Chapter 5 #2
They made the first formers’ lives miserable in any case.
She stirred around in her blankets until, after a sharp little elbow had dug into his ribs, she was budged against Tye’s side. “But you got to go and see things, you got to do more than collect eggs and ramble to the burn, and wait for your uncles to come visit.”
“I got to memorize more useless Latin than most children know English. I got my eyes blacked by the older boys. I was punished for things they did, and I missed my bro—”
“You missed my papa. I miss him too.”
It was on the tip of his tongue to say that she couldn’t possibly miss a man she’d never met, but Tye was beginning to get the knack of being not just an uncle, but her uncle.
“It’s all right to miss him, Fiona. He would have loved to have known you.”
“Mama says he was handsome.”
This observation held a plea.
“He was damned good looking, and you are not to tattle on me for swearing. I’m stating a simple truth.”
“Uncle Ian says it’s not swearing to call them the damned English or the damned taxes. What did my father look like?”
The same queer feeling he’d experienced out riding with her washed over him again. He knew what his father looked like. He knew what Quinworth sounded like, knew the scent of his cigars, the way he studied his wineglass while the blessing was said over the evening meal.
Fiona knew none of these things regarding her progenitor, and that was arguably Tye’s fault.
“I have a picture of him with me. I’ll show it to you in the morning.”
She bolted to a sitting position. “You have a painting of my papa? I want to see it now. I’ve never seen a picture of him. Does he look like me?”
She was scrambling across Tye as she spoke, digging knees into his shins and bringing to mind more swearing.
“It’s the middle of the night, child. This can wait until morning.”
“He’s my papa. I want to see him now.”
She stood there in her nightgown, a thick red braid coming undone over each shoulder, impending hysterics framing every line of her form. Her lips trembled with it, her shoulders quivered, and her tightly clenched little fists promised a great, noisy outburst in the very next instant.
“Come along then.” He rose off the bed and took her by the hand. “And don’t be complaining to me if you catch your very death, running about at all hours without your slippers.”
“My slippers are under the bed.” She wrenched free of his grasp, darted forth, and held them up.
“Give those to me.” He snatched them from her and knelt to put them on her feet. “You will return to bed when I’ve shown you the portrait, do you understand?”
“Yes, Uncle Tye.” She seized his hand and dragged him toward the door. “I’ll go right to bed, and I won’t bother you again tonight. I won’t bother anybody. In the morning, may I see the picture again?”
She didn’t require an answer. The entire length of the house, she blathered on about her good-looking, handsome papa, who was a brave soldier for Her Majesty and danced so very wonderfully at the regimental ball that Mama let him kiss her, and then they got married.
Kiss, indeed. But at least Fiona’s mother hadn’t burdened the child with less attractive truths—not yet.
Quinworth might not be so careful of the child’s sensibilities regarding his view of her mother.
Tye paused outside his door and looked down at Fiona where she smiled up at him.
Trust shone out of her eyes, trust and hope and all manner of things that had Tye dropping her hand and pushing the door open.
“The portrait is in my traveling satchel. Are your hands clean?”
“I took my bath. Aunt Hester would skin me alive if I got my sheets dirty because I skipped my bath.”
Aunt Hester would pat the girl on the head and murmur the mildest reproach. Tye rummaged in his bag and withdrew three small framed pictures. He passed the first one to her. “That’s your papa.”
She snatched it up and brought it to her face. “Why isn’t he smiling?”
“His eyes are smiling, but to have a photograph made, one must sit still for a very long time, and facial expressions are discouraged as a result.”
“You can’t move at all?”
“If you do, it makes the image blurry. I think you can see a resemblance between you and your papa, around the chin and jaw.”
She padded over to his dressing stand and peered at herself in the mirror, then back at the image of her father. “He is handsome. Mama wasn’t saying that just to be nice.”
Which suggested the girl suspected her mother had been diplomatic in some other regards. “I have two other pictures you might want to see.” He hadn’t planned to show these to her, but the moment seemed convenient.
“Is it a picture of you? I’d like a picture of you.” She kept her father’s portrait in her hand and came back to Tye’s side.
“These are your paternal aunts. That’s Dora, Mary Ellen, and Joan. Joan has red hair like you.”
“I like Joan. She looks like you.”
“She’s quite tall, too, and loves to be out-of-doors. She likes painting and designing dresses, of all things.”
She shot him a curious look. “Do you paint?”
“Not like she can. These are my parents, which makes them your grandparents.” It was the most flattering image Tye had of his father, either photographic or hand drawn.
His lordship was standing with one hand on his seated wife’s shoulder.
Their expressions showed a rare, congenial moment between them.
Mama had insisted on being seated, lest her height be unnecessarily obvious, and his lordship had indulged her.
For once.
Fiona studied the image with the intensity she did everything else. “My grandda looks like you too. Grandmama is very pretty, but not as old as Aunt Ariadne.”
“Not nearly.” The older Tye got, the more aware he became that his mother was only eighteen years his senior.
He didn’t want to take the picture out of Fiona’s hand, but neither did he want her up half the night staring at it. “You may borrow the portrait of your father for the night. Do not put it under your pillow, or you’ll break the glass framing it.”
“I can keep it?”
“You may borrow it.”
She hunched up her shoulders and clutched the small picture to her skinny chest, her face suffused with joy. “I won’t break it, Uncle Tye. Not ever.”
He was about to point out to her that a loan until morning would afford no opportunities for “not ever,” but he became aware of movement by his open door.
“Fiona, are you keeping your uncle up past his bedtime?”
Miss Daniels stood in his doorway, clad in an elegantly embroidered green silk nightgown and wrapper. On her feet, incongruously, were a sturdy pair of gray wool socks, and her hair hung over her right shoulder in a single shiny plait.
“Aunt, I have seen the very best thing ever. Uncle Tye has a picture of my papa.” Fiona scampered over to her aunt and held out the miniature. She did not give it up to her aunt’s possession even temporarily.
“My, what a good-looking fellow he was.” Miss Daniels sank to her knees so she and the child could gaze at the good-looking fellow together. “I especially like the merriment in his eyes, as if he knew happy secrets he was just bursting to tell somebody.”
Tye closed his eyes, trying not to picture his brother’s expression of suppressed glee. Gordie had had charm, about that there was no dispute.
“I look like him,” Fiona announced. “Uncle Tye said.”
“Yes, I can see a resemblance. You must thank your uncle for showing you this. It was very considerate of him.”
“Uncle said I may have it until tomorrow morning.”
“I believe the term used was borrow, but as morning fast approaches, perhaps I’d better rethink my offer.”
Fiona turned her body half away from him, the portrait held out of his sight. “It’s hardly even nighttime, and the moon is still up. I’m going to bed now.”
She shot between the two adults, leaving her aunt kneeling on the floor and a silence where a child had stood a moment before. Tye crossed the room and extended a hand down to Miss Daniels.
“My apologies if we woke you.”
She came to her feet gracefully, her small, warm hand in his providing a curious blend of comfort and upset. To see her thus, ready for bed, her hair hanging in a gilded braid, those ugly socks on her feet… Tye’s heart sped up, and the blood began pooling in inconvenient, ungentlemanly locations.
Which would never do. “May I see you back to your door, Miss Daniels?”
And still, he did not release her hand.
***
Spathfoy looked tired and a little frazzled, probably from dealing with Fiona on a bad night. Unfortunately for Hester’s composure, the Earl of Spathfoy tired and a little frazzled had a particular appeal.
As did the Earl of Spathfoy holding forth at breakfast.
And the Earl of Spathfoy in a contemplative mood under the stars.
And the Earl of Spathfoy demonstrating casual equestrian mastery over his unruly young horse.
She went up on her toes and kissed him. He was tall enough that he might have evaded her sally, but instead he stood slightly bent toward her, though very still, as if he wasn’t sure if his brain had heard his mouth aright.
“I don’t especially like you sometimes,” she said. “Though other times, like when you’re being so kind to Fee, I more than like you. I am coming to realize that liking and attraction do not necessarily go hand in hand.”
Solemn green eyes blinked at her. “You are determined on more ill-advised behavior.”
“Not determined, perhaps spontaneously tempted.” She permitted herself to breathe in through her nose, to make an olfactory treat of his clean, floral fragrance. “I came over here to rescue you from Fiona, and now…”
“Who shall rescue me from you? Has it occurred to you, Miss Daniels, you might need rescuing from me?”
He was adorable when he tried to bluster. She added that to a growing list of things she had to admit she liked about him. “You would never force a woman.”
He wouldn’t have to.