Lady Olivia To The Rescue (3 page)

“I am fine, Sarah. And you?”

“Wonderful, just wonderful. You know, every morning, when I open my eyes and see where I am, I…I cannot believe my good fortune—and it is all due to you, my dear.”

“You are too kind, Sarah. I only provided the funds. This school is what you have made of it. I feel quite privileged to be a part of it.”

“Now you are being kind,” said the older woman, but there was pride in the lift of her chin as she glanced around the neat sitting room. “I may not have my Earnest, but I have my children, all twenty-two of them. I cannot be as lenient as a mother might be, but I believe they are happy here—even that little scapegrace, Bobby.”

“Oh, he seems to have adjusted very well.” They laughed. “The first time I saw him, I was doubtful of ever being able to get all the soot off of his skin. And his mouth!”

They shared another private laugh, and then Mrs. Priddy said, “I do hope your Mr. Hanson is being careful of his vocabulary. I did worry about the letter, you know.”

Olivia sipped her tea and said, “No need. He said he would use the word
fight
, but he would not demonstrate it with any great gestures.”

“Good, good. The last time, it took me a week to keep the boys from pretend-fighting, and they were not nearly as meek as your Harold.” Setting down her cup and saucer, the headmistress said, “When I think about it, I find it difficult to see how Mr. Hanson ever succeeded at prizefighting. His is such a gentle soul.”

“I think that is why he was not so very successful. Had he been more brutish, he might have won more bouts and been better able to fend off those debilitating injuries.”

“But he is over his dizziness, you said.”

“Oh yes,” said Olivia. “Completely.”

She wanted to pat the woman’s hand, but this might make Sarah close her heart again. For some time, Olivia had suspected that her friend—one of her own former teachers—was developing warmer feelings for the gentle giant, but it would never do to reveal her suspicions. Sarah Priddy had survived heartrending tragedies in her short life—losing her soldier-husband and her two children within a month. When Olivia had found her again, Sarah had been unsociable and aloof. It would take a miracle to allow her to love again.

Instead, Olivia said brightly, “I have news for you. A friend of mine has agreed to allow Martin and Winnie to become apprentices at his country estate.”

“How wonderful. Martin in the stables and Winnie in the kitchen?” Olivia nodded, and the headmistress said, “They will be thrilled. Never have a brother and sister fought so hard to stay together. This will finally allow them to do that and still make their way in the world. I have worried so.”

“I know. They are our little school’s first triumph. Why don’t you go and tell them? I’ll go to the schoolroom.” They rose and walked to the door.

“Oh, that is where we will find all of them. None of them want to miss Harold’s, uh, Mr. Hanson’s alphabet lesson.”

In the schoolroom, it was just as she had said.

        The youngest children sat on the floor in a semi-circle, their heads thrown back to look  up at the big man. The other children had pulled up chairs or stood close by, all watching and listening.

“Th’ letter
f
is a strong little letter. It goes like this,” he said, drawing the letter on a slate and holding it up for all to see. “It looks sort of like an old man who should have a cane but doesn’t. See?” With this, he added eyes and a nose to the end of the hook. “Here’s his face. These are his arms, and this…this is his humped-up back because he’s so old, you know.”

With a bit of a sneer, one young man of twelve said, “I seen a fellow like that once. ’E was pullin’ a cart o’ vegetables like a donkey.”

Mrs. Priddy took a step toward this young man, but before she could speak, Harold said, “I reckon that man was just like this one—working hard for his family—another word that starts wif an
f
. You know,
family
, like all o’ you here is.”

“We’re not a family, Mr. Hanson,” said Bobby. “We don’t have a mum or a dad.”

“Not exactly, but you have Mrs. Priddy and the other ladies to be your mums.”

“But no pa,” said the first boy, his sneer fading into a pout.

“Not a pa, but you’ve got me. I’m like an uncle who comes t’ visit every day or two. An’ you’ve got Mr. Tucker; a real war hero, he is.”

“But he can’t talk right.”

“Can you understand him?” The children nodded. “Can you hear him, even though you have to get close?” They nodded again. “Then there’s another uncle for you. And you’ve got, plenty o’ brothers and sisters t’ fight with. See? You’re a real family and if anybody says you’re not, they’ll have t’ answer t’ me.”

“Will you fight them?” asked Bobby eagerly.

Harold looked at Mrs. Priddy and grinned. Shaking his head, he said, “No, but’ I’ll tell them what’s what, I will. And who would argue with me? Now, tell me again, what words begin with this little letter?” He held up his drawing again, and the children began to call out words.

Their visit to the school complete, the coachman turned the carriage toward Bond Street to the millinery shop. There, Olivia selected several lengths of colourful ribbon to trim her old bonnet. This task accomplished, she purchased an ostrich plume, dyed a lovely willow green, for her aunt’s favourite turban.

As she left the shop, she collided with the tall, scowling Lord Sheridan. Offering a gruff apology, he leaned over to retrieve her small packet of ribbons and his cane.

Straightening again, the ostrich plume she held slapped his face, and he shoved it away roughly. It fluttered to the ground, and he bent to retrieve this, too.

Thrusting it into her hand, he grumbled, “Demmed feather.”

“No, my lord,” she replied sweetly.

Squinting at her through the green tendrils, he pushed them aside and peered down at her. With a swift motion, his quizzing glass went up and so did his nose. “I beg your pardon?”

“I said it is neither demmed nor is it a feather. It is a
plume
, an ostrich plume, to be correct.”

Olivia took a step back as the scent of spirits assaulted her nose. She gave him her best smile and prepared to move along. No sense in trying to converse with a man in his cups.

His hand on her shoulder prevented her progress.

Harold, watching from his station by the carriage door, took a step toward them. Olivia shook her head.

“Are you making game of me, Miss…”

“
Lady
Olivia Cunningham, Lord Sheridan. We may not have been formally introduced but we have met, and quite recently, too. Surely you remember last night?”

Still staring at her through that awful magnifying glass, he cleared his throat. “Beg pardon, Lady Olivia. Here is your package. Good day.”

With this, he was gone. Olivia shook her head and watched him walk away. His gait was steady and sure. Had he not been forced to lean over twice, she was certain no one would have been able to detect his drunken state. With a shrug of her shoulders, she walked to the carriage.

Olivia climbed inside, and Harold joined her. He signalled the coachman to start. In the distance, church bells chimed the hour.

Four o’clock. Olivia sighed.

Lord Sheridan in his cups so early in the day. What a waste of such a fine figure of a man. He must be terribly unhappy.

“Dash it, Fenwick! I can do it myself!”

“Certainly, m’lord,” said the valet, continuing to brush his master’s waistcoat while Sheridan tore off his ruined cravat and began once again.

“Hell and blast!”

The valet presented yet another cravat. Sheridan eyed it with suspicion and then muttered, “Oh, tie the blasted thing yourself. I’m all thumbs tonight!”

“Very good, m’lord.” Moments later, the valet stepped away to allow his master a view of the masterfully styled cravat.

“Yes, well, that is quite acceptable.” Sheridan glanced at the valet’s stricken face and added, “More than acceptable, of course. You have outdone yourself yet again, Fenwick. Thank you.”

“You are very welcome, m’lord. We are wearing the black coat this evening, are we not?”

“Indeed we are. The colour suits my mood perfectly.”

“I hope your indisposition is not the result of any inefficiency on my part or that of any member of your staff, m’lord.”

“Of course it isn’t, as you well know. It is the result of a man going to his club too early and imbibing far too much good port with a friend who has a head made of iron. I do not, unfortunately. Now, I must meet with my same friend for a demmed rout, of all things, but I shall come about.”

“Of course, m’lord.”

Sheridan shrugged into the coat. ‘There is one thing, Fenwick.” The valet continued to fuss over his coat. “I didn’t bring home a woman this afternoon, did I?”

“A woman? To this house?”

“A lady, perhaps?”

“Oh no, m’lord. You have not done such a thing since you were a youth. How well I remember the expression on the dowager countess’s face!”

“Yes, well, that is a relief. Yes, I will do nicely. Do not wait up for me, Fenwick. I can put myself to bed.”

“Very good, m’lord.”

Sheridan smiled as he strolled out the door to the stairs. Every night it was the same. He told Fenwick he could put himself to bed. Fenwick agreed and then waited up anyway. It was the result of too many years of dedicated service.

“Sir Richard is in the drawing-room, m’lord,” said the butler when Sheridan reached the hall below.

“Thank you, Silvers.”

His hand on the door, Sheridan paused. He could have sworn he had spent some time with a woman that afternoon. A blurry cloud of blonde hair and china-blue eyes kept presenting in his aching head. Rubbish, of course. He had not visited the brothels since his youth, either, and he did not have a mistress at the moment.

Pasting a smile on his face, he opened the door.

“Ready for an evening of madcap frivolity, old boy?” asked the dapper Richard.

“Ready as I will ever be.”

“Where is your cane?”

“Silvers has it in the hall.”

“Which is it tonight?”

“The silver wolf with the ruby eyes.”

“Perfect,” said Richard, clapping Sheridan on the shoulder. At his raised brow, Richard added, “It will match your bloodshot eyes to perfection!”

“Devil a bit!” replied Sheridan. As they left the room, he asked, “Are we picking up Maddie on the way?”

“Heavens, no! You know her thoughts on attending a rout.” Raising his voice, he mimicked, “’A more colossal waste of time you will never find—not to mention the discomfort of squeezing up and down a narrow staircase with a hundred other fools, most of whom have never made use of soap and have instead bathed in the most foul-smelling cologne ever made.’”

“Succinct enough. You have Maddie down very well,” said Sheridan, entering the carriage. “Perhaps we have all been spending too much time together this Season.”

“Never say you are tiring of our company. I may be forced to re-enlist,” said Richard.

“Not at all. I am enjoying this Season very much more than the last two without you. Maddie is all well and good, but she cannot accompany me to Manton’s for shooting or Jackson’s Boxing Salon.”

“Nor can she join us at White’s—a pity, I say. Perhaps you and I should begin a new club in which ladies are allowed.”

“My, yes, wouldn’t that be well attended?” drawled Sheridan. “Besides, there is no need for another such club. You can always go to Watier’s with a friend.”

“Not all the time and not the same calibre of female as our Maddie,” said Richard.

“Certainly not.”

“Have you wondered why she never remarried after old Thorpe snuffed it?” asked his friend.

“I asked her once,” said Sheridan, and Richard cocked his head to one side in surprise. “We were at a musicale or some such entertainment and were trying to converse so as to drown out the screechings of some young miss demonstrating her singular lack of talent on the harp.”

“Ah, and how did our Maddie reply?”

“Only that since Thorpe left her very well set for life, she didn’t feel any particular need to ever be mauled about again. I didn’t wish to pursue the topic further.”

The two men exchanged understanding glances and looked out the windows, lost in their own thoughts. Sheridan, who knew that Richard had once been enamoured of their friend Maddie, wondered how he was digesting this bit of information.

Could there still be some feelings there? Probably not. They had been in their salad days, all of them, a time when love had flamed at the mere batting of a girl’s eyelashes.

The carriage came to a stop, and a footman threw open the door. Sheridan hopped to the ground first.

Facing the house, alit with candles, he said, “Have you buttoned up your coat, Richard? I once attended one of these routs and forgot to fasten my coat. As I was going up the stairs, I turned the wrong way, and suddenly another fellow coming down the stairs found himself wearing my coat. I never did get it back.”