Lily George (8 page)

Lucy opened her mouth to protest, but Mr. Felton cut her off with a quick wink of his eye. Then he strode off, whistling gaily.

She steeled herself and assumed control of the situation. ’Twould serve no purpose if she melted into a puddle before the ensign, with her charge watching in infatuated interest.

“Ensign Rowland, may I present the Honorable Louisa Bradbury? Louisa is my youngest charge. Louisa, this is Ensign Rowland, a friend of Lieutenant Cantrill’s.”

Sudden interest gleamed in Louisa’s brown eyes, but she was too well bred to say anything. And for that, Lucy said a small, silent prayer of thanks.

Ensign Rowland bowed dutifully toward them both, the stubborn lock of hair on his forehead falling forward as he did so. Lucy’s hand itched to smooth it back, but she suppressed the urge. He stole a glance at Lucy, a searching glance that left her knees weak and trembling. What was he thinking? Would he speak to them at all?

“M-Miss Williams,” he finally said in that rusty, cracked voice that never failed to cause her heart to lurch. “M-Miss Louisa.” He took Lucy’s arm and led her toward the door, Louisa still clinging to her hand. “Forgive our intrusion, b-but we have work we must do.”

“Of course,” Lucy replied in a businesslike tone. “We were planning to leave anyway. Thank you, Ensign.”

“Ensign Rowland,” Louisa piped up, a wheedling expression on her young face, “we were just going to Molland’s for something to eat. Would you like to join us?”

Lucy shot her a look that would have wilted grass, but Louisa smiled serenely.

“N-no thank you, M-Miss,” Rowland replied, his tone surprised but still polite. “I—I m-must get to work. B-but I thank you for the offer.”

“Of course, Ensign Rowland. But I hope you shall join Lucy and me for tea some day,” Louisa persisted. “We should love to have you.”

Rowland bowed once more. Was he actually blushing? Lucy would have to give Louisa a talking-to once they finally left. Molland’s was definitely out. Louisa had lost the privilege after pushing matters too far. With a final curtsy to the ensign, Lucy hustled her charge out the door and into the street as though hounds nipped at their heels.

Chapter Eight

“D
on’t be angry with me, Lucy. I was only trying to help,” Louisa wailed as they bustled along the sidewalk. “I don’t see how I did anything wrong. I was terribly polite. And you never mentioned that the ensign was working. Why didn’t you say anything about that?”

Lucy halted abruptly, her skirts swirling about her ankles. How on earth could she explain? “Because it’s none of our affair. None whatsoever.”

Louisa looked up at her with a searching glance. “Why are you so angry? It’s not like you to take on about anything in this fashion. Has something happened?”

Lucy gave a deep, shuddering sigh. It wasn’t proper to confide in one’s fourteen-year-old charge. She should keep her argument with the ensign absolutely quiet. Confiding in Sophie was one thing. Sophie was a dear friend. But she must keep some distance between Louisa and herself for propriety’s sake. “Nothing happened. I knew that the ensign had started working for Mr. Felton. It surprised me to see him at the Assembly Rooms. That is all. I suppose I let my surprise show too much.”

Louisa’s eyebrows drew together skeptically. “You seemed a bit more than surprised. You seemed distracted.”

“Well, that’s really neither here nor there,” Lucy replied crisply. She must divert Louisa. “I’ve changed my mind. I’m in need of refreshment and a rest. We shall go to Molland’s after all.” She took her charge’s arm and steered her back down the street.

They walked in silence for a bit. The breeze ruffled Lucy’s bonnet strings. Ah, how peaceful. The matter was all settled. That was easier than she had anticipated. And then—

“I didn’t think the ensign’s speech was that bad, Lucy.” Louisa glanced up from under her bonnet brim. “Does he always manage so well?”

“Not always.” Goodness, would the child ever let the matter drop? Couldn’t she find some way to change the direction of her runaway thoughts? This was becoming interminable. “I suppose he speaks more fluently in some situations than others.”

“Well, when you see him at the veterans’ meeting next week, you can tell him that Dr. Phillips wants to see him,” Louisa replied in a confident tone. “If he were cured of his speech defect, I am sure he’d go even further in life than he already has.”

“Well, I shan’t be seeing him for the time being. He’s busy working with Mr. Felton and has no time for our meetings or for seeing Dr. Phillips. So you see, Louisa? Our offer to help, though kindly made, is not really necessary for Ensign Rowland.” Time to put an end to this. Louisa was far too interested in the whole matter. Lucy rued the day she’d ever brought that medical text into her room. She should have hidden the book better, somewhere safe from her charge’s prying eyes.

But no, she’d rushed and hurried and Louisa had found the text anyway. Now she’d have a time of it, trying to dissuade Louisa from continuing her interest in the matter. She glanced over her Louisa, who was pursing her lips in a pout.

“So...no more meetings? He won’t need your help? And I can’t help either? That’s terrible.” Louisa heaved a gusty sigh.

“Why no, Louisa, it’s wonderful.” Lucy injected a brisk, cheerful tone into her voice. “The ensign is going to find his own way in the world. And his speech impediment is no longer an obstacle. We should thank the Lord that He has been so good to the ensign.” She gave Louisa’s hand a quick squeeze. “Come now, let’s speak of this no more. I see Molland’s up ahead. Shall we completely spoil our lunch and partake of their famous marzipan?”

Louisa gave a brief smile, turning her attention toward Molland’s, with its pretty window boxes of flowers giving a bright splash of color against the dun-colored stone façade. “Yes, let’s.” But even as her charge seemed absorbed in luncheon preparations, something about her expression made Lucy uneasy. She had the distinct impression that Louisa hadn’t relinquished her interest in the ensign.

’Twas going to be a very long Season if that were indeed the case.

* * *

Rowland put the finishing touches onto a piece of mahogany he had carved. ’Twas to be a leg for a chair. Beneath his fingertips, the reddish-brown wood was as smooth as a satin ribbon. As he worked, curling a bit of the wood back from his knife blade, his thoughts wandered. His mind had been straying ever since he ran into Lucy a few days ago. There were so many things he had wanted to say to her, but he didn’t have the nerve. Not in front of the Honorable Miss Louisa Bradbury, at any rate.

What would he have said, if Lucy had been alone? He flicked a scrap of wood off his blade and continued slowly carving, the scratching sound echoing through his workroom.

Well, he would have apologized for behaving like such a boor, first of all. He would have told her that her friendship still meant the world to him. What an idiot he’d been, throwing a temper tantrum like a five-year-old when all she did was try to help. His behavior must have seemed ridiculously overblown to someone like Lucy. She seemed so steady, so immovable. It wasn’t her fault, of course. He just could never shake the feeling that, in some ways, his speech impediment was his cross to bear. It was his punishment—a lasting legacy of his cowardice on the battlefield.

How could a fellow say anything like that to anyone? He had a hard enough time speaking of it to his brothers in arms. But how could he admit to a pretty little slip of a governess the horror of men dying all around him? She would be aghast. And, knowing of his cowardice compared to the bravery of his dying comrades, she’d never speak to him again in all likelihood. A soldier was supposed to be stoic. And he most certainly wasn’t. Youth and inexperience had nothing to do with it. He was simply, at heart, less than a man.

He finished the carving and turned it around in the late afternoon sunlight that streamed through the window. Not bad. Not bad at all. He really liked making furniture and cabinets. It was altogether unlike the soldier’s life. With woodworking, it was so easy to see your progress. Even the smells of the workshop and the soothing feeling of the wood beneath his fingertips—why, everything about his new job was restful, cathartic even.

“Looks splendid.” Felton paused in the doorway, bracing his shoulder against the door jamb. “That’s going to make a fine parlor chair. I’ll have to watch myself. In no time, you’ll leave me and go into trade for yourself.”

Rowland grinned and gave his head a rueful shake. “N-no one will hire a c-cripple,” he jested.

“Ah, I don’t agree. Not at all. In fact, I had a message this morning from Lord Bradbury.” He unfolded a piece of foolscap with a flourish. “His lordship has a townhome in the Crescent and his library is in rather shabby shape. He has requested a complete rebuilding of the library from the shelves to the desks and chairs. He has specifically asked for my recommendation. And I think you are just the man for the job.”

Lord Bradbury? That was Lucy’s employer. Surely she hadn’t put him up to this. A governess would have very little sway over such a matter—wouldn’t she? Even so, this was all rather curious. “Why not you, F-Felton?”

“A few reasons. First, I am far too busy overseeing the operations of this business to be at his lordship’s beck and call. I’d much rather put you on the job, collect my part of the fee and continue going about my own business. And, to be honest, this is a reputation-making job. If his lordship likes your work, then he’ll make sure to tell others in the
ton
about it. And you’ll have commission after commission soon enough.” He shrugged, folding up the foolscap. “I’ve already built my reputation. That’s why his lordship sought out our shop. I don’t need any further laurels.”

“B-but I’ve only been here for a fortnight,” Rowland protested. Was this charity? He would never accept charity, no matter how kindly it was meant.

“Oh, stop scowling, lad. You’re the one person I know who would take a sure thing like this commission and then argue about it. His lordship asked me to put the right man on the job. I’ve been in this business long enough to know what makes or breaks a good carpenter. You’re good at it. And with a challenging commission like this, you could be great.” He pointed the folded-up scrap of foolscap at Rowland, lecturing him like a schoolmaster. “Prove to me that you can do this, Rowland. I think you can—but I want to make sure my instincts haven’t become too aged.”

Rowland squared his jaw. Felton had hired him without knowing whether or not Rowland could even speak, much less whittle a matchstick. He owed Felton a great deal. He could repay the favor by doing an incredible job for his lordship, no matter what it took. “When d-do I go to see his lordship?”

“I sent a message ’round this morning. Told him to expect you after luncheon.” Felton grinned. “His lordship’s a good sort for
ton
folk. Rich as Croesus but sensible for all that. He has a fine townhome in the Crescent.”

Yes, Rowland knew that townhome. His mind flashed back to the day he walked Lucy home. Would she be there this afternoon? Would he have a chance to see her—just to catch a glimpse of her?

After luncheon, he took a hackney up to the Crescent, a box of pencils, foolscap and measuring devices tucked under his arm. As he approached his lordship’s palatial townhome, he cast his glance at the upstairs windows, but Lucy wasn’t there. At least, she wasn’t looking outside the windows as he approached.

She was probably busy with her charges and might not even know he was there. He didn’t know whether to be disappointed or grateful.

The butler showed him into the library, which was surprisingly shabby. Rowland walked over to the rows of shelves that stretched from the floor to the ceiling. He smoothed one of them with his fingertips. It wobbled slightly under his touch, and his forefinger, when he pulled it back, was streaked with dust. How very odd that such an immaculate home should have a library in such disrepair.

He turned as the door opened, admitting his lordship and a young lady he recognized as Louisa, Lucy’s charge.

“Ah, Rowland,” his lordship said in a hearty tone of voice. “So glad to meet you. Felton speaks highly of your talents. Hoping you can make something of all this.” He waved his hand around the room with a listless gesture.

Rowland’s nerves seized hold of him, and his throat worked mightily. “O-o-of c-c-c-ourse,” he finally managed, his cheeks burning with shame. Why did he have to lose his power of speech now in front of his lordship? ’Twas wretchedly humiliating, especially when he was striving to appear professional.

Louisa stepped forward, tugging her papa’s arm. “Papa neglected this room shamefully for years, because it was my mama’s favorite room—”

“Louisa,” her father broke in sternly. “Mr. Rowland does not care about the circumstances of this library’s decline.”

“But we need to tell him what we want done. He will understand better if he knows why. Mama is why I think we should redo everything,” Louisa responded, turning to face her father. “We’ll make it a new room, one that won’t remind you so sharply of her. That’s all I wanted to tell Mr. Rowland. That we want to have everything done—chairs, tables and all the shelves.”

“S-s-s-so Mr. F-F-Felton told me,” Rowland broke in. He didn’t want to stand there helpless as father and daughter relived their grief. ’Twas a private affair and none of his business.

“Yes, so, Rowland, a complete overhaul, I think. New furniture, new shelves. I rather like those bookcases with glass fronts on them. Do you think you could fit us out in something like that?”

Rowland nodded. ’Twould be easy enough to do and would look quite sharp. He pulled out his box of tools and set about measuring as father and daughter continued to natter on about the details.

“Well, darling, you shall have your new library. But I confess, I can’t attend to the details,” Lord Bradbury was saying. “You know how Amelia’s debut is consuming all of our time.”

“Then I shall oversee it, Papa. I’ll get Lucy to help me.”

Rowland paused his measuring, keeping his face turned toward the bookshelf. Lucy Williams? Was she really going to help in this project? If so, ’twould be impossible to avoid her. Again—was that good or bad?

“Ah, splendid thinking. But I must say, I will put Miss Williams in charge of the project, and you may help her.” At Louisa’s good-natured groan, her father gave a short bark of laughter. “If you have your way, everything will be upholstered in ermine and studded with diamonds,” he teased. “Miss Williams is quite organized and has good sense. Go and fetch her, Louisa. We’ll talk about the matter now, while Rowland is here.”

A scuffling of slippers and the door banging shut announced Louisa’s departure. Rowland schooled his features to an outward semblance of calm as he continued measuring the shelves and walls of the library. His hands shook, and he had to redo one set of measurements three times until they finally made sense. But surely his lordship, who kept up a stream of polite chatter, did not notice.

The door to the library swung open again, and Louisa entered the room with Lucy.

His heart leaped in his chest as he turned around to bow to her, but he was determined to remain aloof and professional. He’d made such a fool of himself over and over again that he must have at least one meeting with Lucy that did not end in disaster. So he would force himself to remain calm and practical no matter what happened.

For her part, Lucy appeared a little pale, but that could be anything. Surely it wasn’t his presence causing her pallor.

“Ah, Miss Williams,” Lord Bradbury said, nodding to her as she entered the room. “We’re going to completely redo this library. Floor to ceiling. Furniture to shelves. It’s a project dear to Louisa’s heart—” he paused to pat his daughter’s curly brown hair “—but I want you to oversee it with a practical eye. You’ll work with Rowland, here. He’s a carpenter in Felton’s shop, and I’m giving him free rein.”

“They already know each other, Papa,” Louisa hissed. Lucy fixed her charge with a glare that would curdle milk.

Rowland couldn’t suppress a grin at Louisa’s cheekiness. “Y-yes we d-do. Miss Williams.” He gave her a brief bow, allowing his amusement to shine through his eyes.

She raised her chin and curtsied but did not smile. “Ensign Rowland.”