Rexanne Becnel (6 page)

More importantly, though, was the fact that she couldn’t possibly be happy with a man possessed of such a reckless romantic history as Lord Farley.

Searching for a distraction from such thoughts, she turned to Helen who sat crowded up beside her in the open wicker vehicle. “Would you like to hold Leya on your lap?”

Helen’s unhappy little face lit up in a brilliant smile. “Oh, yes.”

From the front of the pony cart Izzy glared back at them. “Leya is my sister, not yours.”

Helen looked up at Phoebe with new tears in her eyes. “But she held Bruno, and without even asking.”

Phoebe smoothed the top of Helen’s golden head. “You know, it’s very hard to share the things we love. You love Bruno; Izzy loves Leya—You do love her, don’t you?” she asked Izzy.

The girl scowled and looked away, but after a moment she gave a reluctant nod. Phoebe couldn’t help smiling. What a momentous concession! Without thinking, her gaze sought Lord Farley, who stared down at Izzy in amazement. Then he raised his eyes to meet Phoebe’s and grinned, and again Phoebe felt that unsettling curl of heat deep in her belly. The situation was turning dangerous.

At once she focused back on Helen. “The point is, Leya will go home with Izzy, and Bruno will stay with us. If you wish to play with Leya today, you must allow Izzy to play with Bruno. And vice versa,” she added to Izzy. “Do you know what that means?”

An irritated Izzy slapped the reins to make the sturdy cart horse increase its pace. “It means the crybaby has to let me play with Bruno.” She gave Helen a smug look. “I hope Leya wets your dress.”

Phoebe sighed. It was a beginning. And at least Lord Farley had conceded the issue of Izzy’s name.

As they came up the last rise to Plummy Head she scanned the grounds surrounding her home, the place she’d lived her entire life. It looked as it always did, never changing save as dictated by the seasons.

But today she looked at it with a different eye, trying to see it as
he
might, and in the process, seeing all its shortcomings, just as her mother always had. The slate roof sagged on one side of the chimney; the exposed tails of the roof could bear a fresh coat of paint, as could the windows and doors. The narrow path up to the house was overgrown and rutted with water standing in puddles. The well house needed a new roof, and the lean-to barn was gray with age and had listed to the left ever since that fierce storm last August.

But the garden was neat and orderly, she told herself, as was the orchard. And the early roses beside the front door were greening up very nicely. In the near meadow, Posie and the other browsing goats lent a contented aura to her little farm.

The cottage on Plummy Head might be nothing when compared to the expanse and grandeur of Farley Park. But for all its shortcomings, it was snug and sturdy, the chimney drew well, and she had no reason to feel ashamed. Her mother might have been bitterly disappointed by her reduced circumstances, but Phoebe loved the place, peeling paint and all.

Bruno started barking when he spied his now familiar haunts, and he and Helen jumped down together once Phoebe took Leya. Izzy jumped down too, but Lord Farley caught her by one arm.

“Just a minute, young lady. It’s part of your responsibility as the driver of this conveyance to tend to your horse’s needs. Where may we water him?” he asked Phoebe.

“I’ve a pot tied to the well rope. A pot, because my bucket is still missing,” she added to Izzy. “I need it back.”

“Yes. What about that bucket?” the viscount asked. “And all the other things you’ve stolen from Miss Churchill?”

Izzy rolled her eyes. “They’re in the woods.” She gestured vaguely with one hand. “I don’t know ’xactly where.”

“You know where,” he accused the child.

“Yes. I’m sure she does,” Phoebe interjected. “In fact, why don’t you go fetch the bucket and the milking stool right now, Izzy, and later I might show you how to use them. I’m sure it won’t take you long, and while you’re gone I’ll make sweet milk and spread some plum jam on fresh bread. It should be ready for you just about the time you return.”

Leading the horse, Izzy sauntered to the well without answering. Lord Farley stared after her frowning, with his fists on his hips. “If you’re trying to bribe her with jam and bread, I don’t think it will work.”

“It’s obvious your threats haven’t proven successful with her. Perhaps my rewards will.”

He turned to study her. “Yes, but jam and bread? She had puff pastries with chocolate sauce for dessert last night. Why should bread and jam tempt her when she can have cake and other sweets as soon as she returns home?”

Phoebe gave him an irritated look. “Because you haven’t tasted
my
plum jam and bread.” Without warning she thrust Leya at him. “I believe your daughter needs her nappy changed.”

Phoebe could have groaned as she fled to the kitchen. What was she thinking, bragging about her plain cooking when he had a cook to prepare him whatever he desired? And then to hand the baby to him so waspishly? This was no cloddish farmer’s son for her to order about. This was Viscount Farley, the richest landowner in these parts. He was highly educated, a world traveler, and wealthy beyond her imagination. Born to every privilege the English aristocracy offered.

Who was she to treat him so familiarly?

It was only that he rattled her so, with his direct gaze and too casual garb. But that was still no excuse, and she knew it. Resolving not to let him affect her, she busied herself in the kitchen. First she stoked up the fire with two added logs, then she drew fresh goat’s milk from a jug she kept cool in the deep water basin. She cut four crusty slices of bread and toasted them as she warmed a small portion of jam.

But as she glanced out the window and saw Lord Farley holding Leya and talking to Helen, her confused emotions rose right back up to torment her. How could she be expected to treat him with the deference his title required if he insisted on acting like an ordinary man? One minute he was Mr. Shirt Sleeves, driving a simple pony cart and in desperate need of her help. The next moment he was Mr. Puff Pastry and Chocolate Sauce, too good for her fare.

Well, just see if he didn’t find her bread and jam as good as his snooty old desserts. And if he knew so much about what children wanted, why was he begging her help anyway?

And why are you so angry?
another, saner voice in her head demanded to know. The man might know nothing about raising children but at least he was willing to try. Helen’s father had never evinced
any
interest in his daughter.

Then again, did Helen’s father even know he had a child? Considering Louise and all the escapades she’d boasted of, she might not be certain
who
had sired Helen. Wasn’t that a sad and distasteful thought?

Beset by too many conflicting emotions, Phoebe resolved to just deal with the task before her, nothing else. So she pulled the toast back from the hearth and set the slices on a large platter. While they waited for Izzy to return, perhaps she should check on Leya before Lord Farley made a complete muddle of things.

She found him bent over Leya on the cart, struggling unsuccessfully to fasten a fresh nappy around the squealing baby. At least they were happy squeals. Helen sat perched beside Leya, dangling a knot of grass just above the baby’s head. Every time she tickled Leya’s nose the baby laughed out loud, and so did Helen.

So did Lord Farley.

The deep sound of his laughter rumbled all the way through Phoebe, rattling her nerves and making her stomach knot. It was almost like nausea, except different. Worse.

Suddenly Phoebe understood just how dangerous this man was. He acted like such an ordinary fellow. But in truth he was anything but. He might not put on airs; he might even lower himself in ways few other men would. But that only made him more attractive to her, and that’s why he was so dangerous. A simple country girl had no business becoming attracted to a wealthy lord like Viscount Farley. Only disappointment—or disaster—could come of it.

She wrapped her arms across her stomach, hugging her unsettled feelings inside her. She could not let his low laughter affect her, nor his handsome face and easy ways.

But knowing that did little to help her, for she continued to stand there watching as Lord Farley, with some assistance from Helen, finally managed to bundle Leya properly. He lifted the baby up, then after a pause, tossed her high over his head.

Phoebe gasped, but Leya squealed her delight. Helen clapped her hands and giggled uncontrollably. He did it again, laughing along with them, and a third time as well. He only stopped when he heard Izzy’s cry from across the yard.

“Don’t you hurt my sister!” The little girl charged past Phoebe, tossing the milk stool and bucket down as she ran by.

“But she liked it,” Helen said. “Now who’s the scaredy-cat?”

“Shut your bloody trap,” Izzy shouted, her chest heaving from her exertion.

“I didn’t mean to frighten you, Izzy. Here,” her father said. “You can hold Leya if you want. And if you like,” he added after Izzy took Leya from him, “I can toss you up in the air like that too.”

Izzy turned away without answering. That’s when he looked over and saw Phoebe. Once more he grinned at her. “So. Is your famous bread and jam ready?”

Phoebe tried not to smile back, but it was no use. Reason was not going to win out over emotion. “It’s ready,” she answered, feeling color flood into her cheeks. “It’s ready.”

James watched Izzy grab the goat’s udder, then snatch her hand back when the animal turned her head and let out a loud, plaintive bleat. Helen laughed, which drew a scowl from Izzy. But it also seemed to bolster the child’s resolve.

She might be a liar, a thief, and the most contrary being he’d ever encountered, but Clarissa Elizabeth Lindford was brave. Adversity seemed to strengthen her determination. If only she could harness that willpower of hers into a more positive direction.

“Not so hard, Izzy,” Phoebe instructed. “Bella is an old dear, and she likes to be handled gently.”

Like most females.
James turned his focus from Izzy to the woman kneeling in the straw beside her.

What was he to make of Phoebe Churchill—
Miss
Phoebe Churchill? Though she spoke with a Yorkshire lilt, there was something in her speech that gave the impression of a greater sophistication than he would expect from a country woman. But it was more than that.

He allowed himself to study her as he hadn’t before. As he
shouldn’t
do now. But he did it anyway. She dressed like a country woman, in sturdy wool and practical shoes. And her apron was ever-present, pinned at bodice and waist.

Had he ever seen his aristocratic mother wearing an apron? He laughed inwardly at the thought of Augusta, Lady Acton even owning such a common garment. His sister Olivia owned them, and employed them too. But then, for all her success in society, Olivia was perfectly content to be the wife of a Scottish baron, and more than willing to roll up her sleeves and go to work when necessary.

Even his youngest sister, the beautiful and obstinate Sarah, was not above getting her hands dirty—at least she would if her beloved Marsh was involved. No doubt his sisters would like Phoebe and her practical approach to life.

But there was a difference. His sisters might be less fastidious than his mother when it came to running their households, but they were that way by choice. They still had servants at their beck and call.

Judging by the simple cottage and outbuildings that comprised the Churchill home place, Phoebe didn’t have that sort of choice. Nor had she ever. She milked her goats, cooked her meals, and tended to all the other chores as well.

His gaze followed the line of her graceful neck, slipping down her slender back to the trim waist and flaring hips hidden by her plain twill skirt. She possessed little and seemed to expect little more. How might she respond to a bit of flattery, a few small gifts, the promise of a quarterly allowance, and perhaps a generous stipend for clothes and the other gewgaws women adored?

His breeches grew tight at the thought and he shifted uncomfortably from one foot to the other. What was he thinking? He could hardly make such a proposition to a respectable woman like her.

Assuming she
was
respectable.

Perhaps he should make a few discreet inquiries.

As if she sensed his thoughts were on her, she looked up and smiled. “She’s getting the hang of it.”

Fortunately she turned back to Izzy who was diligently shooting short streams of warm goat’s milk into a metal pot. But the vision of Phoebe’s uptilted face, and that lovely mouth curving in such an artless smile fired James’s imagination anew. Though she did nothing overt to entice him, this winsome country girl had nonetheless started an ache in his loins. He ought to banish it, but he could not.

Did she know what she was doing to him?

Unfortunately, he suspected she did not. It would be far better for him if she did. Mothering her niece and his girls might come naturally to her, but flirting with randy young lords did not. It had been wishful thinking to imagine otherwise. No matter how frustrated he felt and how appealing she looked, she was not that sort of woman. He didn’t have to make any inquiries to be certain of that.

It was up to him to get his base thoughts under control, and to remember what he
really
needed from this woman. If he really wanted to, he could find female companionship anywhere. But a good governess who could deal with a finicky baby and a belligerent ten-year-old? That was a damned sight more rare. He’d best consider what he needed most from Phoebe Churchill and not ruin matters just because his Prince Charming stood at attention every time she was near.

“I’m going outside. To check on the horse,” he added when Izzy’s gaze jerked up to him.

“Don’t you think Izzy’s doing well?” Phoebe asked, staring intently at him. “I think she has a natural talent for animal husbandry.”

“Ah…Yes. Yes, she does,” he agreed, only belatedly understanding her silent message. “You’re very good at milking,” he said to Izzy. “Very smart to catch on so swiftly.”

But the girl had turned away, her skinny back hunched as if to ward him off.

Damn, but he was a clod when it came to this fathering business. Thinking about sex when he should be thinking about his children. Too much thinking about sex—and engaging in it—was how he’d come to have three natural-born children in the first place. If he was to avoid having any more, he’d better keep himself focused on what was important. Phoebe Churchill would make the perfect governess. No more. No less.

“Can we come back tomorrow?” Izzy asked Phoebe a half hour later. The sun had begun its downward arc to the west and it was time for them to return to Farley Park.

James waited without speaking for Phoebe’s answer.

“I’m sure your father has better things to do than spend the day here,” she finally said when he didn’t respond to her pointed looks.

“No he doesn’t.” The girl didn’t even glance at him for confirmation. But James refused to become nettled by her presumption. It had taken only one short afternoon for him to determine that children were Phoebe’s weakness. When it came to coercing her to become their governess, Izzy and Leya were his trump cards.

“Besides,” Izzy went on. “You’re the only one who can keep Leya from crying all the time. She likes you better than she likes all those bitches—I mean witches—I mean grouchy old women at Farley Park.” She smiled impishly.

Helen giggled nervously at Izzy’s impertinence, but at Phoebe’s stern look the younger girl went quiet. James wished Izzy were half so easy to repress.

“If they’re grouchy, I suspect it’s because you’ve given them ample cause to be,” Phoebe said.

“But you’re not grouchy.”

James hid his grin behind a contrived cough.
She’s got you there, Miss Phoebe Churchill.

But Phoebe ignored the child’s last remark. “Leya was only unhappy because she had a stomachache. She’s going to be much more content now that she’ll be given goat’s milk instead of cow’s. You will make sure to check on that, won’t you, Izzy?”

“Oh, yes.” Izzy hugged the bladder of goat’s milk Phoebe was sending home with them. “Anyone who gives her cow’s milk will have me to answer to. But I still want us to come visit again tomorrow.”

Tenacious as a bulldog, James thought. He cleared his throat. “I have an idea. If you’re interested, Izzy, I could start your riding lessons tomorrow.”

The girl eyed him with cautious interest, but not nearly so much enthusiasm as she directed to Phoebe. He went on. “You’re old enough to learn how to ride, and perhaps we can come by here to get more of Miss Churchill’s goat’s milk. Would that be convenient?” He directed that last to Phoebe.

Under Lord Farley’s intent scrutiny Phoebe felt a spurt of confusing emotion. Unwonted pleasure; unwonted panic.

She knotted her hands beneath her apron. “Of course you may come. And I would be happy to provide all the goat’s milk Leya needs.” Then like a goose she just stood there, as gauche and awkward as he no doubt expected a simple dairymaid to be.

He nodded once, then turned away. What else did she expect? She would not let herself weave foolish fairy tales over a man like him when the proof of his indiscreet manner of living stood squarely in front of her.

She and Helen watched as he sat with Leya in the cart and let Izzy once more handle the horse. They waved when he waved, then silently watched as the cart and its passengers made their slow way along the seldom-used cart track up to the main road.

Helen leaned her head against Phoebe’s arm. “D’you think Himself will teach me how to drive a cart?” she asked. “And maybe, one day, how to ride a horse?”

Phoebe heard the wistful note in her niece’s voice, and wished she could banish it. This was Helen’s first real interaction with any man other than Martin and the Reverend Peggerson at the church. Martin was as simple as a child, though, and the vicar was as stern and intimidating as Helen’s grandmother had been.

Lord Farley, however, had been kind and gentle with his daughters. Phoebe had noticed; impossible for Helen not to notice too.

“Lord Farley is an important man and probably very busy, sweetheart.”

“Yes, but…maybe, if I ask very nicely.”

“Yes. I think maybe he might. Especially if you tried harder to be nice to Izzy.”

Helen wrinkled her nose, then gave a great, put-upon sigh. “All right, I’ll try. But she’s not very nice to me.”

“She seems to be getting better though. Don’t you think?”

After a long while the child nodded. “A little.”

The next morning dawned raw and cold, with an angry spring storm goading the sea into a frenzied thrashing against the cliffs below the house. For Phoebe the wet boom and crash was as familiar as a lullaby, more wind than rain.

Helen and Bruno stayed indoors while Phoebe tended the goats and chickens. There would be no laundry today. But that didn’t mean there would be no chores. Her winter firewood was nearly used up, which meant she would need a new load from Martin—which meant she would have a lot of sewing to do in exchange.

Perhaps today she could clean out the cupboards so at least that would be out of the way when she tackled the rest of the spring cleaning. And she could start a new batch of cheese.

So she gathered up the egg basket and the milk bucket, and ducking her head against the cold sting of the erratic rain, she hurried across the muddy yard and back to the house.

Inside all was snug and warm, and she and Helen passed the morning in quiet activity. Given the weather, she doubted they would have visitors, and as the day wore on, she became doubly sure.

After their midday meal Helen dozed in the big over-stuffed parlor chair, her book forgotten in her lap, while Phoebe turned her attention to the cheese. Rennet, ripening milk, cheese cloth. The pleasantly sour fragrance was like the crashing waves, part of the fabric of her life. Her mother had hated both, as had Louise. As for her father, it was hard to say, for he’d spoken so seldom, and then primarily for utilitarian purposes.

Would Helen grow to cherish the everyday sounds and smells of their simple life? Or would the child one day want to escape, like her mother before her?

Phoebe stirred a spoonful of sour milk into the fresh milk, then fastened a cheese cloth square around the top of the bowl to keep out any stray insects and dust. Outside, the rain had begun in earnest, tapping a lively pattern on the two glass windows, beating more dully on the shutters and door, and making a soft whooshing noise on the thick slate roof.

Phoebe smiled to herself as she wiped her hands, then cleaned off the sturdy kitchen table. Being alone in her own house was still a novelty, a stolen pleasure she reveled in.

Of course she wasn’t alone. The sleeping Helen had curled up in the chair near the hearth with Bruno squeezed in beside her. But her little-girl snores and those of the dog only added to the ambiance of the snug cottage. It was a spartan life with few luxuries, but it was safe and secure—or at least it would be, did the threat of their unpaid taxes not weigh so heavily upon her.

Thinking of those taxes led her to considering Lord Farley’s tempting offer of a paying position. She should say yes. Why was she so afraid to do so?

She just was. No logical reason, but there were lots of illogical ones. The manly figure he cut, especially upon his horse; his gorgeous eyes which seemed to see far beyond the surface of her skin; his sincere efforts on behalf of his children.

Phoebe muffled a groan. She refused to waste an afternoon daydreaming about a man like him: one she could not have and should not want. So she settled cross-legged on the floor in front of one of the cupboards and went to work.

She’d hardly begun when a sudden bang on the kitchen door jolted her alert. Before she could react, the door swung open, carrying in a gust of cold, wet air, and an equally cold, wet Izzy.

“We’re here!” the child cheerfully announced from beneath a red muffler and a dark green oversized rain hood.

Phoebe stood. “We?”

“He’s putting the horses in your goat shed,” the girl said, thrusting back her dripping hood.

That fast, Phoebe’s contentment fled. Lord Farley was here. Why on earth would he ride out on such a dreadful day to come to her simple abode? “Close the door, Izzy, before we all catch our death. Come, let’s get these wet things off you.”

“I see the baby’s taking her nap,” Izzy said with a smirk. “I can play with Bruno all by myself now.”

Phoebe took Izzy’s cape and shook the rain droplets from it, then hung it on a wall hook. “Two points, Izzy. As a visitor, first you knock. Then you wait for the door to be opened rather than bursting in as you did.”

“But it was raining and I was cold.”

“And second, you ask your hostess before you assume you may entertain yourself with any of her possessions.”

Izzy frowned at her and Phoebe braced herself for an outburst. But to her surprise, Izzy composed her face into a pleasant, if forced, expression. “Sorry.
May
I play with Bruno?”

“Yes. Of course you may. Go sit near the fire. Are your feet wet?”

“A little.”

“Then take off your shoes and set them on the hearth to dry.” She was busy situating Izzy when the second knock came. She froze, crouched before the hearth, when he knocked again and cracked the door open.

“Is anyone home?”

Phoebe drew back when he peered around through the opening. Goodness, she was dressed like a household drudge.