Corey McFadden (11 page)

“Watercolor, mostly. I enjoy doing landscapes. And wherever I look here, I see something beautiful that I want to paint.”

The light from many candles sparkled deep in her brown eyes. There was such a freshness, an innocence to her that it almost took his breath away. There was no hint of Violet anywhere about her face. How could he have thought there was?

Eleanor and her lady friends were so jaded, so stale and brittle, he had almost forgotten that there were guileless, unspoiled creatures among the fairer sex.

“I would like to see your paintings. Did you bring any with you?”

“Just one that I did of the vicarage. I had to leave the others behind.” The sparkling light in her eyes dimmed a bit.

“Are you missing your home?” he asked gently, aware that he must tread lightly,

Joanna didn’t answer at once. A large lump had risen in her throat at the thought of Papa and the vicarage. Home. It wasn’t home anymore, yet it would never stop being the only home she really knew. Ahead of her, for the rest of her life, lay a series of posts, children to care for, but no home of her own. She reached for her coffee to cover the surge of sorrow that threatened her composure. She supposed it was the wine and the fact that he was being kind that made her feel so suddenly weepy. She took a deep breath, determined not to disgrace herself just as they had managed to get off to a good start.

“Never mind. I’m sorry,” Giles interposed quickly, seeing the little twist to her mouth and the shadow in her eyes as she fought for composure. I am such a lumbering ox, he thought to himself. Things were going so well and now I’ve made her sad.

“I will be here for a few days of forced convalescence, Miss Carpenter. Perhaps we could talk further after you’ve had more of a chance to observe the children.” He finished the last of his coffee, feeling awkward.

He wanted to talk about the children? She looked up and gave him a shy smile. Maybe she could interest him in their welfare. He no longer seemed like the cruel, cold man she had built up in her mind. Perhaps he could care enough to help her create an atmosphere of love and trust so that the little ones could grow and prosper. If she could do nothing else in this post, perhaps she could engender a little love between uncle and niece and nephew.

“That would be wonderful, Sir Giles. I’m sure I’ll be able to give you a good report in a few days. They are lovely children. They just need...” she trailed off, aware that she was once again about to insult his guardianship.

“Please give them whatever they need, Miss Carpenter,” he said, smiling. He rose and offered her his good arm and they made their way from the room. In the dark of the hallway they stood for the space of an awkward heartbeat.

“Well, good night, Sir Giles. Thank you for a pleasant evening,” Joanna murmured.

“Parts of it, anyway,” he answered with a smile.

With a slight curtsey, she turned and made her way up the stairs.

Gaining the sanctuary of her room, she sank again into the comfortable wing chair and stared at the quick sketch she had made of Lady Eleanor before going down to supper. The sketch was quite unlike her usual style. Indeed, had she not just done it herself, she would not have taken it for her own work. It was dark and cold, with a great deal of cruelty shadowed in the face.

Lady Eleanor was a monster, there was no doubt of it. There was just that something in the woman’s tone and in her look, something suggestive and malevolent, something that made Joanna uneasy and uncertain. But with luck she and the children could stay out of the woman’s way. Sir Giles, however...she found herself thinking of his brown eyes, the warm ones, not the icy ones. For some inexplicable reason she wanted to cry, but she fought down the urge. She was tired, after all, and it had been a difficult few weeks, to say the least. Surely things would seem better in the morning.

Shivering, she roused herself and made for the bowl of warmish water that sat on the washstand. At least she had the children to look forward to tomorrow. Although, if Lady Eleanor was planning to remain at home, it had better be a nice enough day to spend outside, away from the house. As Joanna raised a soaped cloth to her face, she began to plan a lovely day out of doors. They could study nature and they could do some drawing, and the sort of messy, splashy painting that children so love. Perhaps it would be wise to take a picnic and stay out all day. Finished with her ablutions, Joanna pulled the soft, well-worn nightgown over her head. She sank to her knees for her nightly chat with God...or was it Papa?

Chapter Six

Giles strode into his office in a foul temper. His shoulder was paining him to madness. He had slept little, finding no position even remotely comfortable, and no respite from the steady, throbbing pain. Last evening with Eleanor had not helped matters. He had retired to the library to read after supper and she had found him there. Her needling and carping about money he had long since learned to ignore, giving her extra allowance just to quiet her. But last night she had switched topics and hit a raw nerve. Didn’t Miss Carpenter have a naughty look in her eye, just like Violet? And that sweet little face—just like Violet. Why, Eleanor wouldn’t be at all surprised if Giles fell madly in love with the charming little governess. Just like Violet....

She had jabbed and taunted and told ribald stories about the antics of her debauched crowd. She did it deliberately, knowing he disapproved of her friends, knowing that he was embarrassed by her excesses and her proclivities. Finally, he’d slammed his book shut in disgust and bid her a curt good night, leaving her laughing a little too loudly, yet another brandy in her hand. Sometimes he wondered if she were quite sane.

This morning the room was dark with the gloom pervasive and peculiar to this blighted home. With a snarl he pulled back the draperies, wincing at the pain that ripped through his arm at the sudden movement. He shut his eyes against the brilliant light glinting off the sea, then opened them to take in the magnificent view. Gulls wheeled overhead and he could hear their insistent, piercing cries faintly through the heavy leaded-glass panes. He spotted a figure, wavering in the glass, standing on the bluff that overlooked the small beach below. Surprised, he opened the casement and leaned out.

It was the pretty little governess, Miss Carpenter, standing at an easel working at what appeared to be a painting. The wind seemed to be playing havoc with her bonnet. As he watched, he heard a shriek of laughter, then a head of blond curls appeared over the rise, followed by another child at top speed.

“Miss Carpenter! Tom’s got something nasty. Do take it from him!” came the girl’s voice, carrying in the breeze.

Indeed, the boy held out in front of him something clawed and wiggly as he chased his sister, gaining with every step.

“Oh, no you don’t, my little man,” Giles heard Joanna say as she halted Tom’s progress. Rather gingerly she pried the offensive object from the boy’s hand and with a wry face bent down and turned it loose.

“Let’s send him home to his children, Tom. He’ll be much happier down on the beach, don’t you think?” She held Tom’s hand while they watched the thing scuttle away. Emma seemed to make sure it was well gone before she returned to the fold.

“Race me back down to the beach, Tom,” Emma shouted, then took off as fast as her little legs could take her. Giles watched as the boy scurried after her, noting with surprise that the boy seemed to understand what had been said to him. Perhaps there was some hope, after all. Perhaps he should give some attention to the boy. It was not unheard of, after all, for these poor idiots to have more sense than the world gave them credit for. He closed the window and turned away. Suddenly the room seemed cramped and airless....

* * * *

Outside, Joanna watched fondly as the children tore down the path that led to the beach. They had no shoes on, and although she had insisted that they wear their least fancy outfits, they were much too well-dressed for beachcombing. If she was allowed to stay in this post, she would insist on having some real playclothes made. It was preposterous to dress up children like tiny adults all the time.

The gentle waves rolled to shore. The sound was soothing and the smell of the sea spray was exhilarating. She would never stop missing Little Haver, but there was something wonderful about the magnificent sea, a sight she had never thought to see in her life. She looked up from her easel and feasted her eyes on the rolling surf that pounded against the rocky sand of the little beach below her, bright in the late winter sun. It was a mild day. The breeze was brisk but not chill, and it held the alluring promise of spring soon to come. She heard the children squeal again with laughter. They must have found another poor, helpless beach creature, scrambling and stranded and at their mercy.

Joanna looked back at her canvas and grinned in satisfaction. Perhaps it was the glory of the seascape spread out before her, or perhaps it was the lovely innocence of two small children frolicking on the sand, but whatever it was, she was rather certain she had never painted anything better. The colors were right, soft but sure, reflecting the muted blue of the water and the brilliance of the sky. And the two little sketched-in figures, bent over with heads close together, spoke of such joy it was hard to believe they were the same two sad little ones she had just met a few days ago.

“You didn’t tell me you were such a fine painter, Miss Carpenter,” said a low voice behind her.

Whirling, she found herself staring into the brown eyes of Sir Giles.

“Oh, you startled me, sir. I had thought we were quite alone.” Joanna flushed, then looked quickly up at him. “Did we disturb you and Lady Eleanor, sir? We came out here this morning so that we wouldn’t make a racket, but I suppose the sound could carry up from the beach.” She stopped in confusion, realizing that there was no sign of annoyance in his eyes.

“Actually, you did disturb me, Miss Carpenter. I kept looking out of my window and seeing you all having such fun, and it was such a startling sight that I thought I had better investigate.” He smiled at her. Her hair was windblown, escaping naughtily from the adorable, almost girlish bonnet, utterly unstylish and all the more fetching for it. Her cheeks were a bright pink—from the wind, not from a rouge pot, he would bet his life on it. Her lovely brown eyes sparkled in the noonday sun. And intermingled with the mist of the salt spray he could catch a hint of a clean, fresh scent, a bit of lilac perhaps.

“I must apologize again for my stepsister’s—demeanor last night, Miss Carpenter. She is—rather unrestrained. I am sure that, as a vicar’s daughter, you are not used to this sort of thing.” He looked uncomfortable. Joanna took pity on him.

“Oh, to the contrary, Sir Giles. Little Haver, village that it is, has a rich variety of inhabitants. I hope you won’t judge me too provincial.” She had to stop short of adding the required observation that Lady Eleanor had been utterly charming last night. Social convention be hanged, the man was not a perfect idiot.

“Provincial? Now that you mention it, Miss Carpenter, I am hardly in a position to judge you provincial. Not when you consider how remote we are here.” His eyes found the sea, and Joanna could see a certain pleasure in their depths at the sight.

“I think this area is one of the most beautiful I have ever seen, Sir Giles. Well, that is”—she halted in some confusion, then plunged on—“of course, I’ve been nowhere else in my life, unless you count those dreadful coach rides to and from London. But you can’t really, because I was pressed in between so many people and the windows were mostly shuttered, so I could see nothing at all.” Oh, Lord, she was nattering on at him like a fool. So much for convincing him she was not a provincial ninny.

Giles watched as the flush spread across her cheeks. Now he could see that she wasn’t merely pretty. She was quite obviously beautiful. And there was no artifice about her—no white lead, no kohl, no rouge—not even any of the brittle, brilliant chatter that passed for conversation among his stepsister’s jaded set. He felt a certain stirring of warmth within him, pleasurable, but disconcerting too.

“I am glad you find it beautiful, Miss Carpenter. I may be prejudiced but I have seen a great deal of England and I still think we are quite exquisite here.” He paused, then added, almost as an afterthought, “Do the children nap in mid-afternoon? Would you like to ride out into the fells? I have several horses that might suit you.”

“Well,” she hesitated. She wasn’t much of a horsewoman, to be sure; indeed, she had never met a horse that showed her anything but contempt, but the chance of getting out into the countryside was not to be missed. It seemed she had been cooped up, one way or another, since she had first stepped into the coach for London. “I would really like that, Sir Giles, but I must confess I am not a good rider. Papa did not keep stables, you see, and so my experience is limited,” she finished, hoping he would accept her limitations and not withdraw the invitation.

“I have one particular horse that will suit you, I think. And she could use some exercise. She’s a fat, lazy thing and wouldn’t bolt on you even if she stepped on a hive of bees.”

“But can you ride with your shoulder all bandaged up? I imagine you cannot use that arm terribly well.”

Giles was bemused. He hadn’t given his shoulder a thought since he came outside. Now that she mentioned it, it did still hurt, but it was a distant, bearable pain, something he could ignore if he was otherwise occupied. “I can ride my horse with one arm,” he said. “But you must promise not to take off at a dead run and make me chase you.”

“You wouldn’t have far to chase, sir, because I would fall right off,” she said, smiling. She turned back to her painting and began to pack up her supplies.

“I see you have had a picnic,” he said, eyeing the basket. “Dare I ask if the cook packed any of that—ah, interesting dish we were served last night?”

Joanna laughed. “I was afraid she might have, so I asked Mrs. Davies about it this morning. Apparently there was a serious revolt at the servants’ table last night over that dish. It seems that Cook is of the ‘waste not, want not’ discipline, and when we wouldn’t eat it, she served it to the staff. There was quite a scene. She’s new, by the way, and Mrs. Davies allowed as how she had come from a rather frugal establishment. It seems the dish was made from the tops of all sorts of vegetables, cut up together, the kinds of greens one normally associates with fodder. Anyway, Cook went off to bed in a sniff and the green dish went out in the back for the dogs, and, according to Mick, the dogs have been trying to scratch dirt over it ever since.”