Chapter 13 #2
“Indeed, I’m not.” Miss Davenport put down her guidebook on the table beside Phinn’s whisky, then turned to face him.
Her expression was nothing but determined.
“I trust the guidebook implicitly.” Then she arched a delicate brow and her lovely mouth twitched with a mischievous smile.
“I’m more than willing to make a fool of myself in aid of a good cause. We can look foolish together.”
Phinn shook his head and wiped a hand across his chin. “Very well, Miss Dav-Davenport. I’ll have a go.”
The governess grinned. “All right. On the count of three, we’ll both blow raspberries together for as long as we can. Ready? Breathe in … and one, two, three, blow!”
So Phinn did. He poked out his tongue and blew the biggest, fattest, longest raspberry he could.
All the while, the usually prim and proper Miss Davenport blew an enormous “linguolabial trill”—or whatever the woman had called it—straight back at him until she was red-cheeked and her eyes were watering.
And then, when they were both out of breath, they collapsed onto the nearest sofa, panting and wheezing and laughing.
“Sweet … sweet Jaysus, Miss Davenport. You’ve … you’ve almost kill-killed me,” gasped Phinn. “I swear … I swear we sounded like Bru-Brutus … when he’s eaten too much c-c-cake.”
He was sprawling rather than sitting, with one arm extended across the back of the overstuffed sofa.
Miss Davenport was beside him, slumped against a pile of silk-covered cushions.
She was so close, her crinoline skirts were partly spread across his thigh like a blanket, and if he reached out he was sure he could wind a lock of her glossy chestnut hair—several had escaped her bun—around one of his fingers …
“Oh dear. I’ll … I’ll take that as a warning …
next time there’s cake on offer … and your dog comes nosing around.
” The governess turned her head and her gaze met Phinn’s.
Her large hazel eyes were bright yet soft at the same time.
Like sunlit honey. “I’m … I’m glad that I didn’t kill you,” she added.
She was still breathless, her chest rising and falling with the increased rate of her breathing.
“I’m certain … that there’s at least one rule in the Parasol Academy Handbook … that discourages … such a thing.”
“I should ho-hope so,” said Phinn. He pushed himself upright. Even if the “limbering up” exercises hadn’t improved the fluency of his speech immediately, he couldn’t deny that he was enjoying himself. He certainly felt less self-conscious around Miss Davenport.
But perhaps that was due, at least in part, to the fact that she was so accepting of him and the way he spoke.
He never felt like she was distracted by the awkward moments when he stumbled over words or got stuck altogether.
She listened attentively as if there was nothing amiss with his speech at all.
Even if his stammer never went away, he was grateful that his conversations with the governess were nothing but pleasurable.
Miss Davenport sat up straight too. “Do you think you could teach me ‘The Rose of Tralee’ now, my lord? It would be a shame not to see if singing might be a technique to facilitate smoother speech. At least while you’re engaged in it.”
Phinn rubbed the back of his neck. “Actually, Miss Dav-Davenport, when I think of all the t-t-times I’ve joined in a song—if I know the w-w-words—me stam-stammer does tend to dis-disappear.”
“Well, the method might have some merit then,” said the governess, hopping to her feet. “Let’s see what happens this evening.”
It didn’t take long at all for Miss Davenport to learn the melody and the words to the Irish ballad that Phinn was so fond of; it seemed she had a very good ear.
As the governess played and sang in sweetly mellow tones, he sang along too, his voice mingling with hers. Every time he drew a breath, he attempted to do so from his belly rather than his chest. And to his delight, the words flowed freely like melted butter over a hot scone.
“Though lovely and fair as the Rose of the summer,
Yet ’twas not her beauty alone that won me.
Oh no, ’twas the truth in her eyes ever dawning,
That made me love Mary the Rose of Tralee.”
As the song drew to a close and the last notes of the pianoforte drifted away, Phinn smiled down at Miss Davenport.
In hindsight he probably shouldn’t have chosen such a sentimental ballad; it was full of allusions related to falling head-over-heels in love with a beautiful young woman.
And Phinn was not going to let himself feel anything soft or tender for the clever governess he’d employed to help him, no matter how bright her hazel eyes or luscious her pink lips or delicious her rose-scented perfume.
Although nothing could suppress the feeling of quiet, budding hope and elation in Phinn’s chest. The governess and her little green elocution guidebook had been damn right.
He’d never really thought about it in any great depth before, but yes, he could sing without stammering.
He hadn’t stumbled once. He hadn’t got stuck on any particular sound or syllable or word, unable to move on.
His breath hadn’t frozen in his chest. His tongue hadn’t become tangled in hopeless knots.
It was possible for him to be fluent … at least sometimes and in some situations.
He opened his mouth to tell Miss Davenport so, but got no further than a stammered, “It-it w-w-worked,” as a pitiful howl rent the air.
“Ah-wooooo … Ah-wooooo!”
Jaysus wept. Phinn swung toward the drawing room’s French doors. The curtains hadn’t been completely drawn and in the narrow gap, he could see a small black wet nose and blunt muzzle smooshed up against the glass pane.
Miss Davenport had pressed a hand to her mouth. “Oh goodness,” she murmured. “Brutus is not happy.”
Phinn scowled at his pug. “No. But the wicked wee f-f-fiend needs to take his punish-punishment and learn his lesson. He’s to stay out there all night.”
“Ah-wooooo … Ah-wooooo!” Brutus continued to howl and Phinn rolled his eyes.
“Forgive me for saying so, my lord,” said the governess, “but it’s raining and I think he might be cold. I’m sure he’s truly repentant and won’t take off with Christopher’s rabbit again.”
Phinn grunted. He didn’t want to come across as curmudgeonly. He didn’t usually banish his dog to the terrace. But then, Brutus wasn’t usually so badly behaved. Phinn wasn’t sure what had gotten into the pug, but hopefully the canine’s bout of disobedience was only temporary.
“Very well,” he said with a sigh. “I’ll let … let him in.” He crossed to the French doors and as soon as he opened them, the pug raced over to the fireside and shook his stumpy body madly, sending raindrops flying everywhere.
Then Brutus flopped down onto the hearthrug on his belly with a grumble and a groan as if to say, Well, that took you long enough.
Miss Davenport laughed. “My dear Mr. Brutus, I’ve never seen such a maudlin face before.”
The pug grunted and cocked one eyebrow. The look he sent the governess could only be described as withering.
Phinn frowned. “Brutus, don’t tell me you’ve taken a dis-dislike to Miss Dav-Davenport,” he said. “She’s the one who pled your-your case to be let back inside, so I should think you should be grate-grateful, not grumpy.”
When the dog lifted one buttock cheek and released a sound not dissimilar to a linguolabial trill, Phinn growled. “You foul beast-beastie. Where are your m-m-manners? There’s a lady present. It’ll be b-b-back out in the rain with you shortly.”
But Miss Davenport didn’t seem to mind. She’d covered her mouth again as though she were trying to stifle a laugh.
Or maybe she was trying to cover her nose.
“Honestly, it’s quite all right, my lord,” she said.
“I imagine it’s simply a case of Brutus just working out where he sits in the hierarchy of the household now that Christopher and I have come to stay.
” She caught the dog’s eye. “Isn’t it, Brutus? ”
The pug emitted another grumble and snuffle as he put his head between his front paws then closed his eyes.
Phinn sighed, suddenly feeling weary beyond words too.
“I expect … I expect you’re right,” he said.
Glancing at the mantel clock, he could see it was well after half-past ten.
“You-you must be exhausted, Miss Dav-Davenport. I shouldn’t keep you up any …
any longer. You should retire for the n-n-night.
No doubt those boys will be a handful on the mo-morrow.
” He grimaced. “I’m also supposed to be go-goin’ riding with Lord Hart-Hartwell in the mornin’.
It’s part of me ‘gentrification’ pro-process.
I just hope I don’t end up ma-makin’ a total t-t-tit of myself. ”
The governess laughed as she rose from the piano stool.
“Oh, surely not. But I do hope it’s an enjoyable exercise.
Hopefully the rain will stop. As for your speech exercises, my lord”—she picked up her elocution guidebook and slid it into her gown’s pocket—“I do think you’ve achieved quite a bit this evening.
I thought your rendition of ‘The Rose of Tralee’ was well sung and wonderfully smooth.
It’s given us a place to start, knowing what might work for you.
I shall study other elocution exercises we can try.
And I’ll endeavor to come up with ways to soften your accent.
Even though some might think it’s perfectly charming.
” With a curtsy and murmured goodnight, she then promptly quit the room.
Phinn couldn’t say he blamed her, given that the eye-wateringly malodorous miasma released by Brutus still lingered. It was foul enough to fell a hardened boxer.
Although, he would readily own that he’d been practically felled by Miss Davenport’s comment about his Irish accent being charming. If only the rest of polite society and his “peers” in Parliament would think that too.