Sheri Cobb South (12 page)

“Yes, Ned?” Margaret asked in a voice that brooked no nonsense. “What do you want?”

He looked her up and down insolently, then wiped his mouth on his sleeve and heaved himself to his feet. He took three slow steps in her direction, stopping just a bit closer to her than courtesy allowed. “I want paying. Pa says you’re three weeks late already.”

Margaret would not demean herself by attempting to deny it. “Yes, I spoke to your father about that a fortnight ago. He agreed to accept payment, with appropriate interest, after the next quarter day.”

“I s’pose when you’re a fine lady in a big house, you thinks you can pay whenever you please,” Ned sneered. “I’ll wager you’re not so easy-like when it’s your tenants what owes
you
money.”

Margaret stiffened, but before she could deliver a suitably crushing rejoinder, she felt a movement at her shoulder.

“You will apologize to the lady at once,” commanded a voice so haughty and cold she hardly recognized it as the tutor’s.

“I meant no offense, I’m sure,” mumbled Ned, dropping his gaze. “All I want is what’s rightfully mine.”

“And so you shall have it,” declared James, withdrawing a knitted coin purse from the breast pocket of his coat. “Tell me, how much does Miss Darrington owe?”

Margaret made a faint noise of protest, but James, emptying most of the contents of his coin purse into Ned’s large and grimy hand, took no notice.

“Take it and leave this house at once,” he ordered the collier’s son. “You may assure your father that, since Miss Darrington is such a poor credit risk, she will do your family a singular service and, in future, purchase her coal elsewhere.”

“I’m sure I never meant—” Ned began, but something in the tutor’s expression made him think better of whatever he was about to say. With much bowing and scraping, and many assurances that there were no hard feelings, he took himself off.

James followed him as far as the door, closed it firmly behind him, and turned back into the kitchen to find Margaret staring at him in disbelieving wonder.

“Miss Darrington?”

“Mr. Fanshawe!” Margaret found her voice, only to lose it again. “You—You—How did you
do
that?”

He grinned sheepishly. “It’s not so very difficult, really. One cannot hope to pound Latin into the heads of unwilling schoolboys without developing a certain air of authority.”

“Yes, I daresay, but—you should not have paid him, and out of your own wages, at that. Really, Mr. Fanshawe, you should not have done so.”

“I beg your pardon if I have overstepped, but it appeared to me to be the only way to be rid of the fellow. I speak from experience; I confess to having owed my share of delinquent bills.”

“But what, pray, are you to live on?”

“You may repay me next quarter day with—what was it?—appropriate interest. Until then, my needs are modest, and from what I have seen, the shops of Montford offer little to tempt a man to extravagance. I assure you, Miss Darrington, I shall contrive.”

Although this last was accompanied by a show of dimples, Margaret had the distinct impression that argument would be futile and probably undignified as well. After extracting a promise that he would come to her at once if he should unexpectedly find himself in need of funds (although precisely what she might do in this eventuality she was not quite certain), she allowed the issue to drop, and suggested that they rejoin the others before Aunt Hattie shredded her apron to ribbons. Halfway up the stairs, however, another aspect of the matter occurred to her. She turned back to address the tutor, and found herself nose-to-nose with him.

“Oh, Mr. Fanshawe,” she began, acutely aware of his unusual height and their unexpectedly close proximity. “I should not wish to appear ungrateful for your efforts on my behalf—in fact, nothing could be further from the truth!— but purely for your own information, I feel I must inform you—”

“Yes, Miss Darrington?” he prompted when her voice faltered.

“You should be aware that there is no one else in Montford from whom one may purchase coal.”

“Oh,” said James, nonplussed.

“A minor flaw in an otherwise brilliant performance,” she assured him.

He grinned down at her. “Never fear, Miss Darrington. I shall chop wood for the fires myself before I would allow you to be bullied by such as Ned.”

Upon hearing this declaration, Margaret became aware of a faint fluttering sensation somewhere deep inside. Her fears, however (and fears there certainly were, along with some other, less readily identifiable emotion) were not for anything Ned Collier might choose to do. Instead, she feared anew for her sister’s sake. In the years since her father’s death, Margaret had forgotten—or perhaps she had never fully known—how very pleasant it was to have a man about the house upon whom one could depend. She had been aware from the time she had encountered him bloody and beaten upon the road that Mr. Fanshawe possessed a certain self-deprecating charm; as his bruises had healed, it had been further impressed upon her that he was also the possessor of a countenance which, if not precisely handsome in the classical sense, was undeniably pleasing to look upon. Until he had routed the boorish Ned, however, it had not occurred to her that the tutor she had engaged for her brother embodied, in every particular but that of economics, all any woman might wish for in a husband. Surely it would require more strength of character than her sister possessed to resist such a paragon.

“I—I believe you wanted to speak with me, Mr. Fanshawe?” she stammered, unaccountably tongue-tied.

He shook his head. “I seem to have—forgotten—what I intended to say.”

“I daresay Ned drove it from your mind.”

He did not deny this suggestion, although nothing could have been further from the truth. In fact, it was precisely because of Ned that he could not say what he had intended. Miss Darrington was undoubtedly embarrassed at having her straitened circumstances called to his attention; he would not add to her humiliation by informing her that she now stood indebted to the duke of Montford. No, his confession would have to wait until another day.

* * * *

Alas, the days that followed offered no better opportunity for confession. All of the morning and much of the afternoon were taken up with Philip’s lessons, which, duke or no, James had been engaged to teach. It was true that he dined with the family in the evening, but making such an announcement at the dinner table hardly seemed appropriate. He might, of course, have revealed himself to Miss Amanda while at the same time laying his coronet, figuratively speaking, at her feet. But while this prospect held a certain romantic appeal, James could not feel entirely comfortable with it. No, it was Miss Margaret Darrington who had engaged his services, and it was to her that he must make his confession.

All too quickly, the week was ended and a new one begun, and still James had not revealed his true identity. On Sunday morning, dressed in his best coat and breeches, he sat beside the Darringtons at church and felt the worst sort of hypocrite when the vicar read from the pulpit St. Paul’s exhortation to speak the truth in love. In the time-honored tradition of the unrepentant sinner, James argued with his conscience that his own case was different; once he was assured of her love, he reasoned, the truth would take care of itself. In this, however, he knew himself to be doing Amanda less than justice. Although he could not yet claim an intimate acquaintance with his chosen bride, he had seen enough of that young lady to know that if her heart were not engaged, the duke of Montford’s suit would stand no greater chance of success than plain Mr. Fanshawe’s. No, it was her sister who must be persuaded, and Miss Darrington had given every indication that she would welcome such an exalted match for her sister—indeed, she seemed to expect nothing less. Why, then, was he so reluctant to bring about a conclusion so very satisfactory for all concerned?

James could only be thankful when the youthful vicar (distracted, no doubt, by the sight of Amanda’s limpid gaze fixed attentively upon him) wandered from a topic that had become uncomfortably personal. Still, there was no respite for James’s conscience, for to his immediate right loomed the elaborately carved Montford family pew, accusing him with its very emptiness.

At last, the vicar wound to a conclusion, the benediction was said, and the parishioners were free to go. But the sermon, however rambling, had done its work: as the Darrington party bade the clergyman farewell at the door and stepped out of the church and into the sunshine, James fell into step beside Margaret and touched her sleeve.

“Miss Darrington, if I might—”

“Ah, Miss Darrington!”

He was interrupted by a tall, angular woman of about fifty years, bearing down upon them with a determined air. A nattily dressed young man followed in her wake, along with an older gentleman whom James recognized as the magistrate who had interviewed him shortly after his arrival.

“Allow me to present my husband’s nephew, who has been positively agog to meet you all,” the lady continued. “Mr. Peregrine Palmer, pray make your bow to Mrs. Blaylock, Miss Darrington, Miss Amanda Darrington, Philip Darrington, and Mr.—?” she paused, realizing that she had never met the soberly dressed young man accompanying the family.

Margaret stepped into the breach. “Fanshawe,” she put in. “Philip’s tutor. Mr. Fanshawe, may I present Lady Palmer, and I am sure you remember Sir Humphrey.”

James said all that was proper to the squire and his wife, then turned to the younger man, who regarded him with incredulity writ large upon his countenance.

“Weathervane?”
exclaimed Mr. Peregrine Palmer, “Good God! What the devil are you—?”

“Yes, it is I, James
Fanshawe,
at your service,” James put in quickly, giving his childhood friend a quelling look. “It’s good to see you again, Perry. How long has it been?”

“Five years at the least reckoning. So, what have you been doing with yourself lately?” Peregrine asked, the piercing look he gave James giving the lie to his offhand manner.

“I have been engaged as tutor to Philip Darrington.”

“The devil you have! I say, are you aware that the whole of London—”

“I fear I don’t get up to London very often,” James interrupted quickly. “You, on the other hand, have become the complete Town beau! What, pray, do you call that neckcloth?”

“This old thing? Merely the Pastorale—all very well for the country, you know, but Torrington would laugh himself silly if I were to wear it into White’s.”

“Torrington? You must tell me—but I fear we shall bore the ladies. There is nothing more tiresome than to be obliged to listen to others reminisce about a set of persons one has never heard of. Do say you will dine with me at the Pig and Whistle on my next half-day, and we may talk about old times to our hearts’ content.”

Peregrine’s smile held such demonic delight that James knew his old friend was not deceived. “Oh, I should like that of all things,” Peregrine assured him. “I am bursting to hear all about new times, too!”

Having thoroughly discomposed one member of the party, Peregrine turned his attention to another. “We meet again, fair Ceres,” he said, bowing to Amanda.

Amanda curtsied, coloring beneath her best bonnet. “If I had known what an honor was to be mine, sir, I should have pleaded a headache and stayed home.”

“Too cruel!” protested Peregrine. “When I have waited every day at the foot bridge, hoping for a glimpse of you—”

“You have not! Why, only yesterday I—” realizing too late her indiscretion, she clapped a small gloved hand over her mouth.

Peregrine crowed with laughter. “Confess, Ceres! You looked for me!”

“I did not!” Amanda protested, painfully aware of the futility of a line of argument which, besides being patently untrue, sounded both childish and undignified.

“I am sorry to have disappointed you, but I have been laid up with an illness, and am only recently arisen from my bed of pain.”

“What a pity that your sufferings seem to have affected your wits,” retorted Amanda. Uncomfortably aware of coming off the worse in the encounter, she elected to cut her losses by very pointedly turning her back on him and listening with every appearance of rapt attention to Lady Palmer.

“As Peregrine will someday be stepping into my husband’s shoes, it seems only fitting that he make the acquaintance of the local families,” that redoubtable lady informed Margaret and Aunt Hattie. “I am planning a party to introduce him to the neighborhood gentry. Nothing very grand, only dinner and cards, and I daresay a little dancing for the young people. Do say you will come!”

Aunt Hattie, always a little intimidated by the forceful Lady Palmer, was all eager obeisance. “It sounds most delightful—”

“Dancing!” cried Amanda, eyes aglow. “Will there be waltzing?”

“To be sure, there must be waltzing, or my nephew will think us all sadly rustic.”

Amanda clapped her hands in glee, oblivious to her sister’s attempts to frown her down.

“You are too gracious. Lady Palmer, but I fear we must decline,” Margaret interrupted. “Amanda is not yet out, you know.”

Lady Palmer bent an appraising look upon Amanda. “Ah, yes! But this circumstance is shortly to be rectified, is it not?”

Margaret nodded. “We hope to go to London in the spring for her presentation.”

“There you have it, then!” pronounced Lady Palmer in a voice that brooked no argument. “I have always felt it did young girls a great deal of good to get their feet wet, so to speak, at smaller functions before thrusting them all unprepared into a London ballroom. Depend upon it, my party will be just the sort of function Amanda needs to develop poise and confidence in her ability to conduct herself in social situations.”

It might have been supposed that such a program of self-improvement might hold no attraction for a young lady, but Amanda’s eyes shone with enthusiasm as she beseeched her sister.

“Oh, do say we may go, Margaret!”

“Do let’s,” seconded Aunt Hattie. “As I recall, the Palmer girls all made very eligible matches during their Seasons, so Lady Palmer must certainly know whereof she speaks.”