Page 87 of Oddity of the Ton
Then Eleanor saw it—the plumpness of Miss FitzRoy’s lips, and the way her face creased around the mouth when she smiled. Her eyes were brown, not blue, but their shape was identical to Whitcombe’s, right down to the arch of her eyebrows.
Montague FitzRoy…
“Miss FitzRoy, are you the duke’s…” Eleanor’s voice trailed away as she glanced toward Whitcombe.
The woman’s eyes widened, alarm in their expression.
Oh dear.She’d said the wrong thing—again.
“F-forgive me,” Eleanor said. “The resemblance…”
“Few are able to spot it.”
“I meant no offense.” Eleanor extended her hand. “Please accept my apologies. I hope I won’t disrupt your lessons.”
Miss FitzRoy stared at Eleanor’s hand for a moment, then reached out and took it. Thin, calloused fingers slid across Eleanor’s smooth palm.
Whitcombe watched with a shimmer of pride in his eyes.
It was pride in another, not himself. How could Eleanor have once thought him aloof and intimidating? As each day passed, he revealed another layer of himself: gallant suitor, ardent champion, tender fiancé—albeit a fake one—and now, the adoring brother.
Which raised the question…
“Why don’t you live at the main house, Miss FitzRoy?” Eleanor asked. “You’re a member of the family, after all.”
The previous alarm in Miss FitzRoy’s eyes turned to distress.
“Oh, forgive me!” Eleanor cried. “I meant no offense—have I said something wrong?”
Whitcombe let out a sigh. “No,” he said. “You’ve merely voiced what social convention forbids the rest of us to say.”
“Then I shouldn’t have said it,” Eleanor said.
“No—Eleanor,” he replied. This time it was Miss FitzRoy’s turn to look astonished at the familiar address. “A great deal that has not been saidoughtto be said. Olivia is my father’s daughter—but not my mother’s.”
Miss FitzRoy blushed, then Eleanor caught his meaning and let out a cry of shame. “Oh, what was Ithinking?”
“The same as the rest of us,” Whitcombe said. “Olivia doesn’t mind, do you, Olivia?”
The young woman shook her head. “Of course not.”
Doubtless she didn’t, given that she would have grown up surrounded by stigma and whispered words. The matriarch in the dower house might disapprove of Eleanor—but Eleanor couldn’t begin to imagine what the dowager thought of Miss FitzRoy, a girl Society considered to have committed a heinous crime merely by being born.
“Shall we begin by introducing the children to Miss Howard?” Whitcombe suggested.
“Yes, of course,” Miss FitzRoy said. “Children, this is Miss Howard. What do we say?”
“Good morning, Miss Howard,” several voices said in unison. The boy at the back stood in silence, shuffling from foot to foot, casting only an occasional glance upward, as if wanting to satisfy his curiosity, but unwilling to be caught looking.
A feeling Eleanor was not unfamiliar with.
“Perhaps, children, you could tell Miss Howard your names?” Miss FitzRoy gestured to each child in turn, and they recited their names: William, Betsy, and Fanny—who, with their matching mops of unruly red hair, were clearly siblings—in the front row, then Peter, Lottie, and James in the row behind.
Miss FitzRoy gestured to the boy at the back.
“This is Joe,” she said. “He’s quieter than the others—but that means you listen better than the rest, don’t you, Joe?”
The boy gave a curt nod, fixing his gaze on his shoes.
