Page 90 of Oddity of the Ton
He parted his lips, and for a moment, Eleanor held her breath. Would he speak? Then he closed his mouth and lifted his hand, curling it into a fist, save for his forefinger, which he extended toward Eleanor. She mirrored the gesture, holding her fingertip a hand’s width from his.
Joe blinked and stared at her hand, then tipped his head sideways as if contemplating something. Then he moved his hand closer until their fingertips touched.
Eleanor’s heart swelled at the gesture—the little boy’s gift of trust.
“I never expected to make a new friend when I came here today,” she said. “Miss FitzRoy tells me you live at a farm. Are there animals on your farm?”
The boy nodded, and his lips curled into a smile.
“Perhaps, while you’re at home, you could draw me a picture of your favorite animal to show me when I next visit.”
The smile disappeared.
She’d said the wrong thing again! Perhaps the poor child had no encouragement at home. Or was he forbidden from drawing?
Something she could relate to. Were it not for Papa, she wouldn’t have been permitted to paint and draw as she preferred.
Footsteps approached, and Miss FitzRoy appeared at Eleanor’s side. “That’s a beautiful drawing, Joe. Do you think your mama would like it?”
The boy nodded.
“Are you sure?” Eleanor whispered.
“Oh yes,” Miss FitzRoy said. “Joe’s parents dote on him. They know he’d never be able to run the farm, poor little soul, so they want him to learn his letters. But he’s good with the animals, aren’t you, Joe? Your mama told me how clever you are at counting the eggs in the hen coop.”
Eleanor glanced at the piece of paper on which the boy had drawn the rectangle with the line through it.
Of course!
He didn’t draw at home because his family couldn’taffordthe paper.
“Would you like some paper to take home with you, Joe, if your mama permits it?” Eleanor asked.
The smile returned, and this time, the boy looked up and met her gaze. His eyes, a dark brown, held a curiously intense expression. With a smile, Eleanor placed several sheets of paper on Joe’s desk, then returned to the front of the classroom with Miss FitzRoy.
“Now, children, I’d like you to hold up your pictures so we can all see them. Then, perhaps, our special guest”—she gestured toward Whitcombe—“can choose his favorite.”
His eyes widened, and Eleanor stifled a giggle at the distress in his expression—a man with the world at his feet and the burden of a dukedom on his shoulders, terrified at having to test his skills in diplomacy by singling out one child over the rest without offending the others.
But, as the children held up their artwork, he was saved the trouble. The little girl in the front row let out a cry.
“Look at Joe’s picture! His is the best, isn’t it?”
Joe lowered his gaze, unsmiling, and seemed to cringe under the weight of all the attention.
“That settles it,” Whitcombe said, relief in his voice.
A bell tolled in the distance three times.
“Gracious me, is that the time?” Miss FitzRoy said. “Children, tidy your desks—it’s time to go. I’ll see you Sunday after church.”
The children leaped to their feet with the sound of scraping chairs, and Joe’s eyes narrowed.
“What do we say to Miss Howard?” Miss FitzRoy asked.
Joe remained silent, but the other children said, “Thank you,” in unison, then skipped out of the classroom, chattering loudly, leaving Joe standing beside his desk.
“Would you like to do some more drawing while we wait for your mama, Joe?” Miss FitzRoy asked.
