She thought on this for a moment. “There is something! There’s a man in the village who sells spectacles that enable older people to be able to read small print. Poor Mrs. Ballard’s eyes aren’t what they once were. Just the other day she was lamenting she could no longer read her Bible. I believe she would love to have those spectacles, but I understand they’re rather expensive.”
“That’s a present I could get for her and her husband! Thank you for the suggestion.”
He thought again about the proximity of the mistletoe and about kissing her and about that damned Blatherwick. David was convinced the man meant to offer for her.
The very idea made his stomach drop. “Has it occurred to you that Blatherwick may be intending to propose marriage to you?”
She did not respond for a moment. “It has.”
“And? Have you considered remarrying?”
Again, she did not respond right away. “When Peter first died, I was sure I would never marry again. I could not imagine ever being the wife of any man except him. As time has passed and I’ve reread the letters he wrote, it’s clear he thought there was a likelihood he would die, and he wanted to know that I would be taken care of, that I would be cherished.”
“So you’ve decided you will remarry?”
“I would certainly give such a proposal consideration.”
“Please tell me you would not consider Blatherwick.”
She giggled. “I am honored by his attentions, and marriage to him would give me security—though I will own I couldn’t be happier than I am at Darnley.”
She was far too nice. He refilled his glass, but not hers as she’d taken no more than two sips. He was emboldened enough to finally ask what he’d been longing to know. He drew a deep breath. “Tell me, Mrs. Milne, how is it you ever became acquainted with my father?”
“He never told you?”
He shook his head. “I didn’t know of your existence until the solicitor told me you’d inherited Darnley.”
“Oh, how you must have hated me!”
She was far too close to the initial truth for his comfort. “I don’t think anyone could ever hate you.”
She bestowed her brilliant smile upon him, and he felt as if he’d just broken the faro bank at White’s.
“Getting to meet your father was…” her voice trailed off. “It was like Divine intervention in my life.”
He moved closer. “How so?”
“I was very, very low, and Stevie was not doing well at all when I happened upon an advert—I was too poor to purchase a newspaper, but I was fortunate enough to read my landlady’s that she had finished reading. Your father advertised for a genteel woman to read to him as he was, sadly, losing his vision.”
“I didn’t realize that,” David said solemnly, a giant lump in his throat.
“Because he didn’t want you to know. Just like he didn’t want those of us who loved him to know when he was dying.”
It still stung to think about his father dying alone. “So you answered his advert?”
“Yes, I wrote to him. I prayed so hard that I would be the one he selected for I was desperate to get Stevie out of London.” She paused for a moment. “And I think I knew, as ridiculous as it sounds, I knew that the man who placed that advert was a kindly man. When I read it, I felt it was…I know this sounds foolish, but I felt it was my destiny.”
“And obviously my father felt the same connection.”
She nodded, her great blue eyes meeting his. “I truly believe it was Divine intervention. I was being compensated for past suffering. Do you believe that life offers compensations, my lord?”
He shrugged. “I never thought about it.”
She smiled. “Your dear father did select me and was kind enough to advance me money for the stagecoach for Stevie and me to travel here. He didn’t even object to me bringing a young boy. And, as you know, he was wonderful to Stevie.” Her eyes misted.
It upset him. He couldn’t help himself. He put an arm around her and waited patiently for her to continue.
“We had a special bond, almost like a father and daughter. He was like a grandfather to Stevie. I was devastated when he sent us away. You see, Stevie and I had found true happiness for the first time since Peter died.”
“I’m shocked Papa would have done that.”
“I was, too. It wasn’t until I returned to Darnley two weeks ago that I learned why he’d sent us away.”
“Why?”
“Mrs. Ballard gave me a letter Lord Paxton had written me before he died. In it, he said he’d sent us away to spare us from watching him die. He hadn’t wanted those he loved to see him slip away. That included you, my lord.” She started to cry.
David, too, was not able to staunch the tears that seeped from his eyes. In his melancholy, all thoughts of seduction fled.
He merely lifted her hand, pressed a kiss to it, and said, “Thank you for sharing this with me. I didn’t know. I feel a little less guilty now for not being with him at the end, yet very morose.” He stood. “Allow me to assist you to your chamber, madam.”
When he got to his old bedchamber, he was too restless and too melancholy to go to bed. Instead he went to his desk and began to write. First he wrote to Stonehouse and instructed him to terminate any efforts to try to break his father’s will. “I now fully support every bequest made by my father in his will,” he wrote.
Next, he penned a long letter in conversation style to his old tutor, who’d been a curate in a neighboring village near Tonton Abbey. He started by reminiscing about what drudgery he’d at first considered the lessons but went on to express his gratitude to Mr. Jackson for the fine job he had done in preparing him for Oxford. “I knew not your equal among all the learned scholars at that august institution.” He went on to inform Mr. Jackson of the recent demise of his own father and concluded by saying, “It is my fondest hope that if ever I have sons, it would be our good fortune to obtain your services to be their tutor, for they could receive no finer education in all of England.”
Afterwards, he felt less melancholy. Mrs. Milne had been right when she said praise was more precious than jewels—not only to the recipient, but also to the giver.
Now David understood why his father had been so fond of Mrs. Milne…Mary.
Chapter Seven
The previous day’s rain had brought in even colder air, so it was with some misgivings that Mary allowed Stevie to go off in Lord Paxton’s coach. She’d seen to it that Stevie bundled up in all his warmest clothing, wrapped a thick woolen muffler about his thin neck, and insisted that he bury himself beneath the thick rug in his lordship’s enclosed carriage.
She must not have hidden her fears very well. Before they left, Lord Paxton set a gentle hand to her waist and bent to speak to her in a low, reassuring voice. “I vow to protect Stevie from the cold. You mustn’t let your own apprehensions steal away his Christmas cheer.”
She peered up into his concerned face and nodded. “Of course, you’re right.” How was it that this man had come to know her so well in so brief a time? She’d not said a word about the worries that nearly paralyzed her, yet he’d been able to read her as if she were a penny pamphlet.