not provided
better for its laborers and tenant fanners?

It had never been like this when he was a
boy. The war and his father’s ill health were poor excuses for the
poverty he had witnessed. He was amazed the Robertses and others
like them could survive on so little. But then they were not
surviving, if the truth were known. He had not failed to notice two
tiny headstones near Owen’s cottage.

Meanwhile, the inhabitants of the abbey dined
well no less than three times a day, including tea with enough
sweetmeats to keep a tooth drawerer in high demand.

He would have a visit with Edwin, his father,
and the new steward. Yes, it would jolly well be a long visit with
the threesome. Life could not continue as it was.

The next day, a light rain pattered on the
windows, forming tiny crystalline droplets. Charlotte dipped her
hands into a water bowl and continued to smooth the small clay bird
form before her. It had been foolish of her to wait for Lord
Huntington in the front room. He wouldn’t come. Her stomach
clenched in nervousness. If she didn’t keep her hands busy,
thoughts of him would drive her mad.

She rubbed her eyes in exhaustion. His Grace
had been up half the night with a fever and a series of coughing
fits that had left him overcome. At last, he had fallen into
slumber at half past three in the morning, and her father had
relieved her at seven o’clock, allowing her two hours of sleep and
half an hour to dress and prepare a possible lesson for his
lordship—if he allowed her to teach him.

Lord Huntington had promised to meet her.
Surely he would come, rain or not. She reshaped the head of the
little clay wren she cupped in one hand and rehearsed her lesson
plan, almost missing the faint knock at the cottage’s outer door.
She threw a damp cloth over the clay figure and plunged her hands
into the bowl of water. Quickly drying her hands on her apron, she
pulled it over her head and tossed it in the corner. Doro called to
her. Charlotte ran a hand over her hair to smooth down any stray
locks as she entered the narrow hall, almost knocking the maid
down.

“Oh, Miss, his lordship be in the front room
waiting on you.” The maid straightened Charlotte’s gown. “Shall I
bring you some refreshments, deary?” she asked with an inquisitive
gleam in her eye.

“Oh, no, Doro. We shall not require anything,
thank you.” Charlotte could see the disapproval in the maid’s eyes.
She felt a slight blush in the making, but hurried to the front
room as the maid muttered something behind her.

He stood looking out the window the same as
yesterday, except that a flawlessly fitted dark blue coat stretched
between his broad shoulders, tapering down to his narrow hips.
Buff-colored breeches and top boots finished the elegant picture he
presented. It was the first time she had seen him dressed in
anything except his uniform or nightshirt. The crisp white cravat
was tied in many intricate folds and emphasized the tanned color of
his face, the face of a man who obviously spent most of his time
out of doors. Lord Huntington turned to her and smiled, revealing
straight teeth that rivaled the shade of his starched white cravat.
It was all quite dazzling. Charlotte again found herself without
words.

“It seems you do not recognize me, Miss
Kittridge,” he said, bowing. “I am afraid this is the first time I
have been forced out of uniform in many a year. My father’s valet
has been displaying paroxysms of delight while he attempted the
newest way to tie a cravat—almost more so Charley, who has decided
that he will learn every version by day’s end. I left the two of
them with a boxful of stocks next to a much more willing victim—my
bedpost.”

He was trying to set her at her ease, she
knew. It was almost working. She did not know how to compliment his
attire without appearing foolish. “Your appearance… You appear
lov-lovely, Lord Huntington,” she said, cursing inwardly at her
ridiculous words.

He threw back his head and laughed. “Ah, Miss
Kittridge, I thank you. It has been many a day since I have been
complimented thusly,” he said. “If I had known you would approve, I
would have asked the tailor my stepmother insisted I employ to work
much more quickly. It seems Her Grace had insisted that my battered
Rifleman’s uniform was no longer presentable to her elegant eye.
Actually, I am hounding the poor man to finish a new uniform. I
don’t feel I am myself without one on—much like a hermit crab
between two shells.”

“Yes, of course. It would be natural to feel
that way.” She looked down at her modest dove-gray morning gown.
The muslin had been washed so many times that it appeared to be
half its original weight. She must talk to Father about new
dresses.

He took a step closer and pulled out a
starched new handkerchief from his breast pocket. “Miss Kittridge,
will you allow me to offer you the use of my handkerchief? You seem
to have a few spots of something—something powdery on your nose.”
He peered at the offending feature.

She was utterly mortified as she accepted the
cloth. She swiped at her nose and looked up at him after several
seconds. “I am afraid it is some clay. I was—I was in my workroom
before you arrived.”

“Ah, that explains it. Allow me,” he said,
taking the cloth from her fingers.

She closed her eyes and held her breath as he
gently touched her nose and cheek with the delicate handkerchief.
She inhaled his warm, sandalwood scent, and for a moment she was
floating. The rubbing stopped and she fluttered her eyes open. His
mesmerizing, half-closed green eyes were very close to hers.

She was paralyzed with longing. Longing for
him, for a return of her… her deep affection? No, she must be
honest—it was more than that, much more. Dangerously more.

She swayed toward him before noticing a
painful reflection in his eyes. He stepped back and she almost lost
her balance. How mortifying. She covered her cheeks with her hands
and closed her eyes.

“Thank you for your assistance, my lord.”
With those seven words, spoken without the hint of a quiver, she
recovered her grace and her pride, and swore never to behave so
foolishly again. She would not. “I—I took the liberty of visiting
your sister’s horse and the foal yesterday. Your stable master said
he thought she would make a full recovery although it is doubtful
the horse should continue her role of broodmare. But he did say
Lady Rosamunde will probably be able to ride her once again in a
few months.”

“Yes, and it is all due to your actions,
Miss Kittridge
. I cannot thank you enough. You have won the
respect of every last man and boy in the stable yard with your
quick thinking.”

“It was my pleasure and my duty, sir.”
Charlotte walked over to the window well and picked up the familiar
slim volume Lord Huntington had placed there.

“I have dutifully looked over the wonderful
engravings. I was quite taken by two species that I had not seen
before,” he said, as he motioned Charlotte toward the settee before
joining her there. He took the book from her hands and skimmed
through a few pages before pausing at one.

She touched the page. “Oh, yes, that is the
grey wagtail.

A bird I have never seen in England either,
although I did see one, once, in France.”

“A wagtail? What a curious name,” he said,
grinning.

Charlotte refused to comment. “Let me see,
yes… It says here that it gained its name by wagging its long tail
up and down while perched atop long willows or on the ground.”

“Fascinating,” he replied.

Charlotte noticed that he was not looking at
the book, but focusing on her face. She feared he could see more
clay on her nose. “Yes, isn’t it?” she said. “And the other
bird?”

He turned several pages and stopped at one,
smoothing the sheet then handing it to her. “I believe it says
‘water rail’?” he said, with some self-consciousness in his voice.
“Although I have never seen this one in my travels either.”

“Why, Lord Huntington,” she said with wonder,
“that is precisely what is written in the book.” She hesitated.
“You were able to read it?”

“Well, yes and no, to be honest. I made out
‘rail’ and concluded it said ‘water’ before it as I spied the water
in the engraving and the word began with `wa.’ I remembered the
word begins with those two letters.”

She hesitated, steeling herself. “Would you
be insulted if I showed you a primer I found at the abbey? I am
curious to know where your difficulties in reading lie.”

This was the crucial moment. She bit her
lower lip and crossed her fingers under the bird book. Crossed
fingers had only ever failed her once. She looked up at him with
the most innocent expression she could endeavor to form on her
face.

“Was there ever any doubt that that was where
all of this was leading, Miss Kittridge?” he asked.

She would take that for permission. Charlotte
jumped up and picked up the primer she had tucked below the top few
books of the nearby stack.

“Your certainty of a positive response to
your request leaves me almost deflated, Miss Kittridge,” he
drawled.

She leaned over the book stack, then glanced
at him from her bent position to find him staring at her… her
posterior. “What, sir?”

“Please forgive me. Actually, I was thinking
of… “ and here he began a deep rumbling laugh. “As we have always
been ever honest with each other, I was thinking of a grey wagtail,
Miss Kittridge.”

Charlotte bumped her nose on the stack in
front of her as she straightened quickly. She was sure she was
blushing. The fine light of humor sparkled in his eyes, and she
could not stop herself from laughing with him.

“I see you are trying to disarm me with your
candor.” She came around the settee with the primer. “Perhaps in an
effort to escape your lesson, sir,” she said, attempting a stern
stare. “But it cannot be done. I refuse to be put off.”

“An admirable and necessary trait in a
teacher, I do assure you,” he admitted ruefully.

She opened the primer to the first page,
which had the alphabet printed in large letters stretched across
several lines. “What do you see?”

She watched as he looked to the side and
began reciting the alphabet by memory.

“No. What do you
see
?”

“Ah. You are observant, Miss Kittridge,” he
said, staring at her. He lowered his gaze to the primer, his face
now pale. “I see the letters of the alphabet. It is just that some
are dancing around on the page and moving around in a way that will
give me the headache if I stare too long at them.” He gripped his
forehead in aggravation.

“Which ones can you make out?”

“
A
—and the next I realize is a
B
—but it sometimes looks like a
D
. Then
C
, and
E
or
F
and
G
. Later I see
M
’s and
N
’s, which look the same, and
S
’s and
Z
’s,
which also look similar. But worst of all is trying to string
together the sounds of letters.”

He gazed with intensity at the page. A small
vein at his temple pulsed near the surface. He looked up at her
with frustration. “Shall I tell you what I think of all
I
’s
and
J
’s, which annoy me with their dots?”

“Which letters are clear?”

“
A
’s and
O
’s and
G
’s are
quite straightforward letters, don’t you think?” he said with a wry
smile. “Humor serves you well, does it not?” she asked. “Come,
come, Miss Kittridge, let us get on with the lesson. We have much
to cover if you intend to have me reading within the hour.”

Charlotte sighed. She hadn’t the faintest
clue how to begin. For the next hour and a half she forced herself
into the role of patient teacher, reading aloud then listening to
Lord Huntington stumble over page after page of childish
nonsense.