Chapter Fifteen
James was impressed by his own sangfroid as he said evenly, “Why, Charles, you appear to be covered in ink. Hadn’t you better take speedy action?”
Charles scowled at him for a moment, then replied grumpily, “Yes, I should. Good afternoon, Tidworth. Did you never learn to knock?”
“And did you never learn to keep your hands off your servants?” James responded, noting the deep flush that had stolen across the governess’s features.
“Well, I’m glad you find this funny,” his friend grumbled, swiping at himself ineffectually with the blackboard cloth. “I shall probably have to take a bath now, to make sure the ink doesn’t stain me for days. Why have you come, Tidworth?”
“I’m here to see your father, not that it concerns you.”
Charles harrumphed. “There’s no one else here today, not even Philippa. But that’s what you must expect if you come calling upon people without warning. Miss Hibbert will have to look after you until I’m presentable.”
He stalked past James and shouted down the corridor for someone to organize a bath for him.
“Most people would ring the bell, not yell,” he muttered to Charles’s departing back.
James turned back into the room to find Miss Hibbert looking at him like a startled deer.
With a wry smile, he said, “Don’t be put out, Miss Hibbert. Charles and I have been friends for years, and often irritate and tease each other.”
Charles had been completely out of order, discomfiting his servant like that. James would make light of it for her sake, but he’d have a word or two to say to Charles in private on the matter.
But now, finally, he had Miss Hibbert to himself. The perfect opportunity to make amends for his awful lapse of manners the previous week.
But she kept looking at him with those deep hazel eyes of hers.
He cleared his throat and walked toward her. “Would you like me to inspect the back of your gown for ink spots?”
She immediately backed off, then started examining her skirts for ink splashes. Was she going to speak to him at all?
He moved closer, carefully avoiding the puddle of ink seeping into the floorboards, and tried again. “Perhaps I can call for a maid to clean this up for you?”
“No,” she muttered, turning awkwardly to look at the back of her gown. “That’s my job.”
He puffed out a breath. He didn’t want her on her knees mopping up ink while he expressed his regrets for his rudeness. He wanted her full attention.
“On the contrary, your job is to look after me. Charles has just said so. I’ll call for someone. Wait here.”
He rang the bell and lurked in the passageway until a maid arrived, then sent her off to fetch a bucket and mop.
When he returned to the schoolroom, Miss Hibbert was standing by the window, her face in shadow, but he could tell from the tension in her pose she wasn’t happy. Was there something more bothering her? Something worse than his own behavior? Worse than Charles’s ungovernable appetite for innocent women?
“Miss Hibbert, I sense you are eager to get back to your charges. Shall we go in search of the tiny tyrants?”
She smiled. “I saw you giving Willie a piggyback.”
Finally. A response. “I hope I haven’t overexcited him. He won’t pay attention to his lessons now, will he?”
“No matter. We were going to do some sketching by the pond.”
“Outside? Splendid. I shall lend you my support while Charles sorts himself out. What an inordinate fuss over a little ink spill!”
She laughed but soon became somber again. Something was definitely amiss.
Bowing to her, he offered to carry her books and pencils, held the door open for her as they left the schoolroom, and followed her out into the courtyard.
It was a pity Mr. Keane wasn’t at home. He’d have to make another visit. Unless the master of the house was due back this evening, in which case he could stay the night and discuss properties with Keane in the morning.
They walked side by side in almost amicable silence to the pond, then stopped to gaze across at Willie, who was watching the ducks squabbling and splashing in the pond.
James said quietly, “You seemed to be in difficulties when I arrived, Miss Hibbert. I thought I’d rescued you, but you still seem uncomfortable.”
She gave a little shrug. “I believe I can deal with Mr. Charles. He was just teasing me.”
“We both know what he is. You heard it for yourself that evening his papa rang a peal over him. Don’t let him take advantage of your inexperience.”
Did that sound pompous?
Yes. It did.
She said tartly, “You’re very liberal with your advice, my lord.”
“Please, call me James, or Tidworth if you prefer.” There was too much sarcasm in the way she said my lord.
“I know my place, my lord.”
Clearly, this wasn’t going to be easy.
“Forgive me,” he said. “But going on past evidence, it seems you do not. However, I didn’t come here to cross swords with you. I came to make amends.”
She turned and looked up at him, surprised. “To me? I thought you came to see Charles.”
“His father, actually. But I was hoping to snatch a few moments alone with you. I’ve been in an agony of guilt since last Saturday. The way I accused you was unforgivable. I pray I might be forgiven.”
Her eyes locked with his, and he couldn’t help but notice how brightly the golden irises glistened, and how long her dark eyelashes were.
She bit her lip and said slowly, “There is nothing to forgive. I now know what I did to you when first we met and can only say how sorry I am for being so indomitable about your injury. It is I who should ask to be pardoned, not you.”
He blinked at her, then looked down at the dusty toes of his riding boots, awash in a mixed knot of emotion. She knew about Belinda. Charles must have told her.
Probably for the best it was out in the open, even if he didn’t like the idea of his friend sharing his personal troubles with strangers. A governess, at that.
Though she’d said she came from an ancient noble family. No doubt true. He could see it in her manners, her looks, and the way she held herself. It would be a crime if Charles decided to seduce her.
The idea of any man seducing her threatened to send his thoughts galloping off in completely the wrong direction. He couldn’t help but flush as he said, “You are forgiven, Miss Hibbert, on one condition.”
“Which is?”
“That you must say you forgive me, and agree we’ll say no more about it. Let’s turn a new page, and try to be friends.”
She nodded, and smiled at him, unleashing an intriguing warmth in his gut. That smile…those lips…
“Is— Er, is this your sketchbook I’m carrying?”
He sounded like a stammering idiot. What had happened to that sangfroid?
She nodded. “It is.”
“May I?”
He started leafing through her sketches, which mostly consisted of busts of the children and architectural details of Figheldene Hall. He was stunned at her skill. Having a modicum of artistic talent himself, he readily appreciated the abilities of others.
Toward the back of the book, he came upon a very detailed sketch of a rambling Tudor brick-built pile. “What place is this?” he queried.
Her shoulders sank, and her voice sounded strained as she replied, “That’s my home.”
“It’s a splendid drawing,” he said heartily. “And a delightful building. I’ve always much admired those tall red-brick chimneys that look as if they are twisted.”
She turned away from him and gazed down at the rippling water of the pond. Had he said something wrong? Just when they were getting on so famously.
“And the crenellations running along below the roof are quite charming,” he continued, desperate to see her smile again. “You have leaded lights, like here at Figheldene. Modern fashion is all very well, but there’s a lot to be said for the tastes of our ancestors, don’t you think?”
No response.
He hurtled on, “It looks a very comfortable home, though old. Has it gardens with it? Are there any knot gardens? I’m most partial to knot gardens.”
An audible sniff came from his companion, and her shoulders shook.
Damnation! The woman was on the verge of tears. What had he done—or said—now?
He wasn’t going to leave it a week this time. Seizing her elbow, he steered her to a lichen-covered stone seat and eased her onto it.
There was a splash and a chuckle from the direction of the pond. He looked up to see Willie with a self-satisfied smile on his face and a duck kicking rapidly away from the bank.
“William Keane,” he called, loud enough to bring Willie up short. “You are meant to be drawing the ducks, not chasing them!”
Startled, Willie backed away from the edge of the pond, then picked up his sketchbook and settled down in the grass next to Mary. James waited until he was certain the boy was absorbed in his task, then returned his attention to Miss Hibbert.
Taking his place beside her, he said gently, “Tell me what’s wrong, Emma—if I may call you Emma? Whatever I can do to help, just say the word. I am at your command.”