Once Upon A Dream (7 page)

"Why could I not have married one of the respectable Thompson sisters?" Wulfric asked without turning his head.

Eleanor laughed. "Because Hazel was already married and I would not have had you even if you had asked," she said.

"That is very deflating to my self-esteem," he told her.

"That
even if you had asked
is a key point, Wulfric," she said. "Only Christine would do for you. Admit it. And it was because she is as she is."

Robert Benning, she was delighted see, was leading the younger, red-haired child with whom he had been playing in the nursery yesterday up the hill by the
hand. He was bent slightly toward him, like a parent protecting his chick. And, interestingly, another infant caught up to them up as Eleanor
watched—he was Jules, son of Gervase, the Earl of Rosthorn's son, Wulfric's nephew—and took Robert's other hand, no doubt seeing in him an
older boy who was a rock of stability. Georgette too was trudging up the hill with Lizzie and the girl's father and talking animatedly to both of them.

"Quite so," Wulfric said, watching as Christine caught a little girl at the bottom of the hill and swung her about in a high circle, laughing and whooping
up at her. The Countess of Rosthorn, the former Lady Morgan Bedwyn, Wulfric's youngest sibling, was doing much the same thing a short distance away with
young Miranda Bedwyn, Lord Rannulf's daughter. "You are looking…subdued, Eleanor."

Oh, gracious. Was she? But those unblinking silver eyes of his, so disconcerting to many people, did not miss much. He turned them upon her
now—appropriately enough, his eyes were like a wolf's.

"Because I am not risking life and limb by rolling down the hill?" she asked, laughing again.

He was not to be deterred, "What is troubling you?" he asked.

"Absolutely nothing at all," she said, "beyond a little weariness after a busy term."

All about them in the warm sunshine house guests of all ages were at play. Even those who were not laboring up the hill in order to tumble down it were
watching those who were and calling out comments and encouragement and laughing and whistling and applauding and, in a few cases, tending bumps and bruises
and soothing tears. But the Duke of Bewcastle's austere attention was focused fully upon his sister-in-law.

"You are not as happy," he said, "as you expected to be." It was not a question.

"Oh, I love my school," she protested, quite truthfully, "and I love my fellow teachers, every one of whom has both the skill and the enthusiasm and
understanding I expect of them. I love my girls, from the haughtiest and most obnoxious of the wealthy ones to the cattiest and most belligerent of the
charity cases. I love what I do. It
matters
."

"But?" He raised one eloquent eyebrow.

She sighed. "But—"

"Bewcastle," a strident voice said, and Lady Connaught sailed up beside them, dressed in all the splendor she might have worn on Bond Street in London or
on a drive in Hyde Park at the fashionable hour of the afternoon. Plumes nodded above the flower-trimmed brim of her large bonnet. Her daughter was with
her, dressed as though for a garden party in Richmond, her arm drawn through the Earl of Staunton's. "How delightful it is to see all the dear children
enjoying themselves, though I am surprised you would allow them to expose themselves to such danger. I am surprised too that the mothers of the girls would
allow them to behave more like ill-bred hoydens than the young ladies they must aspire to be when they grow older. I am surprised you did not send them
with their nurses somewhere not quite so close to the house. Their shrieks were audible as soon as we stepped out of doors."

Wulfric was suddenly all cool hauteur. His quizzing glass was in his hand and raised halfway to his eye.

"Are you surprised, ma'am?" he asked. "If there is indeed danger, it is slight and there are many doting parents on hand to deal with scraped knees and
bumped noses. In my experience, exuberant girls often grow up to be perfectly delightful and well-bred ladies. My sisters are a case in point, as is Her
Grace. And why, on a summer day, when the children are having a great deal of fun, should the pleasure of watching them and listening to them and even, in
some cases, of joining in their games be reserved for their nurses? It would not seem quite fair."

What was also not quite fair, Eleanor thought with the greatest satisfaction, was that no one could ever argue with Wulfric—except Christine. Lady
Connaught retreated into a dignified silence.

Eleanor's eyes met the Earl of Staunton's. She had recognized Miss Everly's name as soon as she had heard it yesterday, and Lady Connaught's too. The
impression she had gained at the inn during dinner that he was courting Miss Everly had been quite correct. She was exquisitely lovely, and she seemed to
be all sweetness and dimpled good nature. Eleanor had not warmed to her. There was something about her sweetness and something about her smile… Could
it be that she was just a little jealous, Eleanor had asked herself yesterday and asked herself again now. How very ridiculous of her. She felt more than
ever ashamed of that near-sleepless night while she relived a kiss that had not been a real kiss at all.

He looked back at her with expressionless eyes.

"Perhaps, ma'am," Wulfric was saying, "I may escort you back to the house and have tea and scones brought out onto the terrace. It will be quieter there. I
believe my mother-in-law plans to sit there in the shade with a few of my other guests."

But she did not avail herself of his offer. Instead she turned her attention upon Eleanor. "I would be obliged if Miss Thompson would take a walk along the
lakeshore with us," she said.

Eleanor looked at her in surprise. She had thought herself beneath the notice of such a grand lady. "Thank you. That would be pleasant," she lied.

"It must be very gratifying for you, Miss Thompson," Lady Connaught said as the four of them moved off, "that your sister succeeded in snaring England's
greatest matrimonial prize a few years ago. It is a feather in your cap to be able to boast of the Duke of Bewcastle as your brother-in-law."

"Indeed it is, ma'am," Eleanor said. "I am delighted to boast of both my brothers-in-law because they make my sisters as happy as my sisters make them."

"It must be a matter of regret to you," Lady Connaught said, "that you were unable to do as well for yourself. However, your loss is possibly our gain. You
own and manage a girls' school in Bath, I understand."

"I do indeed," Eleanor said and glanced at the earl. She had not told him that when they dined, only that she was a teacher. He smiled at her, and her
breath caught annoyingly in her throat.

Lady Connaught drew breath to say more, but they were interrupted by Georgette, who had come dashing from the bottom of the hill to hurl herself upon
Eleanor, just as she had done in the nursery yesterday. Her dress was strewn with assorted debris and streaked with grass stains. Her hair, still tied
precariously behind her head was nevertheless disheveled and liberally decorated with grass and twigs. There was a dirt streak and a slight scratch across
one of her cheeks. Her hands were dirty. Her eyes sparkled. And her mouth was, of course, in motion.

"Miss Thompson," she cried, "did you see? Did you, Papa? I just rolled down the hill for the sixth time. It looks ever so frightening from the top, but it
is the best fun ever. Lizzie has come with me three times though the first time her papa had to come too. You see? There is her mama hugging her and her
dog licking her hand. She is blind. Did you know that? But of course you did. You were with her yesterday. She is full of pluck, is she not? And
Robbie—have you seen Robbie? Have you, Papa? Look, he is getting ready to roll down again. It was positively
inspired
of the duchess to send
him to look after Tommy yesterday, was it not, for now he has a whole group of the very little ones thinking he is very grown up and wanting to be his
friends. He has hardly glanced at me all afternoon. Oh, here he comes. Does it not do your heart good, Papa?"

While she had been speaking, she had caught Eleanor's hand in one of hers and reached out to take her father's hand in her other. She was almost jumping up
and down between them now and laughing as Robert led his little band down the hill.

"It does indeed," the earl said. "I am very happy, Georgette, that you are both enjoying yourselves so much. I will be happier still when you recover your
manners from wherever you have put them and make your curtsy to Lady Connaught and Miss Everly."

"Oh." She bobbed a curtsy that encompassed them both.

"Dear Lady Georgette," Miss Everly murmured. Her arm had been somehow forced from her escort's.

"It is perhaps a good thing you have no mama at the moment, Georgette," Lady Connaught said, smiling graciously. "She would doubtless be ashamed to own
you."

All the light went out of the child, and her hold on Eleanor's hand slackened. "My mama would never
ever
have been ashamed of me," she said almost
in a whisper.

"That is because she would have trained you to behave like a proper lady," Miss Everly said sweetly. "And then she would have been proud of you."

"I—" Georgette began.

"I believe Lizzie is waiting for you, Georgette," the earl said. "Go and have fun with her and the other children."

The child looked from him to Eleanor, her light still dimmed, her eyes glistening with what might be tears. Eleanor smiled.

"I am envious, I must confess," she said. "The duchess, my sister, has the courage to come rolling down that long hill, but I am afraid I would stand
cowering at the top and then make some excuse to descend the sedate way along the wilderness path."

"I am proud that my daughter has more courage," the earl said, also smiling. "Off you go, Georgette. And try to leave at least some grass on the hill, will
you?"

She released their hands at last, after looking earnestly at them each in turn and went dashing off to rejoin her new friend.

"Miss Thompson," Lady Connaught said "perhaps you can understand why Lord Staunton is in desperate need of your services—if, that is, your school is
sufficiently strict with girls who are difficult."

The lady's interest in her was explained. Eleanor was the one who was to take the Earl of Staunton's precocious daughter off his hands so that Miss Everly
as his new wife would not be troubled by her. No doubt there were other plans forming for Robert's future. Oh, it was none of her business, Eleanor thought
as they moved onward. Except that she was being drawn into the scheme, which might just possibly be the best option for Georgette anyway if her father
really did marry Miss Everly. Oh, was he
mad
?

"I would not describe Georgette as difficult, ma'am," the Earl of Staunton said, "only as having a greater than usual exuberance of spirit and an
insatiable curiosity about the world around her."

"Almost all girls are difficult," Eleanor said, drawing his reproachful glance her way. "Growing up is difficult. At my school I always find myself more
concerned about the girls who are
not
difficult. I try to discover what is wrong with them. As for strictness, well, it is a word that can be
defined many ways. We do try, my teachers and I, to keep harsh punishments to a minimum, experience having taught us that they do not often have any
permanent effect for the good. On the other hand, for our own peace of mind and for the wellbeing of our girls, we cannot allow anarchy.
Teaching
is difficult and perhaps one of the most enjoyable and rewarding of careers."

The walk did not last long. Neither Lady Connaught nor her daughter seemed to find her worth knowing after all, Eleanor thought with some
amusement—or with what would have been amusement if she had not been feeling half sick with apprehension for those poor children.

And if she had not wanted to shake their papa until his teeth rattled.

For his children's sake he was glad he had come, Michael decided after the first week of the house party. They were having the time of their lives.
Georgette had become firm friends with Lizzie and Becky, Lord Aidan Bedwyn's adopted daughter, and a few of the other older girls. And she was free to
pursue those friendships and be a carefree child of ten, for Robert did not need her constant protection. Oh, he still ran for cover if any adult or older
child showed signs of singling him out for attention, but he had gathered about him a small circle of younger children who looked upon him as a leader, and
he frolicked all day long with them. Sometimes, though, he needed an adult to observe some feat he was about to perform—floating on the lake without
anyone holding him, for example—or to look at something he had found—a ladybird cupped in his palms, perhaps—and then he called out to
Miss Thompson as well as to his papa. Once, when everyone was returning from a picnic after a few hours of vigorous play at the far side of the lake and he
was tired, Robert took her hand almost absently, it seemed, and walked all the way back to the house with her, just as he might have done with his mother,
had she lived.

Michael might have been enjoying the house party with unalloyed pleasure on his own account too if it were not for one fact. The house was comfortable, the
park surrounding it spacious, the weather perfect, the company congenial, the activities varied. He had always considered the Bedwyns to be a haughty
family, aloof and formidable, even cold. But when thrown into their company as he had been during the past week, he had discovered their more human side
and actually liked them. They had forceful personalities and boundless energy, but they all, with the possible exception of Bewcastle himself, had a strong
sense of fun too. They all appeared to have contracted happy marriages and adored their children and one another's—and the children of all the other
guests too. And even Bewcastle, Michael was interested to discover, was deeply involved in a love match with his unlikely duchess and gazed upon their
children in unguarded moments with a certain light in his silver eyes that proclaimed his love for them.