Learning to Waltz (22 page)

Deborah contemplated the wretched mongrel. He was probably as attractive now as he would ever be, for he had clearly been bathed and brushed for his big day. His hair grew every which way, with some of every color one might expect to find on a dog, all interspersed haphazardly on a misproportioned body. His legs were too long, his tail short and scraggly, and his ears stood out from his head at a rakish angle. His eyes were his one good feature, bright and questioning. He did look reasonably intelligent, for a dog. And thank heaven he was small.

“One week,” she allowed. “We will try this for one week. He will live in the yard, and he can sleep in the shed with the goat. He may come in the kitchen for his meals; the rest of the house is off limits.”

Julian ran to her and hugged her hard about the legs. “Thank you, Mama! He’ll be really good, you’ll see!”

She was skeptical. Hopefully, he would give her an excuse to send him back to the dairy, but she was shrewd enough to realize that by the end of a week, Julian would be so attached to the animal that it would take something truly egregious to justify taking the dog away. Like massacring the chickens.

She must indeed be crazy, and if she was not, she soon would be. Here was a responsibility she hadn’t asked for, didn’t want, and one, moreover, that would remind her of Evan—
no, of Mr. Haverfield
—all day long. As though she needed more reminders when his face was engraved on the backs of her eyelids.

He had asked her permission to send
a gift
, like a book or a toy. He’d said nothing about a living creature. No doubt he anticipated she would say no and had not wanted to give her that opportunity.

He knew her too well.

“I suppose you’d better find a name for him.” As she left the kitchen, his letters clutched in her hand, the discussion was already underway. And when she saw the mongrel again a short time later, Julian introduced him as Pelleas.

She gave up on afternoon lessons because Julian cried about coming inside. He took the animal over every inch of the little yard, introducing him to Lucifer the goat and each of the chickens. He scolded when the dog tried to jump up on the stone wall, shaking his finger just as she did. Fortunately, the wall was an inch or two beyond jumping range.

Then boy and dog went for a walk. Julian looked so proud and happy when they returned that Deborah capitulated then and there, though she didn’t tell her son.

Before Julian went to bed, they had to spend half an hour in the shed while he built a nest in the hay and persuaded Pelleas to curl up inside, covering him with an old moth-eaten saddle blanket. When she finally got him upstairs, all he could think about was whether the dog would have nightmares in his new home and what they would do together tomorrow. And in the morning, he ran downstairs in his bare feet to release the prisoner.

Unfortunately for her rules, the weather turned bitterly cold. Before Julian even asked, Deborah took pity on the poor animal shivering on the back step. She certainly was not going to let Julian spend any length of time outside. She knew from her own reluctant ventures out the door that no amount of clothing was sufficient to keep a body warm. So she sent boy and dog out into the lane for a quick run after breakfast and then allowed both back into the kitchen where they settled cozily by the fire. Julian had a cup of tea; Pelleas had to settle for water.

They hardly left the kitchen for three days. Trying to heat the rest of the house would have been dreadfully expensive and probably futile. Deborah envied Molly her little chamber off the kitchen—and Pelleas too, for he was permitted to sleep on the rug by the fire. She heated bricks at bedtime and dashed upstairs to slip them into her bed, and then grabbed nightclothes for herself and Julian and returned to the kitchen, where they changed and washed up with warm water from the copper.

Then they ran back to her chamber and slid into the big bed, where the bricks had taken off the worst of the chill.

Once there, any urge to use the chamber pot or get a sip of water—which would have been frozen in any case—was instantly quashed by the thought of freezing to death outside the covers. Deborah gritted her chattering teeth and tried to make a game of it, but she hated every minute.

The happy little dog in the kitchen seemed like the one bright spot in that dark, dismal winter.

Deborah found it difficult to remain hostile toward that warm, furry being who came up to her chair by the fire, rested his whiskery chin on her knee, and gazed up at her with brown eyes that said
I love you.
Impossible not to shed a few tears at the sight of that creature sitting on the hearthrug with her sober, reserved little boy, to all appearances engrossed in the story Julian was reading to him.

And somehow the knightly name Pelleas seemed appropriate, even though he was scruffy and homely. He might not fight dragons, but he knew how to vanquish the beast named Loneliness.

By early March, spring was stretching awake. It was still chilly, but each rain seemed to wash away one more thin layer of winter gray, uncovering just the faintest tint of green that was revealed when the sun shone.

The kitchen door stood open wide one afternoon as Deborah and Molly scrubbed the room clean. Pelleas ran out as a carriage drove along the lane toward the high street, barking as it rounded the corner.

The knock came a couple of minutes later. Drying her hands on her apron, Deborah went to answer it. But Julian was already there, riveted, on the threshold. Beyond him she could see Miss Latimer and another woman she did not recognize.

She heard Miss Latimer say, “Good morning, Master Moore.” She heard no response at all from Julian.
Where are his manners?
She hurried toward the door, a smile on her face to cancel out her son’s diffidence.

“Is your mama—ah, here she is.”

As she came closer, Deborah saw that the stranger held a boy’s hand. Julian stared spellbound at the other child, so close to his own height.

And the dratted dog had his muddy feet up on Miss Latimer’s pelisse, sniffing the basket she had brought.

“Pelleas! Get down!” He complied, transferring his attentions to the boy, who let go his mama’s hand to scratch him behind the ears.

“I’m so sorry, Miss Latimer,” Deborah exclaimed, leaning down to brush the dirt she couldn’t even see from the plain, dark garment. “Let me—”

Miss Latimer laughed her off. “Don’t be silly, Mrs. Moore. This old thing has seen more mud than our hogs. And some worse things too. I hope we’re not interrupting you?”

“Of course not,” Deborah lied.

She stood aside to let her visitors into the hall, and as she took their pelisses, she tried to assess the unknown woman. There was nothing fancy about her woolen gown, but it fit her to perfection, and the fabric’s luster spoke of wealth. She had curly brown hair, expertly arranged, and a kind, pretty face that looked as though it laughed a lot. She looked slightly familiar.

There was nothing familiar about her name, however. Miss Latimer performed the introductions as Deborah showed them into the parlor. “This is Mrs. Dusseau, who has come to stay with me for a few weeks. And her son, Alexander.”

Deborah uttered the usual mundane courtesies and ensured that Julian made his proper bows. Then she excused herself to return to the kitchen, basket and dog in tow, and removed the humiliating apron.

“Am I clean enough, Molly?” The girl wiped some dirt from her face and fingered a tendril of hair into place. “Tea and lemonade, please. And biscuits, if there are any left.”

Deborah returned to the parlor. The boy and his mother sat on the sofa, while Miss Latimer had the chair by the fire. Deborah took the remaining chair, and Julian came to stand by her knee, his eyes still glued to young Alexander.

Had he said anything at all? Mrs. Dusseau must think him mute.

“You probably don’t know it, Mrs. Moore, but all five of us in this room have a mutual friend,” said Miss Latimer. “Mrs. Dusseau is the former Miss Elizabeth Haverfield.”

Deborah would have dropped her tea in her lap if she’d had any. As it was, only her jaw dropped. She clenched it shut, lest it betray her further.

Miss Latimer continued. “You met Mr. Haverfield’s older sister, Lady Witney, over New Year’s. Elizabeth is his younger sister.”

Julian turned his attention from the boy to his mother. Shyly, he said, “I hope Mr. Haffield is well?”

Mrs. Dusseau shook her dark curls. “I regret I can give you no news of him. You have seen him more recently than I.”

Molly arrived with the tea tray. Deborah was glad to have that routine job to do and was surprised the cups did not rattle in their saucers as she handed them out.

Julian subsided against Deborah’s skirts once she was settled again but emerged to ask Mrs. Dusseau, “Are you a countess too?”

Deborah blushed for his impertinence and opened her mouth to intervene, but Mrs. Dusseau laughed. “No, I’m sorry to disappoint you. I am merely a Missus, like your mama.”

Deborah thought Julian was relieved rather than disappointed. He helped himself to a biscuit and returned to his perusal of Mr. Haverfield’s nephew.

Deborah shook herself out of a surreptitious inspection of Mrs. Dusseau’s similarities to her brother. Miss Latimer was speaking about plans for her friend’s visit. “Oh, we shall have a few dinner parties, which I hope you will attend, Mrs. Moore. But I hope that you and Master Moore might help in keeping my guests entertained during the day.”

Mrs. Dusseau looked on complacently, and the thought snuck into Deborah’s head that all was going according to someone’s plan.

Whose, she was not sure.

The following day, Elizabeth hosted Mrs. Moore and her son at the Manor. They had a small nuncheon served in the breakfast room and then went riding.

The viscount owned no ponies for children, but Miss Latimer had borrowed two from her fiancé’s stables. Alexander was handling one of these, though not very well.

Julian Moore was clearly envious of Alexander’s greater mastery but seemed happy enough to be up in front of a groom on a horse named Imp. When Elizabeth had extended the invitation yesterday, the poor child had been pathetically eager, imploring his mother with looks and whispers.

Mrs. Moore had been less enthusiastic. Behind an expressionless façade, her eyes were wary. If Elizabeth had not seen the mask fall when Miss Latimer introduced her as Evan’s sister, she might have thought the woman stupid or unfeeling.

But in that moment, Elizabeth saw plenty of feeling. Dismay bordering on horror. Yet she had accepted the invitation readily enough. She might be cautious, but Elizabeth thought she was also curious.

The ladies rode slowly ahead of the boys. The groom was in charge of them, but until she was more familiar with him, Elizabeth preferred to stay close by. Mrs. Moore, too, kept one eye on the path they rode and the other over her shoulder.

“Have you visited often at Whately?” Mrs. Moore asked.

“Oh no, I’ve never been here before,” Elizabeth replied. “I’ve known the viscount for years, of course—he and Evan are school chums from way back. And I met his sister in London. Philip and I were in town for part of the Season when she had her come-out. I like her very much, don’t you?”

“Of course. She’s been very kind to us.”

Elizabeth caught Mrs. Moore’s sidelong look of puzzlement and smiled at her. If Mrs. Moore was curious, Elizabeth was fairly bursting. She had read her sister’s ruminations over New Year’s and longed to know more. She had read Evan’s letter, now two months old, and felt all the pain of unrequited love he had tried not to express. And then silence, though he was normally an excellent correspondent.

Mama knew nothing of his whereabouts, though he had paid a brief and thoroughly unsatisfactory visit to Northridge after leaving Whately. Alberta had heard nothing but knew he was not in London. Viscount Latimer had no news of him, either. The family’s agents in Shrewsbury, who always knew where to find him, did not—at least, so they said.

These past couple of years, Evan had spent most of his time wandering, but he had never put himself out of touch. Elizabeth knew her brother as well as anyone, and whatever was going on, she was not inclined to take it lightly.

So she had written her own letter to Amanda Latimer, received a long and fascinating missive in return, and resolved to meet this widow who had spurned him.

Needless to say, she discussed none of this with the woman she had traveled so many muddy miles to meet. Elizabeth argued often with Alberta about society’s inequities and would not reject out-of-hand Mrs. Moore’s suitability as a sister-in-law. What did it matter that the woman had meager means and scrubbed her own doorstep? An advantageous marriage would relieve all such embarrassments. She must be genteel, of course, in birth and in manners. Beyond that, what mattered was whether she would appreciate Evan and make him happy. That’s what Elizabeth had come to determine, if she could.

“I just had to get out of Yorkshire. I love the place, but our winters are beastly. Philip couldn’t get away quite yet, so I came here for a couple of weeks.”