Schooling the Viscount Read online

  She stepped through the kitchen and down the hall to the front room. Her father was sitting up in bed, his spectacles sliding down his nose, a worn book between his gnarled hands. All those years of weaving as a boy and after he left the army had left him arthritic. It was almost a mercy when the local wool trade collapsed and his hands could be still.

  “What are you reading, Dad?”

  “A history book. They got it all wrong, of course.”

  “We—we have a visitor. The Guest. Lord Challoner.”

  Her father closed the book with a snap. “What does that young jackanapes want with us? Doesn’t he have the sense God gave him? He’s not wanted here.”

  “You may not want him, but he wants you. He’s asking to talk to you. He says he has an idea.”

  Pete Everett snorted. “I’d be very surprised if that idler’s brain could support one.”

  “Dad, you’re being unfair. He was an officer.”

  “Exactly. Don’t get me started on officers.”

  “They can’t all be alike,” Rachel reasoned. “He’s in the garden. The alley, actually. Should I ask him to come inside?” Truth to tell, Rachel was a little embarrassed about the state of the front room. It still sported a couple of chairs, but her father’s bed and dresser took up most of the space.

  “I’m not dressed, damn it. The man wrecked my night and now my day. Can’t a fellow relax in his own home?” her father grumbled. “I’ll see him in the garden in five minutes. You’d best make yourself scarce before there’s any talk.”

  Rachel kissed her father’s cheek. “I’ll go to the bakery. Is there anything you’d like?”

  “Gingerbread. I haven’t had any since Christmas.”

  That would be Rachel’s fault. It was hard to bake regularly and write lesson plans and grade papers at the same time, plus keep the house tidy. And sing in the choir and do the altar flowers and sew her own clothes as well as items for charity in the women’s sewing circle and meet with her book club every week. Rachel was as busy as she could be, to fill up all the empty corners that sometimes bedeviled her. Her friends had left Puddling, her schoolgirl crush had died, and though she loved her father dearly, he didn’t always understand.

  She scooped out some coins from a cracked teacup on the kitchen shelf and took off her apron and kerchief. A quick look in the mirror by the door told her she looked as tired as she felt. Her hair had been flattened by the scarf, and her gray work dress did her no favors.

  If Wallace Sykes had lived, would she be his wife by now, pampered and cosseted? Highly unlikely. A baronet’s son would have looked higher than an old weaver’s daughter, no matter how much he’d wanted to kiss her behind the dunking booth.

  And his father, Sir Bertram Sykes, was barely civil when they spoke after church. He sat on the school committee that threatened to oust her. Accepted as his daughter-in-law? Never. Wallace had been his favorite son, and a young woman of greater consequence would have been necessary for the Sykes line.

  Rachel imagined she only had her job because no one else in the village wanted to do it. Puddling was unwilling to advertise the position, since whoever moved here would qualify for the annual compensation. Puddlingites kept to themselves, and kept their pocketbooks closer.

  Lord Challoner, brave soul that he was, had let himself into the garden and sat on a weathered bench. Rufus lay at his feet, the man’s walking stick between his jaws.

  “Oh, no! Rufus, bad dog!”

  Lord Challoner smiled at her. Rachel’s breath caught. He really had a lovely smile, enhanced by a dimple on the left side. “Don’t worry. I have several more. A few chunks out of this one won’t do any harm. Is your father up to seeing me?”

  She nodded and sat down beside him. “He’s just making himself presentable.”

  “I don’t mean to disturb him. I can come back at another time.”

  “No. I think it’s best you get this…over with.” Rachel paused. “You should know, he doesn’t have much respect for people in authority.”

  “Is he a revolutionary? Should I be worried about keeping my head from the Puddling guillotine? I warn you, between the low beams at Stonecrop and your drystone walls, it won’t take much for me to lose it.”

  Rachel chuckled. “He’s not dangerous, only opinionated.”

  “And he doesn’t have a high opinion of me. He made that clear last night.” The light had gone out of Lord Challoner’s blue, blue eyes. Rachel felt her pity for the man return.

  “It’s not you in particular. He’s not very fond of generals. Politicians. The rich.”

  “Well, I’m none of those things at the moment, certainly not a general. The pater has me on a very short leash here, as I’m sure you all know. My biggest monetary extravagance will be in the bake shop later, and then I’ll be skint. I’ve been absolutely dying for something sweet to eat.”

  “I’m going there right now. Can I bring you back something?”

  His handsome face flushed. “I cannot take charity from you. It wouldn’t be right.”

  “It wouldn’t be charity!” Rachel protested. “Just Puddling hospitality. I’ll fix tea, too.”

  “I haven’t had elevenses since I was a boy. Mrs. Grace will accuse me of ruining my appetite for lunch.”

  “We won’t tell her.”

  He lifted a golden eyebrow. “Come now. She’ll know as soon as I lick the crumbs from my lips. She’s frightening.”

  “I’ll make sure you return crumbless. My father has asked for gingerbread. Will that do?”

  “It will.” Lord Challoner cleared his throat. “I want to thank you for not calling the authorities on me, Miss Everett.”

  “Why would I do that?”

  “Oh, surely you know. I haven’t been entirely truthful with you. And I—I’ve taken advantage. Overstepped my bounds. I can’t tell you how happy I was to see you in the garden when I got here so I could apologize.”

  “You’ve done nothing to apologize for,” Rachel said. Her lips still felt a bit tingly if she allowed herself to remember yesterday.

  “You know I have. But I’m determined to be a better man. Good God, that sounds like a cliché. But I do mean it. And not just because I want to go home.”

  Rachel felt her own blushes coming on. “That sounds very admirable, my lord.”

  “You’ll help me, won’t you?” he asked, sounding anxious.

  “I—I don’t know that I can. It’s not allowed.” He wasn’t supposed to have contact with any young woman in Puddling, not that there were many of them to begin with.

  “I’ll speak to Mr. Walker. I’d like to see more of you.” He placed his gloved hand upon hers, and Rachel felt a frisson of…something.

  “Oh? Do you, young man? What kind of rigmarole are you babbling about now?”

  Her father had come out of the house, and neither of them had noticed. Rachel rose, and after a few awkward seconds, so did Lord Challoner. Rufus was no help; the cane was still firmly in his mouth.

  “Sir, this isn’t what it looks like.”

  “My eyes still work. In fact, every part of me works. How I’d like to knock you down and teach you a lesson.”

  “Dad!” Rachel cried, horrified.

  “Don’t you see what he’s doing? Talking you up sweet. Before you know it, his hand will be up your skirt and you’ll be ruined. What will he care? He’ll be gone.”

  Rachel felt lightheaded. Her father was never so crude. “You don’t understand—”

  “I’ve seen men like him before here. Young and full of themselves. No limits. All the money in the world. Spoiled rotten. He thinks he can get anything he wants. Well, not my daughter. Never. Rachel, go in the house.”

  Rachel was in agony. She hated to defy her father. He was usually reasonable. But he was quaking with anger now, standing up to Lord Challoner who had at least half a foot and three stone on him. She had to stop this before he got hurt.

  Lord Challoner
touched her elbow ever so gently. “It’s all right, Miss Everett. I can take care of myself. Why don’t you go get the gingerbread? I’ll be here when you get back.”

  Was he mad? Rachel’s father was about to punch him!

  “I don’t think that’s wise,” she whispered.

  “I haven’t been wise in years,” he whispered back. “It will be all right. I promise.”

  For some reason, she believed him, and closed the gate.

  She was just as mad as he.

  Chapter 11

  “Good-for-nothing dog. Sic him, Rufus!”

  Rufus wagged his tail and ignored Mr. Everett, far too busy destroying Henry’s Malacca cane.

  “If we can just discuss this like gentlemen,” Henry said in a conciliatory tone, “I can allay your fears over my intentions toward your daughter.”

  “Gentleman! Pah!” Mr. Everett spit but was thankfully off the mark.

  Henry gestured toward a garden chair. Everything in this pocket patch was like a mini-Eden, neat and lush. “Please sit down, sir. Miss Everett said you weren’t feeling up to snuff.”

  “I feel fine. I’ll feel better when you go away,” the old man grumbled.

  “I came today to thank you. Your words woke me up, as it were.”

  “And robbed me of my sleep.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that. I have difficulty sleeping myself. Did you never have bad dreams when you returned home after the army?”

  Mr. Everett’s gaze slid to a rather spectacular ruby-pink peony bush. “I can’t recall. It was so long ago.”

  “I’ve only been home a few months. Perhaps in twenty-five years’ time, I will have forgotten the incompetence and its resulting bloodshed.”

  Mr. Everett raised both eyebrows, but only said, “Perhaps I will sit down after all.”

  “I want to do something for soldiers like me who come home and can’t sleep. We’re made to feel ashamed, you know, even by others who served.”

  “Like me.”

  Henry nodded. “Civilians don’t understand—I don’t expect them to. But to be dismissed by people who know what it’s like is very hard to bear.”

  “You can’t dwell—”

  “I’m not dwelling, Mr. Everett. Believe me, I’d like to think of other things. I tried to distract myself, hence the wine, women and excesses. It didn’t work, and now I’m here.”

  “You officers have clubs.”

  “And no one wants to talk about anything serious. We’re all afraid we’ll be called cowards. Be accused of being less than the manly ideal. It’s all surface chatter, while I know there are those who are suffering. They can’t sleep. Drink too much. Beat their wives, for all I know. Do you think Puddling could take some, just for a week or two? I could pay when I get access to my funds. A quiet stay in the country where no one will judge you. Well, except for you and Mrs. Grace.”

  “That’s not fair!”

  “No, it isn’t. How is it that people can feel sorry about my foot but not about my brain? Quite frankly, I think it’s more injured than the rest of me. It just doesn’t show.”

  Would Everett report him to the Puddling powers? Was Henry asking to be put in some mental hospital by being so frank? It was a risk to speak like this to a perfect stranger, but somehow Henry knew this man understood what he was talking about.

  “I drank too.”

  The words were so low Henry could barely hear them. He leaned forward. “Go ahead.”

  “When I came back. Before I was married. But I met Rachel’s mother and wanted to stop.” Everett chuckled. “The truth is, she wouldn’t have me otherwise. She was much younger, a skilled weaver. Had a house of her own. She didn’t need a sot for a husband, or any husband, for that matter. Very independent, she was. Had her part of the allotment, too. Made me wait a good long time before she said yes.”

  The man examined his crooked hands, worn from weaving and gardening. “We thought we’d left it too late to have children. But then we had Rachel. Quite a surprise to us, she was. I won’t stand to see her hurt.”

  “I would never hurt her,” Henry said.

  “You’ve already turned her head. Nothing can come of it.”

  Henry bit his tongue. Everett was right. Rachel was far beneath him according to society’s obdurate rules. Henry’s father might have a stroke if he brought her home. Although she was pretty and well-spoken, Henry would be expected to do better.

  He couldn’t possibly. Hell. He was half in love with her already, and he didn’t even believe in love.

  He changed the subject. “So you met a good woman and simply stopped.”

  “There was nothing simple about it.”

  “Not everyone can find a good woman to help them change their ways,” Henry said. “I think it might be useful for men to talk about things they worry about, without shame. Be honest. To know they’re not alone.” He thought of his one-way conversations with Vincent Walker. Maybe he would talk back later this afternoon.

  “We’re all alone when it comes down to it, lad. We make our own way. Our own choices.”

  “You are right, of course.” The choices Henry had made led him straight to Puddling, perhaps not so very bad a thing. He was thinking more clearly this morning than he had in an age.

  “Well, Mr. Everett, do you think Puddling could host a few more fellows like me? Enlisted men as well as officers.”

  Rachel’s father shrugged. “You know we only deal with the Quality here. It’s part of the original agreement.”

  Henry felt deflated. “Very well. I’ll just have to look for a different place when I’m free. What do you think of my idea, Mr. Everett?”

  “It has some merit, I suppose. But it probably won’t make your bad dreams go away.”

  The old man was speaking from experience. He’d reformed, but still the Cossacks came when you least expected them.

  Henry pushed up from the bench, and Everett rose with him. The dog had been busy making mincemeat of his cane and it was a lost cause. Henry would have to do without it on the walk home. He extended a hand. “Thank you for your time, sir.”

  “You’re not leaving! I’ve got the gingerbread!”

  Henry turned to see Rachel, her cheeks pink and her hair a bit flyaway. She must have run both ways.

  “Now, Rachel,” her father cautioned, “Lord Challoner has things to do. He has to keep to his routine.” It was a warning if Henry ever heard one.

  “Nonsense, Dad. A bit of gingerbread and a cup of tea won’t take any time at all. I’ll go put the kettle on. You two sit outside and enjoy this beautiful morning. I’ll bring out a tray.”

  “Fuck.” The old man sat back down, unrepentant over his language.

  Henry remained standing. “I don’t want to get you both in trouble. You’ve been very kind.”

  “Oh, sit down. I’ll deal with the governors. They won’t be best pleased.”

  “The governors?”

  “Those that administer the Puddling Rehabilitation Foundation. They determine the appropriate program for each Guest—we have a variety to choose from, you know. And they distribute the funds to the townspeople annually. Make and enforce the rules.”

  Henry sat and tried to smile. “I take it we’re breaking them now.”

  Everett sighed. “Oh, yes. It’s not so bad you met me, but Rachel is completely off-limits.”

  “Who are these governors?”

  “Sir Bertram Sykes is chairman. Has his fingers in a lot of the village’s pies, being the richest man about. Pretty odd when his own mother was one of the early Guests. Quite a handful, she was. If you ask me, she never really settled down—I remember her from when I was a lad. Charlie Oakley, Vincent Walker—whoever the current doctor and vicar are automatically get on the board. Miss Violet Churchill. Frank Stanchfield, the grocer. Two others…I’m sorry, I forget. My memory isn’t what it was. It’s always seven, though. Since the very beginning in 1806.”

  �
�Three-quarters of a century,” Henry marveled. “How does it work, exactly?”

  Everett scratched behind an ear and settled in to talk. “In the beginning, the better—and I’m using that word loosely, now—families of England put money in, as a sort of insurance program. Knew that if they needed a place to stash their difficult relatives, they’d have something better than their attics or a lunatic asylum. Puddlingites shared the pot. After a bit, one of the Sykes decided to invest the proceeds, and the pot got bigger. Now there are individual fees from the Guests’ families as well, people who weren’t part of the original agreement, like your pa. Word spreads amongst your class. Everyone knows about Puddling-on-the-Wold.”

  “I didn’t,” Henry said.

  “But your father did. Hustled you right here when the trouble came, didn’t he?”

  Henry nodded. He’d been thrown into the carriage most precipitously, having barely enough time to pull his pants up or kiss the girls goodbye.

  “It’s been a gold mine for the village,” Everett continued. “You may not know it to look at me, but I’ve plenty in the bank. Even Rachel doesn’t know how much.” He named a figure that raised Henry’s eyebrows.

  The girl was virtually an heiress!

  The Everett cottage was modest, but appearances could be deceiving, as Henry well knew. “So, your daughter has a dowry.” An understatement.

  “Now don’t go and get any ideas! My Rachel’s not for the likes of you.”

  Henry decided not to take offense. “You’d object to a viscount for a son-in-law?”

  “I object to you, young man. Moderation in all things, that’s my motto.”

  “It wasn’t always,” Henry reminded him gently.

  “That’s neither here nor there,” Everett mumbled. “We’re not talking about me.”

  “What if…” Henry stopped himself. A minute ago he was thinking clearly; suddenly, he felt muddled. He wasn’t fit to be anyone’s husband, and he barely knew Rachel Everett. It was just that in her presence he felt a bit…calmer, but stimulated, too.

  That made no sense. No wonder he was stuck here in Puddling with a daily lecture and gallons of tea.

  Speaking of which. He leaped up to help Rachel as she came into the garden with a large tray, forgetting completely that one foot was more or less uncooperative. His knee buckled, but he was saved from making a fool of himself by Rufus, who chose that moment to jump up at him. His jerky movement only looked like he was bending to pet the dog, and he sat back down promptly, Rufus climbing into his lap as if they were the best of friends.