A Passionate Endeavor (15 page)

“You are incorrect again, Miss Kittridge. I
found you most lovely when you were covered in blood and straw
while saving the mare and foal. And most charming when you wheedled
me into your way of thinking while I was half-delirious.”

He had silenced her. Miss Kittridge’s shyness
forbade further comment.

She guided him to a high stool beside her
own, and they sat side by side in the sunlit workroom, which looked
out into the shrubbery and vibrant green of summer in the
Wiltshires. After a comment or two on forming clay, she left him to
his thoughts and solitude. From time to time he looked at her
fine-boned profile as she concentrated on sculpting the round,
diminutive form of a nuthatch. Where had she ever formed the
opinion that she exhibited less than a perfect display of charm and
grace?

He looked toward her mother’s bust again. The
sole variation was in the regal, aristocratic tilt of the cold
marble head and chin. Who was her mother that such a sculpture was
commissioned of her? He had encountered a distinct silence on the
subject, which he had then abandoned out of politeness to the
émigrés. Without a doubt, she had been French, and the father
thoroughly English—from his ruddy cheeks to his London accent.
Nicholas would have questioned Miss Kittridge further but sensed
her discomfort on the topic.

The clay would not take the shape of any sort
of winged creature. His attempts were childlike and he had no doubt
that he had no talent for the medium, unlike his love of music and
the pianoforte, an instrument forbidden to him from the age of
sixteen, when he had infuriated his stepmother outrageously one
final time.

Nicholas rolled the hard clay between his
hands and formed a thin, long column and laid it on the table
littered with clay dust. He coiled it into a fat snake, pinching a
diamond-shaped head at the end. He unrolled it and formed it into
the letter
S
with the head at the top. He took a larger
piece of clay and formed a solid
N
, and finally an
A
.
He had no idea what else was needed to write “snake.”

She looked at his effort and immediately
formed the rest of the word. “Take a closer look at this
N
and see how it is formed from all angles,” she said, placing the
letter in his hand. “Perhaps it will help unlock the mysteries of
the difference between
N
and the
M
and
W
.”

A certain stillness invaded his being as he
studied the letter from every angle. The solid figure did not
dance, nor did it seem confusing in any way, shape, or form. She
handed him an
M
she had formed. It was as if someone had
handed him a key that unlocked a thick door in his brain. The
M
was very solid, immobile, clear. He turned the letter
upside down and could see the
W
quite clearly. The key was
looking at the letters in three dimensions.

Nicholas looked toward Charlotte and saw
wordless comprehension. He couldn’t speak, afraid to break the
spell of sudden understanding. They each turned to the mound of
clay and formed crude letters of the alphabet, rushing their
efforts in their excitement. In ten minutes time, the forms were
complete. He picked up each one and turned them at all angles.
After the first ten or so, he stopped and shuddered as he inhaled
deeply. He felt overwhelming emotion—a great weight lifting from
his shoulders.

“Perhaps we should hold off a bit,” she
said.

“No. I want to look at all of them.”

“All right.”

She handed each one to him, and rearranged
them carefully when he was done. Only the sound of the raspy
crickets and an insistent blue jay could be heard from the open
window. A small but profound transformation had begun in the
recesses of his mind. He closed his eyes and breathed deeply again
after laying aside the
Z
.

When he reopened his eyes, Miss Kittridge had
arranged a line of letters on the table. “Can you read this?” she
asked.

Slowly, he spelled the word,
“r-e-m-e-m-b-e-r, re- remember,” he said in wonder, the word he had
ironically always failed to read or remember.

She formed a few more letters and made a
sentence.

He stared at the words. “You-can-read,” he
said without pause. His hands were shaking. She took his hands in
her own and gave them a little squeeze.

“I don’t understand it,” he said. “I don’t
even want to question why. All I know is that something has changed
by looking at these figures. I am afraid to walk away from here and
lose this feeling.”

He closed his eyes and willed himself not to
show the emotion welling up in his throat and threatening to escape
from his eyes. Most unmanly, these emotions were. He gave a shaky
laugh and stood up, pushing back his stool. She stood in front of
him, holding both his hands and staring up at him, her eyes filled
with tears.

“Ah, Miss Kittridge, do not say a word. You
will force me to behave disgracefully, and you would not like
that.” He could see she was trying to smile with great effort. And
suddenly, it didn’t matter. He felt a tear escape the far corner of
his eye and he pulled her roughly in his arms, squeezing the breath
from her, he feared.

“I daresay I have put clay all over your
gown, Miss Kittridge,” he whispered into her ear as he continued to
embrace her. “That is two gowns I owe you.”

He could feel her smile as he rested his
cheek on hers. “That is quite all right, Lord Huntington, as I owe
you at least one pair of boots from our recent escapade in the
rain, and one coat made of the finest cloth,” she said, dusting off
a place high on his shoulder. “We are even.”

“No, I owe you, Miss Kittridge. How I will
repay you, I know not, but I always attend to my debts.”

She leaned back from him, a hint of tears
still residing in her gray eyes. Her lashes were very long, he
noticed. Nicholas leaned down without thinking, and brushed a soft
kiss on her cheek. “Thank you, my dear. Thank you…” He looked deep
into her eyes.

A knock sounded, forcing him to release her.
Miss Kittridge hastily rearranged her gown and called out,
“Yes?”

“There’s a gen’leman come to call, miss,” the
maid said from the other side of the door. “I told him the doctor
was with His Grace, but he insisted on waitin’.”

The door opened and a figure loomed large
behind the maid. “Now see here, I told you, I am a relative of the
family. Lady Charlotte would want to see me
immediatement
!”
a deep baritone intoned behind the maid. He pushed past Doro, a
quizzing glass firmly planted on his aristocratic face. His haughty
countenance looked amused. Only the smallest trace of a French
accent marred his perfect English. The gentleman looked the two of
them over from a high tilt of his nose, assessing the situation. He
looked back to the maid. “But I thought you said your mistress was
in this—” he looked at the room again, “this atelier.”

“This be Miss Kittridge, sir,” Doro said,
trying to imitate his puffed-up air. Clearly the maid did not take
well to glorified French dandies.

Again the eyepiece was brought up to his
face, making his eye look unnaturally large and quite amusing.

Nicholas’s exuberance had been doused with
all the thoroughness of a bell in a chaotic schoolyard. He wanted
to yell at the stranger to get the bloody hell out of the room. He
needed to be alone with Miss Kittridge—to keep reading and to make
sure this newfound ability would crystallize in his brain and not
disappear, only to leave him frustrated and tortured all over
again.

“I believe you were invited to wait for Miss
Kittridge in the front sitting room, sir. I suggest you do not
compromise your welcome.” He looked toward Miss Kittridge and tried
to regain his composure. “I am sure the lady will join you there
momentarily.”

The gentleman executed a slight bow and
departed, mumbling something in French as the maid closed the
door.

Miss Kittridge stared after them without
saying a word. Nicholas came up behind her and rested his hands on
her shoulders.

“Who is he? Are you acquainted with him?” Not
waiting for her answer, he continued, “I will be happy to toss him
out on his pompous derriere, if you would like,” he said with a
cultured intonation of the Gallic word.

“You speak French?”

“A fair amount, and Spanish too, given the
necessities of war.”

“Any other language, you fraud?”

“Fraud? I am most insulted, Miss
Kittridge.”

“You call yourself an ignorant.”

“Ah, that. Yes. Well, to return to the
original question, which I believe you are very skillfully
attempting to avoid. The name of the gentleman in question?”

“He is a guest. Actually a distant—very
distant relation who will be visiting us, probably for a very short
period,” she said, looking up to him. “He is Viscount Gaston, to
answer your question. We have been expecting him. But—”

“But what, Miss Kittridge?”

“But, I do not think he recognized me, nor do
I think he was expecting us to be living in this—this fashion,” she
said, indicating the room with her sweeping hand.

“In that case, you should count yourself
lucky, for given the gentleman’s obvious lack of manners, perhaps a
curtailed visit would be far preferable.” He dusted off the dried
bits of clay on her shoulder. “Well, I shall leave you to your
distinguished guest.” Nicholas looked toward the clay letters on
the worktable. He hated to leave them behind.

She followed his gaze. “Lord Huntington, I
shall wrap these for you once they are dry.” He kissed her hand
without another word and left the room.

My God, he could read
. No, he could
possibly
read, his more rational self insisted. He fought to
hold hope at bay. He had hoped too many times in his life and
failed. He must get inside that miraculous workroom again—alone
with her as soon as possible. This first taste of comprehension had
been like tiny sips of ambrosia to a man dying of thirst.

His mind raced, thinking about the dueling
topics of where he could have fired the clay letters, the winsome
Miss Kittridge, and the absurd visitor at the doctor’s cottage, as
he walked down the hall.

Nicholas hoped the gentleman’s visit would
indeed be short, perhaps a week’s duration would be most
preferable. No, two days would be better, two hours best of all.
But it was not to be, he decided, when he saw three large trunks
blocking the door.

“
Wisdom is better than wit, and in the
long run

will certainly have the laugh on her
side
.”

—Letters of Jane Austen

CHARLOTTE changed her gown and hastened down
to greet their distant cousin, all the while wishing that her
brother or father would appear to relieve her of the task.

Viscount Gaston was as handsome as ever. He
still possessed those dark, flashing eyes that matched his longish
hair. And his arrogant posture always had exaggerated his already
tall height. As she entered the front salon she noticed he was
dressed in the height of London fashions from his polished,
white-tasseled Hessians to the elegant beaver hat he bore in his
hand. Charlotte’s eyes widened when she noticed the vibrant
plum-colored waistcoat that topped the tightest pair of breeches
she had ever seen. A very large bulge was clearly outlined.
Charlotte knew enough of the male anatomy to wonder if it could
possibly be real or stuffing. She stifled a giggle. Was this a new
fashion in London? She knew gentlemen stuffed their stockings to
give the appearance of a well-developed calf, but this was taking
it too far.

“Is that really you, Charlotte? You have been
rusticating from civilized society far too long, I see. No proper
mademoiselle would dare to stare at a gentleman of the
ton
in that fashion,
ma cherie
,” he said, looking down his nose
at her.

She gulped and tried to collect herself.
“Cousin, I am happy to see you again. It has been an age.” She
motioned to the blue settee and armchair next to it.

Charlotte chose the settee and faced the
armchair he was sure to use. She was forced to change the direction
of her knees when she found him sitting next to her on the
settee.

“I asked the footman at the abbey to direct
me to you, but I think he must have misunderstood. It will be a
trial to move my trunks to the family’s actual great house. But,”
he sighed, “that is for the servants to worry about, is it not,
mon chou
?”

“Alexandre, these
are
our living
quarters.”

“What? This cannot be. The greatest physician
in the court of Louis XVI has been reduced to living in a, a
cottage with not a thought to keeping up appearances?
Mon
Dieu
, your grandparents and mother would turn in their graves
if they could see how you live,” he said, showing more feeling than
his usual languid self.

“I am sorry you do not approve,” she said.
“However, this is indeed where we reside. But I would not dare to
suggest you stay in such unrefined quarters,” she continued, an
idea forming in her head. “Perhaps you would be more comfortable
staying at The Quill & Dove? It is quite charming, and even
boasts some of the finest suites of rooms in all of Wiltshire.”

Alexandre looked around the small room with
distaste. “But, my dear cousin, I would not consider it. I have
come to sample country life and to visit my dearest family in the
world,” he said, removing his gloves and looking with distaste at
the threadbare furnishings.

Ah, that explained it. He must be desperately
short on funds to allow his polished perfection to be diminished by
simple countrified living.

Doro arrived carrying a heavy tray of tea and
scones with all the trimmings. She had a sour look on her face when
Charlotte regarded her. Her bulky form was heaving a bit under the
burden as she placed it before Charlotte.