myrtle, an unusual shade indeed. More to the point, the child had been uneasy, anxious, and ready to bolt. The man was relaxed, subtly confident, and ready to do justice to the tray.
“How is the resident scholar?” he asked, draining the last of Alexander’s tea.
“I hardly know,” Vera replied. “He’s grown quite serious. He was always a quiet child, perhaps overshadowed by his older sister, but in recent months, Alexander has become nearly withdrawn. My brothers had only enough schooling to do sums and read the Bible, so I must defer to Mr. Forester’s judgment regarding Alexander’s curriculum. I am very likely being the overprotective mother every boy dreads, but I am worried for him.”
Vera refilled Alexander’s cup, though by rights everybody should have his own tea cup. To use Alexander’s cup for Oak Dorning was familial, more than simply informal.
“He needs a dog,” Oak said. “My brother Willow could send you a runt or an old hound. Willow knows dogs the way some hostesses know Debrett’s.”
“A dog? For Alexander?” Vera’s father had had hounds, working dogs such as most yeomen kept. Had those canines presumed to set a paw in Step-mama’s house, she would have shrieked down the heavens.
“A dog will get him out of the house regularly,” Oak said, “give him somebody to talk to, and afford him a responsibility far more rewarding than memorizing the second Latin declension.”
“I hadn’t thought of a dog, but I suppose… He said you’d asked him about a pony. How do you take your tea?”
“A dash of honey will do. I ought not to have asked him about a pony. As a boy, I had a succession of trusty mounts, but I also had a herd of brothers. We thundered all over the countryside, playing Vikings and cavalry and brave explorers of the Nile, while some old groom sat on a cob nearby and napped. Alexander has no friends to ride with. Ergo, a dog comes to mind.”
Alexander has no friends to ride with… “When you were a boy, how much time did you spend in the schoolroom?”
She passed him his tea, and their fingers brushed. He appeared not to notice.
“Mornings were spent in the schoolroom,” he said, “from breakfast until the midday meal, around one of the clock. After our nooning, we were free to entertain ourselves. In fact, we were expected to entertain ourselves.”
“You had no lessons in the afternoon?”
“No lessons in the afternoon, no lessons on Saturday, no lessons for much of the summer, and that was sufficient preparation for public school, even for me, and for university, and I am not particularly academic. Might I have a biscuit or two?”
Vera set two on a plate and passed them over. His fingers brushed hers once more, and again Oak appeared to take no notice.
“Mr. Forester keeps Alexander in the schoolroom the livelong day,” Vera said. “He claims Alexander is behind in his studies.”
Oak dunked a biscuit in his tea. “The child is six years old. How can he be behind?”
Vera rose because this conversation was not what she’d expected over a private cup of tea with a man she’d kissed passionately.
“I was a girl once upon a time,” she said, pacing over to the window, “and therefore, I have some sense of how to go on with Catherine. More to the point, I was a girl who had a loving mother for my earliest years and then an unloving step-mother, so my judgment is informed by my experience. Alexander is a boy, and Mr. Forester seems quite confident regarding the proper course of a boy’s education.”
“Mr. Forester seems quite confident of a lot of things.”
“While I am not confident. I’ve never raised a boy, never been a boy. Mr. Forester came well recommended, and his confidence was one of the reasons I hired him, but Alexander is miserable.”
Saying it aloud made the reality worse. The waning day was glorious as only the English countryside in summer could be glorious. Birdsong drifted through the open window, and the scent of roses wafted up from the garden.
While Alexander had been positively gloomy for a child who ought not to have a care in the world.
“Alexander does seem subdued,” Oak said. “What time of year did his father die?”
Vera returned to her seat, the better to serve Mr. Dorning more biscuits. “Why do you ask?”
“My mother was his lordship’s second wife. The first countess fell ill in early July, declined rapidly, and Papa was in mourning by the first of August. My