Winter Wonderland (15 page)

The boys greeted him warmly, and Mrs. Velacott gave him a polite good-day. “Do you like the chest part, Uncle Barney?” Maury asked. “George thinks it ought to be fatter.”

“I really couldn't say, Maury, because the snowman's not mine. Jamie says he's the one who started it, so wouldn't you say it's really his?”

Maury shrugged. “I s'pose so. Do you want the chest fatter, Jamie?”

Jamie motioned for his uncle to bend down, and with Barnaby kneeling, the two held a quick, whispered conference. Then Jamie turned back to his brothers. “No,” he said firmly. “If I want him fatter, I'll do it mythelf.”

“Oh, you will, will you?” objected George loudly. “That's showing a proper gratitude, I must say.”

“Why should he show gratitude?” Barnaby asked.

“Why? Because he couldn't even get the head on.”

“That's right,” Maury agreed. “If we didn't help, he'd have a headless snowman.”

“What if I
wanted
a headleth thnowman?” Jamie demanded, showing an unusual—and, to his uncle, a welcome—belligerence.

“You didn't want a headless snowman,” George insisted. “You were bawling your eyes out about it.”

“That's right, Jamie,” Miranda said gently. “Your brothers were only helping. It isn't right to be sullen when you should be grateful.”

Jamie, not knowing how to respond, turned his eyes up to Barnaby in confusion.

Barnaby glared at the governess. “Mrs. Velacott,” he said stiffly, “may I speak to you in private for a moment? And while we're conferring, Jamie, you tell George and Maury just what
you
want to do to the snowman. It's up to you to decide how they may help, if you want their help at all.”

He marched off across the field, Miranda obediently following. When they were out of hearing of the boys, Barnaby wheeled around. “Have you no feelings, ma'am?” he demanded angrily. “Didn't you see that child sitting all alone on a mound of snow, his snowman usurped by bigger and stronger powers and his joy in his creation destroyed?”

“Good heavens, Mr. Traherne,” she said, surprised by his vehemence, “must we have such a to-do over a snowman?”

“It is not over a snowman, ma'am, but over a method of upbringing. The child needs some understanding, and some encouragement to defend himself.”

“To defend himself from what?”

“From a pair of overbearing brothers.”

“You are misinterpreting the situation, sir, not having seen it from the beginning. Jamie was
crying
for their help. George and Maury are quite generous with Jamie. Protective, even. I've noticed it often. Today, they were happily building their fort when the child's crying interrupted them. They quite cheerfully gave up their own activity to help him with his. But instead of thanking them, Jamie began to whine. I cannot encourage whining.”

“Perhaps, ma'am, you might consider
why
the boy was whining. Has it not occurred to you that a child can be helped
too much?
That a headless snowman a boy builds
for himself
is a greater source of satisfaction than a better one someone else builds for him?”

Miranda stared at him, her expression suddenly thoughtful. “Yes, I
see
. Of course! What you're suggesting also explains something that happened yesterday. The child's self-confidence is being weakened by too much assistance from his brothers. I hadn't thought of that.”

“No, of course you hadn't,” Barnaby said with withering disdain. “What can a woman who has spent her life disporting herself in the ballrooms of London be expected to know about raising children?”

Miranda, who was already berating herself for not having understood what was now so obvious, did not need another abusive voice added to her own. Every muscle in her body tensed.
“Disporting
myself? What on earth are you talking about?” she demanded angrily. “What can you know about how I spent my life?”

“I know enough,” he said. “Enough to be convinced that Jamie's mother has not been very wise in her choice of governess.” And with that withering set-down, he turned about and stomped off to see what he could do to assist Jamie in asserting his rights to the snowman.

Miranda stared after him, her blood pumping through her veins in furious tumult. It was not fear of losing her position that caused this turmoil, for Delia had promised to give her support while she learned her job. It was Barnaby Traherne who upset her. Why was this man, who was so kind and affectionate to everyone else, so bitterly vituperative to her? True, he'd been wiser than she in the matter of Jamie, but she'd given him his due. She'd
admitted
her lack of insight. Was her error so great as to deserve that sort of reprimand?
Jamie's mother has not been very wise in her choice of governess
, indeed! Who was he to judge? How many children had
he
raised?

He may have been in the right this once, but that was no excuse to insult her. Confound the man, he invariably managed to raise her ire! It was getting so that, every time she saw him, she had an overpowering urge to box his ears.

Fifteen

A footman had been sent to the abandoned stagecoach and had recovered what was left of the baggage. For some reason, Barnaby's battered portmanteau had not been opened, so all the items of clothing he'd brought were restored to him. Miranda's things, on the other hand, had been rifled through and either stolen or scattered about. Most of her underthings were recovered, but only two of her gowns were returned to her. One was a shabby, gray-and-white-striped linsey-woolsey, suitable for the schoolroom but much too workaday for Christmas Eve dinner with the family.

Her only other dress, aside from the slate-blue kerseymere she'd worn every day since she left home, was a green ballgown made of lustring so luxurious that Miranda wondered why the highwaymen had not taken it. It was, in its opposite way, as inappropriate as the linsey-woolsey, for it had a shockingly low décolletage, a tendency to cling, a long train, and it was trimmed at the neck, sleeves and hem with gold-tasseled lace so exquisite that no one would believe a governess could afford it. A particularly daring guest might wear the gown, but a governess could not.

She was in a quandary. Tonight, Christmas Eve, was to be festive. She had not attended a festive occasion for years, so she felt unduly excited at the prospect of attending the dinner. She yearned to put off the blue muslin for one evening, but she had nothing else to wear but the ballgown. If she snipped off the tasseled lace, she wondered, and cut off the train, would the green lustring be passable? It might, she decided, if she covered her bare shoulders with a shawl.

Hurriedly, for she had very little time to spare, she made the adjustments to the gown. Then she removed her widow's cap and took down her hair. She'd worn it pulled severely back into a knot all these days, and well hidden under the cap, but tonight she would let it show. She brushed it up into the style she'd favored in her younger days; called
à la Grecque
, it required that the longer hair be caught up in the back and the shorter left free to curl round the face. Then she slipped into the gown, threw a dark green paisley shawl (the item she was most grateful the highwaymen had spared) over her shoulders and, without daring to look at herself in the mirror, ran out to gather the boys.

All three of the children were resplendent in manly coats, starched shirts and neatly folded neckcloths, their faces scrubbed and shining, and their hair pomaded into unrecognizable neatness. It was no wonder, for they'd been dressed this evening by no less a personage than Terence's own valet. She was about to exclaim over their appearance when George, taking his first glimpse of her, exclaimed, “Crikes!”

Maury stared for a moment, mouth agape, and then said, “Double crikes!”

“What does that mean?” Miranda asked, kneeling down to straighten Jamie's collar.

Jamie put his arms about her neck and whispered in her ear, “It meanth your hair is pretty.”

“
Everything
is pretty,” George said, beaming at her.

“Very, very pretty,” Maury said, taking her hand.

“And so are the three of you. Handsome as can be in your fine coats and neckcloths. But we must remember that handsome is as handsome does. So please, Maury, don't slurp your soup. And George, make your bow to Lady Shallcross first. Come along now, quickly. We don't want to be late.”

Everyone had gathered in the drawing room for preprandial sherry. The fire crackled merrily, the wreath over the mantel looked appropriately festive, and the guests sparkled in holiday finery. Honoria, in purple velvet, sat close to the fire and sipped her drink, watching Barnaby from the corner of her eye. She was quite delighted at the attention he'd been paying to her shy little protégée, but tonight Livy looked particularly lovely, and Honoria wanted to see the effect on him. The girl was dressed in a soft, rose-colored evening gown of Florentine silk that seemed to reflect its color upon her cheeks. Her delicate features glowed in the candlelight and her golden curls made a halo round her face. If Barnaby was not completely smitten by this charmer, Honoria thought, she would have to give him up as a hopeless case.

But Barnaby did indeed seem to be admiring the girl. He was at this very moment handing her a glass of sherry and making some sort of flattering comment about her appearance, because the girl simpered and colored charmingly. As Honoria watched, however, Barnaby chanced to look across the room, and his entire expression changed. Honoria followed his glance. In the doorway stood Miranda Pardew, wearing a clinging green gown almost exactly like the one she'd worn at the Lydell ball so many years ago.
Good God!
Honoria thought.
She's almost as breathtaking as she was then, drat her!

Barnaby must have thought so too, for the expression on his face was not unlike the one he'd had when he'd first laid eyes on her: wide-eyed adoration. Nor was he the only man in the room to react. Terence immediately crossed to her, saying, “Mrs. Velacott, you are a vision!”

Harry, who'd been seated next to Lady Isabel on one of the sofas, jumped to his feet to second the compliment, but a glance at his betrothed was enough to stay his tongue. He sank back down and said nothing.

The Earl, married too long not to know what his wife was thinking, merely exchanged a meaningful glance with Honoria.
She really
is
a vixen
, they said with their eyes.

Miranda, who recognized male admiration when she saw it, realized too late that she'd made too flamboyant an entrance for a proper governess. Her cheeks grew hot. “The
boys
are the vision,” she said, gently urging them forward.

Honoria, swallowing her irritation, smiled and rose eagerly from her chair. “So they are,” she said, holding out her arms to them. “Did you ever see three such handsome young gentlemen? Here, I'm going to place myself under the mistletoe, and you three must give me a kiss.”

Delia and Isabel also rose and, amid much horrified squealing from the bashful Jamie and noisy laughter from the others, demanded their share of the boys' embraces. In the midst of this liveliness, Cummings came in to announce dinner. “Lawrence,” Honoria ordered, “you must claim the honor of taking Livy in to dinner, since she looks so particularly lovely this evening. Livy, dear, take my husband's arm.”

The Earl smiled obediently and started toward the girl's chair. As he passed his wife, he muttered sotto voce, “What are you up to?”

“I must talk to Barnaby,” she whispered back. She then took it upon herself to direct the pairing-off of the rest of the group, assigning Harry to escort Delia, Terence to usher Isabel, and the three boys to see to their governess. “And you, Barnaby, may take
my
arm.”

The parade passed into the dining room, but Honoria held Barnaby back. “Wait a moment,” she murmured, taking him aside. “I want to talk to you.”

Barnaby looked down at her with upraised brows. “You seem agitated, my dear. What's troubling you?”

“The governess, of course. Barnaby, my love, do you know who she is?”

“Yes, of course. Why do you ask?”

Honoria gasped in astonishment. “You
knew
she's … she's
Miranda Pardew
?”

“I knew who she was from the moment I set eyes on her on the stage. I suppose it was her appearance tonight that triggered your memory.”

“Her appearance tonight, in that absolutely
shocking
gown, certainly
would
have triggered my memory, but Lawrence and I recognized her that first evening. I didn't know that you, also, knew her identity. Why didn't you say something to me?”

“What was there to say? Her identity is of no importance, is it?”

Honoria gazed up at him nonplussed. “But, Barnaby, doesn't it trouble you at all to find that … that
baggage
in the same house with you?”

“Not a bit. I admit to a certain curiosity about her reasons for taking a post as a governess—a post for which one would imagine she's eminently unsuited—and for dropping her title, but I am otherwise unaffected by her presence.”

Those words were just what Honoria had prayed to hear. She expelled a deep breath of relief. But Miranda's presence still troubled her. “Do you think she's up to something havey-cavey?” she asked.

“If she is, I can't imagine what it could be. Why are you so distrustful of her?”

“I don't know. I never liked her. Why is she pretending to be a governess? And if she's not pretending, then what sort of governess brings her charges down to dine wearing a gown that would raise eyebrows in a ballroom?”

“Would it?” Barnaby asked innocently. “It seemed perfectly acceptable to me. Come, my dear, let's go in before the others begin to wonder what's keeping us.” He took her arm and led her toward the dining room. “And as for our Miranda, what harm can she do? I wouldn't give her another thought, if I were you.”