Rules of Surrender (6 page)

”I’m very impressed.“ Charlotte knelt beside the girl and used a rag with more efficiency. ”Has your father taught you how to read?“

”I know how to read,“ Robbie said.

”You do not.“ Leila’s accent, too, was stronger than her father’s, but the girl’s high, clear voice could be trained. ”You just recognize a word sometimes.“

”I’m better than you.“

”I can do it; I just don’t want to.“

Charlotte righted the table and stacked the broken pieces of porcelain on the surface. ”Of course you don’t. But I know how to, and I have a book you might like.“

”Not if I have to read it,“ Leila said truculently.

”No, I’ll read it to you.“ Charlotte yielded, setting her trap without a trace of conscience.

Rising, she went to her bag. Most of the contents were scattered across the floor. The clothes she brought in case the servants didn’t get around to bringing up her trunks—until correctly trained, servants failed to succor the governess—her slate, her mobile secretary with her papers and quills and a few very carefully selected books. She picked up the one with the green leather binding and looked around the large, sunny, east-facing bedchamber.

The best place for the three of them would be in the window seat. The window popped out over the flower garden, and the seat boasted a padding done in the same pattern and luxurious material as the counterpane on the bed and the curtains at the windows. The extra cushions each boasted a different solid jewel color that picked up a thread of the pattern.

”Come, children.“ Charlotte led them to the window seat and placed herself in the middle so Robbie and Leila could snuggle on either side of her. While they struggled to appropriate a sufficient number of back cushions, she thoroughly checked out her bedchamber.

The room wasn’t in the nursery wing which usually housed the governess, the nursery maid and the children. Charlotte’s bedchamber was on the second floor, furnished in the height of elegance. The wallpaper was a pale green and gold stripe. Two large, fringed Aubusson rugs rested on the floor on either side of the tall bed so when Charlotte rose, her feet didn’t touch the cold floor. Two chairs and a settle had been arranged to form a little sitting area in front of the fireplace—another luxury which Charlotte had not enjoyed since leaving her uncle’s house.

If only Charlotte knew why. For some reason she felt as if she were being bribed.

But why? Charlotte couldn’t imagine what further challenge she could face with these children. They appeared to be mathematically advanced, reading deficient, unmannerly, rebellious and very intelligent. Thus teachable.

”What’s the book?“ Leila asked.

”It’s new. I have only just read it myself, and I’ve been told there are more stories to come.“ Charlotte smoothed the leather cover of her newest, most precious acquisition. ”It’s call
The Arabian Nights’ Entertainments.“

”What’s it about?“ Robbie had picked up the slide rule and appeared to be manipulating it with a fair amount of intelligence.

Charlotte guessed if left to himself, he would fathom the instrument she had so struggled to master. She could only hope he had not already learned algebra and geometry, or she would be burning the midnight candle to stay ahead of him.

Opening the book, she said, ”It is about a very clever lady and the stories she tells.“

”Mama used to tell us stories,“ Robbie said. ”Leila doesn’t remember Mama. She was little when she died.“

Charlotte didn’t know if it was proper to be interrogating a child, but she found herself inexorably curious. ”How little?“

”She was three. I was seven.“ His mouth trembled for a moment, then firmed. ”I remember her.“

”Then she lives on in your heart,“ Charlotte said gently.

”What do you mean?“ Leila asked.

”She means I can still see her if I close my eyes.“ Robbie sounded impatient, but Charlotte suspected the impatience was feigned. ”Mama was little and fat and she smiled at me all the time.“

”Did she smile at me?“ Leila asked.

”You, too.“

”She liked me.“ Leila sounded triumphant. ”Where’s your mama, Lady Miss Charlotte?“

Charlotte hesitated to correct the child about her title. It was wrong, of course, but it had a charm about it, and besides, it might be unwise to contradict the child’s father. ”My mother is dead, too.“ Foreseeing the next question, she added, ”And my father. But they died when I was eleven, so I was lucky. I had them longer than you had your mother.“

”Lucky,“ Leila echoed.

Charlotte pressed her hand on the clean white page with the crisp black print. ”Now, shall we read?“

”I’m really not good at mathematics.“ Wynter stared blankly at the thick ledger his cousin Stewart had spread before him, then looked up at the group of black-suited gentlemen sitting on either side of the long table in the London offices of Ruskin Shipping. ”Won’t you explain it to me?“

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Stewart’s fingers clench the edge of the leather bindings. Mr. Hodges turned so red Wynter suspected apoplexy. Mr. Read made a roll of the papers before him. Sir Drakely stroked his mustache to cover his smirk. And Mr. Shilbottle suffered a fit of coughing.

Wynter widened his eyes and raised his gaze to Stewart. ”Is there a problem?“

In only a week Stewart would be fifty-seven, and he showed every day of his age. His thin, tall frame was stooped, his brown hair was thinning, and the tip of his nose drooped over his thin lips. Yet Wynter’s earliest memory of his cousin was not really much different. Stewart had been born old. Still his eyes were kind, if exasperated, as he answered, ”Not at all, cousin. Only that… it’s difficult to give an arithmetic lesson right now. If you’d told me sooner…“

Wynter beamed at his board of directors and deliberately played the fool. ”But you can tell me about the profits. That’s all that really needs to concern me. And you can advise me on what is happening in the company. After all, isn’t that what you’re here for?“

Drakely glanced at Stewart’s white knuckles and apparently decided someone needed to take action. ”Yes, yes, of course that’s what we’re here for. It’s just that your mother took a little more active interest in the workings of the company and we thought that you… And of course your father!“

Wynter asked, ”Oh. Was he good at mathematics?“

Now Drakely was reduced to shock. ”He was… Lord Ruskin was…“

Shilbottle, a gentleman of about sixty with a face that looked like wadded cotton wool, decided to step in. ”It was well-known Lord Ruskin could glance at a row of figures and cipher them immediately. Why, his lordship ran this company single-handedly. When I first signed on as a coal carrier fifty-two years ago, he knew everyone’s name and function, and he was the first man to recognize my potential and give me a chance. Your father was a saint, boy.“

”A saint.“ Wynter possessed very clear memories of visiting the office with his wise and wicked father, and he knew that it had taken death to elevate his father to sainthood, and then only among those given to delusion. ”I never heard my father called that before. But while he might have closely supervised the company, things have changed since his day.“

”I’ll say.“ Hodges patted the belly that protruded below his silk waistcoat. ”I signed on not long after Lady Ruskin took up the reins. What a time that was. She so lovely and grieving the loss of her husband and son—you weren’t dead, of course, but she was suffering anyway.“

Everyone around the table took a moment to glare at Wynter.

He stared back blandly and wondered which of his mother’s ardent proponents had taken advantage and embezzled from her.

Taking up the tale, Hodges continued, ”There were a couple of rotters in the organization then, men who would have willingly taken advantage of such a beautiful lady, but your mother fooled them.“ He waggled his finger. ”She’s not as fluff-brain… er… she’s not the fragile flower of womanhood she appears. Those cads never suspected a thing until they were dragged before the magistrate!“

The man was clearly in love with Adorna, and from the fond smiles all around, Wynter knew his mother held the others in thrall, too. Thank God for Adorna’s ability to cloud men’s minds with her charm; it was that which had saved the family fortune when he’d been a damn fool boy and run off to seek adventure.

Yet he wondered at these men; did it not occur to them
he
was not as fluff-brained as
he
appeared? Did they really believe his sojourn in Arabia had diminished his intelligence? It seemed all Englishmen imagined one had to attend Oxford, dress in black and breathe the air of Britain to understand the workings of business. Business, he could have informed them, varied not a whit anywhere in the world.

He said nothing. Let them discover the truth at their peril.

”My mother is indeed a gem sparkling with color and grace in the wastelands of the English desert.“

The black-frocked gentlemen shifted uncomfortably in their seats, and Wynter barely restrained a grin. The English were so pedestrian in their language; all he had to do was speak with a slight lyric license and the men snorted like geldings about to bolt.

Poetry was a useful tool.

Also amusing in a man who found too little amusing about British society.

”But Lady Ruskin, of course, is willing to trust my judgment completely and encourages me to take up the reins without bridling me with unwanted guidance.“ Wynter stood. The others scrambled to their feet. ”Just as I trust your judgment. To give you gentlemen ease of mind, I’ll take these books into my office, but in thirty minutes I have a rendezvous with an old friend. I really can’t be bothered to examine the accounts closely.“ Deliberately he pushed his hair behind his ears, flashing his earring, and in the shocked silence that fell, he left the room. He had not gone far down the corridor toward his office when he heard the burst of laughter, hastily smothered.

It seemed the English businessmen thought not only his intellect, but also his hearing were deficient. Reaching the luxurious office which had formerly housed both his father and his mother, he shut the door behind him. Taking the ledger to his desk, he sat down and began to page through, totaling each column in his mind—just as his father had taught him.

Dear Hannah and Pamela,

Lady Ruskin has graciously allowed me the privilege of posting a letter to you, my dearest friends and confidantes, and so I am writing to let you know of the events of the past three weeks.

First let me assuage your worry. I have not had contact with any of the inhabitants of Porterbridge Hall, and have in fact even avoided attending church in Wesford Village on the pretext of waiting until the children are ready to be presented. This is, of course, the grossest cowardice on my part. My only excuse is the thought of meeting those familiar, contemptuous faces makes me writhe, and my punishment is that the fear of meeting one of my cousins or my aunt or, God forbid, my uncle hovers over me like a miasma. You are the only ones to whom I can speak of these matters.
In truth it is difficult for the to breathe the air of Surrey at all. I knew it should not be, but here I find myself rebelling against the hopelessness and loneliness stretching before me where before I was resigned.
I assure you all will be well and you are not to worry.

The situation when I arrived at Austinpark Manor was much as Lady Ruskin had informed us. The children have been given freedom far beyond the age when English children had been introduced to the classroom, and the smallest and most seemingly simple situation must be explained to them. For instance
— I
had to tell Robbie and Leila that the proper way to sit in a hard-backed chair was not to lay on the floor and put their heels in the seat. Leila explained it was possible to learn in that position.

Dear friends! I do not want you to think she spoke in an impertinent manner. These children are not impertinent. Indeed, they seemed to have an innate kindness toward others that made their courtesy automatic, and their curiosity and good humor make them a joy to teach. Yet in the matters of which fork to use, how low to bow, and most especially in the subtleties of conversation, they founder. It seems odd that the subjects which I have so seldom taught
—
mathematics, the sciences, language, geography
—I
now teach easily, but the one subject for which I am famous I continue to fail.

But I digress. I explained to the children that while they lolled on the floor facing the ceiling, they could not see the map or the long strip of paper with its carefully drawn letters or the slateboard where I conjugate French and Latin verbs. Robbie agreed they couldn’t see with their feet, so now the children sit correctly in their chairs. Yes, my dears, I am challenged, but pleasurably so.

Much to my relief, since my arrival, their father has spent most of his time in London with Lady Ruskin. Ah, but you didn’t know the father was alive, did you? Or perhaps
I
made an assumption which you did not. He is very much in existence. I report to him once a week and he is most thorough in his examination of me. He is also most fond of Robbie and Leila, eating breakfast with them whenever he is here. While I am pleased to have a parent who so embraces his children’s development, I am at the same time frustrated with their behavior after they dine with him. Lord Ruskin, you see, is a consummate barbarian…

CHAPTER 6

Charlotte finished the latest story in
The Arabian Nights’ Entertainments,
shut the book, and leaned back in her chair. ”Did you enjoy that one as much as the others?“

She already knew the answer. Wynter’s children sat at her feet, seeing the world as a place of excitement and anticipation, where anything was possible, even flying carpets and magic caves filled with treasure.

Although Charlotte knew she was making a mistake, she occasionally allowed herself to share their excitement.

Rising, she tucked her book into her carpetbag. ”It’s a beautiful day, and it would be good for you to encounter the experience of outdoor dining.“ She straightened the plain starched white collar and cuffs that decorated her blue serge gown, and as she hoped, they imitated her, standing and straightening their clothing. Robbie looked neat and clean in his black trousers and small jacket, but Leila… Charlotte suppressed a sigh. When Leila wore an outfit, she
wore
an outfit. Her skirt of pink dimity was wrinkled beyond repair, and she frowned at the ink smudge that decorated her right sleeve. But she brushed at her skirt and poked stands of her hair back into her braid.