Chapter 9
THE FOLLOWING DAY, the physician was encouraged by Grace’s recollections, and daily outings with Lord Ellison over the remainder of the week provided the perfect distraction while she impatiently awaited more.
It was strange to think that she’d only known the man for a little over a week. Eleven days, maybe? It felt far longer.
“Gray, tea!”
Grace startled from her recollections, turning to her six-year-old sister, the youngest of their family.
“Oh, forgive me, Margy, here you are.” She poured a miniscule amount of tea into the little one’s cup.
The golden-haired child beamed up at her, showing a prominent gap between her front teeth and complete forgiveness for her older sister’s lapse in participation.
William stomped his foot from the far side of the room, where he watched out the window.
“I don’t want to play tea party anymore,” he said.
He was nearing nine and would join Edmund at Eton in only a few years.
The idea made her maudlin. She’d lost so much of their little lives already, and though she was doing her utmost to make up for forgotten time, what if she never got those years back?
Would their relationship suffer moving forward?
It was the same with little Margaret, who’d a been a babe in Grace’s last recollection.
Her heart filled and ached at once whenever her small arms wrapped around Grace’s neck.
But the joy outweighed the pain within the nursery.
In a nearly empty house with Papa still gone until the following day, Clara not yet returned, and Edmund away until the holidays, this room was the only place that truly felt full. Would it always?
William was still scowling at the teacups.
“We promised Margaret we would play tea party for a quarter of an hour, then I shall take you both outside to climb the trees, does that sound agreeable to you?” Grace asked, leaning toward Will on her too-small stool.
But though his eyes lit up, he was not first to speak.
“Trees?” Margaret piped up from where she sat feeding tea cakes to her doll, the poor thing covered in crumbs. Promptly, she set down the teacup and stood, jostling the table. “I’m ready to climb trees,” she declared.
Grace tucked away a laugh. Her sister was in the stage of life where she did not like anyone to do anything without her permission, including laughing.
“Well, then,” she said, standing. “Shall we?” She held out a hand to each child, and their little fingers wrapped around her own in the same moment the door opened.
Nurse Agnes stood there, but she was not alone.
Grace straightened, hands still holding her little siblings’. “Lord Ellison?”
He towered over the elderly nurse, appearing entirely out of place in the narrow corridor leading to the gabled room, an abashed expression on his face.
“Your mother said you were up here,” he told her, following the nurse in, “but it appears you are just leaving?”
“I’ll take the little ones,” Nurse said, offering out her hands, “so you two can be about your business.”
The little ones in question broke into a cacophony of noise stating just how they felt about abandoning their promised tree climbing. Margaret went so far as to wrap strong arms around Grace’s middle.
“Trees?” Lord Ellison asked, glancing at Grace. “That was not on your list. Are you proficient?”
She raised one shoulder. “I haven’t a clue, but it sounded fun.”
And to her utter shock, Lord Ellison dropped into a squat in front of her brother and sister. “I am very good at climbing trees. Might I join you?”
Margaret was quick to agree, but William eyed Lord Ellison from the top of his curly hair down to his polished Hessians before nodding.
Grace could not hold back her light chuckle this time. “To the trees we go, then! Nurse, I shall return them in time for dinner.”
BENEDICT COULD NOT keep his eyes from Miss Whitmore as they walked through the manicured gardens to the more wild trees beyond.
He trailed behind as she held her younger siblings’ hands, the girl chattering endlessly and the boy seeming to try his utmost to keep from doing the same.
Miss Whitmore answered question after question, nodded to some late-blooming flowers, and pointed out a squirrel scurrying across their path.
When at last the treeline was in sight—the grass turning unruly and the brightly colored tree leaves demanding attention—the children took off running, leaving Miss Whitmore to turn back, a smile lingering on her face.
“You did not have to agree to join us today. You might have saved yourself.”
He offered his arm, and she took it, the warmth from her touch traveling up to his shoulder and creeping into his chest. “I was not lying when I said I am an expert at tree climbing. Before horses, they were my first love. I passed many an enjoyable afternoon swinging from a bough.”
“We did very little tree-climbing ourselves, growing up. I am adept at paper boats though, should you require a bit of schooling.” She tossed her head as though she’d just declared herself Queen of England.
He chuckled. “Tomorrow then—boats it is.”
Her smile was quick to come and long to linger. “It sounds exceptional.”
They reached the children then and Miss Whitmore released Benedict to lift her younger sister up within reach of the nearest bough. It was thick and sturdy, larger than the size of Benedict’s upper arms. The child swung and jumped off, giggling as she rolled down the hill.
Benedict turned his gaze on her brother. “And what is your name?” he asked.
“William,” the boy said, standing as though at naval command.
“Well, William, shall we race to the top?”
Young William shook his head. His hair was darker than Miss Whitmore’s, but his eyes were that same dark brown color. “It would be unfair, sir, you are taller than me. I’d never win.”
Benedict looked him over as though measuring the lad. “Yes, quite right. Your sister is closer to me in height. Shall I race her?”
“Grace?” William asked, a glint of excitement in his eyes. “Ladies don’t climb trees.”
“Do you hear that, Miss Whitmore?” Benedict asked, glancing at the woman. “Your brother thinks you are not quite equal to the task.”
Miss Whitmore feigned offense, eyes wide and shoulders square. “Well, I am not as tall as Lord Ellison myself, but if William will give me a leg up, I believe myself up for the challenge.”
Benedict’s grin was wide. Who would have thought an afternoon with a couple of children would prove so riveting? He might have guessed, though, based on over a week and a half with Miss Whitmore.
“Will I!” her brother cried, rushing forward and dropping to hands and knees to form a sort of footstool.
Miss Whitmore exchanged a look of genuine excitement with Benedict. “If I lose, we can blame my skirts, yes?”
“Hedging your bets already, Miss Whitmore?” Benedict teased.
“Simply setting expectations.” She smiled.
“You sell yourself too short, I think.” He found he was leaning closer.
Her smile grew, but then she turned to her sister. “On your count, Margy.”
“Go!” the youngest called without preamble, and Benedict grabbed for the nearest branch.
Laughing, Miss Whitmore did likewise on her tree.
With the assist from William, she was able to get onto the first bough without much trouble, but as Benedict made for his second, she was only inching toward the trunk to help herself stand with her cumbersome skirts.
Still, her siblings cheered her on, and her smile was bright when she caught Benedict’s eye through the golden foliage.
He pulled himself up over the next branch, the seams of his coat straining at the effort. She was standing now, reaching for another branch. He was almost up on the third, feeling quite like a child himself now.
And then he looked down at the distance to the ground. And over to Miss Whitmore. She was pulling herself up to the next branch and a fair distance from the ground.
He recalled the fall she took in Dover.
Her leg slipped as she tried to swing it onto the branch, her arms tightening to maintain her hold. She shifted, trying again to gain access to the higher limb.
“Stop!” he called, fear grasping him. In a few light drops, he was back on the ground, moving beneath her tree.
William watched him with worry, but little Margaret still cheered for her big sister.
Miss Whitmore had made it atop the third bough, and sat, perhaps not as high as he’d first surmised, but plenty far from the ground. Her feet dangled as she smiled down at him. “Did you become scared?” she asked with a lilting tease to her tone.
“Yes,” he said, entirely serious.
She cocked her head.
He swallowed. “I do not want you to fall, Miss Whitmore. It was a silly idea. I should not have goaded you into it.”
She blinked, her brow furrowing. “Very well, I will come down. But does this mean I win?”
“Yes.” He nodded. “I shall take victory in seeing you safely on the ground.”
He could not watch her come down—she was in a skirt, after all—so he averted his eyes, his arms tense behind his back.
Her siblings had no such scruples. So William saw when her footing must have slipped. The boy cried out before she did, giving Ellison just enough time to jerk his head upward and rush forward as she fell.
It was more providence than skill that allowed him to catch her. And he would later shudder to think of how the situation might have ended if anything had been different.
But as his arms tightened around her, as her bonnet scratched at his face and her sudden weight caused him to grunt with impact, he had very few thoughts in his mind at all except of her.
His heart beat erratically, his coat straining as he took a stumbling step backward. “Are you well?”
Her eyes, wide with shock, met his. “I… Yes. Thank you.”
He nodded, his gaze tracing her face. “Good,” he murmured. His heart would not slow. It seemed to have sped up, even. And his chest was hot, the heat tickling up his neck.
Then her siblings were there, tugging her from his grip. He helped her find her footing, letting her go but loathe to do so.
“I could have made it to the very top, you know. Especially if I were bedecked in breeches like you lot,” she said to him and William as she brushed off her skirts. She grimaced as she found a torn bit of lace.
And he did his utmost not to think about her in breeches.