Chapter Two #2
Grabbing back the shovel, half dragging Edmund with her, she stalked out the front door and turned left, toward Grove House. Sniffing, Butler shut it soundly behind the pair. “Good heavens.”
“Evidently Edmund is not an orphan,” Beckett mused.
“He told me already,” Rebecca contributed. “His papa died four years ago. His uncle just took the house where they’d been living because he likes to shoot ducks, so he and his mama have to stay here with his great-aunt and-uncle while they look for somewhere else to live.”
“You’re going to have to explain that. His uncle likes shooting ducks, so he took their house?”
“He’s making their house into a hunting lodge. Eddie says he’s a rusty guts.” Rebecca glanced at the shut door. “His mama yelled at you.”
It made a degree of sense, now, at least. “Yes, she did.” He followed her gaze. “But if you’d gone to Grove House without telling me, I would have gone over there and yelled at her, so I’m inclined to call us even.”
“I liked her.” Bouncing up on her toes, she headed back toward the library at the rear of the house. “She has spleen. You should apologize to her so I can have Eddie over again. He likes horses as much as I do.”
“I don’t think that could possibly be true, Cricket, but I will attempt to reason with her. Unless she comes at me with a blunderbuss or a broadsword. She seemed lethal.”
People didn’t generally yell or swing gardening tools at him, and she’d caught him completely flat-footed.
Her frantic fury, though, he understood.
Completely. No one came between him and Rebecca.
In Lincolnshire, inside the boundaries of a large estate and the village located thereon, she’d had leave to wander, going wherever her thoughts took her.
Generally in Mrs. Brubbins’s company, but there had been moments when he hadn’t known where she was.
And nothing scared him as much as that feeling.
In Mrs. Silbern’s shoes, he might well have begun swinging a shovel if someone refused to produce his child.
Even so, composure and restraint weren’t the first words that came to mind when he conjured an image of her, all mad golden hair and snapping hazel eyes, but perhaps he did owe her an apology. From one widowed parent to another.
“I’m not a baby. You don’t have to hold my hand.” Edmund tugged at Iris Silbern’s grip.
“I’m holding your wrist; not your hand. And I’m holding your wrist because you broke your word to me. I asked you to stay here and mind your aunt and uncle until I finished emptying the house, Edmund. We’ve been apart for seven days.”
“You didn’t say I would have to rub her foot.”
Iris Silbern swallowed her sigh. “I apologize for that. I didn’t know Aunt Margaret would need her foot rubbed.
But in response you’re digging a tunnel into the sewers, you’ve told our neighbors you’re an abused orphan, and you’re leaving the property without telling anyone.
So much of my hair turned white that I’m going to have to start wearing a wig to cover it up. ”
He looked up at her head. “It’s not white. It looks more like a mad lion’s mane right now, sticking out everywhere.”
Wonderful. She reached up, feeling ends here and there coming loose from pins, and one side sagging a good three inches lower than the other.
“Blast it. I blame a very badly sprung mail coach and a very large man seated beside me who kept falling asleep on my shoulder.” She wrinkled her nose. “He smelled like fish.”
“So does Aunt Lady Margaret’s foot.”
And after six hours of sitting beside the man, she probably smelled the same, drat it all.
No doubt Lord Hentrose had been exceedingly impressed with both her demeanor and her appearance.
Just the first impression—or very delayed second impression—she’d wanted to make upon her return to Mayfair.
Then again, he hadn’t made much of an impression, either, all windblown black hair and excruciatingly pretty gray eyes and accusations that she was the bedlamite while he …
Oh. With her hair as it was and, oh, the wrinkles in her gown due to her being wedged into the corner of the mail coach, and the way she’d pushed into his home and begun flailing a shovel and shrieking for her son, she’d no doubt looked precisely like a candidate for the madhouse.
As they reached Grove House, Tollins pulled open the door and stepped aside. “I see you’ve found Master Edmund, Mrs. Silbern. Your boxes are in the spare sitting room, per Lord Harold’s orders.”
She’d asked that they go into the attic, but evidently her uncle wanted her possessions closer to the front door to remind her that her stay at Grove House would be temporary.
What he didn’t seem to realize despite her making it quite clear was that she had no desire to remain, even if they’d wished her to do so.
“Thank you, Tollins,” she said aloud. “Would you have Polly meet me in my bedchamber? I’d like to change into something that doesn’t look like it’s traveled all the way from Shropshire dragged behind a cow.”
“Of course, Mrs. Silbern.”
“He never smiles,” Edmund whispered helpfully as they climbed the stairs together. “He didn’t even blink when Uncle Lord Harold sneezed at dinner and half a carrot flew across the room and caught Gerald the footman right in the forehead.”
Chuckling, she bumped her shoulder against his. “I’ve missed you, these past few days. I even missed Mr. Fredericks and his rhyming.”
Her son made a face. “I wouldn’t miss that. Not ever.”
“As we’ve discussed, rhyming is good for expanding your vocabulary. And your tutor is very dedicated to your education.”
“I don’t think he’s dedicated. I think he’s mad.”
This time she hid her amusement; once Edmund caught her laughing at the eccentric tutor’s methods, he’d never attend to his lessons. He barely did so now. “Mr. Fredericks was willing to relocate to London with us, which speaks well of his affection for you, Pickle.”
“I think it’s because you pay him a good salary, but he’s not so bad, really. Did you see there’s a girl living next door? She’s nine, so I’m older, but she’s very funny and has some excellent books about horses. Her name is Rebecca, but I call her Becks.”
“I did see her. But you’re not to go over there again.”
He sagged, leaning against the balustrade as they reached the second floor. “You were mean! Lord Hentrose was very nice to me, and he made certain I had breakfast. He even told me his horse’s full name, which is Charles Llewelyn Biscuits. I think he might let me ride Charlie if I asked.”
“No, he won’t, because you’re not going back over there. You’re going to stay here and attend your lessons while I help Aunt Margaret and tickle Uncle Harold about lending us a bit of blunt so we can purchase that cottage I had my eye on. You know, the one with the pond behind it?”
“Yes, I know.” He sighed. “It’s very small. But if there are fish in the pond, I think I could be persuaded to like it.”
She sent up a quick prayer that there would be a multitude of fish in the pond. “I shall inquire about that.”
“Lord Hentrose’s butler’s name is Butler. He’s magnificent.”
“You’re not going over there again, even if the cook’s name is Cook and the groom’s name is Groom.”
Pushing open his bedchamber door, he looked over his shoulder at her. “You’re being mean to me now. You can try to keep me prisoner, but I am going to tunnel my way out eventually. They say the London sewers are endless. Hundreds of miles for my rats and me.”
With that he closed his door, leaving Iris standing in the hallway.
If he did make his way to the rats and become their king, perhaps she could go live in the sewers with him.
It wouldn’t cost any money, at least, except for cheese to win the rats over to their side.
And who would want to take their sewer home away from them, even if someone discovered them down there?
“Swiftly, Suzette!”
Iris jumped, turning around as a wheeled chair sped into the hallway from one of the side rooms and began careening toward her.
The petite, plump woman seated forward in the chair had her hands gripped around both arms, while behind her a tall, rail-thin woman puffed out her cheeks and ran forward, shoving the contraption ahead of her.
“Aunt Margaret! You startled me,” Iris said, stepping sideways to avoid having her foot run over.
“We’re getting faster, aren’t we, Suzette?” her aunt queried, chortling. “You should see us get going out on the street. Faster than a coach, I reckon. Suzette is strong as a horse. Don’t let her bony arms fool you.”
“I’m pleased to see you getting about, but shouldn’t you be resting?”
As Suzette nodded emphatically behind her, Lady Margaret Baverstock shook her head. “I am resting. You see me sitting in this chair, don’t you?”
“Yes, but—”
“Never you mind. As I wrote, Suzette’s mother is taken ill, and she needs to go tend her.
All the way in Cornwall, dash it all. Blasted inconvenient, but that’s the way of families, isn’t it?
Never doing anything at a reasonable time.
” She scowled, then smoothed the expression again.
“Anyway, it makes your visit an act of providence. I can’t get about myself, and Lord knows there’s a thousand things to do with the Season beginning. ”
“I’m happy to help.”
“At least your brother-in-law waited until now to take over your cottage.”
“Yes. An entire six months after he inherited the title. Very patient of him.” They’d lived there for ten years.
And Reginald Silbern, now Lord Bellamy, had insisted for every month of the last six that she pay rent—which had effectively eaten through the small sum she’d inherited from her father and the bits and bobs she’d been able to scramble together in the four years since Thomas’s death.