A Lady's Dream Come True - Grace Burrowes Page 0,78

along the traveling coach,” Oak said, “in order that I may safely transport your paintings. When the coach arrives, I’ll need a day or two to pack up, and then I’ll be on my way.”

“I will miss you.”

“And I will miss you. You must decide what to do with the nudes that remain here at Merlin Hall. I can return them to their hiding places, if you like.”

“A sound course.”

Awkwardness arose, a new and painful addition to Vera’s vocabulary of emotions where Oak was concerned. She had sense enough to know the awkwardness would get worse as the time for his departure drew nearer, so she busied herself belting her dressing gown.

“I’ll likely miss breakfast,” she said. “And please do have a word with Alexander. He seems to trust you.”

Oak’s expression said he knew he was being dismissed. He did not know that Vera was likely to climb back into bed and cry at length when he’d gone.

“I’ll see you at luncheon.” He kissed her cheek and withdrew, closing the bedroom door softly.

Vera did dodge breakfast, and if the vicar and his wife hadn’t been on hand, she would have dodged luncheon too.

Where was a meddling brother or two when a fellow needed sorting out? That Oak could miss Hawthorne’s fists, Valerian’s scathing common sense, Cam’s irreverence, or Casriel’s lordly oversimplifications was a rude shock.

That he’d also miss Ash’s brooding questions and even Willow’s canine analogies suggested matters were beyond dire. Fortunately, the hour had come to instruct young Alexander, and for Oak, time out of doors was usually an effective tonic for low spirits.

Though why should Oak’s spirits be low?

“I would rather not ride today,” Alexander said when he emerged onto the back terrace. “If you don’t mind, sir, that is.”

“Saddle-sore?” Oak asked, pushing away from the balustrade. The pain of new acquaintance with the saddle was often worst not the day after a ride, but the day following that.

“Yes. That’s it. I am saddle-sore. Might we sketch Charles this afternoon?”

Alexander never wanted to work in the house. Even on rainy days, the boy would rather sketch in the stable or sit bundled in a blanket beneath a porch overhang while discussing how light was affected by a cloud cover.

“Let’s have a ramble,” Oak said. “Lunch with the vicar and his wife has left me needing to move about. We can finish up in the stables.” He had enjoyed the luncheon with the vicar, a jovial old fellow married to an equally cheerful wife. Oak also liked the time spent with Vera’s son, liked listening to how Alexander’s busy little mind made sense of the world.

“I won’t be late again returning to the nursery, will I? A gentleman is punctual, sir.”

Oak did not enjoy Alexander’s tendency to chronic fretfulness. “Is that more of Mr. Forester’s tripe?”

Alexander’s gaze across the garden was oddly adult. “I am not to insult my elders.”

Oak ruffled his hair. “I believe you just did, and rather deftly. Let’s see how the stream is getting on, shall we?”

Alexander no longer trudged at Oak’s side, huffing and puffing, and in the usual course the boy no longer remained silent either. Today, he was both trudging and silent.

“Alexander, if you were a small boy’s tutor, how would you go about the job?”

“I wouldn’t. Tutoring is the worst post in the world. Mr. Forester says he must have committed some great sin against the universe to deserve the fate of teaching me.”

From some window or other, Vera was doubtless watching Oak cross the back garden with her son. Oak wanted to turn and wave, to see her caught by the afternoon sunlight, to point her out to Alexander.

He kept on walking. “But if you had to teach a young boy, a good little fellow, though without much education, how would you go about it?”

Alexander tromped along in silence until they reached the gate at the foot of the garden. “I’d ask him what he likes to learn about and start there. If he likes horses, we’d learn about horses. If he likes books, we’d read books. If he’s fond of butterflies, then we’d study butterflies.”

“What about Latin?”

“Butterflies have Latin names, according to Miss Digg, and so a little boy who loves butterflies already has a reason to study his declensions, doesn’t he?”

Alexander was very much his mother’s son. He was smarter and more sensible than he appeared, and also less confident than he should be.

“Do you like butterflies, Alexander?”

“Yes. They are ever so pretty, and they can fly anywhere