Sweet Rogue of Mine (The Survivors #9) - Shana Galen Page 0,27

more concentrating on the task at hand, Miss Howard.”

Pru stood and began to pace the room. Her thoughts were coming fast now, and she felt the need to move in order to keep up with them.

“Do sit down, Miss Howard. All this activity makes me dizzy.”

“I apologize, ma’am. I am simply too excited to sew at the moment.”

Mrs. Northgate watched Pru walk across the carpet and back again before she finally sighed and gave in. “What is this about? What notion has entered your head now?”

Pru paused right in front of Mrs. Northgate and leaned down, which caused the older woman to rear back slightly. “I know how to help Mr. Pope!”

“Do remember yourself, Miss Howard!”

Pru stepped back, choosing to clasp her hands together rather than jump up and down as she wanted. “Yes, Mrs. Northgate.”

The older woman removed the spectacles she wore to criticize—er, correct—Pru and cleaned them on a small cloth. “Mr. Pope?” She held up a hand before Pru could explain. “Do not tell me. I know the name.” There was a long pause. “Are you speaking of the Earl of Beaufort’s son?”

“Yes!”

“The youngest? The one who lives at Wentmore?”

“The sharpshooter, yes.” Pru sat on the edge of her chair. “He was blinded in the war.”

Mrs. Northgate harrumphed. “From what I hear, his aim is still better than most who have perfect vision. You had better stay away from him. Now, pick up your sewing and finish that ruffle.”

“But I can’t stay away from him,” Pru objected. “I want to help him.”

Mrs. Northgate perched her spectacles on the tip of her nose. “Why?”

“Why? Why does anyone help anyone else?” The words were out before Pru realized who she had directed them to.

But Mrs. Northgate did not hesitate. “To feel better about themselves, I should imagine. Either that or because they feel sorry for the person in need. Mr. Pope will appreciate neither sentiment, I assure you.”

“Is that why you are helping me?” Pru asked, gesturing to the sewing laid out on the table between them. “You feel sorry for me?”

“Feel sorry for you? Ha!” Mrs. Northgate laughed, and Pru thought it might have been the first time she had ever seen the other woman laugh. Her usually serious expression seemed to crack as her smile widened. Then her mouth opened, the lines at her eyes crinkled, and she gave another full-throated laugh. “I should think not. If there is anyone to pity, it would be me. You are a trial, Miss Howard.”

“So you often tell me. Does this mean,” she asked in a small voice, “you want everyone to pity you?” That possibility was even worse than the first option in Pru’s opinion.

“Not at all. You amuse me, Miss Howard. That is the first reason.” Mrs. Northgate leaned over the table conspiratorially. “And the second is that it annoys my daughter-in-law and grandchildren.” She laughed again, and Pru just shook her head. Mrs. Northgate seemed to like nothing better than provoking others. It was a trait Pru had to admit, reluctantly, she admired.

“But I rather doubt you are helping Mr. Pope to annoy anyone. Neither can he be very amusing,” Mrs. Northgate observed.

“Oh, but he can be amusing,” Pru objected. Mrs. Northgate’s brows shot up. “Not amusing in the traditional sense, but he is interesting to talk to. And then there is the peacock.”

“The peacock!”

“Yes. The last time I was at Wentmore I spotted a peacock. Mr. Pope said there used to be several peacocks and peahens too.”

Mrs. Northgate nodded. “I remember those birds. The earl was a fool for bringing them here.”

“You saw them? How many were there? What did the house used to look like?”

“Too many questions! How is it you intend to help Mr. Pope? Why do you even think he needs your help? Did he ask for it?”

“No, but he doesn’t know he needs my help. He probably doesn’t even realize I can be of help. He may not even know Ecriture Nocturne exists.”

“Ecriture Nocturne?”

“It means—”

“I speak French. It means night writing.”

“Yes. I learned it in France. We were in Paris for some months just after the war. My parents had gone to the countryside for their missionary work but found the populace less than receptive to the idea of Protestant conversion from the English.”

“I can imagine.”

“While we were in Paris, we heard of a man named Charles Barbier. He developed a system of symbols that he thought might be used by the military for nighttime communication. But he had taught several blind