“I think perhaps I’d better see that they make it to school,” he murmured, hurrying after them and hating himself for being so craven. He promised himself he would come back that afternoon, as soon as he could figure out a way to start rebuilding their relationship.
Cynthia watched him slink from the room and sank back against her chair in defeat.
Chapter Ten
Sometime later Cynthia stopped her pacing about the library and peered out the window hoping to catch a glimpse of the returning Daniel. After her sleepless night and John’s outburst that morning, her nerves were on edge, and she wanted only to get her declaration over and done with. Especially after John’s damning statement, she couldn’t let Daniel think she so despised him.
But Daniel didn’t come home that morning. Nor did he arrive in time for dinner, although she had a distraught Monsieur Henri delay the meal twice. In fact, she did not see him again until she had descended for supper and found him and the three boys boasting about their fishing of that afternoon. By then she was ready to scream.
For once Daniel was content to avoid Cynthia. While the boys were at school, he had found a way to tell Cynthia he loved her. He waited anxiously through supper, but she made no mention of the package he had left on her mantle, and he realized with a sinking heart that she hadn’t found it yet. He let the boys stay up later than usual, hoping that she would retire to her room, but she seemed intent on confronting him. At last he took the boys up to bed and slipped into his own chamber. He managed to change into nightclothes, but he found it impossible to sleep and perched on his bed, listening for her footfall in the corridor.
Cynthia couldn’t understand Daniel’s attitude. He had to know she wanted to talk to him, yet he let the boys stay up later than usual and insisted on taking them up to bed himself. She paced the withdrawing room, waiting for his return, and was just about to go up after him when Evenson came through on his rounds to close up the house. He was plainly surprised to see her, but made to bow himself out.
“Evenson,” she demanded, “where is my husband?”
“I believe Mr. Lewiston retired for bed some time ago, madam,” Evenson replied. “Shall I wake him for you?”
“No,” Cynthia said with a sigh, feeling every bit as dejected as John had that morning. “I might as well retire too, then. Good night, Evenson.”
She didn’t wait to hear him respond.
Upstairs, she dismissed the young lady Daniel had hired to serve as lady’s maid and began taking down her hair herself. She had combed out her tresses and put on her white cambric nightgown before she saw the box on the fireplace mantle.
“And don’t think a present will get you out of discussing this, my man,” she muttered to herself as she took down the box and carried it to the bed. Still, Daniel’s presents had always been wonderful, and she hurriedly pulled the lid off the oblong box. Inside lay a half dozen white sticks of candy, each thicker than her thumb.
She shook her head. “Where on earth did he find rock here in Wenwood?” she wondered aloud. That had been one of her few joys in living in Bristol, the rock candy made by the town’s leading confectionery. She vaguely remembered telling Daniel something about it when he had first called. Grabbing one of the sticks, she took a long lick and let the sweet taste roll down her throat. Hope filled her with each swallow. Perhaps there was a chance for them if he was still willing to buy her such a present. She had taken perhaps three such licks when she noticed that the end of the stick had red marks on it. Looking closer, she saw that the marks formed letters, letters that read, “I love you.”
She stared at the stick for another second before climbing to her feet. The candy trembled in her grip. She started for the door to her chamber, then stopped, turning toward the door that connected her chamber with Daniel’s. Heart pounding, she moved toward the door and reached up over the jam for the brass key. She transferred the candy to her left hand and, sticky fingered, unlocked the door with her right. The lock protested with a loud screech. He would know she was coming.
The rest of her was shaking with her hand as she pushed the door open. Daniel was standing at the side of his bed, green-satin dressing gown obviously thrown on in haste, hair tousled. “Cynthia, is anything wrong?”
Wordlessly, she held out the candy to him, lettering first.
“Oh.” He smiled sheepishly. “You found it. You had said you liked it best. I hope you don’t mind.”
Cynthia swallowed, feeling the lingering taste of the sweet on the back of her tongue. “Do you know what it says?”
He nodded, standing a little taller. “Yes. I asked the candy maker to put in the words. The candy is special, you know. No matter how long you lick it, the words will still show. And it will say ‘I love you’ until the very end, just as I will.”
The stick fell to the ground as Cynthia cast herself into his arms. Daniel hugged her close, finding her mouth once again so near to his. She tasted of the candy, and more.
And that night they both learned that Adam was wrong. There was indeed something in life far sweeter than candy.
_____________
A Place by the Fire
Chapter One
Miss Eleanor Pritchett, teacher of literature at the Barnsley School for Young Ladies, slid into place along the wall of the head mistress’ office, tucking her light brown hair up into the black cap all the teachers wore. She had never liked the shapeless black bombazine uniform of the school staff, but now she was thankful for the way it hid the fact that her slender chest was heaving after her dash from the second story. As it was, Eleanor arrived just in time to hear Miss Martingale’s nasal voice proclaim, “What is this creature?”
So it was true. Dottie had been caught with the kitten. Eleanor knew she should have dissuaded the farmer who brought the eggs from giving the tiny bundle of fur to the girl, but the gleam in Dottie’s dark eyes had been too precious to waste. Wincing at the thought of the consequences of that act, Eleanor slipped a little farther along the back wall until she bumped into the quivering form of the school’s new art teacher. A quick look at Miss Lurkin’s pale, narrow face confirmed Eleanor’s suspicions about who had had the misfortune of finding the kitten and the lack of foresight to keep from mentioning it to Miss Martingale.
From her new position, Eleanor could see around the two high-backed leather chairs that stood in front of the massive, claw-foot walnut desk. Dottie stood between chairs and desk, her black mourning gown of fine silk making her look thinner and more fragile than usual. Behind the desk, Miss Martingale’s considerable bulk was trembling with ill-suppressed indignation, one gloved hand holding aloft a small, squirming black kitten, who hissed with equal indignation.
“I believe you have been taught to answer when spoken to by your elders,” Miss Martingale said sharply. “But I shall repeat myself just this once. What is this creature?”
Dottie raised her head to meet the outraged head mistress’ gaze, and Eleanor had to stifle a shout of triumph. For once determination blazed from those chocolate eyes. Since returning to the school three months ago, the girl had never looked more like a daughter of a peer than at that moment. All this furor would be worth it if it brought the child out of the unresponsive cocoon she had built around herself since her parents had been killed in a boating accident in Naples.
Miss Lurkin obviously didn’t have the stomach for the tension that coiled through the room. “It’s a cat,” she burst out, then, as Miss Martingale’s cold blue glare turned her way, she shrank into herself. “That is,” she ventured timidly, “I believe it is a cat. Is it not?”
Eleanor rolled her eyes. Nothing incensed Miss Martingale more than idiocy, expect perhaps outright rebellion.
“To be sure,” Miss Martingale sneered. “It is a cat.” The wrinkle of her long nose and the line on her thin lips made it obvious what she thought of cats. The kitten spit at her.
“To be precise,” Eleanor felt compelled to put in kindly, “it’s a kitten. And a rather tiny one at that.”
The icy gaze swept over her, and she dutifully lowered her own. As an employee of the Barnsley School, she owed Miss Martingale her loyalty. Having been the recipient of one of the woman’s few bouts of kindness, she owed her far more. She would be forever grateful that the taciturn head mistress had agreed to take in an orphaned twelve-year-old whose soldier father had died without even leaving enough to pay for her schooling. She was even more grateful that an allowance from the school’s patrons, the Darbys, had allowed that child to learn and ply a trade for nearly fifteen years. And all Miss Martingale and the Darbys had asked in return was complete and total submission.
Until the seven-year-old Lady Dorothea Darby had returned to the Barnsley School, Eleanor had been more than willing to do anything Miss Martingale asked. Since then, she had had more than one infraction. In fact, the last week she had had to try to be on her best behavior to ward off Miss Martingale’s suspicions. Still, it certainly wasn’t Dottie’s fault. Eleanor knew she saw too much of herself in the girl’s sadness at being orphaned. She had done everything in her power to ease the child’s pain, sneaking sweet meats from the kitchens, taking Dottie on walks about the fields near the school on her day off, and staying with the girl when she had nightmares. It was only for a time, Eleanor had assured herself and any of the other teachers who noticed. It wasn’t something worthy of Miss Martingale’s attention. If they all just kept quiet, Dottie would be herself again in no time.
And the plan was working. Dottie would never have been able to stand before Miss Martingale’s fury three months ago. Now she stood so tall that Eleanor’s heart swelled with pride. If only she could get Miss Martingale to see how the girl had blossomed, and not see the act as full-scale defiance!
“Thank you for that clarification, Miss Pritchett,” the head mistress said. “However, the size of the creature is immaterial. We have a policy at this school that forbids the keeping of pets, including cats, of any size. I am sure you are familiar with that rule, Miss Pritchett.”
Eleanor fixed a smile on her face and kept her tone pleasant. “Of course, Miss Martingale. Dottie would never seek to break one of the school rules, would you, dear? You weren’t actually keeping the kitten, I’m sure. You were just showing the other children and were going to return it to Farmer Hale in a day or so.”
Even though Eleanor was sure Dottie remembered the agreement they had made, she smiled encouragement when the girl glanced quickly back at her, biting her lip. Beside Eleanor, Miss Lurkin bit her own lip. Miss Martingale frowned.
Dottie turned to face the headmistress again. “No,” she said with a sigh. “I wasn’t going to give him back. I want to keep Jingles.”
Eleanor nearly groaned aloud. The request was impossible. Dottie could only be disappointed, and Miss Martingale could only be made angrier. She wracked her brain for a way out of the mess.
Miss Martingale’s eyes flashed fire. “Then you admit, Lady Dorothea Darby, to purposely breaking the rules of this school?”
Eleanor held her breath. The delicate black head rose a little higher. “Yes, Miss Martingale, I do so admit.”
Eleanor exhaled and closed her eyes. They were done for. She had no idea how strict a punishment Miss Martingale would exact for outright disobedience, but it would be stinging. Miss Martingale had an infallible belief in the structure of life. Everything and everyone had a place, a role to play. Keeping that place was an honorable pursuit. Anything else condemned one to the fires of hell.
Eleanor opened her eyes in time to see Miss Martingale thrust the kitten at Dottie, who clutched him to her. Jingles fur was raised, his ears were laid back, and his yellow eyes glared. The white, bell-shaped patch of fur at his throat, which had earned him his name, stood out, as did the pale oval of Dottie’s determined face. Eleanor remembered suggesting that the girl name him Alexander the Great, for from the first he had made it clear he intended to explore and conquer the world. Now, like Dottie’s courage, his tiger’s heart could only get them in deeper trouble. Eleanor wanted nothing so much as to scoop them both up in her arms and take them out of the room before doom could fall.
“I’m sorry to have to do this,” Miss Martingale intoned with martyr-like patience. “The Earl of Wenworth and the Darby family have always been very generous to this school: donating the school grounds out of the Wenworth estate, inviting the staff for an annual tea, encouraging the students in their studies.” She fixed Eleanor with a baleful glance. “Miss Pritchett has benefited from such generosity a number of times.”
Eleanor felt the color rushing to her cheeks. She did not need Miss Martingale’s reminder of how much the Darbys had done for her. She would never forget the summer they had asked her to help the second son, Justinian, study. It was she who had learned, how it felt to love and how to remember her place.
Dottie pulled the kitten closer and bowed her head. “My grandmother says the Darbys are known for their kindness. If my father was alive, he’d let me keep Jingles.”
Eleanor’s heart went out to the girl. She gazed at Miss Martingale imploringly. “It is a very little kitten, Miss Martingale. Perhaps, since Dottie is still in mourning. . . .”
Miss Martingale slapped her hand down on the desk. Everyone else in the room jumped. Jingles started hissing again. “The rules must be obeyed, by all students, at all times. Anything less is anarchy, and I will not condone anarchy. This kitten is obviously a symptom of a much larger rebellion, a rebellion that appears to have infected you as well, Miss Pritchett. You have left me with no choice but to take the creature out and drown it.”
Eleanor gasped. “Miss Martingale, no!”
“No!” Dottie cried, stumbling back out of reach. “No, I won’t let you!”
Miss Martingale sniffed. “Lady Dorothea, you appear to have been spoiled terribly. We do you no service by allowing you to continue this way.”