Follow the Heart (12 page)

With her pulse providing the tempo, Nora set her fingers to the fine ivory keys as Christopher, with Florie in his arms, showed the young girl how the dance began.

He glanced over his shoulder at Nora. “Let’s start slowly, shall we?”

She nodded, unable to speak under the force of his grin. She read through the first line of the music twice before she started playing, visually digging out the melody so she could concentrate on it.

Wincing at each misplayed note, Nora kept her attention pinioned to the page in front of her, not wanting to look over the top of the small cabinet piano and see the look of disappointment—or worse, disgust—on Christopher Dearing’s handsome face at her lack of accomplishment.

Not that it should matter. A man like Christopher would never deign to think of someone in Nora’s position. His background, his relations, made him too far above her station in life.

Slowly, she got a feel for the song and, though it sounded wooden and hollow to her own ears, she managed to play the main theme of the song through until she no longer had to concentrate so hard on reading the notes.

Now she could hear Christopher’s voice. “One, two, three. One, two, three. Ow. No. Step back with your left foot. One, two, three. Step back first, not forward.”

Though Nora did not dare take her eyes from the music, the friendly, encouraging tone of Christopher’s voice conveyed his patience and kindness. Nora’s fingers tripped over the next three notes, and embarrassment flamed in her cheeks.

“I just can’t get it,” Florie wailed. “But maybe—”

Nora jumped at a tap on her shoulder. She stopped playing and looked up, surprised to see Florie standing beside her. “If I watch you and Cousin Christopher dance, maybe I’ll be able to get the steps better.”

About to protest, Nora’s voice stuck in her throat when Christopher extended his hand toward her. “It can’t hurt.”

Trembling, Nora placed her hand in Christopher’s large, warm one and stood, joining him on the opposite side of the piano. Florie sat on the vacated bench and pulled the music off the stand so she could see over the top of the instrument to watch them.

Unlike Nora, Florie had mastered every musical instrument in the house by the age of twelve. And it had only taken her that long because her father had brought home a new instrument every time he went to London for several years, trying to see if he could stump her with one. She had finally turned her nose up at the large brass horn called a euphonium, and he had stopped.

Trepidation settled with a nauseating lump in the pit of Nora’s stomach as Christopher’s hand settled just below her shoulder blade. She ignored the temptation to wipe her hand down her skirt before placing it in his.

He was so very tall. Though not short, she still found herself at eye level with his cravat, admiring the silver filigree pin holding the folds of blue silk in place.

And his shoulder. She stifled a shudder. Through the smooth cotton shirt, she could feel the contours of his muscles in a way she’d never thought to experience.

Beautiful music drifted toward them from the piano, and Christopher’s hand tightened around hers. Nora tilted her head to look up into his eyes.

He moved, and she followed his lead, trusting him to lead her through the steps she hadn’t used in more than eight years.

As if she’d been born to do it, Nora danced—though she wasn’t certain her feet touched the floor. Strength, stability, and sensuality flowed through Christopher’s arms and hands into hers, creating a sense of comfort and belonging Nora never knew existed.

Forever. Eternity. A lifetime.

The music faded and the forever ended. Christopher stepped back and bowed. On unsteady legs, Nora curtsied.

At the piano, Florie applauded. “That was beautiful. I think I may have it now.”

Unable to meet Christopher’s eyes again, Nora replaced her charge at the piano, opened the music, and plunked out the melody.

“I don’t think we need the music, Miss Woodriff.” Florie took her place in Christopher’s arms—the place Nora selfishly wanted back. “If Cousin Christopher can keep the time . . .”

He nodded. “Ready? And . . . one, two, three. One, two, three.”

Florie sashayed around the room, waltzing as if she’d been doing it for years, never taking a single misstep, even when Christopher stopped counting out loud.

Nora found herself fascinated with Christopher’s feet. His well-shined black shoes slid across the wood floor like a leaf skimming the surface of a creek, with a lightness that belied his size and strength. Never before had she considered a man graceful, but that was the only apt description.

Eventually, Christopher ended the dance, bowing to Florie as he had done to Nora.

Florie flounced a curtsy with a giggle. “Thank you, Cousin Christopher.”

“My pleasure, Cousin Florie.” When he turned toward Nora, still seated at the piano, his amused grin slid into a more serious smile. “Miss Woodriff. Thank you for allowing me to assist you in Miss Florence’s tutelage.”

“Thank you, Mr. Dearing. I am sorry for interrupting your day with something so trivial.”

“Dancing is never trivial, especially for an accomplished young lady. Isn’t that so, Cousin?” He winked at Florie, who giggled and simpered at him.

Never before had Nora felt jealousy toward one of her charges—envy at the ease of their lives, certainly, but never outright jealousy. She must not allow these feelings to develop further. Not toward Florie, and most definitely not toward Mr. Dearing.

Christopher stretched his fingers, then balled them into fists. The raccoons still romped in his stomach, his head whirling with the rhythm of the waltz. How could someone he hardly knew affect him so?

Female voices faded as his cousin and her governess disappeared in the opposite direction. Christopher returned to the small room Sir Anthony had set up as a study for him. But after staring at the tome of English railway law without comprehending a word on the pages, he turned the wooden swivel chair until he faced the window.

Outside, rain fell thickly, obscuring everything beyond the low shrub that marked the border of the small garden outside this mainly unused wing of the house. The navy dress Miss Woodriff had been wearing made her eyes gleam golden in the pale gray light that had filtered into the music room through the tall mullioned windows. The center parting and smooth wings of her hair, pulled back into a plain knot at the back of her head, served only to emphasize her fine cheekbones and delicate features.

Turning back to the desk, he leaned his chin on his fist over the law book and allowed his mind to drift back, allowed Strauss’s lilting tune to fill his mind as the memory of taking Nora Woodriff into his arms and waltzing her around the music room made him sway slightly in his seat.

She was nothing like the debutantes and socialites his father and stepmother had pushed on him every time he’d been home from Yale. Thus her attraction. Unlike her young charge, she didn’t simper or smirk, flirt or flatter. Though shy, when she looked at him, she did so with wide-eyed innocence, not with eyes that tried to calculate his pecuniary worth.

But if the footmen were to be believed, perhaps the reason Miss Woodriff showed no artifice when she looked at Christopher was that she had her sights set higher—toward the master of the house. Though if that were the case, she’d had many years in which to try to secure him, with no outward results so far.

One thing he had learned in his short time here was that the life chosen by Miss Woodriff was one of isolation and loneliness. Not in the family’s social circle yet not one of the servants, she lived in a suite attached to the schoolroom, where she spent all of her time when not discharging her duties with Florie.

And when Florie went off to London for finishing school in a few months, Miss Woodriff would be without employment, without a place to call home.

The image of himself rescuing her from such a fate made him smile. He could be like the heroes of the bedtime stories his little sisters loved—swooping in to save Nora from a life of tedium and loneliness. He could marry her and take her back to America, where he would find work with one of the many railroad companies springing up all over the western part of Pennsylvania and into Ohio, make his fortune, and then return home, where she would become queen of Philadelphia society—for everyone would love her for her kindness and gentleness. Just like in the fairy stories.

Love. Was it possible to love someone he’d met not even a week ago? Clara, Ada, and Ella would say yes; however, Christopher knew his heart was not yet lost to the governess. He’d been around enough women in his life to realize the pull of attraction he felt toward Nora Woodriff was different from that caused by a beautiful face and lithe figure. Something more surged through the air between them whenever they were in the same room. He knew—or hoped, anyway—that she felt it too. It could be the beginnings of love, though he had never experienced the emotion outside of his family, so he couldn’t be certain.

It might help if he got to know her better. And he would begin by taking her up on her offer to come to Florie’s lessons to teach his cousin about America.

C
HAPTER
N
INE

T
he loamy incense of soil and growing things, along with the sweet and spicy aromas of flowers, fruits, and herbs, greeted Kate with a warm, moist embrace at the conservatory entrance. She breathed deeply and leaned back against the doorframe, letting her eyes drift shut.

Silently, she thanked God for the bustle and demands of preparing for a house party that would keep Edith and Dorcas busy all day, which meant freedom for Kate to do whatever she wanted. And what she wanted was to see the gardens. However, the rain still had not eased, so she’d come to the conservatory, hoping against reason that
he
might be here.

She pushed away from the jamb and strolled down the center of the conservatory, lifting her hand to run her fingers along the cool, smooth fronds of the overarching palms. She paused in the doorway between the conservatory and orangery and breathed deeply of the citrus-scented air. The precious orange and lemon trees, with their dark-green foliage and colorful fruits, almost made her forget the gray chill beyond the windows and glass ceiling of the large room. In a corner, several of the pineapples looked ready to be harvested. And a riot of jasmine and other flowers added their color and fragrance to the scene.

Kate’s spine tickled at a rustling noise. She turned, heart racing, breath caught in her chest, hoping to see Andrew coming toward her. Instead, she saw the gray-clad governess rising from the bench under a vine-covered arbor, a book closed over her index finger.

“Miss Woodriff, I do apologize. I did not mean to disturb you.”

“It is no disturbance, Miss Dearing.” She raised the hand holding the book. “I am simply reviewing this book to see if it is appropriate for Miss Florence.
The Biographical Memoir of Daniel Boone.
Mr. Dearing recommended it to me, and Sir Anthony was kind enough to send to London for it.”

Christopher was recommending books to the governess? Kate tried not to let her surprise show. “That was one of Christopher’s favorite books as a boy. There has been much debate in the twenty years since its release over the accuracy of some of the anecdotes related in it. But as a piece of folklore, it is unrivaled.”

Miss Woodriff looked relieved. “That is good to know. I found myself questioning the veracity—even the plausibility—of some of the stories. Miss Florie and I will discuss the difference between history and folklore once she reads this. We have many figures in England’s history around whom myth and reality have become so interwoven, it is difficult to discern truth from fantasy.” She motioned toward the bench. “Will you join me, Miss Dearing?”

Though Kate had come out here seeking someone else, the governess’s hopeful expression drew Kate toward her. “I would enjoy that.” She settled herself on the bench beside the governess, then cast about for something to say. “How long have you been at Wakesdown?”

“About five years. I came about six months before Miss Dorcas left for finishing school.” She sighed. “And in another few months, Florie will be off to school herself.”

“What will you do then?”

Nora gave a delicate shrug. “I am uncertain. I know Sir Anthony will give me a good reference. I think I may see if Mrs. Timperleigh can take me back at the seminary.”

“Mrs. Timperleigh?”

“She is the proprietress and headmistress of a seminary for young girls in Oxford. She takes only girls whose families cannot afford to send them to school elsewhere.
Deserving young women,
she calls them. It has grown into quite the concern in the fifteen years since she started it.” Nora smiled. “I was one of her first students, and then I taught there for almost two years before becoming governess here.”

“So you are from Oxford?” Kate found herself more at ease with this stranger than with her own cousins.

“No. Manchester. My father worked in the wool and cotton mills, but when he was injured and couldn’t pay rents, my parents sent us children out to find work. Since they did not want their daughters working in the factories, like my brothers, they sent us south. I came to Oxford seeking a position as a chambermaid or kitchen maid, though I was older than most girls looking to enter service. I finally gave up on trying to find work in one of the fine homes and started knocking on the doors of businesses. I eventually made my way to Mrs. Timperleigh’s school. She told me that she would give me room and board and a small wage and allow me to train as a maid, but only if I also agreed to become a student at the seminary. Six years later, I was teaching.”