The fellow staring back at Fabianus in the glass looked equally uninviting. Tired, impatient with the weather, unhappy to be dragged abovestairs to the nursery.
You have barely thirty years on this earth, and you are turning into an irascible old man.
“As for what pleases Pandora,” Fabianus said, facing her ladyship, “she claims the nursery is boring, and a visitor will enliven her day considerably.” Her mother had thrived on company.
“You aren’t quite…” Her ladyship gestured in the direction of Fabianus’s hair. “Come here.”
That was a maternal come here, unless Fabianus was mistaken. He approached with caution accordingly. Her ladyship took the place at his back and undid his hair ribbon.
“I suppose a nursery could be a boring place,” she said, “if the child has no one to play with all day. Hold still.” She winnowed her fingers through his hair, her touch light and competent, then she retied his ribbon. “Better.”
“Mama braids my hair,” the girl—Chloe, was it?—observed. “She could braid your hair too. We talk when Mama brushes out my hair. Do you brush Pandora’s hair?”
“I have seldom had that honor.” Never had that honor in fact.
Lady Daisy was smiling faintly, while Fabianus had been thrown into a welter of confusion by her—what? Presumption? Friendliness? Pragmatism? He could hardly go about the house in disarray, but to handle him…
Though widowhood was lonely, and she’d only meant to be helpful.
And her touch had been lovely.
“Managing a nursery routine can be a challenge,” Lady Daisy said, heading for the door. “But I enjoy the company of my offspring. They are kind and honest, and I treasure their insights.”
Children had insights. This was news. “Can you give me an example of a childish insight?” When they gained the corridor, Fabianus offered his arm, an old-fashioned courtesy. Lady Daisy looked equal to scaling the Cumbrian hills unaided, but Fabianus was still sorting out that business with tidying his hair.
If that had been flirtation, it was done with wonderful subtlety.
The child scampered up the steps and waited for them on the floor above.
“Chloe pointed out to me that I was trying to stash away my husband’s effects all in a rush after the funeral, because I wanted to stash away the feelings his belongings engendered.”
Chloe could not be much older than Pandora. “How does a little girl convey such a complicated sentiment?”
“Chloe hid her Papa’s coats under her bed by day, then took them out to use as blankets at night.”
Fabianus escorted her ladyship up another flight of steps and down the chilly corridor to the nursery suite, the child skipping ahead of them.
“I can understand wanting to keep Papa’s coats about,” Fabianus said, “like a favorite blanket.” Or like a departed wife’s dressing gowns. “But how did the child convey that you were trying to bury feelings?” Or stash them under the bed?
“That took some thought,” Lady Daisy said, stopping before a portrait of a very young Earl of Casriel. He’d probably been newly breeched and was holding a bouquet of flowers that doubtless symbolized every manly virtue. “Grey was a handsome fellow. Still is.”
“Was your husband handsome?” And what the hell sort of question was that?
Her ladyship peered more closely at the painted boy, though this image had to have been a fixture of her earliest childhood. “Eric was the indulged only son of a well-heeled squire. He did not need to be handsome, and yet, most would say he was. He was blond, blue-eyed, friendly, and liked to laugh. I was much taken with his laughter.”
“And you long for his laughter now,” Fabianus said. “Remiss of me to be so insensitive to your loss. I do apologize.”
“You have nothing to apologize for, my lord. Tell me the name of Pandora’s favorite stuffed animal.”
Fabianus scrambled mentally for an answer while little Chloe waited patiently outside the playroom door. “She has an entire menagerie. My aunt Helen combs the shops and sends along anything exotic.”
Lady Daisy left off studying the painting and turned her periwinkle gaze on Fabianus. “But which beast does Pandora sleep with each night?”
How the devil should he know? “Ask her about her ponies. The ponies don’t get heaved out the window as often as the elephants and bears.” Rather than endure more questions he could not answer, Fabianus opened the door to the playroom, strode inside, and stopped three paces from the door.
The nurserymaid was asleep in the reading chair. Pandora, by contrast, was on the mantel, tiptoeing barefoot over the spill jar, books, a candelabrum—unlit, thank God—and a stuffed rabbit.
“Papa! Good day. Who is that girl?”
Fabianus was torn between horror that Pandora might fall and hit her head on the hearthstones, consternation—how in blue blazes had the child climbed up there?—and despair, because the nurserymaid napped while Pandora impersonated an entertainer from Astley’s Circus.
“You remember me from yesterday’s pirate adventures,” Lady Daisy said, marching forth. “I am Lady Daisy Fromm. This is my daughter, Miss Chloe Fromm, and parading about on the mantel is not the done thing, Miss Pandora.” She swept Pandora off the mantel and perched the girl on her hip. “Were you exploring the Amazon?”
“What’s that?”
“A mighty river in South America that winds down from high mountains through thick jungles all the way to the sea. Dreadful fish that can eat a man whole swim in it, and enormous spiders and crocodiles live on its banks. My papa was keen to explore there, but never had the chance.”
The nurserymaid stirred, scratched her nose, then seemed to realize she’d been caught napping. Lady Daisy, bracing one arm under Pandora’s fundament, put a hand on the maid’s shoulder.
“Best not,” her ladyship said. “Your boot laces have been tied together.”
So they had. “Pandora,” Fabianus began, “your behavior is disgraceful. What have you to say for yourself?”
“I was climbing the Alps, like Auntie Helen wrote to us. I told Fletcher, and Fletcher didn’t tell me no.”
“Because,” Lady Daisy said, “you waited to begin your expedition until after you’d worn poor Fletcher out.”
Pandora tried for a grin. Lady Daisy held her, so girl and woman were eye to eye, and Lady Daisy did not return the smile.
“The fire is kept lit for your warmth,” Lady Daisy said, pacing away from the flames, “and let’s say you fell from the mantel onto the hearthstones and bashed your head. That would make quite a mess. Blood stains terribly, you know.”
A mess? Ye gods, the child could have…
“Messes are bad,” Pandora said.
“Messes are always work for somebody, and a bloodstain on wool becomes permanent unless immediately cleaned with strong vinegar. That is such a pretty carpet too. So there you are, bleeding most inconsiderately all over the hearth rug, and because you were further so selfish as to fall near the fire, your pinafore goes up in flames and you with it.”
Pandora’s brows drew down. “I could burn to ashes, like in hell?”
Rather than bellow, Of course you could burn! Fabianus went to the window to study the landscape. The occasional flurry had thickened to a light snow, the kind that accumulated faster than anticipated. Somebody else was lecturing Pandora for once, and he might as well enjoy the respite, for it was bound to be brief.