Chapter Twenty-Four

"You seem a natural in the saddle, Eleanor dearest." Lavinia steered her mount alongside Eleanor's.

"I think that's due to the choice of mount rather than any prowess on my part," Eleanor said, leaning forward to pat Lady Star's flank, "but I wish these saddles were more comfortable."

"They take some getting used to," Lavinia said. "I prefer riding astride, but Peregrine looks at me as if I'm some wild creature whenever I suggest it." She smiled. "I daresay Whitcombe wouldn't have minded. He's far less imposing than I thought at first, and was most attentive in helping you with your mount. I hope you'll forgive me for warning you against him before."

"You only had my best interests at heart, Lavinia."

"That I did. I'll even venture to say that his mother seems to be warming toward you. Not enough to be considered cordial, but from what I've heard of her, not talking down to a young woman in public is her greatest compliment."

Eleanor giggled. "I was terrified of her at first, but she wasn't as bad as I feared. She even offered to give me a pug when I took tea with her."

"Excellent! Did you agree?"

Eleanor was spared the necessity of replying by a hail from Whitcombe, who, with Marlow, had drawn his mount to a halt beside a whitewashed, red-roofed building.

"This is the school," he said. "What do you think?"

The building seemed sound, and the surrounding garden tidy, if not particularly cheerful. But the front gate hung at an ungainly angle, as if one of the hinges had broken, and there was a crack in one of the ground-floor windowpanes.

"It looks in need of repair," Lavinia said. "Has it been occupied long?"

"Six months, maybe less."

"And you expect your tenants to reside in a building with a cracked window and a roof that undoubtedly leaks?"

"It doesn't leak, Lady Marlow," Whitcombe replied. Then he met Eleanor's gaze. "I had it repaired before the school opened."

Was it her imagination, or did she see a plea for approval in his eyes?

"It doesn't look like a school," Eleanor said, "but a school isn't about the building, is it? It's about the children, and those willing to teach them."

Her heart leaped as his mouth curved into a smile. "Quite so—Eleanor."

After they'd returned from the picnic yesterday, he'd asked Eleanor whether she'd be disposed to attend the school on the estate to teach the children about drawing. An odd request—quite out of the blue—but it had been delivered with such honesty and enthusiasm that she hadn't the heart to refuse, even though the prospect of a room full of strangers, albeit children, struck fear into her soul.

The eagerness in his eyes, which shone a brilliant blue in the morning sunlight, reminded her of an enthusiastic child, anxious for an adult's approval of a scheme dear to their heart.

"No, Montague," she said, and his eyes sparkled with joy at her use of his name. "I don't mind at all."

She lifted one leg over the pommel of the saddle, then slid to the ground. For a moment, her legs, still stiff from yesterday's ride, crumpled beneath her, then a pair of strong arms wrapped around her waist and held her against a solid wall of muscle. For a delicious moment, she inhaled the woody, spicy scent of him. Then he dipped his head and pressed his lips in her hair.

"I say, Whitcombe, old chap," Marlow said, amusement in his voice. "There's a time and a place."

"Aye, there is." Whitcombe's voice, a low growl, reverberated throughout Eleanor's body, igniting a slow pulse of heat deep within her center that threatened to swell. And…sweet heaven, the very male body pressed against her was hard and ready—though for what, she couldn't fathom.

At length, he released her. "You can leave us to it now, Marlow," Whitcombe said. "Lady Marlow."

Lavinia narrowed her eyes and glanced toward Eleanor.

"Your friend is safe with me, Lady Marlow. I can hardly dishonor her in a schoolroom filled with children. If you pass here on your return, we can all ride back together."

He spoke in the tone of a duke who expected to be obeyed, but Lavinia continued to stare at him.

"I'll be all right, Lavinia," Eleanor said.

"In which case, let's introduce you to the children." Whitcombe tethered their mounts to the gate, then steered Eleanor into the building.

Hoofbeats clattered on the road outside, fading into the distance as Marlow and Lavinia rode on, leaving them alone in a dark, narrow hallway. Voices came from behind a door—tiny, high-pitched voices, chanting in unison.

"Two twos are four, three twos are six, four twos are eight…"

He knocked on the door, and the voices stopped.

"Come in!" cried a female voice. Whitcombe pushed open the door and ushered Eleanor inside.

An array of chairs and desks of different shapes and sizes filled the room, seven of which were occupied. At the front, standing beside a large desk with a pile of books, stood a woman in a plain muslin gown and a pinafore. She looked about Eleanor's age, with delicate features, blonde hair fashioned into a neat braid, and wide, dark brown eyes.

"Oh—Your Grace!" She let out a cry then gestured to the children, who scrambled to their feet. Eleanor winced as they scraped back their chairs in their eagerness to stand to attention—apart from one child who sat apart from the rest, near the door. A little slower than the rest, he stood, then turned and carefully lifted his chair to set it back.

"How are you today, Olivia?" Whitcombe asked.

Olivia?A familiar address for a schoolteacher. Eleanor looked at the woman with renewed interest and—to her shame—envy. Was she one of his lovers? He'd had lovers in London—doubtless he'd broken several hearts in the country, also.

"I'm well, Your Grace."

Whitcombe steered Eleanor toward her. "I've brought someone I particularly wish you to meet, Olivia," he said. "This is Miss Howard." Then he turned toward Eleanor. "Eleanor, this is Miss FitzRoy."

FitzRoy…

Why was that name familiar?

The woman dipped into a curtsey. Eleanor did likewise.

"Pleased to meet you, Miss FitzRoy," Eleanor said. "Were you expecting us?"

"Oh." The woman glanced toward Whitcombe, her eyes widening. "No, my…" She hesitated. "I mean, His Grace didn't mention it."

"I thought Miss Howard could help you with the children's drawing," Whitcombe said.

"So that's why all that paper arrived this morning! I wondered if there'd been a mistake, and I didn't want to tell the children in case I was obliged to return it. They'll be so pleased." Her eyes sparkled with joy, and her mouth curled into a smile.

Then Eleanor saw it—the plumpness of Miss FitzRoy's lips, and the way her face creased around the mouth when she smiled. Her eyes were brown, not blue, but their shape was identical to Whitcombe's, right down to the arch of her eyebrows.

Montague FitzRoy…

"Miss FitzRoy, are you the duke's…" Eleanor's voice trailed away as she glanced toward Whitcombe.

The woman's eyes widened, alarm in their expression.

Oh dear.She'd said the wrong thing—again.

"F-forgive me," Eleanor said. "The resemblance…"

"Few are able to spot it."

"I meant no offense." Eleanor extended her hand. "Please accept my apologies. I hope I won't disrupt your lessons."

Miss FitzRoy stared at Eleanor's hand for a moment, then reached out and took it. Thin, calloused fingers slid across Eleanor's smooth palm.

Whitcombe watched with a shimmer of pride in his eyes.

It was pride in another, not himself. How could Eleanor have once thought him aloof and intimidating? As each day passed, he revealed another layer of himself: gallant suitor, ardent champion, tender fiancé—albeit a fake one—and now, the adoring brother.

Which raised the question…

"Why don't you live at the main house, Miss FitzRoy?" Eleanor asked. "You're a member of the family, after all."

The previous alarm in Miss FitzRoy's eyes turned to distress.

"Oh, forgive me!" Eleanor cried. "I meant no offense—have I said something wrong?"

Whitcombe let out a sigh. "No," he said. "You've merely voiced what social convention forbids the rest of us to say."

"Then I shouldn't have said it," Eleanor said.

"No—Eleanor," he replied. This time it was Miss FitzRoy's turn to look astonished at the familiar address. "A great deal that has not been said ought to be said. Olivia is my father's daughter—but not my mother's."

Miss FitzRoy blushed, then Eleanor caught his meaning and let out a cry of shame. "Oh, what was I thinking?"

"The same as the rest of us," Whitcombe said. "Olivia doesn't mind, do you, Olivia?"

The young woman shook her head. "Of course not."

Doubtless she didn't, given that she would have grown up surrounded by stigma and whispered words. The matriarch in the dower house might disapprove of Eleanor—but Eleanor couldn't begin to imagine what the dowager thought of Miss FitzRoy, a girl Society considered to have committed a heinous crime merely by being born.

"Shall we begin by introducing the children to Miss Howard?" Whitcombe suggested.

"Yes, of course," Miss FitzRoy said. "Children, this is Miss Howard. What do we say?"

"Good morning, Miss Howard," several voices said in unison. The boy at the back stood in silence, shuffling from foot to foot, casting only an occasional glance upward, as if wanting to satisfy his curiosity, but unwilling to be caught looking.

A feeling Eleanor was not unfamiliar with.

"Perhaps, children, you could tell Miss Howard your names?" Miss FitzRoy gestured to each child in turn, and they recited their names: William, Betsy, and Fanny—who, with their matching mops of unruly red hair, were clearly siblings—in the front row, then Peter, Lottie, and James in the row behind.

Miss FitzRoy gestured to the boy at the back.

"This is Joe," she said. "He's quieter than the others—but that means you listen better than the rest, don't you, Joe?"

The boy gave a curt nod, fixing his gaze on his shoes.

"You may sit now, children," Miss FitzRoy said.

"Might I make a request before they sit?" Eleanor asked.

"Please do."

Eleanor addressed the children. "Shall we see how quietly you can sit? Imagine there are pirates—or dragons—outside, and if they hear the chairs moving about, they'll come in."

"Children, can you do as Miss Howard says?" Miss FitzRoy asked.

"Oh, yes!" William, the boy in the front row, cried. And Eleanor placed her finger on her lips.

"Hush!" she whispered. "You must be quiet. Now—if you all do as I say, I'll draw a picture of a ship, which I'll give to whoever is the quietest pupil today."

This was met by a volley of whispers, which were silenced when Miss FitzRoy raised her hand. Then the children took their seats, taking care not to scrape their chairs. But Eleanor's attention was focused on the boy at the back, who continued to cast shy glances in her direction, curiosity in his intense blue eyes.

"Perhaps I should leave you to it," Whitcombe said.

"Don't you want to spend time with your sister?" Eleanor asked. "I'm sure she'd prefer you remain here."

Miss FitzRoy gave a shy smile as she opened a drawer and drew out several sheaves of paper.

"Very well," he said. "But you must let me make myself useful. Here—I'll hand these out."

The children stared, transfixed, as their duke and landlord moved among the desks, handing out pieces of paper.

Who was this man who had, at first, seemed like an otherworldly creature insurmountably far above her—but now was assisting in a classroom of his tenants' children?

"What shall we draw today, children?" Eleanor glanced about the classroom and spotted a cracked vase on the windowsill, filled with dried grasses. "Aha!" She picked up the vase and placed it on the front desk beside the pile of books. Then she glanced toward Whitcombe. "Your Grace—may I borrow your hat and gloves?"

He handed them over, and Eleanor added them to the arrangement.

"Must we draw all of that, Miss Howard?" the red-headed boy in the front row asked.

"No, William," she replied. "Draw as much, or as little, as you want. But first, you must look at your subject before you begin drawing."

"What do you mean—look?" William asked.

"Let me show you."

Eleanor glanced toward Whitcombe and his sister, who smiled and nodded encouragement. Then the lesson began.

*

The lesson wasless traumatic than Eleanor had feared. Miss FitzRoy managed the lively children with a kind, but firm hand, leaving Eleanor to demonstrate some simple sketching techniques—while aware of the silent, imposing man watching her from the corner. By the time she'd finished her demonstration, and the children began drawing, she was almost ready to admit that she was actually enjoying spending time in a room occupied by more than two people.

She settled herself at the front desk and began to sketch a ship—the prize for the quietest pupil.

Whitcombe approached. "That was well done. I've learned a great deal about drawing this morning."

"I'm no teacher," Eleanor replied. "Not like Miss FitzRoy."

"If I may be permitted to disagree," Miss FitzRoy said, "you've been able to instill your passion for drawing into seven young minds. I doubt any of them—save, perhaps, young Joe—would have taken notice of anything I said on the subject."

Eleanor glanced at the silent little boy at the back, hunched over his desk, concentrating on his work.

"Joe seems an extraordinary child," she said.

"He's Farmer Swift's youngest," Miss FitzRoy said, "but he's terribly shy, and rarely talks—his mother warned me that he doesn't speak at all to strangers. He cried so much the first time he came here. Sometimes I wonder if he's listening to anything I say, but he can read any book I give him, though he won't read aloud in class."

"Why does he sit on his own?" Eleanor asked.

"It's where he's happiest. I tried to sit the children together at first, but Joe was terribly distressed. At first I thought he didn't want to come to school at all. It took me a week to work out that he was only happy in that particular seat. He won't tell me why he prefers it, but I think it's because he likes to be set apart from the others. He doesn't like it if you're too close to him."

"And he doesn't like loud noises, either," Eleanor said.

Miss FitzRoy raised her brows, astonishment in her eyes. "How do you know that?"

"He looked almost in pain when the others scraped their chairs back," Eleanor said. "The noise set me on edge also—it almost made my teeth hurt. I've always detested loud noises."

She set her sketch aside, picked up the sheaf of papers, and circulated around the classroom. The children in the front row had all attempted to draw the vase, with William's attempt the closest likeness—by virtue, perhaps, of his being the eldest.

"Very good, William," she said. "Perhaps you could add some of the grasses to your vase—it seems a shame for it to be empty, doesn't it? And Betsy, you've done well to include the grasses, though some of them look as if they're floating in midair—you need to make sure the stems are drawn right up to the mouth of the vase."

After handing out a second piece of paper to Fanny, who insisted that she'd finished her drawing and wanted to start another, Eleanor moved to the second row, commenting on each child's artwork.

When she reached the back of the classroom, she approached the solitary little boy, taking care not to encroach on his space. She glanced at his handiwork and drew in a sharp breath.

The boy couldn't have been older than ten, yet he'd drawn a perfect likeness of the items on the desk, right down to the individual grasses and the crack in the vase, with its jagged edges that stretched halfway across the belly, then split into two.

"That's wonderful, Joe," Eleanor said, keeping her voice soft. "May I come closer, to take a proper look?"

The boy nodded, his attention fixed on his drawing. Eleanor approached, taking care to remain in the boy's eyeline. There was nothing worse than someone hovering in the background, out of sight. Eleanor had never liked the feeling of being watched—her mother had a habit of watching her, which elicited a sensation of discomfort, as if she could feel the disapproving and judgmental gaze burning into her skin.

She picked up a chair, placed it close to Joe's desk, and sat.

"Do you like drawing, Joe?"

The boy flicked his gaze up, narrowed his eyes, then looked down once more.

"Shall we play a game?" Eleanor suggested. "How about I ask questions and you draw your answers?"

She placed a second piece of paper on Joe's desk, then drew a smiling face at the top. "When I'm not in the mood for conversation, this is my way of saying that I like something. See? The smiling face means that drawing makes me happy. How about you, Joe?"

The boy reached over and scribbled something on the paper. Eleanor's heart lifted with joy—he'd drawn a smiling face and, beside it, the outline of a pencil.

"So you do like drawing," she said. "Do you draw at home?"

The boy shook his head. Then he drew a rectangle, followed by a diagonal line striking through it.

"Perhaps you could write your name, or just the letter J, at the bottom of your drawing of the vase—then we'll know who the artist is," Eleanor suggested. "Did you know that Stubbs, an artist who painted beautiful pictures of horses, wrote his name at the bottom of each of his paintings?"

The boy leaned over his drawing and wrote at the bottom.

"May I see?" Eleanor leaned over and smiled at the inscription.

Joseph Swift pinxit 25thAugust 1815.

An extraordinary child indeed.

Then he pointed to his name and held his pencil out to Eleanor.

"You want me to write my name?"

He nodded, and she scribbled her name at the bottom of her piece of paper.

Eleanor.

"Hello, Joe," she whispered. "I'd like to shake your hand—which is how we make new friends. But only if you want me to. Or is there another way you say hello to a new friend?"

He parted his lips, and for a moment, Eleanor held her breath. Would he speak? Then he closed his mouth and lifted his hand, curling it into a fist, save for his forefinger, which he extended toward Eleanor. She mirrored the gesture, holding her fingertip a hand's width from his.

Joe blinked and stared at her hand, then tipped his head sideways as if contemplating something. Then he moved his hand closer until their fingertips touched.

Eleanor's heart swelled at the gesture—the little boy's gift of trust.

"I never expected to make a new friend when I came here today," she said. "Miss FitzRoy tells me you live at a farm. Are there animals on your farm?"

The boy nodded, and his lips curled into a smile.

"Perhaps, while you're at home, you could draw me a picture of your favorite animal to show me when I next visit."

The smile disappeared.

She'd said the wrong thing again! Perhaps the poor child had no encouragement at home. Or was he forbidden from drawing?

Something she could relate to. Were it not for Papa, she wouldn't have been permitted to paint and draw as she preferred.

Footsteps approached, and Miss FitzRoy appeared at Eleanor's side. "That's a beautiful drawing, Joe. Do you think your mama would like it?"

The boy nodded.

"Are you sure?" Eleanor whispered.

"Oh yes," Miss FitzRoy said. "Joe's parents dote on him. They know he'd never be able to run the farm, poor little soul, so they want him to learn his letters. But he's good with the animals, aren't you, Joe? Your mama told me how clever you are at counting the eggs in the hen coop."

Eleanor glanced at the piece of paper on which the boy had drawn the rectangle with the line through it.

Of course!

He didn't draw at home because his family couldn't afford the paper.

"Would you like some paper to take home with you, Joe, if your mama permits it?" Eleanor asked.

The smile returned, and this time, the boy looked up and met her gaze. His eyes, a dark brown, held a curiously intense expression. With a smile, Eleanor placed several sheets of paper on Joe's desk, then returned to the front of the classroom with Miss FitzRoy.

"Now, children, I'd like you to hold up your pictures so we can all see them. Then, perhaps, our special guest"—she gestured toward Whitcombe—"can choose his favorite."

His eyes widened, and Eleanor stifled a giggle at the distress in his expression—a man with the world at his feet and the burden of a dukedom on his shoulders, terrified at having to test his skills in diplomacy by singling out one child over the rest without offending the others.

But, as the children held up their artwork, he was saved the trouble. The little girl in the front row let out a cry.

"Look at Joe's picture! His is the best, isn't it?"

Joe lowered his gaze, unsmiling, and seemed to cringe under the weight of all the attention.

"That settles it," Whitcombe said, relief in his voice.

A bell tolled in the distance three times.

"Gracious me, is that the time?" Miss FitzRoy said. "Children, tidy your desks—it's time to go. I'll see you Sunday after church."

The children leaped to their feet with the sound of scraping chairs, and Joe's eyes narrowed.

"What do we say to Miss Howard?" Miss FitzRoy asked.

Joe remained silent, but the other children said, "Thank you," in unison, then skipped out of the classroom, chattering loudly, leaving Joe standing beside his desk.

"Would you like to do some more drawing while we wait for your mama, Joe?" Miss FitzRoy asked.

Before the boy could resume his seat, a thin woman with graying hair peeking out from beneath her bonnet entered the classroom. She let out a cry as she caught sight of Whitcombe.

"Oh! Your Grace, I—"

"It's all right, Mrs. Swift," Miss FitzRoy said. "The duke brought a guest to help the children with their drawing. Joe—can you show your mama what you've been doing?"

The woman approached Joe, and Eleanor noticed how she walked around the classroom to approach him from the front, rather than from behind. "May I see, Joe, love?" she asked.

The boy pushed his drawing across the desk. His mother picked it up, her eyes shining with pride.

"Well done, love," she said quietly, her voice wavering with emotion. "Shall I put it on the kitchen wall, so we can all see it?"

Joe nodded.

She held out her hand. "Shall we go home now? There's a nice bit of stew waiting."

"Off you go, then, Joe," Miss FitzRoy said. "Thank you for working so hard."

The boy glanced toward Eleanor.

"Come along, love," his mother said.

Joe hesitated, then darted toward Eleanor. He collided with her and wrapped his arms around her waist.

"Joe!" his mother said. "I do beg your pardon, miss!"

"It's quite all right," Eleanor said, embracing the boy. "It's what friends do, isn't it, Joe?"

"This lady isn't a sheep, Joe."

"A sheep?" Eleanor asked.

"Begging yer pardon, miss! Joe likes to hug the animals. He started last year, and poor old Shep—my Jacob's collie—had such a fright when Joe tried to embrace him. He's taken to hugging the sheep to say goodnight to them—only his favorite sheep, mind, not the whole flock, or we'd be there all night, wouldn't we, Joe? Forgive him—he means no harm."

"There's nothing to forgive," Eleanor said. "You must be proud to have a son who's so kind and bright."

The woman's eyes glistened, and she nodded. "That I am," she said. "He tries his best around the farm, but he's always preferred to be alone with his books. Now, come along, Joe—we mustn't be taking up any more of this good lady's time."

She dipped a curtsey toward Eleanor, a deeper one to Whitcombe, then took the little boy's hand and led him out of the classroom.

"I think we can say that was a success," Miss FitzRoy said. "You did well with Joe, Miss Howard."

"I saw in him a kindred spirit," Eleanor said, staring out of the window, her gaze following the boy as he walked by his mother's side, one hand holding hers, the other clutching his precious pieces of paper.

"And you can add, to your many qualities, the distinction of being one of Joe's favorite sheep," Whitcombe said.

His eyes twinkled with mirth, and Eleanor's heart skittered in her chest.

"Will you be bringing Miss Howard again, Mont—I mean, Your Grace?" Miss FitzRoy asked.

"If she wishes," he replied. "We can come again after church on Sunday."

"Would you like that, Miss Howard?" Miss FitzRoy asked.

Eleanor nodded. "Yes—but on one condition."

Miss FitzRoy's smile faded. "Which is?"

"That you call me Eleanor—if I may be permitted to call you Olivia?"

"Of course!" Olivia replied. "That's very kind."

"In which case," Whitcombe said, "I must place an obligation on you also—Eleanor."

A little pulse of longing threaded through Eleanor's body at the way his tongue curled around the syllables of her name.

"A-an obligation?"

"Aye," he whispered. "You've failed to act in accordance with my wishes, despite my continued request. But, with Olivia as witness, I insist that you promise, from now on, to call me Montague."

Heavens!No woman could fail to fall utterly, irrevocably in love with him.

And, as Eleanor met his gaze—two sapphire pools into which she would willingly drown—she realized she had done just that.