Page 57 of The Lord Meets His Lady
Genevieve Turner wasn’t embarrassed by the gulf in their education or social standing. She hungered for what could be.
“My grandfather fed me those tales to make history lessons bearable.”
“And he must have loved birds.”
“He loved all animals,” Marcus said, full of nostalgia. “He was a naturalist with an eye to his surroundings, especially birds. He was happy here.”
She studied the parlor’s white plaster walls, suffocating in their blankness. His housekeeper had no idea how it used to look: warm yellow walls and a tapestry full of birds hanging across the center wall. And over the mantel? A gilt-framed painting of shepherds by the River Tweed, the lone display of wealth in the simple cottage. No doubt the painting was lost.
“What would he have thought of the state of things now?” she asked.
He let go of her hair. If he wasn’t careful, Miss Turner would discover he was a man of little substance, while she was made of the best stock despite her tawdry upbringing.
“He’d be disappointed. As a boy, he told me many times Pallinsburn would be mine, but I told him I preferred the city.”
She twisted around, scanning the bare walls. “Much can be done to better this room.”
“To what end?” he said stiffly. “I’ll not stay.”
Miss Turner opened her mouth, but he tapped the pamphlet. “We’re here to read, aren’t we?”
“Of course.”
He frowned, guilt pinching him. Miss Turner must think him an ungrateful wretch for refusing an inheritance. Did she think him a profligate, squandering his life while she struggled to build hers? He breathed easier when she righted herself in the seat and flipped to the first page.
He rubbed his nape, scanning the page. “From what I’ve heard of your reading, you managed quite well with Miss Sauveterre.”
“She worked with me a few months.”
“Was she your first tutor?”
Her chin dipped. “My mother tried to teach me as a child, but she lacked patience. Then, we tried when I was older, but she got the French pox.”
His mouth opened, but what could he say? Platitudes rang hollow before he said them. Miss Turner’s focus was on the page, but there was subtle movement in her throat, a visible swallow.
“That must’ve been…difficult.” He cringed.What a fool!
Difficult?A convenient word and sorely inadequate. When the French pox killed a body, it did its work slowly, taking years to degrade a person. Hair loss, aching limbs, and unsightly, odorous sores. For many, near the end, raging fevers claimed the shell of a person, making life miserable. And for a young girl to witness this happening to her mother?
“You have no idea,” she sighed, angling her face to him.
Eyes, wooden and distant, told a tale that had aged his young housekeeper. He was older in years, but she had grown in experience. He touched her shoulder, as much to give comfort as to gain connection.
“Elise took me under her wing and taught me a great deal,” she murmured. “Gave me a new vocabulary. Opened my mind to new thoughts and ideas.”
“And then your trouble happened.”
Her lashes masked her eyes. “My reading is what brought my trouble to light.” Her alto voice turned brittle. “I learned new words, such ascompel.”
The word rolled off her tongue, an acrid sound in the sparsely furnished room. He rubbed her shoulder, gentle strokes meant to succor a friend. Silence teased out more confessions than questions, a lesson learned long ago. Gambling had gifted him with certain life skills.
Miss Turner set a hand on his chest. “Please don’t ask me about my trouble in London.”
She sat close, the light scents of the rain and the char cloth she’d used to start the fire on her skin. “You’re a scoundrel, Lord Bowles, but you’re a good man, a law-abiding man. “If I tell you what happened, you’ll becompelledto do something about it.”
“That bad?”
Face pale, the pulse at the base of her throat beat visibly. “Ask me anything you want, but nothing about that.”
