CHAPTER NINE
Monsieur Charpentier arrived the next morning.
Laura had been fixed in town little longer than a fortnight and had yet to attend a social event with gentlemen present, but even she found the dancing master’s appearance unusual, to say the least. The Frenchman was of less than moderate stature and so thin as to appear cadaverous.
The skeletal impression was reinforced by a high forehead, eyes that seemed to retreat into bony caverns and sunken cheeks.
Nature had endowed him with a long nose and skimped on his chin, which did not redress the balance, but she had been prodigal in one area: M.
Charpentier’s hair was dark and abundant, worn longer than Laura had yet seen, aromatically pomaded and arranged in deep waves swept back from his brow.
Apart from the glossy hair, M. Charpentier would still have been noticeable in a crowd for his dress.
Never before had Laura seen that shade of canary yellow used for men’s inexpressibles, and the appellation “blue” was woefully inadequate to describe his wide-lapelled and wasp-waisted coat. Its brightness put sapphires to shame.
The ladies were waiting in the saloon, where the servants had rolled back the large central rug, when Jimson showed the dancing master in.
The faint whisper of her mother’s skirts as she rose to greet M.
Charpentier recalled Laura from her awed trance.
She reminded herself that only rustics stared, and tore her gaze away from the lithe figure mincing forward to bow over Mrs. Marsh’s hand.
Sophia’s delicate features were arranged in an attitude of pleasant attention, but Laura noted that she refused to meet her cousin’s eyes.
Hastily she emulated this prudent pose when her mother performed the introductions.
M. Charpentier may have looked as though a good wind would have blown him away, but the Roman Legions could not have produced a sterner taskmaster.
He had come highly recommended by Mrs. Chandler, and he wasted no time on trivialities.
Mrs. Marsh was relegated to the pianoforte, where she provided the music as he proceeded to instruct his pupils in the basic steps of various round dances, demonstrating the steps and acting as partner to each in turn as he took them through the movements.
He suffered from no scruples about offering criticism on any aspect of his pupils’ performance, from posture to rhythm and coordination, at one point exhorting Laura to cease flapping her arms about like a chicken on a nest labouring to produce an egg.
The admonition caused Sophia to lose her countenance, which brought the teacher’s censure down upon her head in turn.
“Non, non, mademoiselle! Une petite sourire on the lips while performing is permitted, oui, but a … a smirk, jamais!”
Sophia imposed a stern control over her features for the next few moments, but threatened her cousin’s composure by making soft clucking noises when they passed close by each other in their execution of the various figures of the dance.
A sorely tried Laura was limp with relief when an egregious misstep on her part caused a tear in the flounce of her gown that necessitated leaving the room to seek pins with which to make a temporary repair.
M. Charpentier waved away her stammered apologies and she raced up the stairs, marvelling at the naivety that had assumed instruction in the art of dancing would be an enjoyable activity.
Her mind reeling with terpsichorean details, her eyes fixed on the carefully lifted, gaping flounce of her gown, Laura reached the landing and, turning, caromed into an unexpected obstacle.
The obstacle, a six-foot male, swooped and grabbed her arms above the elbows, saving her from what would have been an ignominious landing on her derrière.
The only thought — and that barely coherent — that came into Laura’s head as she stared into a pair of startled grey eyes was an irrelevant interest in how Sophia would describe this man, if she termed Lord Hastings an Adonis.
This must be Apollo himself, she decided, fighting an insane desire to laugh.
“Are you all right, ma’am? Are you certain I have not hurt you by my clumsiness?”
The concern in his pleasant voice restored Laura’s composure.
“No, no, I am fine,” she assured him, stepping out of his loosened grasp with a smile.
“And you need not reproach yourself with imaginary clumsiness, sir, for the fault was entirely mine. I was running and my mind was wandering, a foolish combination at any time, but I did not expect to meet anyone up here.”
The unknown man’s colour heightened a trifle at her puzzlement as he replied civilly, “I am Martin Trent, Aubrey’s tutor. Would I be correct in assuming you are Aubrey’s cousin, Miss Marsh?”
“Yes,” Laura replied with another smile, dipping a curtsy in response to his bow. “How do you do, sir? Aubrey has spoken of you with enthusiasm.”
“You took those words right out of my mouth.” Mr. Trent’s slow smile added charm and warmth to the artistic perfection of his lineaments.
“Aubrey and I often work up here in the schoolroom, so it was likely that we would cross paths at some time. I only regret that it was such a … a violent meeting.”
Laura laughed and shook her head. “Pray do not heed that, sir. I received my just deserts for racing about like a hoyden, but I had to leave the drawing room, where Miss Albright and I are being put through our paces by a martinet of a dancing master, in order to make a quick repair to my gown.” She indicated the torn flounce that she was still clutching in one hand, surprised to see an immodest expanse of limb showing beneath the raised skirt.
Dropping it hastily, she finished, “So I must bid you good day,” on a rather breathless note.
“I hope we will meet again,” he said politely, stepping aside for her to pass on down the hallway.
“I too.” With a little half wave, Laura hastened to her room, all thoughts of the waiting dancing master banished by a lingering image of Aubrey’s tutor before her mind’s eye.
If ever the word beautiful could be applied to a man, Mr. Martin Trent was that man.
His head was a noble work of art, all proportions quite perfect, the sculpting of his nose and mouth worthy to adorn an heroic Greek statue.
Guinea-gold hair, worn rather short to suppress a tendency to curl, gave further credence to the sun god comparison.
And yet there was nothing effeminate in his good looks, Laura decided, unearthing a packet of pins from the top drawer, though less fortunate women might well covet his bright, curling hair and large grey eyes fringed with thick lashes.
Perhaps it was a certain gravity of expression that seemed to be Mr. Trent’s habitual demeanour, combined with the intelligence animating those oddly light eyes that saved him from being simply a handsome face.
Laura’s brain was as active as the fingers inserting pins into her skirt as she sat in the chair by the window.
She had not given a thought to Aubrey’s tutor up to the instant of crashing into him, though, as he had intimated, their eventual meeting was inevitable, given her location on the nursery floor.
She’d not even heard voices behind the schoolroom door, previously.
Since Aubrey’s lessons were a daily matter, it was in the cards that Sophia and Mr. Trent would sooner or later bump into each other, figuratively speaking.
Laura acknowledged a strong desire to be present at that meeting as she re-entered the saloon a few minutes later, struggling to repress what M. Charpentier would doubtless describe as a smirk.
Mrs. Marsh, glancing up from her place at the pianoforte, recognised the look of sparkling mischief on her daughter’s face and her fingers stumbled momentarily, earning a disapproving frown from the dancing master.
She resumed the dance tempo at once, but her playing was mere mechanical proficiency during the remainder of the session, while the better part of her mind was occupied with trying to account for the mischief and for her daughter’s subsequent expression of bland agreeableness as she went through the motions of the dance under M.
Charpentier’s direction with increasing success.
Her imagination was incapable of supplying a sensible explanation as to how a hasty trip upstairs to repair a tear could have resulted in that rare look of pure impishness.
Laura had been a merry child in her early years, but her nature had grown increasingly sober after her father had more or less taken over her education, putting practical matters relative to running the farm uppermost.
Mrs. Marsh had noticed with private delight the gradual return of laughter and spontaneity to Laura’s demeanour in the months following her father’s death, but her daughter’s contented immersion in the day-to-day affairs of the farm indicated that she had given little thought to her future.
It was quite the contrary with her parent, whose chief impetus for the past half dozen years had been the need to secure her child’s future happiness.
Her worst fears of seeing the girl immured in an unhappy marriage had been removed by her husband’s death, but not until Oswald’s providential need of a chaperone for Sophia had she been able to discern any better opportunity for Laura than a brief visit to her godmother in London sometime in the vague future.
She’d regarded the invitation from her brother as an answer to her prayers, but the issue had hung in the balance even then, with Laura’s dislike of her uncle and an unadmitted — perhaps even un-suspected — fear of her ability to fit into a social milieu for which she’d had no preparation prompting her to refuse this opportunity to try her wings.