A Night Like This

  He glanced over at the offending dish and grimaced. “I’m not, either. I don’t know anyone who is, quite frankly, except for my sister, and I’ll tell you, she ends up smelling like fish for the rest of the day.”

  Frances gasped with gleeful horror.

  Daniel looked over at Miss Wynter. “Do you like kippers?”

  She stared back. “Very much.”

  “Pity.” He sighed and turned back to Frances. “I shall have to advise Lord Chatteris about it now that he and Honoria are to be married. I can’t imagine he will wish to be kissing someone with kippers on her breath.”

  Frances clapped a hand over her mouth and giggled ecstatically. Miss Wynter gave him an extremely stern look and said, “This is hardly an appropriate conversation for children.”

  To which he simply had to say, “But it is for adults?”

  She almost smiled. He could tell she wanted to. But she said, “No.”

  He gave a sad nod. “Pity.”

  “I shall have toast,” Frances announced. “With heaps and heaps of jam.”

  “One heap only, please,” Miss Wynter instructed.

  “Nanny Flanders lets me have two heaps.”

  “I’m not Nanny Flanders.”

  “Hear, hear,” Daniel remarked quietly.

  Miss Wynter gave him A Look.

  “In front of the children. Really,” he scolded, murmuring the words as he brushed by her so that Frances wouldn’t hear. “Where is everyone else?” he asked loudly, taking a plate and heading straight for the bacon. Everything was better with bacon.

  Life was better with bacon.

  “Elizabeth and Harriet will be down shortly,” Miss Wynter replied. “I don’t know about Lady Pleinsworth and Lady Sarah. We are not anywhere near their rooms.”

  “Sarah hates getting up in the morning,” Frances said, eyeing Miss Wynter as she scooped out her jam.

  Miss Wynter eyed her back, and Frances stopped at one scoop, looking a bit deflated as she took her seat.

  “Your aunt is also not an early riser,” Miss Wynter said to Daniel, carefully filling her own plate. Bacon, eggs, toast, jam, a Cornish pasty . . . She was quite the fan of breakfast, he saw.

  A big scoop of butter, a more moderate portion of orange marmalade, and then . . .

  Not the kippers.

  The kippers. At least three times as much as a normal human being should consume.

  “Kippers?” he asked. “Must you?”

  “I told you I liked them.”

  Or more to the point, he’d told her how well they served as armor against a kiss.

  “They are practically the national food of the Isle of Man,” she said, plopping one last slimy little fish on her plate for good measure.

  “We have been studying the Isle of Man for geography,” Frances said glumly. “The people are Manx. There are cats that are Manx. That’s the only good thing about it. The word Manx.”

  Daniel could not even think of a comment.

  “It ends in an x,” Frances explained, not that that cleared things up any.

  Daniel cleared his throat, deciding not to pursue the x-ish (x-ient? x-astic?) avenue of conversation, and followed Miss Wynter back to the table. “It’s not a very large island,” he commented. “I wouldn’t have thought there was much to study.”

  “To the contrary,” she remarked, taking a seat diagonal from Frances. “The island is very rich in history.”

  “And fish, apparently.”

  “It is,” Miss Wynter admitted, jabbing a kipper with her fork, “the only thing I miss from my time there.”

  Daniel regarded her curiously as he sat next to her, taking the seat directly across from Frances. It was such an odd statement, coming from a woman so tight-lipped about her past.

  But Frances interpreted the comment in an entirely different manner. Half-eaten toast triangle dangling from her fingertips, she froze, staring at her governess in utter amazement. “Then why,” she finally demanded, “are you making us study it?”

  Miss Wynter looked at her with impressive equanimity. “Well, I could hardly plan a lesson about the Isle of Wight.” She turned to Daniel and said, “Honestly, I don’t know the first thing about it.”

  “She has a very good point,” he told Frances. “She can hardly teach what she does not know.”

  “But it is of no use,” Frances protested. “At least the Isle of Wight is close. We might someday actually go there. The Isle of Man is in the middle of nowhere.”

  “The Irish Sea, actually,” Daniel put in.

  “One never knows where life will take you,” Miss Wynter said quietly. “I can assure you that when I was your age, I was quite certain I would never step foot on the Isle of Man.”

  There was something about her voice that was arrestingly solemn, and neither Daniel nor Frances said a word. Finally, Miss Wynter gave a little shrug, turned back to her food, speared another kipper, and said, “I don’t even know that I could have located it on a map.”

  There was another silence, this one more awkward than the last. Daniel decided it was time to address the aural chasm and said, “Well.” Which, as usual, bought him enough time to think of something marginally more intelligent to say:

  “I have peppermints in my office.”

  Miss Wynter turned. Then blinked. Then said, “I beg your pardon?”

  “Brilliant!” Frances put in, the Isle of Man forgotten completely. “I love peppermints.”

  “And you, Miss Wynter?” he asked.

  “She likes them,” Frances said.

  “Perhaps we may walk to the village,” Daniel said, “to purchase some.”

  “I thought you said you had some,” Frances reminded him.

  “I do.” He glanced over at Miss Wynter’s kippers, his brows going up in alarm. “But I have a feeling that I don’t have enough.”

  “Please,” Miss Wynter said, spearing yet another little fishie with her fork and letting it tremble in the air. “Not on my account.”

  “Oh, I think it might be on everyone’s account.”

  Frances looked from him to her governess and back, frowning mightily. “I do not understand what you are talking about,” she announced.

  Daniel smiled placidly at Miss Wynter, who chose not to respond.

  “We are having our lessons outside today,” Frances told him. “Would you like to accompany us?”

  “Frances,” Miss Wynter said quickly, “I’m sure his lordship—”

  “Would love to accompany you,” Daniel said with great flair. “I was just thinking what a marvelous day it is outside. So sunny and warm.”

  “Wasn’t it sunny and warm in Italy?” Frances asked.

  “It was, but it wasn’t the same.” He took a large bite of his bacon, which also hadn’t been the same in Italy. Everything else one could eat had been better, but not the bacon.

  “How?” Frances asked.

  He thought about that for a moment. “The obvious answer would be that it was often simply too hot to enjoy oneself.”

  “And the less obvious answer?” Miss Wynter asked.

  He smiled, absurdly happy that she had chosen to enter the conversation. “I’m afraid it’s less obvious to me, too, but if I had to put it into words, I would say that it had something to do with feeling as if one belonged. Or, I suppose, not.”

  Frances nodded sagely.

  “It could be a lovely day,” Daniel continued. “Perfection, really, but it could never be the same as a lovely day in England. The smells were different, and the air was drier. The scenery was gorgeous, of course, especially down by the sea, but—”

  “We’re down by the sea,” Frances interrupted. “What are we, ten miles away here at Whipple Hill?”

  “A good deal more than that,” Daniel said, “but you could never compare the English Channel to the Tyrrhenian Sea. One is green-gray and wild, and the other ground-glass blue.”

  “I should love to see a ground-glass blue ocean,” Miss Wynter said with a wist
ful sigh.

  “It is spectacular,” he admitted. “But it isn’t home.”

  “Oh, but think how heavenly it would be,” she continued, “to be on the water and not be violently ill.”

  He chuckled despite himself. “You are prone to seasickness, then?”

  “Dreadfully so.”

  “I never get seasick,” Frances said.

  “You’ve never been on the water,” Miss Wynter pointed out pertly.

  “Ergo, I never get seasick,” Frances replied triumphantly. “Or perhaps I should say that I have never been seasick.”

  “It would certainly be more precise.”

  “You are such a governess,” Daniel said affectionately.

  But her face took on a queer expression, as if perhaps she hadn’t wanted to be reminded of this fact. It was a clear sign to change the subject, so he said, “I cannot even remember how we came to be discussing the Tyrrhenian Sea. I was—”

  “It was because I was asking about Italy,” Frances put in helpfully.

  “—going to say,” he said smoothly, since of course he’d known exactly how they’d come to be discussing the Tyrrhenian Sea, “that I am very much looking forward to joining you for your lesson en plein air.”

  “That means out of doors,” Frances said to Miss Wynter.

  “I know,” she murmured.

  “I know you know,” Frances replied. “I just wanted to make sure you knew that I knew.”

  Elizabeth arrived then, and while Frances was ascertaining whether she knew the translation for en plein air, Daniel turned to Miss Wynter and said, “I trust I will not intrude this afternoon if I accompany you for lessons.”

  He knew very well that she could not possibly say anything other than “Of course not.” (Which was precisely what she did say.) But it seemed as good a sentence as any to begin a conversation. He waited until she was through eating her eggs, then added, “I would be happy to assist in any way.”

  She touched her serviette delicately to her mouth, then said, “I am sure the girls would find it far more gratifying if you took part in the lessons.”

  “And you?” He smiled warmly.

  “I would find it gratifying as well.” Said with a hint of mischief.

  “Then that is what I shall do,” he replied grandly. Then he frowned. “You do not plan any dissection this afternoon, I trust?”

  “We perform only vivisection in my classroom,” she said, with a remarkably straight face.

  He laughed, loudly enough that Elizabeth, Frances, and Harriet, who had also come down, turned in his direction. It was remarkable, because the three of them really did not resemble each other overmuch, but in that moment, with their faces molded into the exact same expressions of curiosity, they looked identical.

  “Lord Winstead was inquiring about our lesson plan for the day,” Miss Wynter explained.

  There was a silence. Then they must have decided that a further pursuance lacked excitement, and they turned as one back to their food.

  “What are we studying this afternoon?” Daniel asked.

  “This afternoon?” Miss Wynter echoed. “I expect full attendance at half ten.”

  “This morning, then,” he amended, duly chastened.

  “Geography first—not the Isle of Man,” she said loudly, when three young heads swiveled angrily in her direction. “Then some arithmetic, and finally we shall focus on literature.”

  “My favorite!” Harriet said enthusiastically, taking the seat next to Frances.

  “I know,” Miss Wynter replied, giving her an indulgent smile. “It is why we are saving it for last. It’s the only way I can guarantee holding your attention through the entire day.”

  Harriet smiled sheepishly, then brightened quite suddenly. “May we read from one of my works?”

  “You know that we are studying Shakespeare’s histories,” Miss Wynter said apologetically, “and—” She stopped short. Quite short.

  “And what?” Frances asked.

  Miss Wynter regarded Harriet. Then she regarded Daniel. And then, as he began to feel rather like a lamb to slaughter, she turned back to Harriet and asked, “Did you bring your plays with you?”

  “Of course. I never go anywhere without them.”

  “You never know when you might have the opportunity to have one staged?” Elizabeth said, somewhat meanly.

  “Well, there is that,” Harriet replied, ignoring her sister’s dig or (and Daniel thought this was more likely) simply not noticing it. “But the big fear,” she continued, “is fire.”

  He knew he shouldn’t inquire, but he just could not stop himself. “Fire?”

  “At home,” she confirmed. “What if Pleinsworth House burned to the ground while we are here in Berkshire? My life’s work, lost.”

  Elizabeth snorted. “If Pleinsworth House burns to the ground, I assure you that we will have far bigger worries than the loss of your scribblings.”

  “I fear hail myself,” Frances announced. “And locusts.”

  “Have you ever read one of your cousin’s plays?” Miss Wynter asked innocently.

  Daniel shook his head.

  “They’re rather like this conversation, actually,” she said, and then, while he was absorbing that, she turned to her charges and announced, “Good news, everyone! Today, instead of Julius Caesar, we will study one of Harriet’s plays.”

  “Study?” Elizabeth asked, all horror.

  “Read from,” Miss Wynter corrected. She turned to Harriet. “You may choose which one.”

  “Oh, my heavens, that will be difficult.” Harriet set down her fork and placed a hand over her heart as she thought, her fingers spread like a lopsided starfish.

  “Not the one with the frog,” Frances said forcefully. “Because you know I will have to be the frog.”

  “You’re a very good frog,” Miss Wynter said supportively.

  Daniel kept quiet, watching the exchange with interest. And dread.

  “Nevertheless,” Frances said with a sniff.

  “Don’t worry, Frances,” Harriet said, giving her hand a pat, “we won’t perform The Marsh of the Frogs. I wrote that years ago. My recent work is much more nuanced.”

  “How far along are you on the one about Henry VIII?” Miss Wynter asked.

  “A yen to have your head lopped off?” Daniel murmured. “She did want to cast you as Anne Boleyn, didn’t she?”

  “It’s not ready,” Harriet said. “I have to revise the first act.”

  “I told her it needs a unicorn,” said Frances.

  Daniel kept his eyes on the girls but leaned toward Miss Wynter. “Am I going to have to be a unicorn?”

  “If you’re lucky.”

  He whipped his head around to face her. “What does that m—”

  “Harriet!” she called out. “We really must choose a play.”

  “Very well,” Harriet said, sitting up exceptionally tall in her seat. “I think we should perform . . .”

  Chapter Ten

  “The Strange, Sad Tragedy of Lord Finstead???????”

  Daniel’s reaction could best be summed up in two words: Oh and no.

  “The ending is really quite hopeful,” Harriet told him.

  His expression, which he was fairly certain hovered somewhere between stunned and aghast, added dubious to its repertoire. “You have the word tragedy in the title.”

  Harriet frowned. “I might have to change that.”

  “I don’t think it’s going to work very well as The Strange, Sad Comedy,” Frances said.

  “No, no,” Harriet mused, “I’d have to rework it completely.”

  “But Finstead,” Daniel persisted. “Really?”

  Harriet looked up at him. “Do you think it sounds too fishy?”

  Whatever mirth Miss Wynter had been holding onto burst out in a spray of eggs and bacon. “Oh!” she exclaimed, and really, it was difficult to summon any sympathy for her plight. “I’m sorry, oh, that was rude. But—” She might have meant to say more. Da
niel couldn’t tell; her laughter got hold of her again, cutting off all intelligible speech.

  “It’s a good thing you’re wearing yellow,” Elizabeth said to Frances.

  Frances glanced down at her bodice, shrugged, then lightly brushed herself off with her serviette.

  “Too bad the fabric doesn’t have little sprigs of red flowers,” Elizabeth added. “The bacon, you know.” She turned to Daniel as if waiting for some sort of confirmation, but he wanted no part of any conversation that included partially digested airborne bacon, so he turned to Miss Wynter and said:

  “Help me. Please?”

  She gave him an abashed nod (but not nearly so abashed as she ought) and turned to Harriet. “I think that Lord Winstead refers to the rhyming qualities of the title.”

  Harriet blinked a few times. “It doesn’t rhyme.”

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake,” Elizabeth burst out. “Finstead Winstead?”

  Harriet’s gasp very nearly sucked the air from the room. “I never noticed!” she exclaimed.

  “Obviously,” her sister drawled.

  “I must have been thinking about you when I wrote the play,” Harriet said to Daniel. From her expression, he gathered he was meant to feel flattered, so he tried to smile.

  “You have been much in their thoughts,” Miss Wynter told him.

  “We shall have to change the name,” Harriet said with an exhausted sigh. “It’s going to be a horrible lot of work. I shall have to recopy the entire play. Lord Finstead is in almost every scene, you know.” She turned to Daniel. “He is the protagonist.”

  “I’d surmised,” he said dryly.

  “You will have to play his role.”

  He turned to Miss Wynter. “There’s no getting out of it, is there?”

  She looked utterly amused, the traitorous wench. “I’m afraid not.”

  “Is there a unicorn?” Frances asked. “I make an excellent unicorn.”

  “I think I’d rather be the unicorn,” Daniel said glumly.

  “Nonsense!” Miss Wynter chimed in. “You must play our hero.”

  To which Frances naturally replied, “Unicorns can be heroes.”

  “Enough with the unicorns!” Elizabeth burst out.

  Frances stuck out her tongue.

  “Harriet,” Miss Wynter said. “As Lord Winstead has not yet read your play, perhaps you can tell him about his character.”