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Authors: Mary Balogh
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Hamilton. And his grace so happy to be home only three months before that and catching her up in his arms and twirling her about when she stepped from her carriage for all the world to see.”
They strolled on, each wrapped in private thought. It was strange that the duke spent so much time from home if he loved it so much, Fleur thought, and if he loved the duchess so much and had such a strong sense of responsibility.
But not all of Fleur’s time was spare time, of course. She did have about two hours each day with her pupil, a small, thin, dark-haired child who might one day grow up to be handsome if her frequently petulant look did not become habitual. She did not resemble her mother in any way at all. She must be all her father.
The child was difficult. She did not want to look at books, she did not want to listen to stories, she did not want to pick up a needle, and when she painted she often did so carelessly, wasting both paper and paint and becoming mulish when Fleur insisted that she clear away the mess she had made.
Fleur tried to be patient. Lady Pamela was, after all, little more than a baby, and she must know, as children usually did, that her mother and her nurse were on her side. Fleur tried to entice the child into wanting to learn.
There was an old harpsichord in the schoolroom. Fleur sat at it and played one afternoon when Lady Pamela had refused to cooperate in any of the planned activities, and she continued to play when she was aware of the child standing still to one side of the stool.
“I want to play,” Lady Pamela demanded when Fleur’s fingers finally fell still.
Fleur smiled. “Have you had any instruction?” she asked.
“No,” Lady Pamela said. “I want to play. Get up.”
“Please,” Fleur said.
“Get up!” the child said. “I want to play.” “Please,” Fleur said again.
“You are a servant,” Lady Pamela said haughtily. “Get up or I will tell Nanny.”
“I will gladly get up,” Fleur said, “if you will ask me rather than tell me.”
The child flounced off in order to scold and slap a shabby doll she had brought to the schoolroom with her.
Fleur sighed inwardly and resumed her quiet playing. It all reminded her of so much. Cousin Caroline and Amelia, haughty and imperious because they were suddenly Lady Brocklehurst of Heron House and the Honorable Miss Amelia Bradshaw after the death of her parents.
And they had treated her just so because they were obliged to offer her a home in the house where she had always lived. Amelia had taken her lovely Chinese bedchamber and relegated her to a plainer room at the back of the house.
She had a few good days with her pupil. Lady Pamela had been excited one morning because her mother was to take her visiting in the afternoon, but word came to the nursery atluncheon time that her grace was feverish and had been told by the doctor to rest during the afternoon.
Fleur, who was taking her luncheon upstairs, saw the look of intense disappointment on her pupil’s face and the tears that formed in her eyes and her trembling, pouting lip. The child saw far too little of her mother. But Fleur knew that the chief disappointment would be in not seeing the Chamberlain children and their dogs after all. Lady Pamela also saw very little of other children.
“Would it be possible for me to take Lady Pamela to visit the children?” she asked Mrs. Clement when the child could not hear her.
She expected a rebuff, but the nurse looked at her consideringly and said she would consult her grace. Within half an hour Fleur had the pleasure of seeing the child’s face light up so that she had looked almost pretty. She jumped up and down on the spot, cheering until her nurse cupped her face in her hands and told her not to get overexcited.
She had done one thing at last, Fleur thought, that had won her pupil’s approval.
They set out as soon as they were ready and the carriage had been brought around. And Fleur smiled as she watched
They strolled on, each wrapped in private thought. It was strange that the duke spent so much time from home if he loved it so much, Fleur thought, and if he loved the duchess so much and had such a strong sense of responsibility.
But not all of Fleur’s time was spare time, of course. She did have about two hours each day with her pupil, a small, thin, dark-haired child who might one day grow up to be handsome if her frequently petulant look did not become habitual. She did not resemble her mother in any way at all. She must be all her father.
The child was difficult. She did not want to look at books, she did not want to listen to stories, she did not want to pick up a needle, and when she painted she often did so carelessly, wasting both paper and paint and becoming mulish when Fleur insisted that she clear away the mess she had made.
Fleur tried to be patient. Lady Pamela was, after all, little more than a baby, and she must know, as children usually did, that her mother and her nurse were on her side. Fleur tried to entice the child into wanting to learn.
There was an old harpsichord in the schoolroom. Fleur sat at it and played one afternoon when Lady Pamela had refused to cooperate in any of the planned activities, and she continued to play when she was aware of the child standing still to one side of the stool.
“I want to play,” Lady Pamela demanded when Fleur’s fingers finally fell still.
Fleur smiled. “Have you had any instruction?” she asked.
“No,” Lady Pamela said. “I want to play. Get up.”
“Please,” Fleur said.
“Get up!” the child said. “I want to play.” “Please,” Fleur said again.
“You are a servant,” Lady Pamela said haughtily. “Get up or I will tell Nanny.”
“I will gladly get up,” Fleur said, “if you will ask me rather than tell me.”
The child flounced off in order to scold and slap a shabby doll she had brought to the schoolroom with her.
Fleur sighed inwardly and resumed her quiet playing. It all reminded her of so much. Cousin Caroline and Amelia, haughty and imperious because they were suddenly Lady Brocklehurst of Heron House and the Honorable Miss Amelia Bradshaw after the death of her parents.
And they had treated her just so because they were obliged to offer her a home in the house where she had always lived. Amelia had taken her lovely Chinese bedchamber and relegated her to a plainer room at the back of the house.
She had a few good days with her pupil. Lady Pamela had been excited one morning because her mother was to take her visiting in the afternoon, but word came to the nursery atluncheon time that her grace was feverish and had been told by the doctor to rest during the afternoon.
Fleur, who was taking her luncheon upstairs, saw the look of intense disappointment on her pupil’s face and the tears that formed in her eyes and her trembling, pouting lip. The child saw far too little of her mother. But Fleur knew that the chief disappointment would be in not seeing the Chamberlain children and their dogs after all. Lady Pamela also saw very little of other children.
“Would it be possible for me to take Lady Pamela to visit the children?” she asked Mrs. Clement when the child could not hear her.
She expected a rebuff, but the nurse looked at her consideringly and said she would consult her grace. Within half an hour Fleur had the pleasure of seeing the child’s face light up so that she had looked almost pretty. She jumped up and down on the spot, cheering until her nurse cupped her face in her hands and told her not to get overexcited.
She had done one thing at last, Fleur thought, that had won her pupil’s approval.
They set out as soon as they were ready and the carriage had been brought around. And Fleur smiled as she watched
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