Carola Dunn (22 page)

“Let us hope that you will succeed in passing on the lesson to your wife.”

“First, let us hope that she will consent to be my wife,” said Felix.

“You don’t seem to be in a quake that she may not.”

“Of course I am,” he said uncertainly, “though my parents are convinced she will accept. In their eyes, the future Earl of Westwood is good enough for anyone,” he explained as Samuels came in to announce dinner.

Over the roast beef, they talked about the children. Spurred by competition, both Anita and Amos were beginning to learn their letters.

“Luckily their names both start with A,” Fanny said, laughing. “As it is, Anita brags because hers also ends with an A. Felix, she has taken to calling me Aunt instead of Tía, because Amos does.”

He inspected her with mock seriousness. “Believe it or not, you don’t look a day older for being called Aunt. Indeed, you could easily pass for eighteen.” Only a slight exaggeration, for she was looking particularly pretty with the soft gleam of candlelight on her hair and the merriment returned to her brown eyes.

The compliment brought a touch more colour to her cheeks but she retorted with spirit, “I hope not. To be forever regarded as a naïve young girl would not suit me at all.”

“Bravo!” Miriam cried. “Too many men treat women as incompetent children all their lives.”

“I shouldn’t dare,” said Isaac, with a loving smile for his wife. “Amos is learning that lesson early. Anita is a bright child.”

“Is she not?” Fanny was delighted. “Felix, you will be amazed at how much better she speaks now than when you left. Hannah corrects her much more consistently than I ever did.”

“Does she still claim her papa was in the artirelly?”

“Well, yes, but that’s because it’s difficult to pronounce, not an error of grammar.”

“Her grammar is much better than Amos’s now,” said Miriam. “Of course he is a little younger, but he tries harder because she is there. Being together is very good for both of them.”

“Anita could not be happier,” Fanny affirmed.

Nor could she, Felix thought with relief, entranced by her dancing dimples. Whatever the cause of her sadness it seemed to have vanished.

After dinner the ladies withdrew. Felix accepted a glass of a superb Armagnac he himself had discovered in Bordeaux while smuggling gold to Spain. It was as magnificent as ever, worthy of his full attention, but after a few sips he suggested that they should take their glasses and join the ladies.

Miriam was alone in the drawing room. “We were not expecting you so soon,” she said. “Fanny stepped out into the garden. There is a full moon, and the flowers’ perfume always seems strongest on a warm evening. Call her in, Felix.”

He set down his glass and went to the French doors. The fragrance of roses hung heavy in the still air. By the light of the rising moon, Fanny’s slight figure was visible at a distance, strolling away from him. He went after her.

Hearing footsteps on the flagstoned path, Fanny turned. Her breath caught in her throat as she recognized Felix’s tall, powerful silhouette, his hair gleaming gold in the light from the house. Her determination not to confound friendship with warmer feelings wavered and grew dim.

She wanted to speak to him in private, but what folly to choose such a romantic setting!

With a stern, silent warning to her fluttering heart, she forced herself to speak calmly. “Felix, I can never thank you enough for bringing us here.”

Unable to resist laying her hand on his arm, she felt the hard muscle of an active, vigorous man beneath the smooth broadcloth. He covered her hand with his, warm, strong yet gentle.

She rushed on before she was lost. “Frank is recovering much faster than he would have in Brussels and Anita adores Amos and Hannah, and Leah too. No one could be kinder than Miriam and Isaac. You are fortunate indeed to have such friends.”

“I know it.”

“Miriam is so very generous. She and I have a great deal in common, having both trailed about the world after our menfolk, but I think she does not quite understand why I refused the new gowns she offered. I accepted this one--an old one of hers, altered--because she had guests.” She had noticed Felix’s admiration of her dress and she could not bear that he might suppose she was taking advantage of Miriam’s generosity. “I did not want her to be ashamed of me.”

“Miriam would never be ashamed of anyone because of their dress.”

“Perhaps it is just my silly pride. But oh, Felix, I don’t wish to be more beholden than I need.”

He gazed down at her earnest face. Shadowed, her eyes were full of mystery. Her soft mouth tempted him to gather her in his arms, to press kisses upon those tender lips. Hot desire flooded through his body.

His senses reeled as he fought the assault of moonlight, roses, and the enchanted sprite at his side. To his aid he summoned the image of the Goddess’s cool beauty...

“Felix, have you found her?” Miriam’s voice came from the house.

“We had better go in,” said Fanny uncertainly.

Had she guessed at the turmoil within him, read hunger in his eyes? Her trust rebuked his passion. If Miriam’s voice had not intervened, he’d have forfeited that precious trust, for at the crucial moment the Goddess’s image had deserted him.

He tucked Fanny’s little hand beneath his arm and together they returned to the drawing room.

Afraid that desire was writ large on his face, Felix declared his intention of going up to see if Frank was still awake. He took his abandoned glass of brandy, and begged another of Isaac for the patient, with Miriam’s doubtful acquiescence. Reaffirming his friendship for the captain was, he felt, a sure way to quell his fancy to seduce the captain’s sister.

Frank was awake and glad to see him. Sitting up in bed, he was still pale and very thin, but he no longer appeared to be at death’s door. He rolled the Armagnac around his mouth with every evidence of appreciation.

“I haven’t tasted anything like this since one of my men snabbled a couple of bottles after we crossed the Pyrenees. Naturally, I was forced to confiscate them to maintain order in the ranks.”

“Naturally. Everyone knows Wellington don’t stand for looting. Here’s to your very good health.”

The captain’s grin slipped. “And to yours, my lord.”

“My lord?” Felix rallied him. “As I recall, Captain, you were wont to use my name.”

He made an effort to be cheerful. “My humble apologies, Roworth. I intended no insult, I promise you.”

“Then I shan’t sink to the infamy of calling out a sick man, though Miriam and Fanny both think you well on the road to recovery. What’s wrong?”

“Wrong? What makes you think anything’s wrong? They are right, I grow stronger every day.”

“If you don’t want to tell me, that’s your privilege, but perhaps I can help.”

“No one can help, or Mrs Cohen would have. I expected too much of her skills. Look at me.” He threw back the covers, pushed himself to the edge of the bed, and stood up, a trifle wobbly. Stripping off his nightshirt, he revealed a body seamed and knotted with countless scars, white and red and purple, from shoulders to thighs. “What woman will want me now?” he asked bitterly.

Felix steeled himself not to show his horror. “You appear to be...er...intact where it matters.”

“Would that I weren’t, for then I might not care. Or that at least some sign appeared on my face as a warning of what is below. Better, perhaps, that the blast had blown off my head instead of leaving me like this, a sight to send any female into hysterics.”

“Did Fanny and Miriam run screaming at the sight?”

“They are not ordinary females,” Frank said roughly. “They saw only the hurt, not the hideousness.” Shivering despite the warmth of the night, he reached for his nightshirt.

Unable to deny that Fanny and Miriam were out of the common way, Felix helped him put his arms in the sleeves and return to bed, for his meagre strength was exhausted. Lying back, he closed his eyes. “It’s bloody humiliating being so weak,” he said, trying for wryness.

“Are you too weak to lift a glass? It would be a pity to waste the Armagnac.”

“True. That much I think I can manage.” He sat up and took the glass from Felix.

Sipping the amber nectar, they talked of indifferent matters until Felix decided it was time to leave him to sleep. He delved into his mind for words of comfort.

“The scars are bound to fade over time, you know. And one day you’ll find a woman as exceptional as your sister, who loves you and doesn’t give a damn.”

“Then Lord help her, for I’m not likely ever to be in a position to marry. Roworth, thank you. You’ve been devilish good to us--don’t think I don’t appreciate it.”

Both embarrassed, they clasped hands briefly and Felix left.

* * * *

The following day, Felix begged a picnic from Mrs Samuels, borrowed a carriage from the Cohens, and took Fanny, Anita, and Amos to Ightham.

With a promise of bixits at the end of the climb, the children’s short legs willingly stumped up Oldbury Hill. At the top a brisk breeze cooled them after their exertions. Fanny took off her daisy-wreathed straw hat before turning with tousled hair and rosy, laughing face to admire the view.

Somehow she managed to look enchanting even in a dishevelment that would have horrified Lady Sophia--or his mother.

Deciding it was too windy at the summit for the picnic, they returned to the shelter of some bushes half way down. Food restored the children’s energy and they spent the next quarter of an hour running down the steep slope into Felix’s arms.

What a marvellous father he would be, Fanny thought, not for the first time. Would Lady Sophia let him play with his children, or would they be confined to nursery and schoolroom, as she knew happened in many great families? Hair ruffled, neckcloth awry, he was enjoying himself as much as they were.

Nonetheless, he tired of the fun before they did. “Now we’ll go to feed the swans,” he announced, adding in a lower voice to Fanny, “We could have gone first, but I remembered Anita’s propensity to give hungry birds all available sustenance, and I didn’t want to risk the picnic.”

“Very wise,” she agreed with a smile.

“What’s swans?” asked Amos.

“Great big white ducks wiv long necks,” said Anita, glowing with excitement. “There’s swans in the park in Brussels. They be...they are always hungry.”

The swans on the moat of the ancient fortified manor were almost as delighted with the remains of the picnic as Anita was to feed them. Amos was nervous at first and clung to Fanny’s hand. He lost his wariness all too soon. Felix caught his jacket just in time to stop him tumbling into the moat. Then he tried to feed a swan from his hand instead of throwing the crust. The swan pecked his fingers and he sent up a howl, more of shock than of pain.

He sobbed into Fanny’s shoulder as they walked back to the carriage. Anita, her hand in Felix’s, kept stopping on tiptoe to peer into his face and ask anxiously, “Are you awright, Amos? Did it hurt? He’s only crying ‘cos he’s liccle, Uncle Felix,” she explained. “He’s brave, really.”

Half a sticky bun from a confectioner’s cheered Amos. Sticky-faced and sticky-fingered, he and Anita both fell fast asleep as soon as the carriage began to move.

“Not an entirely successful outing, I fear,” said Felix wryly.

“Oh, but it was.” And all too easy to pretend they were just an ordinary family. “I have not had so much fun in an age. There is bound to be some contretemps or other when one takes two small children out, and Amos is perfectly all right. Thank heaven you caught him before he fell in. If you ever plan to go near water again, warn me so that I can take dry clothes, in case.” Only she must not assume that there would ever be another outing. She wished the words unsaid.

But he laughed and said, as if he took it for granted, “I will. I wanted it to be a surprise. Next time I shall ask your advice beforehand.”

“The house was a charming surprise and I should like to see more of it some day. Felix, I want to ask your advice, or rather your opinion. Miriam gave me a book to read and I don’t quite understand all of it.” Sighing, she rearranged Anita more comfortably against her side, ignoring the stickiness. “I am woefully ignorant, you know. Mama taught us what she could, but books were always difficult to come by.”

“What book did Miriam lend you?” Felix asked cautiously. “I’ve never pretended to be inclined to book-learning.”

“Mary Wollstonecraft’s A Vindication of the Rights of Women.”

“I might have guessed,” he groaned. “Can you not ask Miriam--or even Isaac--to explain?”

“Isaac confuses me with philosophy, and Miriam’s explanations tend to turn into harangues. She feels very strongly on the subject.”

“You don’t need to tell me! All right, what is it you want to know?”

All the way back to Nettledene, they discussed Mary Wollstonecraft’s ideas. Felix had never read the book, nor heard it mentioned by anyone but Miriam except in tones of anathema. He was surprised at how much sense her arguments made, at least as propounded by Fanny. Because of her lack of experience with English society, Fanny was confused by a few points. He did his best to elucidate.

“Thank you,” she said as they drove up to Nettledene. “Now I understand. You explained very clearly.”

Pleased, he told her, “So clearly I almost convinced myself.”

Her laugh rang out and Anita stirred. “What’s funny, Tía?” she asked sleepily.

“Uncle Felix, love.”

“Uncle Felix makes you laugh a lot.” She bestowed an approving look on him.

Amos woke as Felix carried him into the house. Set on his feet, he ran to hug Miriam, who came from the drawing room to greet them.

“Mama, a great big swan did bite me.”

“A great big swan bited you,” Anita corrected.

Felix’s eyes met Fanny’s, brimming with mirth, and they both burst into laughter. His outing, he decided, had been not merely successful but utterly delightful.

It was a damned shame her noble grandfather had cast off her mother, thus exiling her from the world she should have belonged to, from his family’s world. As it was, his parents would consider her and Frank, and especially Anita, almost as unacceptable as his Jewish friends.