Page 91 of Oddity of the Ton
Before the boy could resume his seat, a thin woman with graying hair peeking out from beneath her bonnet entered the classroom. She let out a cry as she caught sight of Whitcombe.
“Oh! Your Grace, I—”
“It’s all right, Mrs. Swift,” Miss FitzRoy said. “The duke brought a guest to help the children with their drawing. Joe—can you show your mama what you’ve been doing?”
The woman approached Joe, and Eleanor noticed how she walked around the classroom to approach him from the front, rather than from behind. “May I see, Joe, love?” she asked.
The boy pushed his drawing across the desk. His mother picked it up, her eyes shining with pride.
“Well done, love,” she said quietly, her voice wavering with emotion. “Shall I put it on the kitchen wall, so we can all see it?”
Joe nodded.
She held out her hand. “Shall we go home now? There’s a nice bit of stew waiting.”
“Off you go, then, Joe,” Miss FitzRoy said. “Thank you for working so hard.”
The boy glanced toward Eleanor.
“Come along, love,” his mother said.
Joe hesitated, then darted toward Eleanor. He collided with her and wrapped his arms around her waist.
“Joe!” his mother said. “I do beg your pardon, miss!”
“It’s quite all right,” Eleanor said, embracing the boy. “It’s what friends do, isn’t it, Joe?”
“This lady isn’t a sheep, Joe.”
“Asheep?” Eleanor asked.
“Begging yer pardon, miss! Joe likes to hug the animals. He started last year, and poor old Shep—my Jacob’s collie—had such a fright when Joe tried to embrace him. He’s taken to hugging the sheep to say goodnight to them—only hisfavoritesheep, mind, not the whole flock, or we’d be there all night, wouldn’t we, Joe? Forgive him—he means no harm.”
“There’s nothing to forgive,” Eleanor said. “You must be proud to have a son who’s so kind and bright.”
The woman’s eyes glistened, and she nodded. “That I am,” she said. “He tries his best around the farm, but he’s always preferred to be alone with his books. Now, come along, Joe—we mustn’t be taking up any more of this good lady’s time.”
She dipped a curtsey toward Eleanor, a deeper one to Whitcombe, then took the little boy’s hand and led him out of the classroom.
“I think we can say that was a success,” Miss FitzRoy said. “You did well with Joe, Miss Howard.”
“I saw in him a kindred spirit,” Eleanor said, staring out of the window, her gaze following the boy as he walked by his mother’s side, one hand holding hers, the other clutching his precious pieces of paper.
“And you can add, to your many qualities, the distinction of being one of Joe’s favorite sheep,” Whitcombe said.
His eyes twinkled with mirth, and Eleanor’s heart skittered in her chest.
“Will you be bringing Miss Howard again, Mont—I mean, Your Grace?” Miss FitzRoy asked.
“If she wishes,” he replied. “We can come again after church on Sunday.”
“Would you like that, Miss Howard?” Miss FitzRoy asked.
Eleanor nodded. “Yes—but on one condition.”
Miss FitzRoy’s smile faded. “Which is?”
“That you call me Eleanor—if I may be permitted to call you Olivia?”
