Learning to Waltz (10 page)

Mr. Haverfield said nothing. But the look in his eyes, sober and intense, made her sorry she had said so much. “Please,” she said, sitting forward and reaching out a hand toward him impulsively. “Please don’t get the wrong impression. It was no fairy-tale marriage, but it gave me independence and a modicum of contentment, and of course Julian—”

As though on cue, Julian’s hand moved to twine around hers. “Mama?” He looked up at her, weak but sentient, and curled up under the bedclothes shivering like a sapling in a windstorm.

She turned to him and rose onto her knees. “Dear God, he’s soaked with sweat. Could it be—”

Together they stripped him of his sodden nightdress, wrapped him in toweling, and covered him with extra blankets. They watched while he soaked through the towels and replaced them again. Finally the shivering subsided to an occasional shudder, and he rasped out, “I’m thirsty!”

Deborah lifted his head and held a glass of barley water to his lips. Julian could manage only a few desperate gulps before curling up in the driest corner of the bed and lapsing once again into sleep. But it
was
sleep this time, his breathing markedly better, his position more natural.

Curiously suspended between joy and tragedy, Evan’s eyes met hers, wide and dark. She stood motionless and silent, yet he could feel her tension, like a rope stretched taut. Then she fell apart.

Shaking, she buried her face in her hands and wept. Evan pulled her into his arms and wrapped her tight, murmuring comforting sounds somewhere above her right ear. Her hair felt soft against his lips. He pressed a kiss to her temple.

Damned fool. Thank God she hadn’t noticed.

And yet he was sorry. What might have happened if she had? He imagined her face turned up to his, kissing her tears away, the feel of her lips—

No
.

Best not to think of that.

Chapter Ten

The previous week had crawled at the speed of a snail crossing the garden. But the next morning, time jerked into another rhythm entirely, scurrying like a mouse escaping the broom. Doctor Overley examined his patient and confirmed him out of danger, prescribing a week’s bedrest.

He appeared once again the morning after and presented his bill. Catching her hand as he transferred the folded paper into it, he leered at her like a cat in the cream. “If it is too much, my dear, rest assured that my previous offer still stands.” He allowed her to pull her hand from his. “I am a patient man. Perhaps, after your current protector leaves Whately, you will feel differently.”

Deborah stared at him. “My current…”

She clenched her teeth, looked down at the bill in her hand, opened it, and folded it again. Her heart dropped to her feet, but she refused to let him see her dismay. “You will be paid within the week.” When he was gone, she checked the bill once more. It was phrased as a request, gracious and flowery, but that did not change the amount. He’d found another way to punish her.

She still did not know how, but she would pay him. And she would not let anxiety over the matter disturb her euphoria at Julian’s recovery. She hugged herself and performed a pirouette in the middle of the parlor, smiling for the first time in weeks.

The boy was unbelievably fretful. On the verge of calling the doctor back again the following day, Deborah received a brief visit from Lady Reston, who assured her such behavior was normal. “It may be weeks before he’s completely restored to normal, Mrs. Moore. You must just bear it as well as you can.”

There seemed no end to his complaints. He wanted a buttered egg—no, it had to be poached. He wanted raisins in his gruel—no, he hated raisins. But he looked such a pitiful wraith that for now it was easy to put up with his ill-tempered whims. His sleep was deep and natural, through the night and at intervals during the day.

Deborah used that time to make caudles, and lemonade, and possets, in all the varieties Julian demanded and then refused, and to help Molly clean the stains from the bedding and nightclothes. She threw away the dress she’d worn throughout his illness, though she could ill afford to do so.

She had little opportunity to catch up on her rest but found some time for herself. On Thursday morning, basket in hand, she dallied on her way to the chicken coop. The cottage, closed up tight against errant drafts for so many days, felt like a mausoleum.

Only two eggs. She would come back later with the hatchet—those two oldest hens would do them more good in the stewpot. There was no point in feeding them all winter.

What a relief it was to breathe in the crisp winter air. Frost coated each brittle, brown stalk of nettle and lavender, a garden of ice. She broke off a few sprigs of holly and brought them indoors with her, tying them to the bedposts to sweeten their Christmas dreams.

On Friday evening, after Julian was asleep, she dragged the big washtub out of the corner of the kitchen, filled it with pots and pots of hot water, unwrapped her last bar of scented soap, and soaked and scrubbed until not a trace of illness remained. By the time she sat before the kitchen fire, brushing her long hair as it dried, sleepy and smelling
good
at last, it was past midnight.

Evan visited each day that week after spending his mornings with the viscount. Usually Miss Latimer arrived with him, lending a semblance of propriety. And whether she came or not, Evan always brought foodstuffs and other fine things: butter and eggs, or bread and ale, a dozen beeswax candles, and one day an entire pound of real China tea. She split most of these items into portions and took them to other villagers more needy than she. But the tea she hoarded, to sip over her sewing or a book. And until it was half gone, she vowed she would not extend it with nettles.

Deborah did not see much of Evan when he came, for his arrival signaled an opportunity to accomplish some task or other. She’d made it very clear that she did not have time to visit with him, yet he kept appearing on her doorstep. “I like the boy,” he assured her, “and I hope it makes your life a bit easier.”

He no longer seemed a stranger, hardly even a guest. In the aftermath of her tears that night, he had used her given name and insisted she do the same. “You can’t cry on a man’s shoulder and continue to call him
Mister
, you know.” But now that the crisis was past, she feared that was a misstep and avoided calling him anything at all whenever possible.

For propriety’s sake, Deborah carried Julian and his blankets to the sofa downstairs during the day. Evan sat with him there, and they read or played at jackstraws or cards. Evan brought Viscount Latimer’s recent edition of Hoyle’s to resolve rules questions on the games Julian fancied he already knew and taught him to play rudimentary forms of loo and piquet and faro. “A child’s best guide to the gallows,” Evan said, which made Julian laugh and then cough.

Others visited as well. How strange and inconvenient to have callers, to keep the parlor spotless and her precious tea at the ready, to make stilted conversation with the vicar, Miss Latimer, Lady Reston and her daughters. It was Mr. Haverfield’s doing, Deborah was sure. They were not coming to see
her
.

On Saturday she walked to the bakery, her hood down despite the cold, relishing the chill on her cheeks, the wind riffling her hair. She hated to go into the shop, hot from its big oven, but the familiar aromas were enticing in their own way. “A loaf of the red wheat, please, Mrs. Harcourt. Yesterday’s if you have one. And I’d best take two dozen of the lemon biscuits as well.” Callers were expensive as well as inconvenient.

The dairyman’s wife approached her as she counted out the coins for her purchase. “I’m right glad to hear your boy is on the mend, Mrs. Moore.”

“He is, thank you, Mrs. Martin.” No doubt everyone knew the whole progress of Julian’s illness, with all sorts of details, real or imagined.

“Aye, let me add my good wishes to that, ma’am,” said Mrs. Harcourt from behind the counter. “And here’s a hot cross bun for the little tyke. You bring ’im in when he’s up and about, I’ll give ’im another.”

Surprised at the woman’s good will, Deborah thanked her and headed out of the shop, stopping outside the doorway to settle the bun safely in her basket. The door had not closed completely, and she caught the continued conversation between the two women. “Eh, that is good news. I’ve never seen ’er lookin’ happier, I’m sure. She’s an odd, shy one, that gel.”

“And the lad too, so quiet and serious,” replied Mrs. Harcourt. “But you’ve heard about that young man up at the Manor, he that found the lad. Do you know he’s been there every day since the boy took ill? Could be
he
has something to do with her high spirits. A good-looking man like that would surely put a skip in
my
step.”

“Never mind what he looks like. He’s said to be worth ten thousand a year.”

“He’s not likely to marry the likes o’ her then, is he? She’d best not be setting her hopes in
that
direction.”

Deborah bit her lip and hurried away. However much she hated it, the talk was inevitable. The wonder was she’d heard no clucking about impropriety. If the doctor thought her Evan’s mistress, others might, as well. Would the women be so benign without the aegis of Evan and his wealthy friends? She thought not. Rank brought many privileges, but this was the first time she had been a beneficiary.
Don’t get used to it
.

Evan dealt Julian another card. A six.
Damn
. It took the boy a minute and several fingers to discover what Evan already knew.

“That makes twenty-
two
. It’s not
fair
!” Though addition was still a challenge, Julian knew his numbers well, and Evan found his grasp of the games precocious—when he was in a good temper, which he most decidedly was not. He’d been whining and wore a red blotch on each cheek, like poorly applied rouge. The boy still grew feverish in the afternoons, and Evan reached out to feel his forehead, but he pulled away.
How in the world do they manage?
Nursemaids and tutors at least received wages for their patience. Mothers without the benefit of such help deserved far more respect than he’d ever given them.

He vetoed another game, and after a few tears, Julian consented to lie down. When Deborah returned home and looked in on them, the child was lying quietly, glazed eyes fixed on the fire, that decrepit stuffed pony clutched at his chin. Evan shook his head at her—her entrance would only delay the necessary nap—and she withdrew.

He found her in the kitchen some minutes later. The room smelled of the lemons he had brought from Latimer’s hothouses, their fresh astringency warring with the succulence of pheasant fat dripping into the fire. The heat from the flames was intense, and Deborah worked on a small table at the far corner of the room, where the door to the yard stood open.

Evan crossed from heat to cold and sat down on a stool beside the table. Here the lemons were nearly overpowering as Deborah pounded them in a crock. She looked up at him, a question in her eyes.

“He’s asleep, mercifully. I had to invent an irascibility clause that forces an end to the game.”

She didn’t even smile. Instead, she bit her lip, lowering her head to her task. “I’m so sorry. You must be bored to tears.”

He restrained a chuckle and put a finger under her chin, bringing her eyes back up to meet his. “It was his irascibility, not mine.”
Why the hell do I like her so much? She doesn’t even recognize a joke when she hears one.

He let her go. “And oddly enough, I’m not bored.”

She cast him a quick, nervous glance and focused on turning out the lemon juice and rinds into a sieve. More intently, surely, than the job required. “Will you…  Should we expect you tomorrow, Mr.—Evan?”

“Is it inconvenient for you? I hope you will tell me if I’m becoming
de trop
.”

Her gaze leaped to his face again, her cheeks turning red. “Oh no! No. It’s only…  I must call on the squire regarding some financial arrangements. Normally I would take Julian with me, but he is not yet well enough…”