Jack cackled, going along with the joke. There were times when he kept Connor awake, but it was because of his cough and the drenching night sweats that robbed him of rest, not his snoring. “What do they say about the mine?” he asked.
“Not much. It’s called Guelder. A woman owns it. It’s been fairly—”
“A woman.” Jack’s eyes went wide with amazement, then narrowed in scorn. “A woman,” he muttered, shaking his head. “Well, ee’ve got yer work cut out right and proper, then, ‘aven’t ee? The radical Rhads’ll be aquiver wi’ joy when they read yer report this time.”
Connor grunted noncommittally. “The woman’s name is Deene. She inherited the mine from her father about two years ago, and she owns it outright, without shareholders. They say her uncle owns another mine in the district. His name’s Vanstone, and he happens to be the mayor of Wyckerley.”
“Why’n’t they sent you to that un? The uncle’s, I mean. Tes bound to be far better run.”
“Probably, and there’s your answer. The Society hasn’t employed me to investigate clean, safe, well-managed copper mines.” No, but the selection process was still fair, Connor believed, if only because conditions in most Cornish and Devonian copper mines were so deplorable, there was no need to doctor reports or tinker with findings. Or pick a woman’s mine over a man’s in hopes of finding more deficiencies.
He put the envelope in his pocket and clasped his hands behind his head, blinking up at the sky. The June afternoon was lazily spectacular, and he couldn’t deny that it was pleasant to sit in the shade while butterflies flickered in and out of sun rays slanting down through the tree leaves. In a rare mellow mood, he watched two children burst from a side door in the church across the way and run toward the green. A second later, out came three more, then four, then another giggling pair. Shouting, laughing, they skipped and ran in circles and tumbled on the grass, giddy as March hares. He’d have thought Sunday school had just let out, except it was Saturday. The children’s high spirits were contagious; more than one passerby paused in the cobbled street long enough to smile at their antics.
Half a minute later, a young woman came out of the same door in the church and hurried across the lane toward the green. The school teacher? Tall, slim, dressed in white, she had blond hair tied up in a knot on top of her head. Connor tried to guess her age, but it was hard to tell from this distance; she had the lithe body of a girl, but the confident, self-assured manner of a woman. He wasn’t a bit surprised when she clapped her hands and every shrieking, frolicking child immediately ran to her. What surprised him was the gay sound of her own laughter mingling with theirs.
The smallest child, a girl of five or six, leaned against her hip familiarly; the woman patted her curly head while she gave the others some soft-voiced command. The children formed a half circle around her. She bent down to the little girl’s level to say something in her ear, her hand resting lightly on the child’s shoulder.
“Look at that now, Con. That’s a winsome sight, edn it?” said Jack in a low, appreciative voice. “Edn that just how a lady oughter look?”
Where women were concerned, Jack was the least discriminating man Connor had ever known; he liked all of them. But this time he’d spoken no more than the truth. This woman’s ivory gown, her willowy figure, the sunny gold in her hair—they made a very beguiling picture. And yet he thought Jack meant something more—something about the long, graceful curve of her back as she bent toward the child, the solicitousness of her posture, the kindness in it that took the simple picture out of the ordinary and made it unforgettable. When Connor glanced at his brother, he saw the same soft, stricken smile he could feel on his own face, and he knew they’d been moved equally, just for a moment, by the perfection of the picture.
She straightened then, and the little girl skipped away to a place in the middle of the semicircle. The spell was broken, but the picture lingered; the image still shimmered in his mind’s eye.
She took something from the pocket of her dress—a pitch pipe. She brought it to her lips and blew a sort, thin note. The children hummed obediently, then burst into song.
Smiling encouragement, her face animated, the music teacher moved her hands in time to the melody, and every child beamed back at her, eager to please, all wide eyes and happy faces. It was like a scene in a storybook, or a sentimental play about good children and perfectly kind teachers, too good to be true—yet it was happening here, now, on the little green in the village of Wyckerley, St. Giles’ parish. Mesmerized, Connor sat back to watch what would happen next.
The choir sang another song, and afterward the teacher made them sing it again. He wasn’t surprised; smitten as he was, even he could tell it hadn’t been their finest effort. Then, sensing her charges were growing restless, she set them free after a gentle admonition—which fell on deaf ears, because the shouting and gamboling recommenced almost immediately.
“Looks like a little o’ new puppies.” Jack chuckled, and Connor nodded, smiling at the antics of two little towheaded boys, twins, wing with each other to see who could press more dandelions into the hands of their pretty teacher. Heedless of the damp grass, she dropped to her knees and sniffed the straggly bouquets with exaggerated admiration. Her way of keeping their rambunctious spirits within bounds was to ask them questions, then listen to the answers with complete absorption.
Just then the curly haired little girl, clutching her own flower, made a running leap and landed on the teacher’s back with a squeal of delight. The woman bore the impact sturdily, even when the youngster wound her arms around her neck and hung on tight, convulsed with mirth. But gradually the laughter tapered off.
“She’m caught,” Jack murmured when some of the children crept closer, looking uncertain. “The lady’s hair, looks like. Edn she caught?” Connor was already on his feet. “Con? Wait, now. Ho, Con! You shouldn’t oughter—”
He didn’t hear the rest. Impulsiveness was one of his most dangerous failings, but this—this was too much like the answer to a prayer he’d been too distracted to say. He took off across the green at a sprint:
No doubt about it, the teacher was caught. “It’s all right, Birdie,” she was saying, reaching back to try to disentangle her hair from something on the little girl’s dress. “Don’t wriggle for a second. No, it’s all right, just don’t move.”
Birdie was near tears. “I’m sorry, Miss Sophie,” she kept saying, worried but unable to stop squirming. The music teacher winced—then laughed, pretending it was a joke.
The other children eyed Connor in amazement when he squatted down beside the entangled pair. Birdie’s mouth dropped open and she finally went still. The teacher—Miss Sophie—could only see him out of the corner of her eye; if she turned her head, she’d yank the long strand of hair that was wound tight about Birdie’s shirtwaist button.
“Well, now, what have we here?” he said, softening his voice to keep Birdie calm. He shifted until he was kneeling in front of the teacher, and reached over her bent head to untangle the snarl.
“It got stuck! Now I can’t move or I’ll hurt Miss Sophie!”
Around them the children had gathered in a quiet circle, curious as cows. And protective of their teacher, Connor fancied. “That’s right,” he agreed, “so you must hold very, very still while I undo this knot. Pretend you’re a statue.”
“Yes, sir. What’s a statue.”
A breathy laugh came from the music teacher. He could see only her profile and the smooth angle of her neck. She had cream-white skin, the cheeks flushed a little from exertion or embarrassment. Her eyes were downcast; he couldn’t be sure what color they were. Blue, he thought. “The stone cross at the edge of the green, Birdie,” she said, amusement in her low voice. “That’s a sort of statue, because it never moves.”
“Oh.”
The snarl was stubborn, and Connor was as anxious as Birdie not to pull Miss Sophie’s ha
ir. “Almost got it,” he muttered. “Two more seconds.” Her pretty hair was soft and slippery and it smelled of roses. Or was that the sun-warmed linen of her dress?
“There are scissors in the rectory,” she said, speaking to the ground. “Tommy Wooten, are you here? Would you go and ask—”
“Out of the question. I’d sooner cut off my hand than a single strand of this beautiful hair.” And if that wasn’t the most fatuous thing he’d ever said in his life, he wanted to know what was.
She sent him a twinkling, sideways glance, and he saw the color of her eyes. Blue. Definitely blue. “Actually, I was thinking you might cut off the button.”
“Ah, the button. A much better idea.”
“Shall I go, Miss Sophie?” asked a reedy voice behind Connor’s shoulder.
“Yes, Tommy.”
“No, Tommy,” Connor corrected as the last strand in the tangle finally came loose. “Miss Sophie is free.”
She sat back on her heels and smiled, first at him, then at the children gathered around; some of them were clapping, as if a performance had just concluded. Her laughing face was flushed, her hair awry—and she was so stunningly lovely, he felt blinded, hindered, too dazzled to take it in. He remembered to take off his hat, but before he could speak—and say what?—she turned away to give Birdie a strong, reassuring hug.
“Did it hurt?” the little girl asked her, patting her cheek worriedly.
“No, not one bit.”
She heaved a great sigh of relief. “Look, Miss Sophie, here’s what I was giving you.” She held out one bent daisy, the stem wilted, the white petals smashed.
Sophie drew in her breath. “Oh, lovely,” she declared, holding the flower to her nose and sniffing deeply. “Thank you, Birdie.” The child blushed with pleasure. Then she was off, anxious to tell her friends about her adventure.
Now that the drama was over, the other children began to wander away, too. Connor was still on his knees beside the teacher. “Thank you,” she said in her musical voice.
He said, “It was very much my pleasure.” They both looked away, then back. He put out his hand. She hesitated for a second, then took it, and he helped her to her feet.
Patricia Gaffney is a New York Times bestselling author and six-time RITA nominee for her historical romances and winner of the Romance Writers of America Golden Heart Award. She worked as a high school English teacher and a court reporter before pursuing a full-time career as a novelist. She lives in southern Pennsylvania with her husband.
Patricia Gaffney, To Haveand To Hold
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