His eyes widen, and I pause, wondering what I’ve done wrong. Then I remember the Clara Smith he met last night, the meek and quiet governess.
Damn.
I tone it down, choosing a demeanor midway between that Clara and myself as I say, “I suppose you can do better.”
“I think even the young master can do better,” the other groom says, earning an elbow in the ribs from Hugh, even as Edmund giggles.
“All right,” I say, holding out the sword. “You may take my place, and I will observe.”
As I watch Hugh lead Edmund in a sword fight, I will admit to being more than a little pleased with myself. I’ve managed to sneak everything from geography to history to exercise into my “story.” I even got a little reading when I’d misread a word and Edmund corrected me.
I suspect he doesn’t struggle with it as much as I do. He’s just embarrassed to struggle at all, and therefore he refuses to read. We’ll work on that. My son is everything I hoped he’d be—inquisitive, kind and sweet natured. The dyslexia is but a small obstacle and one I’m well equipped to help with.
I do not fail to notice that, while Edmund has relaxed as the day wears on, he relaxes even more with Hugh. That is to be expected. I’m glad of the opportunity to see Edmund’s true self coming through, unfettered by anxieties.
Hugh himself has matured into a lovely young man though I will admit it is odd to come back to this time, when a boy of eighteen is truly considered a man, fully assimilated into the working world. I suspect many a twenty-first-century teenager would be delighted to have Hugh’s independence—a steady job with a decent income and his own quarters—but I cannot help but be saddened by the reminder of how quickly youth is banished here.
The swordplay ends with a cat. Edmund’s cat, to be precise, appearing from nowhere to demand her young master’s attention. I haven’t seen her all day—she must have been off mousing—but when she wants petting and cuddling, Edmund must drop what he’s doing to obey, or she’ll trip him by winding around his legs. I have to smile at that, reminded of the cats I’d had as a child.
As we head inside, calico slung over Edmund’s shoulder again, I ask her name, and he looks at me with a frown. “How do you know she’s a girl?”
“Because she’s a calico. It is not impossible for a male cat to have that coloring, but it is extremely unlikely.”
He purses his lips as he considers the matter. “I think you are correct. Her mother is a calico, and so is her sister. Her two brothers were not.”
“You knew her mother then?” I ask because I believe I know the answer to this.
He nods. “She is my Uncle William’s cat. Pandora, because he found her in a box.” He looks up at me as we walk. “Do you know that story?”
“The one about Pandora and the box? I do indeed.”
I know both—the myth and the story of how Pandora-the-cat ended up in that box, crossing time to find herself trapped there. I cannot, of course, tell him that. Not yet anyway.
“Aunt Bronwyn—that is Uncle William’s wife—has Pandora’s other girl kitten. She named her Enigma because she found her in a locked room and had no idea how she got there. That is what enigma means: a mystery.”
“It does indeed.”
Edmund pets the cat draped over his shoulder. “When I saw Pandora’s kittens, I said I should like one, but Uncle William said they all had homes.” A shy smile. “That was a trick. She did have a home—Papa had already picked her out for me. So when he brought her to me, she was a surprise. That’s what I named her. Surprise.”
“It’s a good name.”
His nose scrunches, and in the sunlight, I see a smattering of freckles over it, just like my own. “No, it’s rather silly. I was only a baby. I call her Surrey. I think that’s a better name.”
“Both are lovely names. Fit for a lovely cat.”
His lips twitch. “Mrs. Landon calls her an orange devil. That’s because she doesn’t like cats very much, so when she tries to shoo Surrey off the furniture, the cat scratches her.”
“Animals know when they aren’t wanted.”
A solemn nod. “That’s what Papa says. He also says that cats have a person they like best, and they do not like others very much. I am Surrey’s person. She lets Papa pet her and, sometimes, Hugh and Violet, but no one else can pick her up.”
He glances my way. “If you like cats, you may try to pet her, but if you do not, you shouldn’t.” A pause. “Even if you do like them, she may not allow it.”
“I will attempt it once she knows me better, and if she draws blood, I cannot say I wasn’t warned.”
9
We take tea in the nursery. My dinner last night had been a poor representation of the cook’s abilities—a meal meant to be hot is never good when served ice cold. For both breakfast and lunch, I received far better fare. I will not lie and call it excellent, but it was quite good . . . with one exception: the cook is very clearly not a pastry chef.
Last night’s bread had been barely edible, and this morning’s toast had been dry and heavy. The other food had compensated, but now tea is a plate of pastry goods—sandwiches, scones and tartlets—and I can do nothing but nibble and drink copious amounts of tea and mourn the fact that the former cook must have retired.
When the maid—Violet—comes to clear the plates, she notices the amount left on mine.
“Was it not to your liking, miss?” she asks.
“No, it was excellent. I overate at lunch and was not hungry.”
When she leaves, Edmund scoops up Surrey and, without lifting his gaze from her, says, “It is a sin to tell a lie.”
I tense. “What?”
“You said the food was excellent, and it is not. It is horrid. That’s what Papa says. Mrs. Beechworth cannot make a proper tea.”
“I wouldn’t call it horrid.”
“It is not excellent, though. You called it excellent.”
“I was being kind.”
Solemn eyes lift to mine. “But if you tell Cook it is excellent, then she has no reason to do better. Papa says we ought not to say it’s horrid. That’s rude. Because she is new, you could say that there is room for improvement.”
I laugh. I can’t help it, the sound burbling up as I lower my voice to whisper, “Yes, ‘room for improvement’ is quite correct. However, it’s one thing for the master—or his son—to say that to Mrs. Beechworth. It’s quite another for a new governess to say it. You are right, however, that I went overboard, calling it excellent. Has your father encouraged Cook to develop her baking skills?”
He shakes his head. “No, he does not eat that part of tea. My mother was a baker, and he says that anyone who tasted her scones or tea cakes could never enjoy anything else.” He strokes Surrey’s head. “I never tasted hers. She died when I was a baby.”
The wind rushes from my lungs, and I cannot draw breath. He isn’t looking at me, and I’ve never been happier of that. I open my mouth to say I am sorry, but I cannot form the words. They would be devilry and deceit.