“Ohh . . .”
“Now, try again, Master Andrew, and this time, pull back with every muscle God gave ya.”
Andrew nodded and lifted the bow once more. Croome helped him level the arrow, whispered some direction in his ear, then placed his fingers over the boy’s, helping him pull the cord further back.
“You can do it, Andrew,” Miss Keene encouraged.
“Don’t forget to aim,” Audrey added.
Man and boy released the arrow. Fwwt, smack. The arrow pierced the outer ring of the paper target and shuddered into the straw barricade behind it.
Audrey and Miss Keene cheered. Croome slapped Andrew on his slight shoulder, causing the boy to jerk forward, but Andrew’s smile only grew the wider. Edward felt conflicting emotions, remembering his father’s long-ago warnings about their gamekeeper. Edward had even shared those concerns with Miss Keene, yet still she felt it safe, wise, to bring the children here?
Croome noticed him first. He darted a sharp look over his shoulder—his old ears evidently still keen, alert to approaching prey and predator alike. Which was he? Edward stepped forward, and the children rushed to greet him.
“I hit the target, Cousin Edward. Did you see?” Andrew asked.
“I did. Well done.”
Audrey pouted. “You missed my turn. I hit the target once too, even closer to the center than Andrew did.”
“I am sorry to have missed it. Perhaps you might try again?”
“Perhaps Lord Bradley would take a turn first, and show us how it is done?” Miss Keene suggested, blue eyes twinkling.
He narrowed his eyes at her. “You are too kind to offer, but I do not wish to interrupt the children’s education, or whatever this is.”
“It is sport. Good for the body and mind.”
“Come, Cousin Edward. Do try,” Andrew urged. “You cannot do any worse than Miss Keene did. She hit Mr. Croome’s house!”
Miss Keene’s cheeks pinked. Mr. Croome looked away and scratched the back of his neck.
“Did she indeed?” Edward said, barely suppressing a grin.
“Are we going to shoot or gad about all day?” Croome asked. “I’ve lines to set and eggs to hatch.”
Edward swallowed. “Very well, I shall give it a go.”
Croome handed him a second, larger bow, and then an arrow, his narrowed eyes fixed on Edward’s face with disconcerting scrutiny. “Never done this before, have you?”
Was it so obvious? “No, sir.”
Croome nodded and said in a low voice, “Place the arrow there and keep ’er level, both eyes open; pull back to your right shoulder, aim, then release.”
Edward did so, the cord scraping his cheek as it released. The arrow smacked into the target, not far from Andrew’s.
“Not bad for a first shot,” Croome said. He eyed Edward’s smarting cheek. “You’ll live.”
“Perhaps, Mr. Croome,” Olivia said, “you might show us how it is done, for none of us has the way of it yet, I fear.”
“Practice is all that’s needed.”
“We would like to see you shoot, Mr. Croome,” Audrey said. “Are you very good?”
“Not bad, but don’t like to make a coxcomb of myself either.”
“We don’t mind. We want to see,” Andrew said. “Please?”
Croome gave Edward a glance, as if for his approval, which surprised him.
“By all means, Mr. Croome,” he said.
“Do! Do!”
“Oh, very well, you little rogues, if only to still yer yappin’ and give me peace.”
Croome took up the stance and positioned the arrow in one smooth movement. He pulled the cord taut with practiced ease and sighted his target. Fwwt, smack. Dead center.
Edward decided he would not want this man for an enemy.
He was surprised when a bird came strutting across the clearing toward them, its grey neck stretched high and its broad belly balanced on peg legs, like a snobbish, well-fed footman. While not an experienced fowler, Edward guessed it a partridge.
Andrew, who was once again sighting the target, suddenly veered to the side, aiming at the partridge, making a mock fwwt sound between puffed cheeks.
Croome caught his arm in a blurred, razor-fast grab. “No, Master Andrew. Don’t even pretend it.”
Edward felt instantly defensive on his cousin’s behalf, not liking the man’s rough treatment of the boy. Over a game bird?
Andrew looked sheepish. “I am sorry, Mr. Croome. I was only fooling. I would never shoot Bob. Never.”
Bob? The man had a pet partridge named Bob?
Perhaps he wasn’t as fearsome as Edward had been led to believe.
Chapter 32
The time I spend endeavoring to improve [my pupils]
makes a small figure in my journal.
I trust it will turn out to their and to my benefit in the Book of Life,
where all actions, thoughts and designs are registered
by an unerring and gracious hand.
—A GOVERNESS IN THE AGE OF JANE AUSTEN:
THE JOURNALS AND LETTERS OF AGNES PORTER
That evening, Edward stood in the doorway, amused by the scene in the drawing room. The carpets had been rolled back and some dancing master’s text lay open on the floor. Andrew stood on a straight-back chair, face-to-face with the governess, who stood on the floor before him, hands in his. Audrey stood beside Miss Keene, an impish grin on her face. At Miss Keene’s instruction, Andrew lifted one hand high, but before Miss Keene could turn beneath it, Audrey reached up and tickled him under his arm. Andrew doubled over and giggled.
Miss Keene sighed. It was clearly not the first time this had occurred.
Edward could not resist. He crossed the room to them, bowed, and asked formally, “May I cut in?”
With of whoop of relief, Andrew jumped from the chair and—after a running start—slid several yards across the polished floor in his stocking feet.
Shaking his head, Edward returned his gaze to Miss Keene and found her dubiously eyeing his offered hand.
She said, “I was only trying to demonstrate the nine positions of the German and French waltz.”
“So I saw. Shall we continue?”
“You need not . . . That is, I am sure my lord is much too busy to—”
“Not at all. It is for the children’s benefit, is it not? Their education?”
She opened her mouth to protest further, but before she could, Audrey said, “Show us position four, Cousin Edward. For neither Andrew nor I can master it.”
Edward wondered if Audrey Howe fostered as many romantic fancies as did her stepmother. But he did not complain.
“You were doing fine, Audrey,” Miss Keene said. “It was difficult without a proper partner. I am not very good at being the man.”
Edward felt his brows rise.
“Please?” Audrey begged her governess.
Miss Keene sighed once more. “Very well. I shall be you, Audrey.” She turned to Edward. “And you shall be the man.”
He said dryly, “I can but try.”
Edward raised his left arm over his head, and she, reluctantly, did the same. He grasped her uplifted hand in his own, creating an arch above them. “Position four requires, I believe, the woman to place her hand about the man’s waist. And the man—that is me—to place his about hers. Is that not correct?”
She swallowed. “Yes.”
Edward relished circling his arm around her and drawing her close to his side. Regarding her under the arch of their upraised arms, he noticed her pink, averted face. “To stand so close and yet ignore one’s partner, Miss Keene? That will never do.”
She tried to meet his gaze, but was clearly too self-conscious to do so.
Audrey dashed to the pianoforte and exclaimed, “I shall play and you two dance! I know I shall understand if I see the positions performed.”
Little schemer, Edward thought, and felt his fondness for his young cousin grow.
Audrey began banging out a piece in three-quarter time, with none of the stately decorum the composer had intended.
Miss Keene gave him an apologetic look. “You need not. I—”
“Nonsense.” He put both hands around her small waist—Position seven or eight? He did not care, only wanted to hold her close—and propelled her forward before she could object.
She grasped his upper arms and hung on desperately tight as he spun her around the room. He maneuvered her to his side—position five?—and whirled them both around, then lifted one arm and twirled her beneath it just as Audrey pounded out the final notes.
Still holding one of her hands, he bowed to her, the room spinning slightly. She seemed about to curtsy but instead swayed. He grasped both of her elbows to steady her. How desirable she was with her high color and coils of dark hair falling around her. Not to mention their entwined limbs. Standing this close to her, his face bent near hers, he wanted very badly to kiss her. Of course, he could not. Would not.
“Are you well?” he quietly asked.
“Besides breathless, dizzy, and embarrassed?”
He nodded.
“Perfectly.”
Chuckling, his gaze roved her features—her bright blue eyes and parted lips, the rapid rise and fall of her chest—taking in every detail, but with none of the detachment his friend Dr. Sutton might have shown. He lifted her hand, still in his. She wore no gloves, and he felt an irrational urge to press his lips to her warm, bare skin.
“What is it?” she asked, concerned as he continued to inspect her fingers. “Is something wrong?” She tried to pull her hand away, but he held fast.