Page 8 of Second Chances
It must be difficult to choose someone who will suit both you and your children, she had said. He closed his eyes briefly before leaving the room to return to his own. Yes, indeed it was. He must always think first of what was best for them, of course, but ah, sometimes it was difficult not to be selfish and long for someone to ease his loneliness, someone to love again.
And someone with whom he could relax in a late evening after the children were in bed, while they drank their wine and their coffee, and talk upon any subject under the sun. Someone to kiss and take to bed afterward.
Good God, did he owe her a more proper apology?
The sun was shining, the road was firm beneath the wheels of the carriage, the journey was drawing to its end, there was excitement in the expectation of seeing her family again soon, and...and Eleanor was feeling really rather depressed.
She knew why, of course. For she had almost made up her mind to have a talk with Wulfric, but it would take courage. He would be disappointed in her. He would consider her a failure. Her mother and Hazel and Christine would be disappointed too—and upset for her. But the truth was—oh, horror of horrors!—that she was not enjoying being owner and headmistress of Miss Thompson’s School for Girls. She had had no idea when she took over from Claudia with such eager delight how different it would be from simply teaching. It was not just all the extra work, though that seemed endless and was wearying enough. It was more the distance the position somehow put between her and her teachers, much as she respected and even loved them all, and between her and her girls, whom she adored and for whose lives she was fully responsible. She longed to be just a teacher again, all the burden of everything else lifted from her shoulders.
She believed she had a prospective buyer. One of her best teachers had recently inherited a considerable and unexpected fortune from an aunt but had no wish to live upon it in idle luxury. She had made Eleanor an offer for the school and then laughed at her own absurdity when of course Eleanor had no thought of selling. Yet Eleanor suspected she had been more than half serious, and she had been sorely tempted to admit the truth there and then both to her friend and to herself. She had been sorely tempted ever since. But would it be an admission of defeat to step down? It was not that she had failed, though. Her school was thriving and it was a happy and productive place. It was just that she was not happy.
She stared sightlessly through the window and gave more thought to the lowness of her spirits. Was she being honest with herself about the cause? Could it be that she had fallen a little in love yesterday? With two young children and their handsome father? How very silly if it were true. The father was looking for a second wife and a new mother for the children, and he had mentioned a Miss Everly, whom he was surely courting if she and her mother were already making suggestions for his daughter’s future. And even if he was not courting the lady, he would certainly not consider courting her. Not that she wanted him to do any such thing. Besides, she would very probably never see him again, and it was just as well if she was going to start behaving like the stereotypical old maid, getting all fluttery and simpery over an evening spent in company with a personable stranger. Ah...and over a kiss that had not really been a kiss at all. He had been intending to peck her on the cheek, as he might have done with a sister or a maiden aunt. It was just unfortunate that she had turned her head the wrong way and his lips had brushed her own instead.
Oh, more than brushed, Eleanor, she told herself. He had kissed her. And she had kissed him back. It was that second fact even more than the first that had sent her scurrying upstairs to her room and an almost sleepless night while she had relived the kiss over and over, just like a giddy girl.
Eleanor put on her spectacles and directed her eyes, though not, alas, her attention to her book. If it had been upside down, she thought with some disgust after a few minutes, she would probably not have noticed. But it was not. She read a whole sentence with concentrated attention and wondered if Georgette Benning was reading Robinson Crusoe.
At last the carriage turned between familiar towering gateposts and proceeded up the long, straight driveway lined with elm trees standing to attention like well-trained soldiers, until Lindsey Hall came into view. Eleanor closed her book and removed her spectacles. It was a magnificent mansion that melded so many different architectural styles as a result of addition upon addition being added through the centuries, all somehow blending into a glorious whole, that it would be impossible to describe it with a single label, like classical or Gothic or Elizabethan. It was all of those and more. The great fountain in the courtyard before the front doors, surrounded by a circular flower garden, was spouting water high into the air and creating rainbows of color with its spray.
The front doors stood open, and Wulfric and Christine, the Duke and Duchess of Bewcastle, were at the foot of the steps, Wulfric looking his usual austere self, Christine almost bouncing with excitement just like a girl though she was approaching her middle thirties. Hazel and her husband, the Reverend Charles Lofter, were coming down the steps with her mother.
Oh, it felt so very good to see them all. Anxiety and depression fled as Eleanor leaned forward and smiled.
“I would have laid a wager,” Christine cried as Wulfric himself opened the carriage door, set down the steps, and reached up a hand to help Eleanor alight, “that you were held up by those dreadful storms yesterday, but alas, no one would bet against me. Wulfric declared that only a bad thunderstorm or an earthquake would prevail upon our servants to risk his wrath by stopping for a night on the road. Eleanor, how good it is to see you. And how wretched that we had to wait a whole day longer than we expected. Charles said it was a lesson in patience.”
And then Eleanor was caught up in hugs and exclamations and kisses and laughter and all the women talking at once while the two men looked on and she wondered where they were now on the road—Georgette and Robert, that was. And their father. Michael Benning, Earl of Staunton.
Chapter 4
“Are we almost there, Papa?” Robert asked for the fourth or fifth time, a toy horse clutched in each hand, the game of racing them and jumping them over his legs having lost its appeal.
“Soon now,” Michael said—as he had said four or five times before.
Mrs. Harris had nodded off, her mouth agape, her cap slightly askew. Georgette, arms folded, unnaturally quiet, was staring through the window beside her, sulking. She had wanted him to invite Miss Thompson to breakfast this morning but he had told her the lady must be left to start her day in peace. She had wanted to go and see if Miss Thompson was in the dining room, but there were other people in there and he had told her they must not be disturbed. She had wanted to find out which room was Miss Thompson’s so that she could knock on the door to thank her for the tea and conversation yesterday. He had said no, that she had thanked the lady at the time. She had wanted to find out where Miss Thompson lived so that she could write a thank you letter in order to practice her penmanship—that last detail had been added hastily when she had suspected, quite rightly, that he was about to say no again. She had darted downstairs when they were leaving and peered into the deserted dining room before dashing to the counter in the taproom to ask the innkeeper about Miss Thompson’s whereabouts.
“I just want to say goodbye, Papa,” she had explained when she realized he had overheard.
But the lady had gone.
Perhaps, Michael thought now, he ought to have allowed her five minutes in which to say goodbye. She had been strangely taken with the lady, and Miss Thompson had seemed to like her too. Had he forbidden it only because he did not want his daughter to intrude upon her privacy? If he were honest with himself, must he not admit that he would have been embarrassed to see her himself this morning? That...kiss had grown in proportion during a night of disturbed sleep. It had certainly spoiled what would have been memories of a thoroughly pleasant evening spent with a personable companion.
Robert climbed onto his lap and yawned. Did all five-year-old boys seek such comfort from a parent? Or girls for that matter? It seemed to him that Georgette even as a toddler had squirmed and wanted to get down soon after either he or Annette had tried to cuddle her.
Perhaps he ought to have remained at home. But he had liked the Duchess of Bewcastle from the moment he first danced with her at a grand ball in London and she tore the broad flounce off the bottom of her gown with a loud ripping sound as her foot stepped on the hem. She had laughed with what was clearly genuine amusement, called herself a clumsy clod, gathered up the sagging flounce in one hand, revealing a shocking length of silk-stockinged leg as she did so, and made off for the ladies’ withdrawing room as if such an embarrassment were a daily occurrence. When he had met her again at a private concert, she had invited him to her house party after discovering that he had two young children and rarely left home with them during the summer. Lindsey Hall would be positively teeming with children of all ages for two full weeks, she had told him, and they would all have enormous fun. He had accepted the invitation.
It had been such a long journey, though, and ended during an unexpected rain shower. The duke and duchess greeted them in the great medieval hall, and Georgette brightened somewhat at the sight of old banners and weapons displayed on the walls and an elaborately wrought wooden minstrel gallery at one end. Robert, as usual, had burrowed inside Michael’s coat. He took them up to the nursery floor himself rather than pass them off to their nurse. The duchess accompanied them.
“The rain has driven the children all indoors,” she said. “I believe it is just a shower, though, and not a return of yesterday’s storms.”
The large schoolroom on the nursery floor to which she led them did indeed teem with noisy, exuberant children, and Georgette brightened further. The duchess began to identify them.
“Though you will be deserving of some sort of medal if you remember,” she said before she had got very far. “Even I have to stop and think sometimes. Perhaps I ought to have had name labels written for each of them and taped to their foreheads. There are my three and my sister’s three and all of Wulfric’s brothers’ and sisters’ offspring, who numbered fifteen at the last count, though Rachel—Lord Alleyne Bedwyn’s wife—will be adding to that number before Christmas. And then there are the Marquess of Attingsborough’s three though the eldest is not here at the moment. And there are the children of our other guests, including your two.”
“At least,” he said, “I will remember two names.”
She laughed. “They will not be confined to the nursery floor for the next two weeks while the adults have the run of the park in which to enjoy a carefree, child-free existence,” she said. “Wulfric and I decided with our very first child that we would enjoy our family to the full before they grow up and take flight. Our children have the run of the house for much of the time. When other people visit us with their children, the same rule applies—or lack of a rule, if you will. A few of our guests may be dismayed, but they need not be. There are adults galore, not to mention nurses and governesses, to entertain the children and keep an eye on them. The noise may be deafening at times, but it can be ignored.”
He liked the lady. She was certainly as unlike his image of a duchess as it was possible to be. It was difficult to see her as the wife of the austere, haughty Duke of Bewcastle with his cool silver eyes and ever-present quizzing glass. Bewcastle allowed his children to run riot about his house, did he? That would have to be seen to be believed.
