Nina Coombs Pykare (21 page)

  Mortimer frowned. “Our house is new. I remember when Papa had it built for Mama, but it looks older than his lord-ship’s. Why doesn’t Papa keep
it
in good repair?”

Jennifer smiled. Mortimer was a bright boy. “Your house is designed after a Gothic ruin,” she explained. “It’s supposed to look old and - ruined.”

The frown did not leave Mortimer’s fore-head. “I don’t understand. Why does Mama want a ruined house? Great Oaks looks so much....” He cast around in his mind for a word. “So much happier,” he declared.

With a start Jennifer realized that the boy was right. Haverford’s ancestral home had an aura of contentment around it.

“Your Mama likes romantic things,” Jennifer continued. “Ruins and cliffs and things like that make her happy.”

“Don’t make me happy,” piped up Cam-mie. “I don’t like ghosts and things.”

“I wish that Mama liked the kind of house that his lordship lives in. It looks like a capital house to me,” said Mortimer.

With this sentiment Jennifer could not help agreeing. When even a child could see how inane it was to build such a house as the Parthemers’s how was it that adults could not?

“Miss Jennifer,” asked Cassie. “What sort of house should you like to live in?”

Jennifer took a deep breath. She knew suddenly that she yearned with all her heart and soul to live in the great house that the children so admired. But she dared not say so. And besides, it was not the house that was desirable, but its own-er. “I once lived in a little house near the sea,” she replied, drawing on childhood memories. “It was a snug cozy little house. Warm in winter and cool in summer.
We lived there for several years.”

“When I grow up,” declared Cammie, “I’m gonna have a house like Nurse Kinney’s.”

Mortimer snorted. “That’s not a house for a lady.”

“But it’s nice!”

Jennifer heard the quiver in the little girl’s voice. “Tell us what you like about it, Cammie,” she suggested.

“Gingerbread!”  declared   the   child brightly.

Jennifer suppressed a smile. “What else do you like about it?”

There were some moments of silence as Cammie considered. “The sun!” she cried suddenly. “The sun comes inside.”

“Of course it does. So you want a house with windows that let in the sun.”

“Yes,” Cammie replied.

“What else?”

There were further moments of silence. Finally Cammie spoke. “Don’t know what else.”

Jennifer silenced another snort from Mortimer with a question. “And what kind of house should you like, Mortimer?”

“Big, but with lots of windows to let in the light. And furniture you can sit on without it breaking. And a great stable. I guess that’s what’s important.” Mortimer smiled, quite satisfied at this appraisal of things.

“And you, Cassie?”

“I think I shall not care much about my house,” remarked Cassie. “The important thing will be picking the proper husband.”

“Papa will do that for you,” said Mortimer somewhat smugly.

“He can’t! I mean, Miss Jennifer, can he?”

“Mortimer is not quite correct, Cassie. Your Papa may allow certain young men to call on you, but the final choice will surely be yours.”

“Good!” Cassie’s sigh of relief was quite pronounced and Jennifer wondered idly what sort of man she had thought her Papa might choose for her. But it was not a subject to be pursued in Mortimer’s irreverent presence.

They had already passed the road that led in one direction to the sea and in the other to the village and were drawing near to that part of the trees through which Great Oaks could be spied. A strange ner-vousness settled on Jennifer.

This morning’s kiss seemed already un-real. How could such a thing have happen-ed? And how could she possibly pretend, as he had suggested, that the whole thing had never occurred? How? When the very thought of that kiss filled her heart with such longing that she could hardly bear it. As the great house came into view through an opening in the avenue of oaks, Jennifer pulled the pony up. For a moment the children sat silent, gazing at the sight.

“Mortimer’s right,” said Cassie suddenly. “It looks like the people who live there are happy, don’t you think?”

Jennifer nodded, unable to speak for the sudden lump in her throat. Certainly
she
would be happy if she lived there.

  The sound of hoofbeats behind them roused her from her reverie. But even before Cammie piped out, “It’s him,” her heart knew that the man approaching was Haverford. And she admitted to herself what she had been refusing to recognize the whole of the drive - that she wanted very much to be with him again, to see his face and watch him smile. To see if his eyes would hold that tenderness again.

Fool, she told herself quite sternly. She was an addlepated fool. Even if she saw that tenderness again, what was she to do about it? What
could
she do?

His lordship drew up beside the cart. “I see that you are looking at my house. Evi-dently the idea of leaving space for one to admire the house was not such a poor one after all.”

“It is a lovely house,” said Jennifer, man-aging to meet his eyes.

He smiled at her. “Come along and I will show you the inside.”

A little chorus of pleased ohs and ahs rose from the children, but Jennifer hesi-tated. “That is most kind of you, but... but it is getting late and....”

A wail of protest rose from the children as from one mouth and then she was bom-barded with promises. “We’ll do double work tomorrow. We’ll go to bed right after supper. Oh, please, please.”

His lordship smiled gravely. “They seem like very well-behaved children,” he remarked.

“They are... very well-behaved.”

“Then why are you so reluctant to give them this treat?”

“I... I....” Jennifer could not tell him that she had become suddenly embarrassed in his presence, that, though he might have forgotten that kiss, she had not. And never would.

“All right,” she capitulated. “But I shall remember all those promises.”

It was strange to drive up the lane after the great stallion. She allowed her eyes to feast on the figure of the man who sat him so easily. It wasn’t often that she could watch him unobserved. Every movement that he made echoed in her heart - a memory for another day.

And then they had reached the great door at the front. Jennifer could see that Haverford’s home had not been built all of a piece, like the Parthemer’s “ruin.” The big old house had several times had wings added to it. And Jennifer, though she actually knew little of architecture, felt that the spirit of the old house had re-mained intact. There was about the whole a real sense of peace - as though its inhabitants knew how to live happily.

  Jennifer pulled the pony to a halt as his lordship swung down. The great stallion stood patiently, as effectively tethered by his dropped reins as by a groom’s prac-ticed hand. Haverford strode toward the cart and offered her his hand. For a long moment she stared at it and then, without lifting her eyes to his face, laid her own within it and was helped from the cart. A few moments of confusion followed as the children scrambled or were helped out.

When they were all gathered around her, the Viscount took her elbow and guided her toward the house. “I shall give you a personal tour,” he said smiling down on Cammie who was holding his other hand.

The child smiled back at him. “I like you,” she said candidly. “You don’t yell like Papa.”

His lordship did not reply to this and Jennifer thought it more sensible to let it pass. That the Viscount
could
yell if the occasion arose she had no doubt. He was, after all, a strong man. And he knew his strength.

They passed by the silent butler, a per-sonage of great dignity whose decorum-masked face could not quite hide the cur-iosity in his eyes. The hall, Jennifer saw as they left off bonnets and gloves there, was well done, showing taste but not osten-tation.

  And so they moved from room to room, Jennifer, always conscious of the beauty that surrounded her, of the inexplicable feeling of being in
his
house, grew more and more aware of the hand that possess-ed her elbow, guiding her gently but never releasing its grasp. His very proximity made her feel faint - and she railed at herself for this evidence of weakness. She could ill afford such stupidity.

The children were all chatter and happiness. Cammie clung to Haverford’s hand and gave little trills of joy when she saw something that took her fancy.

They paused in the long portrait gallery. “What a lot of pictures,” observed Mortimer.

“Yes, a great lot of ancestors I had,” re-plied the Viscount with a smile, turning to glance at Jennifer.

A lot of relatives, she thought, and all aristocrats. No doubt of that. She could tell just by looking at them. And fair and light-haired, too, she realized suddenly.

“This is a portrait of my late Mama,” said the Viscount softly.

Jennifer looked up into the lovely face. It held beauty, that face, but something more, too, a kind of contentment, of peace-fulness. Suddenly Jennifer drew in her breath. The eyes! Haverford’s Mama had eyes like his! And in this portrait they seemed to hold tenderness.

He nodded. “Everyone remarks that I have her eyes. While she sat for that por-trait my father read to her. She was very much in love with him - even after fifteen years of marriage.”

Jennifer swallowed suddenly over the lump in her throat. What she wouldn’t give for one year by the Viscount’s side. Just one year.

“I lost them both not long ago,” said Haverford sadly. “The best parents a man ever had.”

Jennifer felt her own loss most poign-antly then, but there was little she could say. Haverford, looking down at her, seem-ed to sense her feelings, and his fingers closed protectively around her elbow.

The silence that followed held no tension, nevertheless  Jennifer  was  glad when Cammie, with childish directness inquired, “Where are the cakes?”

“Cammie....!” Jennifer began, but his lordship silenced her.

“I expect, Cammie pet, that if we go to the sitting room and send out to the kitchen wing we may expect to get some delicacies for you.”

“What’s del...i...?”

The Viscount chuckled. “Cakes. I promise you something good. All right?”

“All right,” replied the child with a satisfied smile.

Jennifer made a mental note. A few les-sons in manners were obviously in order.

“And you,” said Haverford, startling her with a sudden smile. “Surely you can use a cup of tea.”

“Yes, thank you,” Jennifer replied, hardly knowing what she said, conscious only that his eyes were gazing into hers.

They reached the sitting room and while Haverford summoned the butler and gave orders for refreshments for his guests the children stood shyly at her side. Thank goodness they had learned
some
manners, she thought. How embarrassing it would have been if they were still the wild young ones that had greeted her on her arrival. With an inward smile she thought of Peter-kins, now leading a life of spoiled tran-quility, unharassed by dark closets.

  Haverford dismissed the butler. “Here Miss Whitcomb, be seated.” He indicated a chair and she sank into it gratefully. For some unknown reason her knees did not want to bear her weight. The Viscount drew another chair close and settled into it. He gestured with a strong brown hand. “Outside the French window over there is a garden with a maze. Go and play. I’ll call you when the food arrives.”

Three pairs of eyes fastened on Jennifer, pleading silently for permission. With a smile she granted it and in a moment they were gone.

“A maze?” she asked. “I do not want them to get lost.”

“It’s quite small,” Haverford replied. “And cut low. I can easily fetch them out.”

Her concern for the children mitigated, she was at a loss for words. What had passed between them that morning was not to be spoken of. But with it lying be-tween them like that, almost like a tangible thing, she found it most difficult to speak of anything else.

The Viscount did not seem taken aback by this, but sat quietly watching her, a strange expression on his face. Jennifer concentrated on the joyful noise coming from the children as they romped in the garden. She was aware of his pensive gaze, indeed, every fiber of her being was aware of it. But she could not bring herself to face him and ask him to desist. After all, she was his guest. And there was nothing offensive in his look, only a kind of veiled emotion that she could not define.

  Finally she could bear it no longer and rose unsteadily to move to the window. The children could not be seen, but their merry voices spoke adequately of their pleasure. How much joy they took from life - those little ones.

She heaved a great sigh and swung around toward him again. But he had followed her to the window and when she turned she was brought face to face with him. The color flooded her cheeks and her hands fluttered to cover them.

“Do not be frightened of me,” his lordship said gently. “I shall not forget myself again.” His eyes sought her lips. “Though you must admit that the provocation is great.”

When she did not reply, his eyes narrow-ed speculatively. “Come, you are not fright-ened of me, are you?”

Jennifer shook her head. “No, no. I am not frightened.” How could she tell him that it was of herself she was frightened, of her foolish heart that insisted on forming a partiality for an unobtainable man?

“It....” She faltered, searching for the words.
“We behaved most improperly,” she said. “I quite realize that. And I am embar-rassed by my behavior.”

“There is no need,” he replied gravely. “The fault is mine. I took unwarranted lib-erties. Please forgive me.”

“There is nothing to forgive,” she insisted.

“I must bear the blame. I allowed you to....”

The Viscount took her trembling hands in his. “The fault was entirely mine,” he said sternly. “I encouraged you to trust me and then I betrayed that trust.”

“No!” Jennifer stopped. There seemed no-thing more she could say without disclosing feelings that must be kept hidden.

“I will not let you go on blaming your-self,” said Haverford sternly, still keeping her hands prisoner. “Come, admit that the fault was mine.”