One Thing Leads to a Lover (Love and Let Spy #2) - Susanna Craig Page 0,10
and gold striped chair her mother had vacated, rather than the settee closest to the tea table. “Was there a soul in London within doors this afternoon?”
“Quite a number of them, I should think,” was George’s too-serious reply. “Clerks and servants, unless their masters are shockingly lenient. The infirm. People who—”
“Shall I ring for tea, Amanda?” asked her mother, stepping to the bell as if determined to head off Lord Dulsworthy’s prosy instincts. “I’ve already sent for the boys. They would be sorry to miss a visit from their uncle.”
“An excellent notion, Mrs. West. I have already spoken with Jacobs about this morning’s fencing lesson,” he explained, turning toward Amanda as he arranged himself on one side of the settee, brushing a hand over the empty space beside him as a silent indictment of her choice to sit elsewhere, “but I should like to hear young Kingston’s and Master Philip’s assessment of their progress.”
“Speaking of,” Amanda ventured, “I did wonder why—”
“They’ll make great strides, with a master coming twice weekly now.”
“Twice weekly? Oh, I see.”
She knew of no harm in increasing the frequency of the boys’ fencing lessons. Still, Amanda narrowly kept herself from bristling at the intrusion on both her privacy and her parental prerogative. George might at least have consulted her on the matter.
He nodded sagely, oblivious to her displeasure. “Kingston will thank me, come September.”
Despite the overwarm afternoon, and the prickle of sweat beneath her arms and along her spine, Amanda shivered.
Ordinarily, the mere mention of a month in the latter half of the year would not turn her blood cold. But the particular mention of September renewed an ongoing debate over Jamie’s education, George’s determination that he attend Harrow as his father had done, and Amanda’s decided preference for keeping him at home.
George had wanted to send him away last autumn, just past his eleventh birthday. Then she had pleaded Jamie’s slight stature, his natural reserve, his grief. Now, with her elder son’s twelfth birthday rapidly approaching, she knew those arguments—never strong ones in George’s eyes—had weakened considerably, though Jamie was much the same as he had ever been.
In Lord Dulsworthy’s view, twelve was past the point at which boys like Jamie—lordlings and future leaders—should be at school, forming bonds with other young men, not tied to the apron strings of a nervous mother.
The terms of the guardianship left the final decision in George’s hands, though it was clear her late husband had expected George to consider Amanda’s wishes. But the education of boys was a matter for men—at least, according to the rules by which their society operated.
Amanda’s last, best hope was to persuade George to wait one more year, until Philip—stronger, tougher, and more outgoing—would be old enough to accompany his brother. “I think, my lord, that we ought to consider whether—”
Before she could complete the sentence, Jamie and Philip burst into the room—well, Philip burst and Jamie walked, carrying an open book, with eyes only for its pages. He was very like his father, even in looks.
“Have you heard, Uncle George?” Philip threw himself onto the vacant place beside Lord Dulsworthy. “Mr. Jacobs says I’m a prodigy. Where’s the tea things, Mama? I’m famished.”
Jamie came to lean against the tall back of her chair, closing his book around a finger to mark his place. “You’re a prodigious bore, Pip, that’s for certain.”
George, who would never be mistaken for a wit, blinked blankly at Jamie before turning to Philip. “Indeed, I had a ripping report from Jacobs. You must have worked up quite an appetite, young man.”
On that cue, Betsy arrived with the tea tray and placed it on the table between George and an empty chair, which Amanda’s mother came to occupy. “Allow me to do the honors, Lord Dulsworthy,” she said, in the saccharine voice she seemed to reserve only for him.
“But there’s no cake!” Philip’s scandalized cry drew every eye to the tray, which bore the teapot and cups, a plate of bread and butter for the boys and cucumber sandwiches for the others, but no cakes—indeed, no dainties of any kind.
“Is something amiss in the kitchen, Betsy? It is a baking day, is it not?”
Betsy colored. “Yes, ma’am. It’s only…well…You see, Cook did try—”
Displeased with the maid’s stammering reply, Amanda’s mother broke in. “Send Mrs. Hepplewythe to us,” she said dismissively and fluttered her beringed fingers toward the door.
“Bread and butter’s better for you anyway, Philip,” said George, accepting his cup from Mrs. West. “Make you strong.”