Amanda Scott (34 page)

“N-no,” Sylvia said doubtfully. After a moment, her face cleared, and she said, “Abandoned means having no one to take care of her, d-doesn’t it? Like when a mama b-bird abandons her fledglings to look after themselves?”

“Why, yes, that is just what it means,” Anne said, hoping that the same Almighty who looked after innocent children would forgive her for the slight deception.

“Then Mama was wrong to think she would have to go to such a place,” Sylvia said. “She could never have b-been thought to have b-been abandoned while she had Papa and Andrew and me.”

Recognizing that she would be wrong to encourage this line of thought, Anne racked her brain once again for a response that would be acceptable to the child without being even more at odds with her own principles of truth. Before she could think of one, however, Sylvia said thoughtfully, “D-did Mama know that what she stirred into the cup would make her d-die? People said that she k-killed herself. Did she, Aunt Anne?”

“People ought not to have said such things where you could hear them,” Anne said, vexed but not very much surprised.

“I think it was like Moffat said, and they forgot I c-could hear because they knew I couldn’t speak. But did she really kill herself? I wish she had not, and since she was not abandoned, she needn’t have. Was it not a wicked thing to do?”

Tears stinging her eyes again, Anne said gently, “I can’t explain it all to you, darling, but there must always be a better way to solve one’s difficulties. We don’t know exactly what happened. Only your mama knew that, and she cannot tell us more than what she wrote in this letter, which was not very much.”

“No, it wasn’t,” Sylvia agreed. After a pause, she looked uneasily at Anne and said, “Are you v-vexed with me for keeping it? Must I show it to Uncle Michael?”

Giving her a hug, Anne said, “No, I am not vexed. You did what you thought you had to do at the time, and that is all that matters. As for showing it to Uncle Michael, we must certainly tell him that you have found your voice again, but I think that for the moment, if you like, we can continue to keep the letter’s contents private between us.” Her conscience pricked her, but she needed time to think about the contents of that letter—particularly the mysterious reference to
Lord M
—before sharing them with anyone, least of all Lord Michael.

Sylvia was plainly relieved. “I’m g-glad,” she said. “Can I sleep in your bed again tonight?”

“May I?” Anne corrected automatically. Then, smiling at how quickly she had gone from being delighted at hearing the child’s speech to correcting it, she said, “You have had an upsetting time of it tonight, so if you will feel better sleeping in my bed, you certainly may do so.”

She put out the light then, and with Sylvia’s hand tucked in hers, went with the child back to her own chambers, where, to her dismay, she found Michael waiting for her in her dressing room.

He had been standing, gazing abstractedly into the fireplace as he frequently seemed to do when he wanted to think quietly, but he turned at once and looked with disfavor at Sylvia, saying flatly, “That child should be in bed.”

“She is going to bed,” Anne replied, “in my room.”

“I see.”

“Where is Maisie?”

“I told her you would not require her services tonight.”

“Oh.” She glanced from the child to Michael and back again, and decided that the first order of business was to banish the look of anxiety that had leapt to Sylvia’s face the moment she saw him. “I promised Sylvia that she could sleep in my bed tonight, sir. I am sorry if that vexes you, but I do believe in keeping my word, especially to children.”

“It does not vex me to know that you try to keep your word, sweetheart. That must be accounted a virtue in anyone. But unless you also promised Sylvia that you would sleep in that bed with her, and that at once, I will request some few moments of your time in my dressing room. I have something to say to you.”

His even tone of voice gave her no indication of the state of his temperament, but she was certain, after the scene she had witnessed between him and Andrew in the library, that she would be wise not to test it. To Sylvia, she said, “I do not precisely recall what I promised you, darling, but a wife, you know, must generally do her husband’s bidding. Moreover, I also have news for Uncle Michael, do I not? I will tuck you in before I go, of course, and you will be quite safe here until I return.”

A small frown creased the child’s forehead when Anne mentioned having news for Michael, but she turned obediently toward the high bed, jumped in without assistance, and let Anne draw the covers to her chin. Aware that Michael was close behind her, Anne bent to kiss one soft cheek, murmuring, “Good night, darling. Sleep well.”

“Good night, Sylvia,” Lord Michael said over Anne’s shoulder. “We’ll be just in the next room, you know, if you should chance to become frightened.”

“I won’t. G-good night, Uncle Michael.”

Hearing his gasp, Anne said swiftly, “That is what I wanted to tell you, sir. Sylvia has recovered her voice. No, no, do not tax her about it now, if you please,” she added, seeing questions leaping to his lips. “She has been talking for the past half hour, and will no doubt have a sore throat tomorrow from the exertion, which is precisely why I want to let her sleep in here. If Nurse Moffat were to learn the good news at once, she would question her till midnight. But let us go now, so that she can sleep, and I will soon tell you the whole.”

Relieved when he did not oppose her, Anne waited only until he moved toward the door before bending down to murmur near the child’s ear, “Don’t fly into a fidget, love, I won’t tell him anything but exactly how you came to speak to me.”

“But he will make—”

Anne silenced her with a finger to her lips. “Hush now,” she said. “Trust me, and go to sleep. Yes, I’m coming,” she added when he turned in the doorway to see what was keeping her.

No sooner was the door shut than Michael said abruptly, “How long have you known of this turn of events?”

She looked calmly back at him and said, “You must know that I just learned of it myself.”

“For all I know, you have been chatting with her for weeks. I scarcely ever see her, after all.”

Anne said nothing. Neither of them had taken a seat, and she stood now, facing him, wondering if he meant to conduct the entire conversation from just inside the door and wondering, too, just how long she would be able to avoid telling him all she had learned from Sylvia.

He said with a sigh, “Those last remarks were both petulant and unfair, and I beg your pardon. You have never given me cause to believe you would keep any secret from me, let alone one of such magnitude as that. Why are you looking at me like that?”

Feeling her conscience stir again, because she did mean to keep at least one secret from him—at least until she had determined for herself that it was safe to tell him—she cocked her head, and said, “I had begun to wonder if you really wanted an explanation or if your whole intent in seeking me out was to force a quarrel on me, but now you have quite taken the wind out of my sails by apologizing.”

He looked rueful. “I certainly don’t want to quarrel with you. In point of fact, I came in search of you because I wanted to apologize for something else. You were quite right before to try to check me when I began taking Andrew to task. I am sorry now that I did not heed you, and I wanted to tell you so.”

If his first apology had surprised her, the second caught her off guard completely. She had accused him of wanting to quarrel with her more out of a wish to give herself time to think, and to divert his thoughts from Sylvia, than from any desire to take him to task. Having learned in her dealings with her siblings that if she forced one combatant in a dispute to defend himself against a minor, unrelated charge, she could sometimes get him or her to think more sensibly about the major one, she had attempted the same tactic with Michael.

“You surprise me, sir.”

“Do I? You must think me nearly as arrogant as Andrew if I can surprise you merely by offering an apology when one is due.”

“Oh, no,” she said, “just stubborn, and a little inflexible at times, perhaps.”

“I will not say you are wrong about that, Anne. Tonight showed me just how foolish I can be not to heed your advice where the children are concerned.”

“I suppose you thrashed him,” she said. “He deserved it, perhaps, but I wish you had not.”

“Then your wish has been granted. Your abrupt departure from the room stopped me in my tracks and made me take a good look at myself, and I confess, I did not like what I saw when I did. Andrew had already thrown me one leveler by calling that woman the first real friend he has had, and saying he feels more valued in her house than in his own, but when he became insolent, he made me as mad as fire. For some reason, he has a knack for stirring my temper even more quickly than his father could.”

“You simply don’t tolerate insolence, and I am sure no one can wonder at that. From all I have heard about the late duke, surely he did not tolerate it either.”

“No,” Michael said. “At least, in my own experience of him, I can say he did not. And though I rarely saw the two of them together—for I was away most of the time, you know—I doubt if Edmund accepted insolence from Andrew, but I doubt, too, that any was offered. As near as I can make out, Edmund never denied him anything. You have seen how the servants bow and scrape to him, as if he were a prince of the blood royal—although, come to think of it, I’m persuaded that Bagshaw, at least, would consider the present royal family to be much lower in consequence than the Duke of Upminster. That’s better,” he added when she smiled. “I was beginning to think you would not smile at me tonight.”

The look in his eyes was a warm one, and she knew from her reaction to it that she would have to take care if she was not to reveal to him everything she had learned about the duchess’s death. Drawing a steadying breath, she said matter-of-factly, “Since the servants have taken their cue from their late master, and from Bagshaw, of course, and since Lord Ashby, too, is always reminding Andrew of his vast consequence, surely you understand that his dignity is very large, sir, and fragile, as well. I am very glad you did not thrash him. That scene was humiliating for him, and quite painful enough to bear without that.”

“It became more painful,” he said grimly, “for I did not spare him the tongue-lashing he deserved, and the punishment I gave him will last a good deal longer than a thrashing.”

“What did you do?”

“Aside from making it plain that his association with the unsuitable Mrs. Flowers is absolutely over, I have forbidden him to ride or to fish for a week, and ordered him to double his study hours with Pratt for that same length of time. Despite the fact that he threatened to show me that I am not his master, he will think twice before he shouts at me again, I believe.”

Anne was not so sure, but although she hoped Michael would eventually learn to resist such authoritarian tactics with the boy, she was too much relieved to learn that Andrew had escaped more painful punishment, to take issue over what she still believed were overstrict penalties for the offense. Andrew had stepped beyond the line of polite behavior, certainly, but it was no wonder to her that he had responded so quickly and emotionally to Mrs. Flowers’s treatment or her offer of friendship, and she thought his hot words should have been, if not forgiven, at least dealt with in a more tactful and understanding manner.

Michael’s present attitude made it clear that she was beginning to gain some influence over him, and she could hope to gain more as the days progressed. Therefore, she said, “I think you will not be sorry you were lenient, sir. Andrew, in his own way, is nearly as sensitive as Sylvia, I think.”

“I cannot agree with you there, but I won’t argue either,” Michael said, drawing a sofa up before the fire and gesturing for her to sit down. “Tell me about Sylvia now. You could have knocked me over with a feather when she said good-night to me.”

“I believe you, for I had an even stronger reaction when she spoke to me,” Anne said, remembering the drink she had spilled. When he sat down beside her, she went on, “To say that she startled me would be an understatement, for I did not even realize she had followed me into my room, or that she stood right behind me. I thought I was alone, and when she saw me stir a dose of hartshorn into a cup and raise it to my lips, she said, ‘Don’t drink that, Aunt Anne, or you will fall asleep and never wake up.’ I dropped the cup and nearly jumped out of my skin.”

“I am glad to know she has such deep concern for you. She mistook your hartshorn for laudanum, I daresay, and has heard someone warned against taking too large a dose. Why were you taking the stuff?”

“That has nothing to do with Sylvia.”

“It has much to do with you, however,” he said, settling himself more comfortably beside her. “I want to hear all about Sylvia, but first I want to know why you felt obliged to dose yourself with hartshorn.”

“Well, if you must know, I had a headache.”

“Poor Anne.” He stroked her hair, gently. “Have you still got it? Shall I rub your head for you?”

She realized that her headache was gone, and much though the thought of him rubbing her temples appealed to her, she said firmly, “I am quite well, sir. Once away from the cause …” She paused meaningfully.

He sighed. “Very well, you have convinced me that I do not want to hear more about this headache. Tell me about Sylvia.”

“There is little more to tell. Once she had spoken, she seemed to have no difficulty, other than a slight stammer from time to time, in continuing to speak. One would think her vocal cords would have become weak from lack of use.”

“Apparently, they did not. But why on earth has she remained silent for so long? I should have thought such a feat far beyond the power of any child.”

“She did not do so of her own desire, sir. She—” Anne broke off, perceiving that an explanation would not be as simple as she had hoped. She was tempted to unburden herself to him completely, for sitting there beside him, she could no more imagine him a villain than she could imagine any one of her siblings in the same role. But she was wise enough to realize that a villain might well be as charming as Michael was, if only to gain his own nefarious ends, and she knew she would be wiser to keep her peace until she had at least attempted to learn more about the duchess’s accusations against the late duke.