Chapter 5 #2
He sat back, bracing his elbows on the next step up, and Sorcha was struck by his pure masculine appeal. A profile worthy of any Roman statesman, Yorkshire blue eyes, curling blond hair, and a complexion ever so slightly weathered by the elements.
The hostesses would pounce on him like house cats going after a loose canary.
“When I was with the Church,” he said, “I enjoyed the company of the very old and the very young. The elders were not impressed by my station—they were closer to heaven than I was. The children were not intimidated by my calling. They, too, were closer to heaven than I was. I nevertheless miss Yorkshire. Anybody born and bred by the Dales would miss Yorkshire, but I no longer have a home there.”
Sorcha sat forward and linked her arms around her knees. “I have avoided returning to Scotland for the same reason. I’m afraid I no longer have a home there.”
“And everybody will say that you have acquired an English accent, and you walk like an Englishwoman, and your manners have become too fussy. I assure you, my lady, there is nothing whatsoever wrong with how you walk.”
He squeezed her shoulder before she could ask for particulars, and she did want to ask. The next instant, he was standing and extending a hand to her.
“Let’s interrogate the tutor, shall we? And St. Didier advises us to apply to Swindon’s for the next batch of governesses. He claims Coraline’s shop is uppish by reputation.”
Sorcha rose easily and linked arms with Mr. Huxley. “Coraline specifically warned me away from Swindon’s.”
“We can try others, then. One doesn’t want to offend Cousin Coraline.”
Coraline would find fault with every other agency, save the one she’d chosen for her daughters. “Swindon’s next, and we’ll see how we fare.”
“My lady has spoken.”
Mr. Huxley was back on his mettle, ready to plow through the next task, two mountains of correspondence, and another half-dozen stuffy-governess interviews.
Sorcha was still pondering how he’d endured life in godforsaken Yorkshire without real friends, in the company of a mother haunted by scandal, and without family to cheer him through even an occasional friendly letter.
“Might you call me Sorcha when the situation is informal?” she asked as they mounted the steps. “You and I are some version of family. You will be involved with the children for the rest of their minorities, and I am no great advocate of pointless formality.”
Or pointless enmity between people who had a surprising amount in common. Caution, yes. Sorcha would always regard her children’s guardian with caution, but not enmity.
He looked, of all things, bashful. “You did honor me with the use of my given name. Twice.”
“I will honor you with nicknames, a bit of strong language, and some muttered Gaelic if we’re to get the children sorted. I will not see Jordy packed off to public school, Bernard. Not this year, not next.”
“We are in accord, Sorcha, though he’ll take his proper place among his peers when the time is right.” The tone was brisk, the nod perfunctory, but Mr. Huxley—Bernard—was smiling at the door as if he beheld the Dales in all their springtime glory.
“The tutor is Mr. Entwhistle. He’s terribly young and very serious.”
“Jordy runs rings around him.”
Sorcha was smiling, too, for no reason. “I leave them to their scholarship. Entwhistle came highly recommended.”
“From Coraline’s bosom bow or her vicar or some doddering ancient who was teaching Mayfair’s daughters before the Flood. Very well, forewarned is forearmed.”
He bowed her through the door, and Sorcha accompanied him up to the schoolroom lighter of heart than she could recall being since she’d come to London.
She viewed her own lightness of heart with as much caution as she could muster, which doubtless wasn’t nearly enough.
“Mr. Huxley, may I make known to you Mr. Hermes Entwhistle, late of Kent. Mr. Entwhistle has had the privilege of tutoring Jordan for the past six months. Mr. Entwhistle, Mr. Huxley is to be appointed successor guardian to both children.”
As Lady Barclay fell silent, Entwhistle scrambled to his feet, cleared his throat, and hauled down smartly on his somewhat worn lapels. The tome he’d been reading—Sense and Sensibility—fell from his lap to the floor.
Entwhistle blushed, bowed, stuck out a pale paw, then withdrew it.
Ye winged angels of academic disaster.
Bernard bowed and extended a hand. “Pleased to make your acquaintance, Entwhistle. You have my thanks for your continuing efforts with Master Jordan. My apologies for the delay in making your acquaintance.”
Entwhistle wrung Bernard’s hand. “One understands, sir. The press of business—that is to say, of other, erm, responsibilities and obligations and so forth.”
“I’ll leave you two gentlemen to get acquainted. Shall I have a tray sent up?”
Lady Barclay—Sorcha—impersonated the soul of guileless femininity as she jumped ship. Bernard was on the point of refusing a tray, but the loose fit of Entwhistle’s clothing dissuaded him.
“My breakfast was hours ago,” Bernard said. “Some sustenance would be appreciated.”
“Of course.” Sorcha curtseyed politely and withdrew, probably to indulge in a few snickers on the first landing.
Bernard closed the door in her wake. The tutor had been given an office that doubled as Jordy’s schoolroom.
An abacus was collecting dust on the mantel.
Bookshelves held dozens of bound volumes, and a small desk by the window boasted a neat assortment of pens and pencils, an inkwell, paper, and sand.
The larger desk, where Entwhistle had been whiling away his morning, had a few scuff marks on one corner, where a fellow at his leisure might have been putting up his feet.
Bernard took inventory of the titles on the shelves.
“I will rely on you, Entwistle, to acquaint me honestly with Master Jordy’s situation.
He appears to tyrannize the nurserymaid and has no compunction about bossing his sister—though, to her credit, she bosses him right back.
Jordan is at risk to turn into an exact replica of his father. ”
Entwhistle stood rooted, clearly trying to ignore Sense and Sensibility at his feet. Bernard picked up the book and set it on the larger desk, which was also painfully well organized.
“Might you explain, Mr. Huxley? I’m told Lord Barclay was a paragon, an exemplar of all gentlemanly virtues, and a doting papa. Master Jordan would do well to follow his late father’s example.”
Sorcha would not have characterized her late spouse as any sort of paragon, of that Bernard was certain.
“Lord Barclay doubtless drank and debauched his way out of public school and into university. He was no scholar at all, unless taking firsts in laziness and wagering count. I have no doubt he could be charming—he did win Lady Barclay’s hand, and she is nobody’s fool—but he was raised to hold himself in higher esteem than any other entity, save perhaps the Almighty.
If Master Jordan was doted upon, that was because doting flattered the papa, not because the son benefited. ”
The indictment was a bit severe. Barclay had doubtless been fond of his offspring. The rest was Bernard’s general sketch of the aristocracy’s younger sons. They abounded in the Church and had been regular and generally inebriated fixtures at university.
“Mr. Huxley, if I might speak honestly?”
“Please do, in all situations when kindness doesn’t forbid veracity.”
“If you perceive that Master Jordan lacks scholarly inclinations, that he’s behind in his studies, then you must apply to her ladyship to remedy the situation.
She is a widow and without a husband’s wise counsel, and thus allowances must be made.
She nevertheless has undue influence over Master Jordan’s studies.
If I’m to ready him for public school in the next year or two, then she must cease distracting him with trips to the park, games in the garden, fairy tales, and silliness.
Master Jordan might well be the family’s next duke, and his education has been sorely neglected. ”
That was overstating the situation by half. “The boy is seven years old, Entwhistle. Many a lordling is educated at home until twelve or fourteen. Some rely on their tutors entirely until they reach university and then simply take their tutors with them.”
Which raised the question: Who had put such a dire sense of responsibility on Entwhistle’s bony shoulders? He looked to be barely beyond his own university years. His dark hair was ruthlessly pomaded, his cheeks gaunt, and his cravat going frayed at the seams.
He well understood, though, that Jordy’s academic success could be the making of Entwhistle’s career in the ranks of Mayfair tutors.
“I’m sure you will agree with me, Mr. Huxley, that Master Jordan must uphold ducal standards in all regards. Perhaps the view is different in Yorkshire, but in Mayfair, we expect scholarship of the peerage.”
How utterly precious. In Mayfair, titled families expected fine tailoring, scandal, and fertility of their scions.
“Does my accent give me away?” Bernard asked, though he knew perfectly well the Yorkshire dialect had been birched right out of him at his dear mama’s insistence. He understood the local speech up north, but did not indulge himself.
“Not your accent, sir, not precisely, but you are new to Town. I meant no insult.”
“None taken.”
The books were the usual aging assortment.
Sermons, collected letters, histories, a few biographies.
Philosophers. Tragic plays. Poetry. Racy old Shakespeare on an upper shelf, along with Sheridan.
All six volumes of Mr. Gibbon’s history of Rome, the pages of even the first volume—octavo size—still uncut.
No fables, fairy tales, picture books, or illustrated Bible stories.
Though on a more encouraging note, Entwhistle had been amusing himself with a witty piece of extended satire in the guise of a novel.