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  As for Justinian, he was finding the present to be completely untenable. It seemed to him that he was constantly on the verge of breaking into two people. One impertinent fellow wanted to drag Norrie Pritchett off to a secluded corner of the manor, kiss her nearly senseless, and demand to know why she had reappeared in his life if she wasn’t willing to acknowledge his existence.

  The more scholarly fellow who had been forced to be an earl raised an eyebrow at such brutish behavior, reminding the impetuous fellow that he had frightened her away in the first place with far more gentle actions than that. The scholar cautioned prudence; all good things came to those who waited. Justinian wanted to follow the latter advice, but he found his good intentions ruined every time he happened upon Eleanor.

  Luckily, the habitual coolness with which she greeted him only convinced him that he should not speak; however, it did not keep him from remembering. Now there were new memories overlaid on the old: the loving attention she devoted to setting up Dottie’s apartments and schedule, the sparkle in her beautiful eyes when she showed them the newly refurbished schoolroom, the sound of her laughter at some quip of his mother’s, the soft hush of long skirts passing his door and the absurd longing to hear them pause. She distracted him from his routine, she distracted him from his work, she distracted him from his writing. He did not have an answer for how to stop her bitter-sweet distractions and wasn’t entirely sure he wanted one. His very ambivalence only served to trouble him further.

  He was trying once again to determine the appropriate course of action one night about a fortnight before Christmas when he found his supper, which he had been wont to take alone in the library at the desk, very much disturbed. It started innocently enough. He was just spooning up a mouthful of chicken broth when a distinct thump sounded overhead. He frowned at the frescoed ceiling but soon returned to his reading. The second noise occurred as he was starting his ragout of beef; that sound was definitely more of a thud. His salmon tart was taken to the tune of repetitive drumming that made him wonder whether he had been invaded by the Scottish army. The feet running back and forth during his lamb brisket made him sure of it. Before the blueberry trifle Mrs. Childs had promised him arrived, he was taking the stairs two at a time to find out what was going on.

  His mother didn’t even look contrite when he appeared in her doorway. Both Mary and Norrie dropped a curtsey, and it was not lost on him that both had red faces and appeared winded. Indeed, Norrie’s slender chest was heaving, and she was biting her full lower lip as if she was afraid she was going to burst out laughing at any second. The laughter sought escape through her twinkling eyes instead.

  “Good evening, Justinian,” his mother heralded. “So good of you to join us. We were about to ring for dessert. Will you have some?”

  He took a deep breath. “No, thank you, Mother. Is everything all right up here?”

  The countess raised a finely etched white brow. “All right? Certainly. We are all fine, aren’t we, Eleanor?”

  Eleanor thought she would explode if she didn’t let the laughter out. Until this evening, she had been successful in keeping the lordly little cat from exploring the countess’ bedchamber. For some odd reason, the countess had demanded that he remain through dinner, and Eleanor had hardly eaten a bite before he had begun stalking about. His reactions to different pieces of furniture and belongings at the floor level had been funny enough, but when he jumped up on the dressing table and scowled at himself in the mirror, the countess had whooped delight. Both Mary and Eleanor had repeatedly tried to distract him, but the calling, pulling, and petting had been to no avail. His highness Jingles was determined to play in the face powder and other interesting items. She had just spent the last few minutes in a wild chase about the room as the kitten bounded off furniture and scampered around the harried abigail’s legs. As Justinian’s gaze swept her direction, she sucked in a breath. Consequently, her voice came out entirely too high and tight. “Perfectly fine.”

  “You hear that?” The countess smiled serenely. “We’re purrr-fectly fine.”

  Eleanor choked and bowed her head, clutching her heaving sides.

  Alarmed, Justinian took a step toward her. “Miss Eleanor, has your illness returned?”

  Eleanor waved him away. “No, no, really. I’m quite all right. Please don’t let us disturb you.”

  The countess cocked her head. “You know, Eleanor dear, I think Justinian may be right. You look quite done in. You should go to bed, immediately. Justinian, would you be so kind as to escort her?”

  Eleanor froze, but Justinian frowned at his mother, who sighed gustily as if suddenly quite weary herself.

  “I’m sure Miss Eleanor would rather have Mary,” he replied so quellingly that Eleanor felt herself pale.

  “Out of the question,” his mother snapped, drawing her shawl more tightly around her shoulders. “She can’t be spared. Good night, Eleanor, dearest. I’m sure you’ll feel better in the morning. Don’t forget to take the kitten with you.”

  Eleanor had no choice but to hug the countess good night as she had been wont to do. “Yes, your ladyship, thank you.” As she pulled away, she swore she saw the countess wink. Discomposed, she could only peer under the dressing table, where she had last seen the kitten. “Jingles? Here, kitty, kitty.”

  “Allow me,” Justinian clipped, reaching up the bed hangings beside his mother and untangling the kitten’s claws from its precarious hold. Jingles blinked at him and had the audacity to yawn. Eleanor hurried forward to accept the little animal.

  “Thank you, my lord,” she murmured, burying her face in the kitten’s fur to hide her embarrassment. Unfortunately, that only set her nose to itching and they hadn’t even reached the door before she was sneezing again.

  “Give him to me,” Justinian commanded as they started down the corridor. Face reddening, she complied.

  “I’m very sorry we disturbed your work,” she told him, eyes following the scroll pattern in the Oriental carpet underfoot. “The countess does so enjoy Jingles’ antics. I had no idea our hilarity was carrying beyond the room.”

  “It is of no significance,” Justinian assured her and was surprised to find that he meant it. “My mother needs something to take her mind off her problems.”

  “Is she very ill, then?” Eleanor couldn’t help asking. For as long as she had been at the Barnsley School, the countess had been bedridden. It struck her now that she had never been told why. She supposed it was not a subject for a lowly school teacher.

  Justinian answered her readily enough. “Dr. Praxton tells me there is nothing wrong with her outside the normal changes that come with age. My father married late. My mother was nearly forty-five when I was born. She will be seventy-five this year.”

  “Sh,” Eleanor cautioned. “I don’t think she likes that fact to be well known. Besides, if she isn’t unwell, why does she remain in bed?”

  Justinian sighed. “I wish I knew. But she seems happier now than anytime I can remember.” He glanced at her and decided to speak his mind. “You seem to have that affect on people.”

  Eleanor blushed again and wished she had Jingles to hide it. She glanced quickly at the kitten, who lay cuddled against Justinian’s broad chest. Jingles’ yellow eyes were closed, and his cheek nuzzled against the black waistcoat, not far from Jusintian’s heart. She could imagine no finer place to rest. She swallowed and averted her gaze.

  “Norrie.” He stopped in the corridor, and she had no choice but to stop beside him. “Norrie, we must talk. We cannot be expected to live in this house for the next fortnight as if we are nearly strangers.”

  “But we are nearly strangers, my lord. It’s been nearly ten years. I’ve heard that you went on to be a great scholar, just as you had planned. And now you are being the earl, which I know you had not planned, nor even wished. Our lives were different then. The paths have only diverged even farther. You are no longer Justinian Darby, and I am no longer Norrie Pritchett. You are Lord Wenworth. And I am
Miss Eleanor, the governess. That is how things are. It took me some time to truly understand this. Now, if you will please hand me Jingles, I will say good night.”

  She was so calm and sure of herself that any nebulous ideas of professing undying devotion blew away like mist in the wind. Solemnly he handed her the kitten, who snuggled just as contentedly against her breast as he had against Justinian’s chest moments before. “Very well, Miss Eleanor, if that is how you feel. I guess we have nothing to discuss after all.”

  Norrie couldn’t understand why her eyes blurred as he walked away. It must have been the illness returning after all.

  Chapter Seven

  Eleanor assured herself that it should have been easy to act nobly so close to the Christmas season, but she found it progressively difficult. She should have been relieved that Justinian did not mention their past relationship again but was not a little disappointed to find that he gave her a wide berth. She should feel pleased that by reminding him unselfishly of his greater duty, which was to marry someone far more important in the world than one insignificant school teacher, she had put a wall between them. That was what she had meant to do, and she had succeeded. Now she just had to finish her business and leave.

  Christmas was still over a sennight away the day the snow began to fall. She had taken Jingles out to play in the gardens that edged the back of the house and was surprised to find how cold it had grown. They had only gone a little ways along the house from the kitchen when the first flakes descended, large and heavy. Jingles didn’t notice them at first. When he did, he proceeded to pounce upon them as interlopers to his kingdom, lifting his paws in approval to find nothing but a thoroughly vanquished puddle. As Eleanor’s own cloak was beginning to dampen, she soon scooped him up and hurried up the steps to the terrace to find the nearest entrance to the manor.

  She knew the first door she came upon would lead into the library; she had seen Justinian standing outside it often enough. She almost continued on but a quick look through the open curtain on the double doors showed the chair behind the great desk as empty as the room beyond. She thankfully slipped inside, setting down Jingles long enough to shrug out of her damp cloak and wrap the wetness away from the papers and books. She glanced about the lamp-lit room again, reassuring herself that Justinian was indeed not in residence, although a warm fire glowed in the grate and papers were spread upon the desk. Unfortunately, in the brief moment she had surveyed the room, she had lost sight of Jingles.

  She tiptoed farther into the room, peering under the legs of the various chairs and book tables but could not find the kitten. A dull thud behind her sent a chill through her. Whipping about, she found not Justinian but something far worse.

  “Jingles, get down!” she cried, rushing back to the desk where the kitten was capering about on the open papers. Jingles ignored her, pushing the stack of crackling parchment ruthlessly to the floor as if annoyed it dared share the desk with him. Eleanor grabbed him up and held him firmly against her. “That is quite enough, my paper despot.” She glanced down at the parchment, and her heart sank. What was once nicely written prose was now muddy blobs of watery ink dotted with the unmistakable footprints of a kitten. Remembering how much Justinian’s work had always meant to him, she shuddered to think how he would react when he knew it was ruined.

  “We must find a way to fix this,” she told Jingles, bending closer. The page that had been smeared, she saw, was nearly the last page of a rather long piece. Perhaps if she took it and some of the earlier pages, she might be able to recopy it on the parchment in her room, then replace it before Justinian knew it had gone missing. It was certainly worth a try. If he discovered it before she finished, she would simply explain the circumstances. She wouldn’t have to give him another task to undertake.

  That night in her room, however, she was surprised to find not some weighty estate matter or a legal writ before her but the finale of what was surely a novel. The descriptions conjured pictures in her mind, she found herself liking the character who was obviously the hero, and she was so caught up in the scene of the hero confronting the villain that when she found she had not picked up the final pages, she nearly cried in disappointment. It was some of the most well-written prose she had ever read, and it had surely been written by Justinian Darby.

  She sat back in her chair at the writing table in her room and pulled Jingles away from the precious pages. Justinian Darby, a novelist. She envied him, and she pitied him. As a renowned scholar, he would never have been respected for publishing anything so frivolous as an adventure story, which this obviously was. As the Earl of Wenworth, it was unthinkable. She doubted whether anyone but herself had ever so much as read a page. That was the greatest pity, for it was as good an any she had seen. How difficult it must be for him to find time to write it, and to hide it away.

  Over the next two nights it was a labor of love to decipher and recopy the smeared sections. As she did so, her respect for the piece only grew. Surely there was some way he could publish it. He deserved the literary acclaim it would certainly receive. Lord Byron and Walter Scott published their works under their own names. Yet, they did not bear the proud name of Darby. Perhaps he could publish it anonymously as the woman was doing who had written Sense and Sensibility.

  She pondered the matter so thoroughly that the countess caught her wool-gathering the next day. Eleanor jumped as Lady Wenworth rapped her knuckles sharply with her quizzing glass.

  “And what is more important than my most entertaining story of the bruise on my toe?” she demanded, eyes narrowing.

  Eleanor shook her head with a smile. “Oh, certainly nothing I might think of.”

  The countess grinned. “That’s my girl. Seriously, my dear, is something troubling you? You have seemed rather pensive of late. You aren’t thinking of leaving us, are you?”

  Eleanor managed to keep a pleasant smile in place. “I promised to stay until Christmas, did I not? But I regret, my lady, that my plans have not changed. Once Dottie is home and settled, I must move on.”

  “That school cannot need you as much as I do,” the countess complained, pursing her lips into something very much resembling a pout. “This is most vexing. I’ve done everything I can think of and still you and Justinian do not seem to have come to an agreement.”

  Eleanor swallowed. The woman could not mean what she thought. “An agreement?”

  The countess was watching her, and there was no mistaking the shrewdness in those blue eyes. “Yes, an agreement. My son may sometimes be obtuse, but I’m sure he noticed that you bear a striking resemblance to Norrie Pritchett. I must admit, however, I find Eleanor much more elegant.”

  “You know?” Eleanor whispered.

  “Whatever other ailments I may have, I’m not blind, my dear.”

  “But you couldn’t have met me above four times!” Eleanor protested.

  “I believe it was five, and you are very memorable, dear. A mother usually remembers her son’s first love, if she is lucky enough to be privy to it.”

  “He didn’t love me.” Eleanor shook her head, and she wondered suddenly who she was trying to convince.

  “Oh, but I disagree. Justinian quite wore his heart on his sleeve, the poor lamb. Why else did you think my husband felt he must send you away?”

  Eleanor hung her head. “He thought I had designs on the Darby fortune. I assure you, your ladyship, I didn’t then and I don’t now.”

  “Ah.” The countess let the word hang in the air for a moment, then sighed. “Then you don’t love my son.”

  Eleanor couldn’t lie about that. She kept her head down. “Your husband was very convincing. It isn’t appropriate for someone like me to love a Darby.”

  “What exactly did he say to make you think that?”

  She didn’t stop to wonder why the countess would ask. “He said a great many things. The one I remember most often is ‘the best you can hope for from my son is to bear his bastard.’ I didn’t stay to hear any more.”
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br />   “I should think not.” The countess’ blue-veined hand reached out and lay on top her clenched fingers. “My husband was very opinionated, my dear, and I’m ashamed to say that I condoned it. Goodness, I most likely encouraged it. I’m very opinionated myself, in case you hadn’t noticed.”

  Eleanor sniffed back tears and managed a smile. “I had rather gotten that impression.”

  The countess’ smile was gentle. “And you are not opinionated enough, if you let yourself believe all that was told you. We Darbys are famed for our arrogance as well as our generosity. Thank God Justinian seems to have inherited only the generosity of spirit. I’ve seen the way he looks at you, my dear. You could still have him.”

  Eleanor surged to her feet. “If you are suggesting as your husband did that my best hope is becoming Justinian’s par amour, the answer is no. Do not suggest that again, or Darby or no Darby, I shall pack my things and leave this house immediately.”

  “Oh, honestly,” Lady Wenworth sighed, “you young people are entirely too volatile. I had to wait until I was at least sixty before throwing such ultimatums at my elders. I am suggesting nothing of the sort. You would make my son an excellent wife.”

  Eleanor’s legs suddenly refused to bear her weight, and she sank back onto the chair. “His wife? Me?”

  “Oh, you are so delightful. You shock so easily. I vow it’s simply too much fun. Yes, dear, his wife. I could plant the idea in his mind, if you’d like.”

  “Yes, no! I mean you certainly are capable of doing so, but I wish you would not.”

  The countess raised her eyebrows. “Whyever not? You have as much as admitted you love my son. You have all the qualities I would wish for in a daughter-in-law – you are devoted and caring and you aren’t afraid to speak your own mind. If I read my son correctly, it would take very little to sway him.”

  “No,” Eleanor repeated, scarcely knowing what to think. “I cannot let him make such a mistake. He has his family name to consider, your family name.”