Chapter 2 #3
“I know,” Bridget said, picking up two more books. “He swooped so low, the people in the park saw him.” She flew, arms outstretched, over to the bookshelf and stacked two more titles. “That’s dangerous if you’re a dragon. Somebody could shoot you right out of the sky. Bang!”
Jordy picked up a flattened book. “Is that what he did?”
“Socks committed many transgressions, alas for our young dragon friend. His mama despaired of him. He was blessed with a curious mind and simply did not see the harm in finding out for himself what lay beneath the clouds. He was also prone to singing, and for a dragon to sing where people could hear him was considered a very great breach of dragon law.”
“I like to sing.” Bridget collected six books at one go. “Jordy, put the book away, or we won’t get our story.”
Jordy stuck out his tongue at his sister and put the book away.
Mr. Huxley did not gloat. He did not lecture or preen.
He made up a fantastic story involving winged dragons, hot-air balloons, a wind from the east named Circe, and thunder—“We humans hear thunder when the dragons are singing”—while the battlefield was gradually cleared and Sorcha tried to analyze how exactly that had happened.
Amiability and authority had been just the beginning. Bernard Huxley was also shrewd, imaginative, and tenacious. Sorcha was troubled by that conclusion and also, reluctantly, a little curious to know what other qualities he was keeping out of sight above the clouds and smoke of respectability.
“My horse is named Thunder,” Bridget announced when the playroom was neat as a pin.
“Your horse is stupid,” Jordy said, his grin back in evidence, complete with a small laceration on his upper lip. “I want a dragon instead of a horse.”
“Then name your pony Dragon,” Mr. Huxley said, rising from the rocking chair and returning the last book to the shelf.
“I haven’t a pony,” Jordy replied. “Bridget doesn’t either. She just pretends with that thing.”
“Thunder is not a thing. He’s a real pretend horse.”
“Then the two of you make up a story about a pony named Dragon,” Mr. Huxley said. “Write it down, ask your mama for help with the big words, and I will happily read the tale when next I visit.”
Which occasion, Sorcha devoutly hoped, might be months hence.
Gilchrist returned, peeking around the door when Mr. Huxley answered her knock with a hearty, “Here there be dragons. Enter at your own risk!”
Jordy and Bridget both mouthed the words silently.
“Goodness gracious,” Gilchrist said. “I cannot believe my eyes. Not a fallen soldier in sight!”
“I put away most of the books,” Bridget said. “Jordy helped.”
“Master Jordan did an excellent job with the injured and fallen,” Mr. Huxley said.
“You did indeed handle the lion’s share of the books, Miss Bridget.
Very good work, the pair of you. Lady Barclay, I must not overstay my welcome.
If you’d see me to the door, I’d appreciate it.
Children, I am proud to call you my cousins.
Never have I seen such an extensive battlefield so quickly put to rights. Your industry frankly amazes me.”
He bowed to Bridget, who received the courtesy with shy consternation, and he offered his hand to Jordy, who shook with the same air of puzzled hesitance.
What manner of man is this cousin? they seemed to be asking, the same question that bothered Sorcha.
He offered Gilchrist a polite nod, completing the general befuddlement, and held the door for Sorcha.
“That didn’t go too badly,” he said. “When can I meet the governess and tutors?”
Sorcha considered dissembling and settled for a half-truth. “The most recent governess gave notice last week, and the tutor is on his half day.”
The most recent governess had quit last month, after a single day. The less said about Entwhistle, the better.
“I see.” Mr. Huxley began moving toward the stairs.
“What do you see, Mr. Huxley?”
“Cousin Bernard, please, or simply Bernard will do, given the family connection. I see that these children have yet to earn their ponies—very shrewd of you to withhold that boon—and that you need help.”
He trotted down the first flight of stairs, while Sorcha followed more slowly.
“I beg your pardon, Mr. Huxley. What did you just say?”
He turned such that he and Sorcha were eye to eye because she stood one step up.
“You have coped wonderfully, managing a pair of very lively children, but the time has come to recruit worthy reinforcements. You need help, and I can see that you get it.”
This pleased him, while he was alarming Sorcha.
Nobody helps me with my own children. Not quite true—bless Gilchrist—but true in spirit. “I admit that we just caught the children in the odd rambunctious mood and that they tested your authority, but we are contending well enough in the nursery for now.”
The animation that had sent him bounding down the steps disappeared, like a dragon ascending into the clouds. Real, unexpected, and impressive, then invisible, as if it had never been there.
“Might I request, then, that I be allowed to interview prospective governesses with you, my lady?”
Sorcha could not antagonize him, and neither could she trust him. “Of course. I’ll have the agency send over some candidates next week, if that would suit.”
He resumed his progress down the steps. “I would prefer any time after three p.m. the day after tomorrow, and we are looking for a younger woman, one with plenty of energy, not too much book learning, and a good imagination.”
He was looking. Sorcha would probably be permitted to behold his search, no more. “The agencies don’t usually evaluate imagination, Mr. Huxley.”
“Which leaves the job for us. A sense of humor wouldn’t go amiss either. Bridget is a bit on the serious side.”
While Jordy could be a clown. “The day after tomorrow, then. After three p.m.”
They arrived at the front door in silence. Sorcha held Mr. Huxley’s coat for him, which engendered some awkwardness as he fished for the sleeves. They got through that, and she handed him his hat and walking stick.
“Best hurry,” she said, taking in the gray afternoon beyond the foyer window. “Looks like rain.”
He tapped his hat onto his head. “We had rain in Yorkshire too. I liked it because nobody called at the vicarage on the sopping days. Bad of me.”
Sorcha had no idea what to make of him, no idea what to make of his little story hour in the nursery. She attributed her next question to being completely at sixes and sevens and knowing that the upheaval Mr. Huxley would cause was just beginning.
“Mr. Huxley, weren’t you ever lonely?” No wife, no children. Avoiding his callers, retreating into homilies where gossip and small talk should have been.
He stared out at the gloomy afternoon. “What an odd question. I will ponder my reply until next we meet. Perhaps I will put the same query to you. Please remember: Ponies must be earned, and my small cousins are miles and shires away from doing so.”
“We are agreed. No ponies. Good day, Mr. Huxley.”
He bowed, touched a finger to his hat brim, and jaunted down the front steps.
I do get lonely, if anybody’s asking. Sorcha batted the thought away—the day had been a challenge—and went in search of the cinnamon biscuits that Mr. Huxley had eyed with such longing.
She was enjoying her third when a celestial rumbling sounded overhead, and for no reason at all, the thunder made her smile.