Chapter 18
In Which Physiognomy Is Admired and (Some but Not All) Confidences Are Shared; And the Hue of Irish Whisky Is Reflected Upon …
“He had been looking two minutes at the fire … and I had been looking the same length of time at him … when, turning suddenly … he caught my gaze fastened on his physiognomy … ‘You examine me, Miss Eyre,’ said he … ‘do you think me handsome?’”
Phinn looked up from Jane Eyre, the copy Miss Davenport had selected from Hatchards two weeks ago.
“Well, what-what do you think, Miss Dav-Davenport?” he asked, catching her gaze which, just like Miss Jane Eyre’s, had been resting on his face.
They were presently in Kinsale House’s library, sitting before the fire.
Phinn was reclining in his leather wing chair with Brutus lightly snoring at his feet while the governess was sitting demurely upon the nearby settee, listening to him recite the book aloud, giving him helpful suggestions every now and again to improve the smoothness of his speech.
Miss Davenport blushed, her cheeks almost matching the burgundy velvet of the settee.
“I … I think you’re …” She sat up straighter.
“Yes, I do. Think your physiognomy is pleasing to the eye.” And then the wash of bright color in her cheeks swept across her lovely face and her gaze dropped to her elegant fingers, which lay pleated together in her lap.
Then she looked up and Phinn detected a spark of challenge in her fine hazel eyes.
“But I’m sure you know that already, my lord. ”
Phinn was being a cad, teasing Miss Davenport so.
He knew he was being unfair. He knew he was being a rogue.
But he’d never claimed to be a gentleman let alone a saint and, quite simply, he couldn’t seem to help himself.
The governess’s reactions—her fight to retain her composure in the face of a reluctant attraction (and he sensed she was attracted to him)—were most gratifying.
It meant he wasn’t alone in fighting to subdue a highly unruly and inconvenient tendre.
“Oh. I-I wasn’t fish-fishin’ for compliments about me looks, Miss Dav-Davenport,” he said slowly, exercising the techniques contained in her little green elocution guidebook.
“I do apologize for the mis-misunderstandin’.
I … I was seekin’ your opinion on the fluency of me …
I mean my speech and pronun-pronunciation.
But thank you all the same. I’m not foolish enough to believe that my …
that my”—he paused and drew a breath then carefully said—“physiognomy is the epitome of masculine beauty. After livin’ the life of a pro-professional boxer”—he pointed at his slightly crooked nose and scarred eyebrow—“I’m cer-certainly no Adonis. ”
“No, more of a Heathcliff perhaps,” she remarked, an impudent twinkle dancing in her eyes. “But not quite so broodingly frowny or vengeful.”
“Good God. I should … I should hope not. Although,” Phinn continued, “considerin’ I haven’t yet read Wuther-Wuthering Heights, I believe you have me at a dis-disadvantage, Miss Davenport … Now I don’t know whether to take the comparison as a compliment or not.”
“Oh, it’s definitely a compliment,” said the governess. “Heathcliff is dark of hair and in one section of the book, if I recall correctly, is described as a ‘tall, athletic, and well-formed man.’ And in another part, ‘an erect and handsome figure.’”
Phinn grinned. “Well-formed, you say?” He wouldn’t dare comment on the “erect” remark.
It seemed he was becoming quite infatuated with Miss Hermina Davenport—not just because she was pretty, and he was wildly attracted to her in a physical sense—but because he admired her calm disposition and her intelligence and he liked her sparks of liveliness and her kindness.
How patient and good she was with Tom and her own lad, Christopher.
Over the last two weeks all of them had fallen into a routine—Miss Davenport would teach and take care of the boys during the day.
(Although Phinn would often accompany them on excursions to the park or the library or a museum or gallery.) But Phinn would readily admit that this quiet time of day, taking dinner with Miss Davenport to perfect his knowledge of dining etiquette, then working on his speech—improving his fluency and softening his brogue a fraction—was his favorite.
In the space of a mere fortnight, he already felt as though she’d made a marked difference when it came to helping him with his speech.
He felt as though he could control his stammer to some degree.
At least in certain situations. Miss Davenport’s exercises and suggestions—she claimed they all came from her elocution guidebook—were simple yet effective.
Measures such as making sure his oral musculature and neck and chest and diaphragm were relaxed before his elocution exercises made a world of difference.
Little prompts such as, perhaps he should take a deeper breath before a particularly long sentence, or that he should pause in a particular place when reciting a passage to help with the prosodic flow.
It might help if he slowed his pace a fraction because talking aloud didn’t have to be a race.
(That actually helped an awful lot, the idea that he didn’t have to rush to get all the words out at once because he feared he’d get “stuck.”)
What if he tried producing harder consonant sounds with a softer contact of teeth, lips, and tongue? Being gentle with his words.
Of course, reading and reciting poetry, even singing, helped immeasurably.
It simplified the overall complexity of speaking when he didn’t have to think about what was going to come out of his mouth.
He could see what was coming so he knew exactly when he needed to take a breath or soften the way he said certain sounds.
It relieved the anticipatory pressure—the unhelpful whirligig of thoughts that inevitably tripped him up like, Oh Jaysus, what should I say, and what if I stumble on that word, or get stuck on that consonant and sound like an utter eejit?
It dispelled some of the panic in his brain.
Miss Davenport ignored his blatantly flirtatious remark. Instead, she gestured at Jane Eyre. “Would you like to read more, my lord? Or will you choose something else? You’re making excellent progress with your speech, by the way.”
Phinn inclined his head in acknowledgment.
“Thank you. But it’s all … it’s all because of you, Miss Davenport.
I’ve-I’ve been meanin’ to tell you that even my friend Lord Hartwell has noticed a difference.
When we’ve been out ridin’, or when I’ve visited White’s or Boo-Boodle’s with him, I’ve been able to greet …
to greet other gentlemen without feelin’ like I’m making a total”—he broke off because he’d been about to say “total tit”—“I mean, an ab-absolute fool of myself.”
“I’m sure you’d never do that, my lord. But yes, the improvement in your speech—even when you’re not reading or singing—is quite noticeable.
” She smiled softly. “You still have your lovely lilting Irish accent, but I’ve also observed that you’re using less colloquial Irish expressions, and your vocabulary is more ‘English’ sounding, shall we say? ”
Phinn felt a spark of pleasure hearing Miss Davenport describe his Irish accent in such terms. “It’s-it’s readin’ books of poetry and novels like these,” he said, holding up Jane Eyre. “I think I’m absorbin’ your … your Anglified vernacular that way.”
It wasn’t a lie. He’d been devouring everything Miss Davenport had selected from Hatchards’s shelves.
While he didn’t think he’d ever sound like Mr. Darcy or Mr. Knightley or Edward Rochester, or come up with anything as eloquent as a verse composed by Elizabeth Barrett Browning, reading those books was helping him immeasurably.
He endeavored to use “my” for “me” when talking about things that were his.
And that he should take care to correctly pronounce the “-ing” on the ends of words—which he remembered to do when reading, at least. And as Marcus had pointed out, when in the company of other gentlemen, curse like he’d studied at Eton or Oxford, even though he hadn’t.
“You’ll be ready to make your speech when Parliament sits again before you know it,” said Miss Davenport.
“Aye … I mean yes. Especially if-if I rehearse it. I-I would like to … to be more fluent in con-conversation though.”
“I feel it will come. With time.” She glanced at the mantel clock. It was almost a quarter to eleven. “Speaking of time, I know it’s getting late, but would you like to chat with me for a while? The extra practice can’t hurt.”
Phinn suddenly wondered if the governess was enjoying their shared time together as much as he was. She didn’t appear to be in any hurry to leave. “I-I don’t want to keep you,” he said, giving her the option to retire for the night if she wished to.
“Oh no. I’d be happy to, my lord.”
“What do you … What do you suggest we talk about?”
Miss Davenport answered straightaway, as though she’d been thinking about just such a thing for some time. “I’d love to learn more about Ireland. Whatever you feel comfortable telling me.”
Phinn was touched. Since he’d become a marquess, no one had asked him about his home.
It hadn’t always been terrible. One thing he’d learned, especially over the last few years, was that good things could live alongside the bad.
“I’m happy to talk … to talk about anythin’ to do with my life there. Past or present.”
“You have a castle there? In Kinsale?” she said. “Living in something so huge and so grand, I can’t even imagine it. I suspect it would take a bit of getting used to.”