Chapter Ten #2
Damien thought a few moments before answering. “Generally, I leave the house very early in the morning and am often miles away before Catherine and Ian even awaken. And I only visit my tenants if there is a problem.”
“I don’t suppose you could return for afternoon tea each day?”
“So I can referee the fights over strawberry tarts?”
Damien’s lighthearted remark eased the tension within Isabella, and she summoned the courage to turn around and face him.
“Well, sir, if I promise to do my best to prevent the fights, will you promise to come to tea?”
“I will be here at least twice each week,” the earl declared. “Perhaps Catherine and Ian can join me for dinner Saturday evening?”
Isabella rolled her eyes at the notion. Visions of mashed potatoes and peas being flung across the dining room table filled her head.
“The children are a bit young to be eating dinner so late in the evening,” Isabella hedged.
“It might be better to wait until Sunday. I am sure you can find some free time after we return from Sunday services.”
The earl stiffened at her remark. “I do not attend church services, Isabella,” Damien said tersely. “And neither do my children.” He held her gaze for a chilling instant, allowing no emotion to cross his face. “Is that clearly understood?”
Isabella blinked uncertainly. “You have made your point, sir.” Isabella was astonished by his vehement declaration and very curious. Too curious to resist asking, “Is it merely church you object to, sir, or do you have something against God?”
“Not personally,” Damien replied with a note of temper in his voice. “It is my opinion that the majority of individuals who attend services in this community act as though spending an hour in pious prayer absolves them of a week of sinning. I’d like to think I’m not quite so hypocritical.”
Isabella raised her eyebrows questioningly. “Surely that cannot be the only reason you do not attend Sunday services?”
Damien gave a harsh laugh. “You are very aware of the ugly gossip that surrounds my name, Isabella. I refuse to bring my children into the village and expose them to all those malicious lies.”
“I would think the people of this village could find a more worthy subject of conversation,” Isabella said lightly.
“And I highly doubt anyone would have the audacity, or the courage, to insult you or your children directly. If you faced the gossips head on, Damien, they might just move on to more juicier scandals.”
The earl was not convinced. “I will not subject Catherine and Ian to any scrutiny,” Damien declared in a firm voice.
“Do you object to my attending services?”
Damien frowned slightly. “Your presence will certainly cause comments.” When Isabella did not respond, the earl concluded impatiently, “Ultimately, it is your decision to make, Isabella. As long as you do not involve my children, I have no right to object. In fact, I insist you take my carriage.”
“Thank you,” Isabella replied, inclining her head with icy politeness. “I should be honored.”
“Fine,” Damien replied, slightly annoyed because she appeared determined to follow a course he felt certain would cause her discomfort.
“I wish to have supper with Catherine and Ian on Saturday evening. I shall instruct Mrs. Amberly to serve the meal promptly at seven o’clock.
” He cast her a sly look. “Naturally, I expect you to be in attendance.”
“Naturally,” Isabella repeated faintly, her heart fluttering anew at the thought of spending an evening in the earl’s company.
Damien walked to the door. “If you will excuse me, I should like to see about those fences before darkness falls.” The earl hesitated, but departed the room without another word.
With shadowed eyes, Isabella watched him leave.
“I have finished drawing my flowers, Miss Browning. Can I paint them?” Catherine looked with undisguised longing at the fresh box of water colors Isabella was using.
“Certainly.” Isabella shifted the position of her easel, allowing Catherine easy access to the paints. “Light, even strokes,” Isabella advised as the young girl jammed her paintbrush onto the canvas.
Isabella offered a few more tactful suggestions before shifting her attention to Ian. The young boy had elected to forgo the watercolor lesson and instead was practicing his writing. Isabella joined him on the stone bench as he leaned intently over his slate.
“That looks good, Ian,” she praised the child, as he proudly displayed his writing.
The letters were disproportionate in size, and two of them were written backwards, but they were legible.
Certainly a fine effort for a three-year-old boy.
“Now let’s concentrate on our counting. One, two, three . . .”
Dutifully Ian chimed in, and Isabella’s voice gradually faded away, allowing him to recite the numbers on his own.
Isabella returned to her canvas, pleased she had decided to conduct the afternoon’s lessons outside. The weather was sunny and inviting, and Isabella was enjoying the fresh air as much as her young charges.
Catherine and Ian had suggested the rose garden on the north side of the castle for their lessons, and Isabella approved of their choice.
It was the only garden on the estate that showed any attempt at maintenance.
There were still many weeds in the flower beds and the unclipped hedges were unusually high, but the stone path was passable and the rose bushes healthy and blooming.
“Father!” Catherine’s voice rang out with excitement. She dropped her paintbrush heedlessly and hastened toward the earl.
Damien appeared suddenly from behind a tall hedge. He sauntered casually into the rose garden, slapping his riding crop idly against the top of his muddy boots as he walked. He greeted his daughter warmly, then turned his attention to Isabella.
She hid her astonishment at his unexpected appearance and felt the now familiar pounding of her heart begin. “We are having our lessons outside this afternoon,” Isabella explained.
“So I gathered,” the earl replied with a slight smile. He moved in front of Catherine’s easel to gain a better view and commented on her watercolor.
“Seventeen, eighteen, nineteen, twenty.” Ian, who had wandered behind a large, overgrown hedge, was not visible, but his singing numbers could be clearly heard.
“Ian is practicing his counting,” Isabella remarked unnecessarily.
“Yes,” the earl remarked. “I can hear him.” Damien parroted his son’s unusual numerical sequence with a smile. “Twenty-eight, twenty-nine, twenty-ten, twenty-eleven. A new system I am unaware of, Isabella?”
“He is making progress,” Isabella proclaimed breathlessly, her color heightening. “Ian, come back here, please.”
“I’ve come to take the children riding this afternoon,” the earl said when Ian appeared. “If they have finished with their lessons for today.”
“I’m done, Father,” Catherine declared with a final swipe at her painting. “We’ll change into our riding clothes and be right back. Hurry up, Ian.” Catherine threw down her paintbrush with a flourish, grabbed her brother’s hand, and the two rushed off.
Isabella correctly interpreted the earl’s frown and intervened before he could reprimand the children for leaving without waiting to be dismissed. “We really are finished for the afternoon,” she said softly.
“Will you join us, Isabella?” Damien stood by Isabella as she packed up the paints and paintbrushes.
“I don’t ride.”
“Taken one too many bad spills?” Damien inquired with sympathy.
She did not answer immediately, frowning intently at the materials in her hands. “Actually, I don’t know how to ride,” she finally admitted in a soft voice. She sat down on the stone bench and gracefully adjusted the skirts of her plain gown, hoping Damien would simply let the matter drop.
He lifted a dark eyebrow in surprise. “Didn’t your grandfather, the earl, insist you learn?”
“No,” Isabella replied curtly. Damien moved closer, and Isabella slid along the stone bench away from him. Ignoring her movement, he braced his booted foot on the bench. Casually resting his elbow upon his upraised knee, he gazed down at her.
“And why is that?”
Isabella saw the open curiosity in his handsome face and contemplated her options.
She was well within her rights to tell him to mind his own business, but she hesitated to do so.
She was fast becoming attached to The Grange and prudently decided that if she wanted to make a home for herself here, it would be far better if the earl learned of her strange parentage sooner rather than later.
If Whatley Grange was truly as unconventional as the earl claimed, it should not matter that the new governess was, for all intents and purposes, a bastard.
“My maternal grandfather, the Earl of Barton, took no interest in me,” Isabella stated flatly. “If memory serves me correctly, he spoke directly to me fewer than a dozen times in the three years I lived on his estate.”
Damien thought her statement rather odd and wondered at its accuracy.
Emmeline always loved to be dramatic. Surely Isabella was overstating her case.
“Did he take offense at your bold manner?” Damien asked, searching for a cause.
“No, my lord,” Isabella replied slowly. “He took offense at my illegitimate birth.”
The statement was calmly, almost casually given, but Damien was not fooled. Isabella’s hands were white-knuckled with tension as she awaited his reaction.
“You were ill-treated?”
Isabella contemplated her reply. “On the first morning I was in residence at the earl’s estate, my great-aunt Agnes summoned me to the morning room.
She greeted me hurriedly and instructed me to stand by sunny windows on the east side of the room so she could view me clearly.
I wanted very much to make a favorable impression, and though puzzled, I did as she bade me. ”
Isabella took a steadying breath before continuing her story.