Heart Appearances (Truly Yours Digital Editions Book 560) (3 page)

“Would you
pleeease
pass the Uncle Fred?”

Stunned silence met her startling request—followed by the boys’ raucous laughter. They collapsed over their plates, holding their sides as if they would burst.

“She wants to eat Uncle Fred!”

“Poor ole chap—wonder who he is?”

“Is she a cannibal too?”

“What’s a ‘cabinnal’?”

“Boys!” Charleigh stood and clinked her spoon against her glass, demanding attention. “If you can’t behave like proper gentlemen, then you may march to your rooms and do without supper. Is that understood?”

They quieted, a muffled snort escaping now and then. Straightening in their seats, they again focused on dinner.

“That’s better.” Charleigh sank to her chair and replaced her napkin on her lap. She threw an apologetic look to Darcy, whose color rivaled that of the beets in the serving dish.

“I–I’m a mite tired,” she mumbled. “Hit were a long journey. I’d loik to go to me room now.”

“Of course. I’ll have Irma send you up a tray.” Charleigh’s troubled gaze went to Brent. “Would you mind taking Darcy’s bag to her room?”

Remembering the previous and painful incident at the station when he’d tried to assist with her valise, he turned a wary look Darcy’s way. “If she’ll allow it.”

Darcy nodded, eyes downcast. “Hit’s at the bottom o’ the apples an’ pears.”

Brent stared, uncomprehending. “Apples and pears?”

“She means stairs,” Charleigh explained.

“Well, why don’t she just say so?” Joel demanded. “Is she loony?” His question led to more chortles from the boys.

“Joel, that’s enough!” Charleigh leveled a steady gaze at the culprit. “Darcy speaks Cockney, a rhyming slang I also grew up with. It’s popular in the East End of London. Uncle Fred is the term for bread. And as for your insolent remark, you may march to your room this minute, young man. In this house we don’t use spiteful words to hurt another person’s feelings.”

Joel glared at Charleigh, then Darcy, but obediently rose from the table and left. Darcy stood, tears making her huge eyes sparkle. “I really ought ter go lie down, Charleigh. No need sendin’ a tray. I hain’t as ’ungry as I thought.”

Charleigh’s expression was sympathetic. “Irma, if you’ll watch the boys, I’ll show Darcy to her room.”

Frowning, Brent secured Darcy’s bag and followed the women up the carpeted staircase. Life at Lyons’s Refuge had indeed undergone a drastic change. And he had a sneaking suspicion it wasn’t for the better.

❧

The next morning, a tap sounded on the door. “Darcy? May I come in?”

Darcy turned from brushing the tangles out of her thick dark hair. Morning sunlight streamed into the cozy attic room through the small, arched window, casting her in a golden pool of floating dust motes. “Aye—ye may.”

Charleigh opened the door and smiled. “Did you sleep well? Is the room to your liking?” She moved to the iron bedstead and sank to the mattress. “Oh dear. It’s dusty in here, isn’t it? I do apologize. I thought the cleaning had been taken care of. I’ll tend to it right away.”

“It weren’t bad. And I don’t mind tendin’ to me own room, to help any way I can.”

Darcy twisted her body around on the chair so she could get a better look at her friend. Charleigh seemed upset, distracted; maybe she regretted bringing Darcy to America. Especially after what happened last night. “Did you want ter talk with me?”

Charleigh clasped her hands around one crossed knee. “Yes, Darcy, I did. There’s really no easy way to say this, and I certainly don’t want to hurt your feelings, but. . . ” She trailed off.

Lifting her chin, Darcy prepared for the worst.

“After what happened at dinner last evening, I’ve come to the conclusion that certain measures must be taken in order for things to run smoothly here. Children can often be cruel without meaning to be. The boys at Lyons’s Refuge can be cruel on purpose. Many of them are hard, bitter—coming from situations that would melt the hardest of hearts.”

Darcy nodded. Having come from just such a situation, she understood completely.

“First and foremost, I want you to know that I love you as you are.” Charleigh smiled. “But in order to be understood—as well as to understand—I think it beneficial that you learn the proper way to talk here in America.”

Darcy wrinkled her brow, uncertain if she should feel slighted, hurt, or relieved. Her manner of speech had never been a problem, though at the reform she’d been forced to drop the popular Cockney phrases. Nervousness at being in a new place had probably led her to say them without thinking last night. Ever since she’d arrived in the States, she’d felt buffeted by the peculiar yet precise way these Americans spoke. Even Charleigh’s British accent was polished, like the high gloss of an apple—whereas Darcy’s was as rough as a potato just dug from the earth.

Charleigh leaned forward, covering Darcy’s hand with her own. “Darcy, if it was just me, I’d never suggest it. Yet, not only the boys, but also the whole town, will look at you askance. I’ve discovered that people often judge harshly what they don’t understand, and I don’t want you hurt. I want you to feel comfortable here. This is your home now.”

Darcy gave a slight nod.

Charleigh’s smile grew wide. “I’ll help you with manners and deportment, as well as correct you when you use slang and the wrong pronunciation of words. I’d also like you to further your education in reading and writing. There’s nothing wrong with increasing one’s head knowledge.”

At this, Darcy’s heart lightened. She’d always wanted to read books, dreamed of it, wished she could flip through the pages with ease as Charleigh had always done. But Darcy could barely stumble over a paragraph. The little time Charleigh ferreted from daily chores to teach her at the women’s reformatory hadn’t been enough.

“Are ye certain you’ll ’ave the time, Charleigh? Seems like an awful lot you’re tykin’ on, what with running the reform and tykin’ care o’ the boys.”

Charleigh rose and averted her eyes, smoothing the wrinkles from her skirt. “Actually, Brent would be much better qualified to teach you. I’ll suggest he tutor you for an hour every day once the children finish their lessons.”

Darcy drew a soft breath. Brent Thomas teach her? She didn’t think she could abide him looking down his nose at her day after day in confined quarters—and alone yet. True, he’d rescued her from total humiliation at dinner last night, but the blue eyes behind the spectacles had been full of pity. And Darcy wanted no man’s pity! Yet she did want to learn all she could about reading and writing.

“Can I tyke the class wi’ the others?” Darcy asked.

“After last night, I’m not sure that would be wise.”

“I’d like ter give it a try. And Charleigh—I don’t want to be a burden. Maybe Cook wouldn’t mind ’aving me ’elp? I learned to bake some hat the farm after ye left.”

“Yes—that would be splendid. I’m sure Irma would welcome any help. As to the other. . .” Charleigh pursed her lips in thought, then nodded once. “I’ll discuss your request with Brent and see what he says.”

❧

Brent stared at Charleigh, his forearms resting at either side of the open book on his desk. Certainly he hadn’t heard her correctly. It had been a long morning. Fatigue must be clouding his mind.

“Well, Brent? Will you do it?”

The screeching sound of chalk on slate made him wince. He looked across the room toward the offender, who was writing for the twenty-second time, “I will never again place bags of horse manure on wagon seats or any other vehicle. But I will leave the manure in the field where it belongs.”

“Tommy, you may go for now,” Brent said. “You can resume the one hundred sentences later this afternoon.”

“Thank you, Mr. Thomas.” Relief sweeping his features, the boy set down the chalk and limped from the room.

Brent turned his gaze to Charleigh, who stood in front of his desk. He adjusted his spectacles with thumb and forefinger. “Now let me see if I understand you correctly, Mrs. Lyons. You wish for me to train your friend in the rudiments of grammar, reading, and penmanship by allowing her to attend my class?”

Charleigh beamed. “Yes, that’s right.”

Brent held back a groan. “Judging from last night’s fiasco, are you certain that would be wise? Maintaining order in this classroom is often a delusion. Don’t you think bringing in a young woman—who obviously is far below the boys academically—would only create further problems at best? At worst, total chaos?”

“Darcy assures me that she would feel more comfortable in a classroom environment. All I ask is that we give this a try. If it doesn’t work, then of course we’ll arrange an alternative method.”

What alternative method Charleigh had in mind, Brent didn’t want to know; though he could hazard a guess.

Charleigh shifted her weight to her other foot. “Please, Brent. Darcy is special to me. She has been ever since I met her in a holding cell in London. From then on, every day with her endeared her to me all the more. I want to help her by seeing to it she receives the education she needs to coexist with the townspeople, as well as those here at the Refuge.”

Brent pondered her words, his hand reaching for a nearby fountain pen and repeatedly tapping first one end, then the other, on the desk. Charleigh’s husband had been there for Brent when he was fresh out of college, full of hopes and dreams. His brother’s criminal activities became known not two months after Brent graduated—a horrible shock to the entire family. Because of Bill’s folly, Brent was denied every position he applied for that summer. Only Stewart had entrusted him with his first teaching position—ironically at a boys’ reformatory. Only Stewart had shown faith in him when others had snubbed him.

Brent thought about Darcy at dinner last night. Something about the little wren twisted his heart, though he was loath to admit it. Would this one good deed be such a difficult task?

He let the air escape his lungs and set down the pen. “Very well, Mrs. Lyons. You may tell Miss Evans that I’ll expect her in my classroom tomorrow morning at eight.”

Charleigh gave him a brilliant smile. “Thank you! I’m certain you won’t regret it.”

Brent watched her hurry out the door as though afraid he might change his mind. A picture of the vivacious and impulsive Darcy Evans suddenly invaded his thoughts, and he closed his eyes.

Regret it? He already did.

❧

Ten minutes before class was to start, Darcy nervously tramped to the small, shingled building set off from the main house. Inside, desks sat in three neat rows. A huge chalkboard stood beside the schoolmaster’s desk, with a shelf of chunky books along the wall behind it. The only source of light came from a window near the teacher—and the few lamps bracketed to the board walls. In the corner, an ancient-looking potbellied stove gave off welcome heat.

“ ’Ello!” Darcy directed an uncertain smile at Brent. He looked up from his desk, gave a vague nod, then turned back to writing something in a thin book.

The smile slipped from her face. She may not be the queen, but didn’t she deserve some type of common courtesy? A hello in return? Or a polite “Good morning”?

“Whatcha doin’, Guv’ner? Today’s lesson?”

“No,” he muttered, his gaze never straying from the book.

When nothing else was offered, she sighed and scanned the desks. “Where ham I ta sit then?”

“Wherever you like,” he returned, his gaze still plastered to that book.

Blowing out her breath in a loud burst of frustration, Darcy plopped onto the nearest bench and tried to squeeze her legs underneath. The desk was much too low and settled on her skirt. Drawing her brows together, she swung her legs out to the right, then settled her elbows on the desk—but now her body was twisted sideways. This would never do!

“Guv’ner?”

He sighed. “What now?”

She crossed her arms on the desk and glared at him. “I don’t see ’ow I’m to learn to write good hif I ’ave to stoop like an ole woman to do it!”

“What?”

To her satisfaction, he raised his head, looking startled. He eyed the table where it hit below her waist. His brows gathered. “I’d forgotten about that. The desks were custom-made by one of the locals. He fashioned them for small boys.”

Her chin lifted. “Which I hain’t.”

“Which I’m not.”

Her brow creased in confusion. “What?”

“Which I’m not. If I’m to teach you proper grammar, we may as well begin now.”

“An’ what about the desk, Guv’ner?”

With a sigh, he slammed his book shut. “I suppose, until we find something more suitable, you’ll have to move up here with me.”

If he’d asked her to parade around the room in her bloomers, she couldn’t have been more shocked. “With you?”

He tilted his head. “Unless you have a better idea? My desk seems to be the only one that’s the right height. And, as you’ve pointed out, it’s important to maintain correct posture when learning penmanship. Take that chair in the corner. The boys should be along any minute.” He began moving stacks of books off one edge of his desk and onto the floor.

Darcy hesitated, then went to retrieve the chair. Noisily, she dragged it across the planks, set it in position, walked to the front of it, and plopped down again. “All right. Now what?”