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It still irked him that none of their lessons showed any practical application to Leonora’s stated goal of passing him off as a gentleman. Several times he had tried getting the point across to her. On each occasion she had almost bitten his head off for presuming to question her authority.
On that score, she put him in mind of two inept officers who’d been his superiors in Portugal. Their blinkered stupidity and blank refusal to accept advice from anyone of lower rank had contributed largely to the fiasco that had ended his military career.
And Lieutenant Peverill’s life.
Looking up suddenly from his book, he caught Leonora staring at him. Fresh from thoughts of his young lieutenant, Morse recognized an appealing family resemblance in her face.
“I never served under a better officer than your cousin.” He wasn’t certain what propelled those words out of him.
To his surprise, Leonora did not order him back to work at once. Neither did she question what had prompted him to speak of the lieutenant for the first time since coming to Laurelwood.
“Cousin Wesley mentioned you in his letters. I think he would be pleased to know you’re here.”
Her little chin, so intrepid for all its delicacy, betrayed a subtle quiver. Behind the bastion of her spectacles, Morse thought he spied a fine mist rising in Leonora’s eyes.
Ordinarily, Morse Archer was not a man who had any patience for tears or overwrought outbursts. Yet something launched him out of his chair and to Leonora’s side. His hands closed over her shoulders.
“I’m sorry I mentioned him. I didn’t mean to distress you, honestly.”
At the slightest provocation he would have taken her in his arms. But Leonora gave him no opportunity. And no quarter.
Twisting free of his chaste touch, she flew to the opposite corner of the room and pretended an exaggerated interest in whatever she saw out the window. The steady drip of icicles melting from the eaves, perhaps.
“You have worked well today, Sergeant.” She did not bother to turn and address him face-to-face. “As a reward, you are excused from lessons for the remainder of the day.”
Earlier in the week Morse would have welcomed the news with a whoop of glee. Now he cursed himself roundly. What should have been a reward felt instead like…exile.
Chapter Five
Leonora listened to Morse’s retreating footsteps with an exasperating mixture of relief and regret.
If she had not fled the warm invitation of his hands upon her shoulders, if she had not dismissed him from the room with her next breath, she might have surrendered to her impulses. She might have pivoted into his powerful arms and wept a woman’s weak tears against his sturdy shoulder.
The prospect tempted her, as much from curiosity as…anything else. She had no experience of seeking comfort from another person. Mother had always been too much in need of support herself to lend it elsewhere. And Leonora would have died under torture before betraying a hint of weakness to any of her detested stepfathers. By the time she had come to live with Aunt Harriet and Uncle Hugo, she was well past the age for tearful outbursts.
Yet somewhere in the mists of early memory there lurked the phantom fancy of a comforting embrace. The faint musk of horses and tobacco. The croon of a deep, affectionate voice. The subtle scratch of a serge coat against her cheek. It had been her one and only experience of security.
And it had been ripped away from her long before she was able to understand why.
Since then she had learned to rely upon herself alone. Not upon her looks, as she had seen some foolish women do. In time, creamy skin would wrinkle. Bright eyes would lose their sparkle. Shiny hair its luster.
Intelligence, determination and self-control—these would stand the test the time. Neither were they a happy accident of nature. They could be learned and properly cultivated in any girl so inclined.
Leonora returned from her reverie to find her hands balled into tight fists. So tight, in fact, that her fingernails bit into her palms.
She was determined to cultivate those serviceable virtues in other young women whom fate had placed at a disadvantage. In her school, she would recover the kind of security she vaguely recalled from her childhood.
But how would she ever win her school if she didn’t coax a better effort out of Sergeant Archer? He had shown some improvement today, in his attitude at least. Would it be enough?
“Oh, Wes,” she whispered. If her cousin’s spirit lingered anywhere in the mortal world, it would be here at Laurelwood. “You won his devotion and disciplined him into a good soldier. What am I doing wrong?”
No answer came. Nor had she expected one, being too fiercely practical to believe in communication from beyond the grave. Still, Leonora could not help feeling there was a lesson to be learned from Cousin Wesley’s style of command.
Though, what it was, she had yet to fathom.
“Up early again, sir?” Dickon handed Morse the kettle. “If you don’t mind my saying so, it makes a pleasant change from having to drag you out of bed.”
“Pleasanter for us both, Dickon.” Morse began to whistle a marching tune as he shaved.
“If you don’t mind my asking, sir—” the footman delved in the wardrobe for Morse’s clean linen “—what brought on the change?”
Morse’s razor froze in midstroke. He scrutinized his reflection in the glass as though to ask that Morse Archer to explain himself.
When the fellow unhelpfully mimicked his own puzzlement, Morse was forced to stammer, “I—couldn’t say—for certain.”
Recovering a shred of his old sangfroid, he added, “Just bowing to necessity, I suppose. Or getting used to the new routine. There wasn’t any need to get up early at the hospital.”
Dickon appeared satisfied with the explanation, for he nodded and continued his work without further comment.
Resuming his shave with a somewhat less steady hand, Morse was less convinced by his own rather lame reasoning. Bowing to necessity did not explain the recent lightness in his step or the merry tune that hovered on his lips of late, begging to be whistled. His inexplicable eagerness to begin the day must be more than merely adapting to a new routine.
He continued to puzzle the matter as he dressed. Conflicting impulses jousted within him. One urged haste, to get his clothes on and proceed downstairs as quickly as possible. The other counseled patience. Take his time in tying his stock. Let Dickon buff his boots properly. Arrive for his morning studies looking his best.
As he set off for the library, at last, a disquieting thought struck Morse. If he hadn’t known better, he might have suspected he was trying to make a favorable impression on Leonora Freemantle.
But that was rank nonsense.
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