Six

Jean established Tab in her room without difficulties. She was adept at making friends with the staff in houses where she stayed, and those in Furness Hall supplied the kitten’s needs without much complaint. Cook grumbled quietly when asked for a dish of chopped meat, but relented when assured Tab would live in Jean’s room. For his part, Tab seemed content. After a thorough exploration of all the chamber’s corners and his meal, he curled up in the window seat and went to sleep.

Watching the rise and fall of his tiny rib cage, Jean wondered if she might take him along when she left here. A cat wasn’t much trouble. Many people liked them. And many didn’t, she had to admit. The latter tended to have very strong opinions. She shook her head. No, a polite visitor didn’t arrive with a pet. She came prepared to socialize and entertain. Even when she didn’t feel like either.

Jean turned at a brisk knock on her door, glad for the interruption. She’d come very close to moping. Which was unacceptable. She hadn’t even changed out of her borrowed riding habit.

Lord Macklin stood in the corridor outside. “I was just going down,” he said. “I thought you’d want to see Geoffrey’s first riding lesson.”

“I do indeed.” Jean came out, making certain the latch caught to keep Tab safe. She walked downstairs at the older man’s side.

“I had a surprising encounter this morning,” he said.

“I hope it didn’t involve Geoffrey and his hatchet.”

Lord Macklin smiled. “The tomahawk is securely locked away, I understand. No, I went walking, and I met an old friend in the village. The last person I would have expected to see in the country. I’d have said that she is an absolute fixture in London.”

“Did you lure her here with tales of some wrong that must be righted?”

The older man looked down at her. He and Lord Furness shared fathomless blue-gray eyes, Jean observed, and a disarming smile. “We may have spoken of the beauties of this part of Somerset. No more. Are you twitting me, Miss Saunders?”

He was years older and greatly respected, but Jean couldn’t quite let it go. “You are behind my presence here. Those conversations we had at the Phillipsons’… You steered them.”

“No.” The word was emphatic. “They evolved. Things you said, or almost said, turned my thoughts in a particular direction. I merely…continued along the path they laid out for me.”

Jean didn’t like the idea that she’d revealed things she was unaware of. What had he seen in her, or thought he’d seen?

“And I must say that the decision to come down to Furness Hall was wholly your own. Your…sudden initiative startled me.”

“And so you came after me.”

Lord Macklin gave her a half bow as they walked. “You are a most astute young lady. I did feel in some way responsible.”

“Aha.”

He laughed. “So what will you do now that you’ve extracted my confession?”

Jean wasn’t ready to be charmed. “Do you make a practice of interference? Even in the affairs of strangers?”

The older man shook his head as he opened the front door of the house for her. They stepped out onto the grass together. “I never have. Before. I beg your pardon if it seems that way to you, Miss Saunders. I was very concerned about my nephew. I felt I had to do something for him.”

“And your great-nephew,” said Jean.

“And Geoffrey, of course.”

She doubted this, though she believed he cared about Geoffrey now that he’d met him. Just as Lord Furness was recognizing his neglect. She’d accomplished that much. But there was another important point in what Lord Macklin had said. “You were concerned about Lord Furness?”

“I was.”

“Not am?”

“Thanks to you.”

Although this idea gratified Jean, she had to object. Lord Macklin’s expression wasn’t quite patronizing. He was too kind for that. But she detected a hint of complacency over his quite wrongheaded notion. “I don’t much care for being the something you had to do,” she said. “I’m not, in fact, a chess piece for you to move around the board.”

“Of course not.”

“Nor am I a helpless female who requires herding.”

“I can see that.”

“So no more evolving conversations. With me or about me.”

“I give you my word.” Lord Macklin shrugged. “In my own defense, I must tell you that I have four nieces, and I’m often called upon to make arrangements for them. To anticipate what might be needed to save time and trouble.”

“Their wishes being irrelevant to the process.”

“Of course not.” He looked chagrined. “They always seemed quite pleased with my plans.”

“Or resigned to their fate.”

“I really think not. I suppose I’d better ask,” he added ruefully.

“I’m not your niece,” Jean pointed out.

“Not at present.”

“What?”

“Ah, here is the famous pony.” With a few long steps, Lord Macklin left her behind. It was a moment before Jean followed.

Geoffrey bounced like a maddened hare on the cobbles of the yard, begging to mount up. Benjamin was glad to see that Fergus the pony took this enthusiasm equably. He didn’t shy or offer to nip at the wild little figure dancing around him, though he did follow the boy’s movements with a wary eye. There was no need for him—or Tom, who held the pony’s bridle—to intervene.

At last, Bradford appeared with the saddle Benjamin had used as a child. They’d had to hunt it up and clean it. “All right,” said Benjamin. “Geoffrey, watch how the straps work. A good rider knows everything about his mount.”

His son jerked to a stop and stared intently as the chief groom saddled Fergus, then stood aside. Benjamin reached for his son. “Now I will lift you—”

“I want to get up on my own,” Geoffrey declared.

Looking down at the militant, ruddy-haired figure, Benjamin found the words “you’re too small” dying on his lips. His son was too small to reach the saddle, but he obviously wouldn’t be told so.

“You can use the mounting block,” said Miss Saunders. “I often do.”

With a glance at Benjamin for permission, Tom led the pony over to the two stone steps in the middle of the yard. Geoffrey sprang onto the top and poised to leap.

“Set your hand on the front of the saddle,” said Benjamin. “And then throw your right leg over it.”

Geoffrey exhibited a moment’s confusion about which leg he meant, then obeyed. In the next instant he sat atop Fergus. The grin that lit his face was like nothing Benjamin had seen before. A critical inner voice suggested that he ought to be more familiar with the boy’s infectious delight.

Benjamin let him enjoy the sensation for a bit, then said, “Put your feet in the stirrups.” These had been shortened as much as possible on the child’s saddle and still barely sufficed. “Tom will lead you about at first to accustom you to Fergus’s gait.”

Tom clucked at the pony and started him off in a circle around the yard. Bradford observed from one side, Benjamin’s uncle from the other.

Geoffrey turned out to be a natural rider. Soon he’d taken the reins and was urging the pony along on his own. “I want to gallop,” he declared not long after that. “I bet I could race the dogs and beat them!”

“You must take things slowly,” Benjamin replied. “For Fergus’s sake.” He enjoyed the shift in his son’s expression as a budding rebellion died. “He needs to learn to trust you,” he added, cementing the idea. “You make friends with your mount first, and then he will do whatever you ask of him. Even very hard things, which are difficult for him. That’s a great responsibility. Do you understand what I mean by that?”

Geoffrey nodded. “How do I make friends?” he said in a subdued tone.

A small noise from Miss Saunders at his back made Benjamin wonder if she, like him, was daunted by the idea that Geoffrey had no friends. “You’ll groom him,” he answered. “And talk to him, bring him an apple now and then. But not too many treats, for fear of upsetting his stomach. Ask Bradford first. You’ll learn what makes a pony feel safe and what he can and cannot do.”

As Geoffrey nodded again, emphatically, Miss Saunders let out an audible sigh.

“And then, after a while, you can ride about the estate with Tom and Molly and the grooms,” Benjamin finished.

His son looked like a boy who’d glimpsed a heavenly vision. “I’ll work hard,” he said. “I’ll learn fast.”

“I’m sure you will.”

They watched for a while longer. Bradford offered Geoffrey some pointers about the way he sat in the saddle, and Geoffrey adjusted immediately. It was a pleasure to see, and yet a strain as well. As Geoffrey moved, frowned in concentration, and laughed, it was as if Alice appeared before Benjamin’s eyes, vanished, then reappeared. Over and over, like a flickering phantasm, forcing Benjamin to wonder, for the thousandth time, at the cruelty of fate, which had decreed that the boy would so resemble his dead mother. Trusting the groom to end the session if the pony tired, he said, “I must go in. You’re doing very well.”

Turning, he nearly bumped into Miss Saunders, who had moved at the same moment. There was something odd about her face “Are you crying?”

“No. Of course not.” She swallowed. “Why would I be?”

Benjamin had no idea. And he’d reached the limit of what he could endure. He strode away, feeling his uncle’s eyes on his back. There were times when sympathy felt as onerous as judgment. He would retreat to his library refuge, Benjamin thought, and this time he would lock the door.

When she returned to her room after the riding lesson, Jean discovered that Tab had attacked the pile of writing paper on the desk, leaving tiny fang punctures on every page. At first she feared that this was a sign of displeasure at being shut up. But he seemed proud of his achievement, joining her to add a few more holes as she looked over the damage. On the positive side, the kitten had used the sand box for its designated purpose.

Jean tidied up the desk, changed out of the riding habit, and sat down by the window. Immediately, the scene in the stable yard rose in her mind. Geoffrey had looked so happy on his pony. His father’s expression, by turns fond and pained, had brought tears to her eyes. Whatever their difficulties, they were a family. They belonged in a way she didn’t. Any more than she belonged at the Phillipsons—or anywhere, really. Yet she had to be somewhere.

Whatever Lord Macklin imagined he’d learned about her, he didn’t comprehend her system of living. She depended on hospitality, going from house to house on an established yearly round. In the five years since her mother had died, she’d made herself a welcome guest, and she couldn’t afford to annoy her various hosts or cause gossip. It wasn’t, as many people must think, a question of money. Far otherwise. She had plenty of money. But as a young lady of independent means, one’s choices were actually quite limited if one didn’t wish to be alone. Jean swallowed. A person could be competent and confident and yet not wish to be all alone.

Tab batted at the quill pen on the desk, trying to bite the feather. When Jean lifted it out of reach, he jumped, missed his footing, and tumbled into her lap. Laughing at his indignant expression, Jean got hold of herself. She had a system for her life; it worked quite well. The important thing was to preserve it. She should write the Phillipsons, in the guise of a report on their grandson perhaps. Their relief at hearing that Geoffrey wasn’t coming to live with them would outweigh any other concerns.

The letter took a while to draft. Tab wished to add toothmarks to the fresh paper, or at the least chew on the quill, and the simplest words came slowly. The task left Jean curiously fatigued.

• • •

“That went well,” Arthur said to young Tom as they walked back to the house together. Geoffrey had stayed on in the stables, brushing his pony under the groom’s supervision.

“Love at first sight, I’d say,” replied Tom with a grin that lit his homely face.

“You’re happy for Geoffrey.” Arthur was interested in Tom. He hadn’t come across anyone just like him before.

“’Course I am.”

“Why?”

“Beg pardon, milord?”

“You haven’t known him long.”

“It don’t take time to like seeing people happy. Most folks do, unless they’re bad ’uns.”

“I’m surprised to hear you say so, with the life you’ve led.”

Tom looked over at him as they walked. “It ain’t been that bad, milord.”

“Many would disagree with you. Don’t you grieve for your parents, for example?” Grief had been on Arthur’s mind recently.

“I never knew them.” Tom shrugged. “I don’t think a person grieves over what they can’t remember.”

“Even though their loss was quite unfortunate for you, and unfair?”

“That’s not the same, is it, milord?” The lad’s plain face creased in thought. “I might feel aggrieved, if I was that way inclined, which I ain’t. Because what’s the use? But that wouldn’t be grieving.”

“No?”

Tom shook his head. “Grief is more like… Say I had a meat pie, and I took a bite, and I found it was the finest pie I’d ever et. A little taste of heaven, y’see? Everything about it just perfect. And then say, right then and there, I dropped that pie in a river. After just that one bite. And there wasn’t another such pie to be had, for any money. Then I’d grieve.”

“Because you knew what you’d lost.”

“That’s it, milord.” Tom nodded, satisfied he’d made his point.

“‘Grief’ seems a strong word to use over a meat pie,” Arthur replied. He was finding Tom a surprisingly stimulating conversationalist. “Not much like losing a person you care about.”

“I ’spect that’s a deal harder. I wouldn’t know.” The lad thought for a moment. “I’ve left some people behind. Mrs. Dunn who ran the dame school was right sad when I went. But I had to move on.”

Was he shallow or cold? “You weren’t sorry to make her sad?”

“I was, milord. But you know, she was sad over every single kiddie who left for more schooling or a ’prenticeship. So it weren’t just me. And I promised I’d go back and visit her. Which I did. And will whenever I get back to Bristol.”

The path divided before them, one branch heading for the front door of Furness Hall, the other for the back. “Was there anything else you wanted, milord?” Tom asked. Arthur shook his head, and the lad gave him a little bow before taking the latter route.

He should do something for Tom, Arthur thought as he walked on. He wasn’t sure what as yet, but the lad was full of possibilities. Was this more of the interference that Miss Saunders had deplored? Surely helping people was a good thing? Arthur smiled as he heard Miss Saunders’s voice suggesting that he might want to consult Tom before defining the specifics of this help.

• • •

The meal Jean shared with Lord Furness and his uncle that evening was stiff and formal. They’d had easy conversations over the last two days, but on this night their exchanges died away after a response or two. Their host seemed morose, his uncle distracted. Jean’s spirits sank as she searched for remarks to break the silence. She was glad to rise from the table and go back upstairs.

Some hours later, she woke from a bad dream and lit her candle. She took deep breaths to push the dark away. Reaching for her book, she looked also for Tab. He’d curled up on the coverlet when she got into bed, a purring comfort, but he wasn’t there now. “Tab?” she said.

He had a habit of mewing when she spoke to him, but there was no response. Jean held up the candlestick and looked about the room. He wasn’t on the window seat or the armchair or the hearthrug. She couldn’t see him anywhere. “Tab?”

Silence. Jean got out of bed and carried her light about the room, illuminating the dark corners. She looked under the bed, inside the wardrobe, behind the open draperies. There was no sign of the kitten. She checked the windows. They were securely closed against the raw March night. Tab couldn’t have gotten out, yet he wasn’t there. “Tab?”

Concerned, she looked everywhere again. There was no sign, no sound. She set down the candlestick and put on her dressing gown and slippers. Holding her meager light, she slipped out into the corridor. It ended on her left, and Tab wasn’t in it. Jean turned right and walked toward the center of the house, searching. She knew there was little chance of finding one small kitten in this great, dim house, but she couldn’t help but try.

At the stairs, she could only go down. The servants’ quarters above were reached by another stair. Jean searched the parlors on either side of front hall, calling softly and beginning to feel foolish. This was obviously a futile quest. She had given up and turned back when she noticed a line of light under the library door. She went in, finding the chamber still warm, the coals of a fire still glowing. “Tab?” she said.

“I beg your pardon?”

Jean started so violently that a drop of hot wax splattered from the candle to the back of her hand. The pain made her breath catch.

Lord Furness rose from the chair by the hearth. “What are you doing here?” she asked. “With no lights?” In her fright, she sounded accusing.

“I don’t sleep well,” he replied. “I often come down. And you?”

“I was looking for the kitten.”

“Got out, did he?” Still half in his broken reverie, Benjamin eyed his guest. The lines of her body were beautifully revealed by her thin wool dressing gown and gossamer nightdress. Her hair had been braided down her back, but soft tendrils had escaped all around her face. He imagined what that hair would look like loose—what a wild riot of curls.

“I don’t see how,” she said, her tone oddly defensive. “But he’s not in my room.” The candle wavered in her hand. “Oh, what if he’s in the kitchen when your cook gets up?”

“The cook will cope.” Miss Saunders’s unexpected appearance was like a dream, yet so different from the ones that usually disturbed his nights.

“Why must everything I do go wrong? I had this one small creature to care for—”

“And tomorrow we will find him,” Benjamin interrupted. “There’s no sense looking in the dark. Too easy for him to hide. We’ll turn out the staff in the morning. By then, he’ll be hungry and come looking for food.”

“Yes.” Miss Saunders startled suddenly, setting the light of her candle dancing over the walls. “The portrait seemed to move.”

Benjamin looked up at Alice’s likeness above the mantel. “Yes, when it’s dim like this, she does. Seem to.”

“You loved her very much,” said Miss Saunders softly.

“We met at a ball in London, fell in love, married, and were parted by death all in a year. Such a short time to encompass so much.”

“A life sliced in half,” she replied. Her tone was contemplative and…bitter?

“Yes.” Benjamin sank back into his chair. “You understand that?”

“Oh yes.” Absently, she sat down opposite, putting her candle on the low table by the fireplace.

“A love you lost?”

She shook her head, setting the errant curls bobbing. “Say rather…a person who defined my existence.”

It was a striking phrase. He waited a moment. When she didn’t go on, he asked, “Who?”

Miss Saunders hesitated before answering, “My mother.”

“Ah. That can be a deep bond.”

“Yes.”

The single word dropped between them like a rock tossed into a well. The echoes were odd, Benjamin thought. Not sadness, not regret. “You miss her a great deal.”

Miss Saunders laughed without humor. “How I wish I did. She haunts my dreams.”

Benjamin felt as if some mighty hand had reached deep inside him and struck a chord. His whole being resounded with it. He leaned forward and took her hand. It was trembling.

As his strong fingers closed over hers, Jean couldn’t look away. Under his dressing gown, his nightshirt was open at the neck. The strong column of his throat rose above a muscular chest. She’d never been more intensely aware of another person, much less a man.

“The past keeps its claws in us,” he said.

The phrase was so exactly right. “It feels like talons,” she said. “Sunk right in. No matter how you fight, they won’t come loose.”

“A mouse carried off by a hawk,” he said.

Lips parted in amazement at his understanding, Jean nodded. Lord Furness leaned nearer. She’d moved toward him as well, she realized, irresistibly. For a moment, a kiss seemed inevitable. They grew closer, closer. She could feel a hint of his breath on her skin.

Then, all at once, he seemed to become aware of their proximity, their laced hands. He let go, drew back. In a welter of emotion, Jean did the same. Color flickered in the corner of her eye; the image of her cousin Alice looked down on them from above the mantel.

Lord Furness cleared his throat. “So, you see.” He took a breath. “Previous…events make it more difficult with Geoffrey. For me. Despite what I might wish.”

Jean gazed at him.

“The resemblance.” He indicated the portrait with a gesture. “It…flashes out at me. There and then gone. He looks just like his mother, and then he doesn’t. If it was one or the other, I’m sure I’d grow accustomed. But I find it hard to take the…sudden blow.”

She nodded. Her dreams were like that. Some memories as well.

“I’m very glad you’re here to help,” he added.

“You are?”

“Yes.”

“I’d thought you seemed to be doing well. With the pony and all. Perhaps I wasn’t needed.”

He sat straighter. “We agreed to work together, for Geoffrey’s sake.”

“But I’m not sure what I can do.” She wanted to help him, Jean realized. She wanted a number of things she hadn’t recognized until tonight.

Lord Furness turned away. “I ran today,” he said in a harsh tone. “I had to get away from him. My own son. I hid in this room as I’ve been doing for far too long. I wanted never to come out.”

“But you did.”

“And I was a bear at dinner. Surly and curt.” He turned back to her. “Do you see that hiding is easier?”

Jean couldn’t look away from those blue-gray eyes. They were mirrors and temptations and beckoning abysses. “Yes,” she whispered.

He blinked. Jean felt as if she’d tripped on a missed step. She felt Alice staring down at her. In a confusion of emotion, she stood. “I…I should go up.”

He didn’t argue. Was he finding it just as difficult to speak? Shaken, Jean took her candle and went.

When she entered her room—minutes, eons, later—Tab was sitting on her bed. He gazed at her in seeming reproach and mewed. “Where were you?” cried Jean. “I looked everywhere.”

Mew,” said Tab. He kneaded the damask coverlet, pulling a thread of the pattern loose.

“Don’t. Oh, I’ll have to ask for a plain bedcover.” She put the candlestick on the bedside table and ran a hand over the kitten’s silky fur. He flopped over and offered his pale belly, tiny paws waving in the air. Jean laughed and petted him.