Come Midnight (13 page)

***

After a perfunctory introduction of the new governess to his majordomo and the housekeeper, Adam left them to settle her in. He lingered only long enough to accept their condolences on the death of Lady Lightfoot. Then he went to confer with his estate manager. Silas White had managed Ravenskeep for two decades, and he had sent his employer detailed reports with unflagging regularity. But it was past time Adam observed things firsthand. It also gave him an excellent excuse to absent himself from the immediate vicinity of the Hall—and from Caitlin. This conveniently consumed the bulk of his time in the month that followed.

Caitlin saw little of him in that month, and never in private. He visited Andrew at bedtime, but stayed only long enough to bid him good night, explaining that he had estate business to attend to. On each occasion Caitlin merited merely a polite nod, and then he was gone. At other times she would see him riding off on a huge black beast that looked as if it breathed fire. "A stallion," Andrew informed her. "Papa bought him at Tatt's when he came home from the war. Jepson told me. It was the day I saw the stablemen taking him off to Kent. Jepson said he's s'posed to sire some racing stock, but Papa rides him as well. His name's Attila, but I heard one of the grooms in London say that Papa calls him the Hun.''

His lordship dined at the Hall only twice in that time, taking most of his meals away. Where away was, Caitlin had no idea, except that it involved his daily sojourns on estate business. Her own days revolved entirely around the child. Andrew was a joy to teach and a delight to be with. The bond they shared deepened, and for that alone, she was glad she'd been persuaded not to leave. There was one thing that troubled her, however.

All that remained of Andrew's wounds was the damage to his leg. Yet no one had said a word to him about it being irreparable. Soon the child would begin asking questions, for he was far too bright not to notice. Someone should prepare him for the fact he wouldn't walk again, before he figured it out for himself. And while she'd have done so, despite the enormous emotional toll it would take on both of them, she felt it wasn't her place. The only one who could rightfully assume that responsibility was his father. And his father was not doing so. Was he too distracted to see the problem? Worse yet, was he avoiding it? In any event, his lordship was hardly ever in evidence long enough to address it.

The first time Caitlin saw him for more than an instant, a heavy downpour had kept him from riding out. Word arrived, the marquis would dine at home. Mrs. Needham informed Caitlin his lordship wished his son and the governess to join him at dinner. No need to change the child's schedule—his lordship observed country hours. Andrew was ecstatic; Caitlin, apprehensive.

It was so dark and stormy at four o'clock, the servants had lighted all the wall sconces in the dining hall, and three branches on the table as well. Fortunately, vases of spring flowers and a fire burning cheerily in the grate kept the vast formal chamber from being entirely oppressive. The three of them sat clumped about one end of the long table. Andrew remained in his Bath chair, elevated by several pillows.

Aside from a brief word of greeting to Caitlin, throughout the meal the marquis conversed almost entirely with his son. "Andrew," he began as the soup was served, "I regret that estate matters have kept me from seeing as much of you as I'd like. Tell me, how are you going on, now we're at the Hall?"

"Well, Papa, it's been awfully nice seeing everyone again . .. the staff, I mean." The child's brow knitted in a frown. "But I do wish those dashed mumps weren't keeping Jeremy at home. I've told Caitlin all about him, do you see. I was so looking forward to making them known to each other."

His father's glance flicked briefly to Caitlin before it returned to the boy. "Yes, well, I'm sure Jeremy's confinement can't last too much longer. I'll have my secretary send a note to the vicarage, shall I? Asking after Jeremy's health and when it might be possible for him to accept an invitation to visit?"

"Oh, yes—thank you, Papa!"

"That's settled, then. Now, tell me what else has been going on. I trust you've been keeping up with your lessons. What is it you are studying at present?"

A footman came to remove the soup plates, and another served the next course. While this went on, Caitlin took the opportunity to observe her employer. The question about lessons might have been directed at her, she thought. After all, she was the child's governess. Yet his lordship had pointedly avoided her gaze, making it clear this discourse was meant to engage Andrew alone.

She told herself she should be glad. In light of how they'd left things back in London, she'd dreaded any discourse between them. The dread was still there, yet oddly enough, she also found herself miffed, though she wasn't certain she cared to examine her reasons. Yet miffed she was.
Here we are, sharing a meal, and he's scarcely looked my way. Why on earth did he bother to include me, then? Tis as if I were invisible. Or worse. .. as if I were nothing more than—than a stick of furniture or one of his dinner plates!

Between polite bites of turbot, Andrew recounted the morning's lessons. First, he'd done his ciphering, he told his father, which was fun and not hard at all. Then he'd learned a deal about the gods and goddesses of ancient Greece. "I know all of their names now, Papa, and I know what each of them stood for as well," he announced proudly. "And Caitlin says that tomorrow we shall go on to their Roman coun—count—what's that word, Caitlin?"

"Counterparts," she supplied with a smile. Again, she saw his lordship's eyes dart her way: a bare flicker, no more.

"That's it," said Andrew, returning her smile. "It means they have the same things, but with different names," he told his father. And, again, quite proudly: "I already know 'bout one count-counterpart, Papa! The Greeks called their goddess of wisdom Athena, but the Romans called her Minerva. Cook's cat is named Minerva, do you see, and when I told Caitlin, she explained where the name came from.

"And, Papa," he went on excitedly, "Cook's Minerva has had kittens!"

"Indeed?"

"Yes, four of them, and ... Papa, may I please have one to keep for my very own? Cook said he'd be pleased to let me have one, but that I must first ask you. 'Course, it couldn't happen till after they're weaned, but I should so like to have a kitten!"

"I don't see why not," his father replied with a smile. "But only if you promise to take very good care of it."

"Oh, I will —thank you, Papa!" Andrew grinned at both his tablemates. "There's a little calico puss that's awfully pretty. Cook says the calicoes are always girl cats. He says this one's awfully clever 'cause she's always the first one to find her dinner." He studied his plate thoughtfully for a second, then looked up at Caitlin. "Would that make her a wise kitten, do you think?"

She pondered this for a moment, then nodded.'' 'Tis a wise creature knows where its next meal is comin' from, sure."

Andrew's grin widened. "Then, I shall call her Athena!"

"An excellent choice," said his lordship.

"A fine choice," said Caitlin at the same time.

There was a moment of awkward silence before Andrew—unwittingly or not, Caitlin never learned— rescued them. "Papa, the Greeks said that Athena—er, the goddess, I mean—wasn't really borned at all ... well, not properly borned, anyway. They believed she just popped out of her father's forehead!"

"Did they, now?" his father asked with an indulgent smile.

"They did! And her father's name was Zeus. He was the king of their gods, do you see. So Athena didn't have a mama, just Zeus. And when he wanted a wise daughter, out she came—all growed up and everything! Isn't that famous?"

His lordship agreed that it was, and they went on to the next course. By the time they came to the sweet— a lemon tart, and Andrew's favorite—however, he found it impossible to avoid talking to Caitlin altogether. She suspected this was largely because the child kept including her in the conversation. His lordship limited these exchanges to small talk. Even so, in the end they proved more than Caitlin might have bargained for.

The only questions he put to her directly had to do with the adequacy of supplies in the schoolroom and whether she found her rooms agreeable. Yet when he asked them, when Caitlin found that striking blue-eyed gaze turned her way, she felt her foolish heart thump maddeningly against her rib cage. Sure and it pounded so loud, he must hear it. If he did, however, he gave no indication, and for that she was passing grateful. When at last the meal drew to an end, she breathed a silent prayer of thanks to the Virgin that she'd come through the ordeal without making an entire cake of herself. With a sigh of relief, she escorted Andrew back to the schoolroom.

But there came a second time the three of them dined together—a fortnight later, during a thunderstorm— and this proceeded much the same as the first. Andrew reported on the progress of his kitten. He was glad he'd named her Athena, he told them, " 'cause she's truly a wise and clever little puss. She already knows her name!"

There followed another exchange about the gods of classical antiquity. Caitlin had found a copy of Chapman's Homer in the schoolroom and was reading it to Andrew. Next, the child waxed enthusiastic over Jeremy's forthcoming visit. They were finishing another lemon tart when a loud peal of thunder brought speculation on the nature of thunderstorms.

The marquis recounted something he'd read, years before, about the American colonist Benjamin Franklin and his experiments with a kite and a key.

"That sounds ever so exciting!" Andrew exclaimed. "May we try his 'speriment, Papa?"

His father shook his head no. "I'm sorry, Andrew, but lightning can be extremely dangerous. It's true, Mr. Franklin wasn't hurt during his experiment, but the man studied natural philosophy for years and knew what he was about. I want you to promise me you'll never try to duplicate what he did."

"I promise, Papa."

The child hung his head, greatly subdued, and Caitlin's heart went out to him. She scrambled in her mind for some discreet way to soften the rejection—it wouldn't do to offend his father—when the marquis made this unnecessary.

"You do understand, don't you, son?" he asked gently. Smiling, he reached across the table to stroke the child's cheek. "You are far, far too precious to risk."

Andrew's smile was like sunshine breaking through clouds. Seeing it, Caitlin's opinion of the marquis of Ravenskeep rose several notches. Indeed, by the time this meal was over, she realized she'd lost her dread of lacing the man, though she was still far from comfortable in his presence. The child proved to be an excellent buffer between them. But she lived in constant dread of one day running into his lordship without Andrew's ameliorating influence.

At best, she decided, what existed between them was a wary truce. Since coming to Ravenskeep Hall, they had never once alluded to what had occurred in London. Indeed, they never touched on personal matters at all.

And if, alone at night in her tidy bed, Caitlin dreamed of monogrammed satin sheets and a very different bed where she was not at all alone, in the morning she thrust the memory swiftly aside. The child was why she had remained, she reminded herself. Andrew, the sweet motherless lad she had come to love as her own. He was what mattered, and she would stay as long as he needed her. She refused to think a day beyond that.

Still, the problem of his damaged leg gnawed at her. He didn't fret about it, now he had the Bath chair to provide some mobility, but she dreaded the day he'd ask her about walking. She even debated gathering her courage and going to his father about it. But with the man so often away, there never seemed an opportunity. Meanwhile, she felt frustrated and helpless.

Then one day she recalled the "mortal" wound to Andrew's head. Great physicians had given up on it, but she hadn't, had she? She had plied every skill she knew, had spent hours praying for his recovery—and see what that had accomplished! Chiding herself for losing sight of what faith and tenacity could do, Caitlin at once set about changing direction.

She had been massaging Andrew's leg occasionally, to relieve cramping. Now she massaged it even more often. And she prayed over it every chance she got— but only in the privacy of her room. She wasn't certain why, but she thought it might be best if his lordship didn't learn of it. The man seemed oddly ill at ease, sure, whenever there was praying to be done. No sense discommoding him. At least she needn't be secretive about the massaging. It merely wanted being a tad clever about why she suddenly did it so frequently.

" Tis t' prevent the cramps instead o' waitin' till they trouble ye," she told Andrew when he asked. Which was the truth, if not all of it. For good measure, she pulled a face and thumped herself on the forehead. "Ach, 'tis a dunce I am, not t' have thought of it sooner!"

Andrew's giggling protest had her grinning. "Caitlin," he said, "you could never be a dunce. I bet you're wiser than Zeus's Athena!"

She added exercises to strengthen the leg. She had him lift it with books tied on with strips of cloth, first small ones, then larger, to gradually increase the weight. Until the day Townsend happened upon them—and sent at once to the blacksmith. "To fashion gradual weights that are less cumbersome, Miss Caitlin," he said with a smile. (Andrew had warned him about Miss O'Briening her, but the very proper majordomo couldn't bring himself to do away with form entirely.)

As the days wore on, the leg grew stronger, the cramping a thing of the past. And it was again the majordomo who suggested another addition to the child's regimen. Townsend introduced Caitlin to Fergus, the estate carpenter, and the next day all three of them introduced Andrew to a pair of carved wooden sticks called crutches. It was the crutches that changed everything.