Sheri Cobb South (9 page)

It was thicker than he had expected, and he realized that it was not a single sheet, as he had supposed, but a sheaf of several papers. The outer sheet was crumpled and smudged with some reddish-brown substance, but still quite legible, as the hedge had protected the ink from the elements. It bore the name and direction of a London solicitor whose name was unfamiliar, but a closer look at the wax seal revealed the insignia to be that of the College of Arms. Hope flared once more. Peregrine unfolded the papers and scanned page after page of such convoluted text as he had not encountered since his days of studying Latin and Greek at Cambridge. Since James’s name figured prominently among the closely written lines, he knew he had found what he sought. Any satisfaction this discovery might have brought him was short-lived, however, for the top sheet bore yet another reddish-brown mark, and this one was not smudged at all; it was the perfect oval of a man’s thumbprint.

“Good God, James,” murmured Peregrine, staring at the bloodstain in growing horror, “what have they done to you?”

Chapter 6

Despite the doctor’s cheerful predictions, fully a week passed with no sign of James’s errant memory. “Mr. Fanshawe” was not certain precisely why, or at what point, he began to question whether he was, in fact, the person whom the Darringtons believed him to be. Perhaps it was because he could find no sign of any letters between himself and Miss Darrington, although she had referred to such a correspondence several times. He might well be mistaken, but he did not think that was the sort of thing a conscientious employee would have thrown away.

Or perhaps it had more to do with the fact that, even after several days of hearing himself addressed as Mr. Fanshawe, he still found himself startled to realize that it was he who was being spoken to. Surely there ought to be some sense of familiarity in a name to which one had supposedly answered for more than a quarter of a century.

But if he was not the tutor
Mr. Fanshawe, then who was he and what was he doing in Montford? It was clear that he had no acquaintances here. When he had attended church services with the family on Sunday, not even the vicar (whom he had somehow expected to be much older than the stripling who had made calf-eyes at Amanda throughout his lengthy homily on brotherly love) had seemed to know him.

Still less did he understand his peculiar fascination with the vacant house on the hill. For he could not pass by the schoolroom window without his gaze straying toward the magnificent structure that was Montford Priory. He was fairly certain he had no personal knowledge of it, nor ever been inside its walls, but this conviction required no feat of memory; one had only to inspect his meager wardrobe to know that he was not accustomed to moving in such exalted circles.

“Would you like to see the inside?”

The sound of his pupil’s voice jolted James from his reverie. Philip, supposedly hard at work translating a passage from Herodotus, had laid aside his pen and was regarding his tutor fixedly.

“I—I beg your pardon?” stammered James, disconcerted to find himself the object of such close scrutiny.

“Montford Priory. You seem frightfully taken with it.”

Frightful was the word, thought James, although he was not sure why. “Surely anyone with an interest in history must find it a fascinating place.”

“Would you like to see the inside?” Philip asked again. “You can, you know. With no duke in residence, you might even persuade Mrs. Collins—she’s the duke’s housekeeper—to show you the public rooms, as well as some of the first-floor rooms upstairs.”

“I should not wish to pry,” protested James.

“Pry?” scoffed Philip. “His Grace’s staff has little enough to do these days. If you ask Mrs. Collins to show you the house, she’ll probably fall on your neck. My sister Meg loves the place like it was her own. I daresay she’d be happy to arrange an outing, if you’re interested.”

“I am, thank you,” James said. Perhaps if he saw the place up close he could identify precisely what it was that drew him so strongly. “And now,” he added, attempting without success to appear stern, “you have contrived to avoid your Greek quite long enough. I believe Herodotus is about to enlighten us with his theories regarding the flow of the Nile.”

Philip looked down at the expanse of paper yet to be filled and threw down his quill, sprinkling fine drops of ink over the pristine white. “What the dev—deuce does it matter?” he muttered, displaying one of the mercurial mood changes so characteristic of adolescents. “Truth to tell, I don’t care what his theories are. I’m tired of just reading about things. I want to go places and do things!”

James knew he should chastise Philip for his outburst of temperament, but he could not but feel a certain sympathy for the boy. Surely it was not natural for a lad of fourteen to be confined to a house full of women. “Far be it from me to question your sister’s judgment,” he said cautiously, “but I should think you would be happier at school.”

“Wouldn’t I just!”

“Then why—?”

Philip rolled his eyes. “It is the most nonsensical thing! Just because I was sickly as a child, Meg thinks the rigors of public-school life would be fatal to my delicate constitution.” The last two words were spoken with such loathing that James understood the argument was an oft-repeated one.

“You look healthy as a horse to me,” James observed.

“Try telling my sister that!”

“You know,” said James, frowning thoughtfully into space, “I might just do that.”

He found her in the small herb garden behind the kitchen, on her knees in the dirt and wielding a trowel with brisk efficiency.

“Miss Darrington, may I have a word with you?”

At the sound of the tutor’s voice, the trowel slipped from her hand.

“Mr. Fanshawe!” she exclaimed, suddenly and painfully conscious of her shabbiest frock, its skirts now liberally sprinkled with dirt. “How you startled me!”

“I beg your pardon. Such was not my intention, I assure you.”

She pushed her straw hat further back on her head and smiled up at him. “That, at least, must relieve my mind, for to discover otherwise must have given me the oddest notion of your character.”

Brushing the dirt from her faded cotton skirts with one gauntleted hand, she made as if to rise, and found her elbow taken in a surprisingly firm grip. She was somewhat taken aback by the ease with which the tutor lifted her to her feet, as nothing in his long and lanky frame was suggestive of great strength. A moment’s reflection, however, was sufficient to remind her that, as his wages would hardly allow for the hire of a servant, he must of necessity be accustomed to doing for himself— hauling his own coal, for instance, or chopping his own firewood, or any number of tasks which, with repetition, must serve to build up the muscles in one’s limbs. Surely, she reminded herself sternly, strength was not an attribute to be particularly admired when it was gained through poverty. There could be no reason, then, for the frisson of awareness that coursed through her body at his touch.

Now safely on her feet, Margaret stepped back, disengaging her elbow from his grasp. “What did you wish to speak to me about, Mr. Fanshawe? Is my brother neglecting his lessons?”

“You need have no fear of that, Miss Darrington. I should be more concerned about a lad his age who did
not
neglect them.”

“Yes, I see your point. Then what, pray, is the trouble?”

He shook his head, causing one lock of golden hair to droop over his forehead. “No trouble, merely curiosity. It occurred to me that perhaps Philip would be happier in the company of boys his own age. To be blunt, I cannot help wondering why he is not at school.”

Margaret, conscious of an irrational urge to brush back the errant lock of hair, stiffened. “Can you not, Mr. Fanshawe? I was quite sure I explained the situation in my letter. A series of childhood illnesses has made it preferable that Philip be educated quietly at home.”

“Childhood illnesses?”

She nodded. “An asthmatic complaint.”

“But Philip’s childhood days are numbered, and I believe such complaints as you describe are often outgrown as the sufferer reaches adulthood. Surely it is time he was sent to school, where he might form the sort of connections imperative to one who must make his own way in the world.”

“If you mean, Mr. Fanshawe, that by going to school Philip might someday follow your own example and end by tutoring Latin and Greek for a mere thirty-six pounds per annum, then he should certainly be educated at home.” Upon seeing the shocked and, yes, wounded expression that greeted these words, Margaret turned away abruptly and embarked upon a diligent search for her trowel. “I beg your pardon. That was—unkind.”

“Brutally frank, perhaps, but undeniably true.” James bent to pick up the small shovel, and placed it in her hand.

“Thank you,” she murmured, somewhat abashed at finding her own lack of civility answered with undeserved courtesy. Studiously avoiding his gaze, she hitched up her skirts and began to pick her way gingerly through neat beds of fragrant herbs. “Tell me, Mr. Fanshawe, did you approach me at Philip’s instigation?”

“No, although he knows I intend to speak to you on the subject. I made him no promises of success, however. Forgive me, but the thought has occurred to me that perhaps your concerns had more to do with economy than health.”

She stopped so abruptly that James, following along behind, almost ran into her.

“He truly was sickly as a child, so much so that at times we feared for his life,” she said defensively. “That much, I assure you, is no exaggeration. And, lest you think us utterly destitute, I daresay we could scrape together enough for his tuition. But I am well aware of how cruel children can be to those they deem inferior to themselves. I would not wish his lack of fortune to make him a laughingstock.”

At these words, a wisp of memory stirred in James’s brain, only to vanish when he tried to seize hold of it. Still, the impression that lingered was strong enough to convince him that Miss Darrington’s fears for her brother were not entirely unwarranted.

“I see your point—indeed, my own school days would appear to support your case. And yet I survived the ordeal, as have countless others beside. I have no doubt Philip would do the same.”

She regarded him quizzically. “Have you considered, Mr. Fanshawe, that were I to follow your advice and enroll Philip in school, you should find yourself without a position?”

“It did cross my mind,” confessed James with a rueful smile. “But I should be a very poor mentor to Philip if I were to advance my own interests at the expense of his.”

“I might have known you would put me in my place,” she observed, rolling her eyes.

James, appalled at having his words so grossly misinterpreted, threw up his hands in mock surrender. “I assure you, Miss Darrington, I meant no offense.”

“No, I am quite certain you did not—which makes my own conduct all the more deplorable by comparison. Very well, Mr. Fanshawe, I shall bear it in mind—but I make no promises, and so you may tell my brother.”

With this James (and, by extension, Philip) had to be content. And yet something changed that day between mistress and employer, something Margaret could not quite put her finger on. By tacit agreement, neither she nor the tutor made any further mention of their disagreement. Still, the incident had quite cut up her peace. She was determined that he would wed Amanda only over her own dead body; however, she was painfully aware that in allowing that determination to override even the barest civility, she was guilty of far greater sins than any he had as yet committed. She thought again of the unexpected thrill of awareness that had coursed through her at his touch, and wondered if the two wholly uncharacteristic responses were somehow related. Whatever the reason, she found it hard to forgive herself for such a lapse in manners, and harder still to forget it.

Perhaps it was for this reason that she had difficulty falling asleep that night. Whatever the cause, she eventually tired of tossing and turning in her bed, and finally gave up the struggle altogether. Throwing back the counterpane, she got up, slipped a faded dressing gown over her night rail, and went downstairs to the room that had once been her father’s study. For the next half-hour, she labored over a leather-bound ledger, calculating columns of figures by the light of a single tallow candle until an unexpected sound interrupted her work.

There was nothing inherently frightening in the sound; in fact, it was quite lovely, the sweet, sad notes of a violin playing somewhere near at hand. One of the local lads, perhaps, come to serenade Amanda by moonlight? If so, her sister’s swain was singularly inept: not only was the night sky overcast with clouds, but her sister’s bedchamber was on quite the opposite end of the house.

Then she remembered the gypsies camped in the duke’s home wood, and stiffened at the memory of the rough men gathered around the campfire. If such a ramshackle lot should choose to relieve the Darrington estate of what remained of its livestock, how could three women and a mere boy hope to withstand them? It was at times such as this that she missed having a man’s solid presence about the place. She snuffed her candle and moved quietly to the window, then cautiously lifted one corner of the curtains and peered out. A dark form occupied the curved bench encircling a large oak tree, its shape rendered bizarre by the instrument jutting out from the vicinity of its shoulder. Margaret made her way stealthily out of the room and across the hall, pausing only long enough to arm herself with the iron poker from the fireplace before flinging open the door.

“Who—who is it?” she demanded in what she hoped was a firm voice, wielding the poker like a truncheon. “Identify yourself!”

The musician lowered the violin as he stood up, unfolding absurdly long limbs that put Margaret forcibly in mind of the long-legged spiders that populated the stables. At the same moment, the moon broke through the clouds, turning the violinist’s golden hair to silver.

She dropped the poker and clasped one shaking hand to her bosom. “Oh, Mr. Fanshawe, it is only you!”