Chapter Fifteen
Twenty pairs of eyes were staring at Mal. Most were heavy-lidded, bored. A few were narrowed, outright disdainful. None of them looked happy to be there, exactly, except for a couple of younger children, who probably still assumed learning was fun.
Lady Arden had introduced him to the class and then gone off to do something with a vague promise that she’d return in a few minutes…after they became acquainted with one another. Mal had no desire to be acquainted with the little brats.
Mal had stared down the barrel of a gun. He’d dodged the sharp point of a bayonet. He’d killed for his country and nearly been killed in return. He’d been shot through the shoulder, for Christ’s sake. And yet he’d never felt quite as uncomfortable as he did standing in front of twenty unimpressed children.
Mal looked down at the girl closest to him. The school had both boys and girls attending, which was rare. Lady Arden must have been gifted in persuasion to convince some of the tenants to send their daughters out for an education.
Some people were under the misconception that girls were the sweet antidote to their male counterparts—the girl in the front, who eyed Mal balefully, was quickly setting the record straight.
“What are you waiting for?” She muttered a curse in Gaelic. “Don’t stand there gawking at us!”
Mal ran his hand down his face, already feeling haggard, and he’d only been here for five minutes.
Names. He thought suddenly. He should ask their names.
It went well enough. Until the children grew restless about halfway through and began making up names. One boy claimed he’d been christened Thomas MacFartsmore, and the rest of the little bastards erupted into laughter.
“Where’s George?” the girl in the front asked. “She was more fun than you.”
“And Frances gave us sweetmeats!” someone in the back added.
Sweetmeats, bribery…not a bad idea.
Unfortunately, he didn’t keep sweetmeats in his pockets on the off chance that he’d run into unruly children. And who the hell were George and Frances?
“George and Frances are gone.”
That hushed them up.
“Gone?” One of them asked. “Do you mean…dead?”
Mal shrugged. “Could be.”
In hindsight, Mal probably shouldn’t have said that to a boy who looked to only be six or seven. A strange change came over his face. His chin dimpled. His bottom lip wavered. His wide eyes welled with moisture.
And then he broke into the noisiest sobs Mal had ever heard.
“Christ,” Mal muttered.
The girl in front—Abigail—pointed at him. “You swore!”
“So did you.”
“But I swore in Gaelic.”
“That doesn’t mean—” He stopped when he realized he was getting into an argument with someone who was probably fifteen years younger than him. The children weren’t even paying attention to him anymore. The room was a cacophony of sound—chatter and laughter and sobbing. A scream here and there for good measure.
Mal, who’d always thought of himself as a patient enough fellow, experienced a moment when said patience simply snapped in half.
“Enough!” Mal roared, thumping on the wall behind him with his fist for good measure.
A few children jolted in their seats. They all went quiet.
“What were George and Frances teaching you?”
“Those two only speak Gaelic,” Abigail said, pointing at a pair of boys on the other side of the room. “They were being taught English. The rest of us were working on numbers and letters. Though we can already read fairly well.” She indicated the front row.
“So you’re all at different places.”
“Aye.”
He had a feeling if he let his authority slip for even a moment, everything would descend into sheer chaos. So even though he felt like a bit of an idiot, he said, “You’ll address me as sir or Mr. Rochester.”
“Aye, sir,” she amended.
“All right—” Now he had to think of a way to teach a few of them at a time while keeping the rest occupied enough that they didn’t start swinging from the rafters or trying to kill one another. He found himself almost hoping that the real Mr. Rochester would present himself, if it meant sparing Mal this headache.
But it would also prevent Mal from getting closer to Llynmore, and he wasn’t willing to give up just yet.
“Oh, look at this,” Lady Arden said when she walked in again. (About an hour later, not a few minutes—Mal was keeping track.) “Everyone is so studious!”
Somehow, he’d wrangled them into small groups based on their level of education and written a problem for each group to solve while he went around and spoke to them individually. When this setup had threatened to descend into chaos regardless, he’d promised whoever came up with the correct answer the quickest would get sweetmeats the next day.
Now he had to go find some goddamn sweetmeats.
He didn’t tell Lady Arden this.
She set a large wicker basket on the table at the front of the classroom and opened the lid to reveal shiny red apples.
“Take one and pass them along,” she said.
They all seemed a bit in awe of Lady Arden, taking an apple meekly and passing the basket with nary a word. Mal supposed if he flounced in every once in a while bearing baskets of food like some benevolent queen they might be in awe of him, too.
While they ate—noisily, with mouths open (animals, the lot of them)—Lady Arden spoke to him. “I think you’ll do quite well, Mr. Rochester. Please don’t run off and elope.”
Mal frowned at her.
“Oh!” she laughed, unembarrassed. “I didn’t mention it, did I? The last schoolmaster eloped and left us quite in a lurch. You’re a godsend.”
She went on to tell him about the students he’d have to go meet on his off days, because they lived too far from the quarry to attend at the one-room schoolhouse. Then she gathered up the basket and turned toward him, smiling.
“You should come to Llynmore for tea tonight. Lord Arden will want to meet you, I’m sure.”
Mal hesitated only for a moment. The last thing he wanted was to make nice with the earl of Arden and his wife, but if he accepted the invitation, he’d be exactly where he needed to be.
“Do you, by chance, have a servant named Catriona MacPherson?”
The countess shook her head. “We have a Catriona, but her last name is Douglas, not MacPherson. Do you know her?”
His heart lurched. It might be her. She could have lied about her last name; she’d lied about everything else.
Would he see her tonight?
“No,” he finally said. “I thought I knew her, but I must have been mistaken.”
…
Annabel stood behind Georgina’s chair, twisting her hair up into elaborate ringlets that Georgina probably wouldn’t have bothered with on her own. She stared at her reflection in the looking glass—oval face and lightly pockmarked skin, soft, curved lips, pale eyes, and dark, winged brows.
She’d been called beautiful before. She’d been told she’d be even more beautiful if she covered up her scars. She didn’t know if either of those things were true.
She only knew how Mal had looked at her and how it had made her feel.
What had he seen in her that she didn’t see in herself?
“You’re usually more excited about guests than this,” Annabel murmured.
Georgina closed her eyes, soaking in the feel of Annabel’s nimble fingers separating tendrils of hair. It reminded her of when she was young and her mother had helped with her toilette.
“I am excited,” she said. “Did he do all right on his first day?”
“He did even better than I expected,” Annabel said. “You should play after dinner.”
“Why?”
“Because your playing is enchanting and good schoolmasters are hard to find. I want to keep this one. I’m desperate, George!”
Georgina snorted softly, amused. “So you’re prostituting my skills for your own gain.”
Annabel poked at her shoulder. “I’m not prostituting you. Only your music.”
“Mmm…an important distinction.”
Annabel laughed. “Though I suppose he’s compelling, in a rough sort of way.”
Georgina sat up straighter. “What are you saying?”
“Well, none of the genteel men in Edinburgh caught your attention. Maybe you’ve a craving for something different.”
“A craving? For something different?” she echoed. “If Theo heard you…”
“We do not tell Theo what we discuss behind these walls,” Annabel said solemnly, though her reflection in the mirror was smiling. “Anyway, I’m not talking about falling in love or ruining yourself. I’m simply saying that a little flirtation never hurt anyone.”
Annabel stepped back to examine her work. Then, almost as an afterthought, she grabbed two intricate silver combs and stuck them in Georgina’s hair.
“Perfect!” she said.
“Yes,” Georgina said, a little drily. “I’m sure I looked horrid until you did that.”
Annabel swatted her. “We should go down.”
Georgina followed her sister-in-law down the stairs and into the great hall. It was dark outside, but the fire blazed in the hearth behind the long dining table, and wall sconces burned merrily at the edges of the room. She smoothed out her blue silk dress. She’d bought it for balls in Edinburgh, and now she only wore it when they had guests at Llynmore.
When Theo had first seen it, he said it made her look too mature and she should have gone with a lighter color. Something more in line with a blushing debutante—white, or a very soft pink.
Obviously, Georgina had ignored him.
While Annabel straightened a flowery centerpiece on the table, Georgina stood to the side, thinking about the new schoolmaster.
Compelling, Annabel had said. In a rough sort of way.
There was another man she would describe like that, but he was so far away he might as well be on another planet. And, just as she’d told herself a hundred times before, she told herself again—it was for the best. It wasn’t only for the best, it was really the only choice she’d had.
She was not Catriona MacPherson, who stole sheep, stitched gunshot wounds, and didn’t think about any moment beyond the next one. She was Georgina Townsend, sister of the earl of Arden. She had a family who loved her. She had obligations.
Two sharp knocks sounded at the heavy castle door, and Georgina heard Catriona answer.
Before she quite knew what was happening, she heard a bark and a muffled curse, and the tapping, skittering sound of nails across a wooden floor. A sheepdog hurtled into the room, straight toward her.
And this close, there was no mistaking the black coat with white and brown markings, the spot around her eye.
Unsteady, pulse rioting, Georgina used Lu as an excuse to sink into a crouch. She wrapped her arms around Lu’s neck and pressed her face into Lu’s soft fur, listened to the dog’s happy, panting breaths.
If the collie was here, that meant…that meant…
“Mr. Rochester!” Annabel greeted. Georgina couldn’t look. What a coward she was. She pretended to be so strong and so in control, and she couldn’t even look at him. “Your dog has made quite the entrance.”
When Mr. Rochester spoke, his familiar lilting brogue broke over her, and there was no more doubt in her mind.
“Forgive me. I didn’t know she’d follow me here. Lu, come—”
He broke off midsentence. The seconds ticked by.
Stand up, she told herself angrily. Stand up.
Cold, numb, she let go of Lu and pushed to her feet, lifting her gaze slowly as she did. When she met hazel eyes, a shock went through her entire body, like she’d been struck by lightning, smitten where she stood.
Malcolm Stewart was in the entryway of the great hall, hands open at his sides, face as blank as cut marble.