Page 8 of One Thing Leads to a Lover

Despite the overwarm afternoon, and the prickle of sweat beneath her arms and along her spine, Amanda shivered.

Ordinarily, the mere mention of a month in the latter half of the year would not turn her blood cold. But the particular mention of September renewed an ongoing debate over Jamie’s education, George’s determination that he attend Harrow as his father had done, and Amanda’s decided preference for keeping him at home.

George had wanted to send him away last autumn, just past his eleventh birthday. Then she had pleaded Jamie’s slight stature, his natural reserve, his grief. Now, with her elder son’s twelfth birthday rapidly approaching, she knew those arguments—never strong ones in George’s eyes—had weakened considerably, though Jamie was much the same as he had ever been.

In Lord Dulsworthy’s view, twelve was past the point at which boys like Jamie—lordlings and future leaders—should be at school, forming bonds with other young men, not tied to the apron strings of a nervous mother.

The terms of the guardianship left the final decision in George’s hands, though it was clear her late husband had expected George to consider Amanda’s wishes. But the education of boys was a matter for men—at least, according to the rules by which their society operated.

Amanda’s last, best hope was to persuade George to wait one more year, until Philip—stronger, tougher, and more outgoing—would be old enough to accompany his brother. “I think, my lord, that we ought to consider whether—”

Before she could complete the sentence, Jamie and Philip burst into the room—well, Philip burst and Jamie walked, carrying an open book, with eyes only for its pages. He was very like his father, even in looks.

“Have you heard, Uncle George?” Philip threw himself onto the vacant place beside Lord Dulsworthy. “Mr. Jacobs says I’m a prodigy. Where’s the tea things, Mama? I’m famished.”

Jamie came to lean against the tall back of her chair, closing his book around a finger to mark his place. “You’re a prodigious bore, Pip, that’s for certain.”

George, who would never be mistaken for a wit, blinked blankly at Jamie before turning to Philip. “Indeed, I had a ripping report from Jacobs. You must have worked up quite an appetite, young man.”

On that cue, Betsy arrived with the tea tray and placed it on the table between George and an empty chair, which Amanda’s mother came to occupy. “Allow me to do the honors, Lord Dulsworthy,” she said, in the saccharine voice she seemed to reserve only for him.

“But there’s no cake!” Philip’s scandalized cry drew every eye to the tray, which bore the teapot and cups, a plate of bread and butter for the boys and cucumber sandwiches for the others, but no cakes—indeed, no dainties of any kind.

“Is something amiss in the kitchen, Betsy? It is a baking day, is it not?”

Betsy colored. “Yes, ma’am. It’s only…well…You see, Cook did try—”

Displeased with the maid’s stammering reply, Amanda’s mother broke in. “Send Mrs. Hepplewythe to us,” she said dismissively and fluttered her beringed fingers toward the door.

“Bread and butter’s better for you anyway, Philip,” said George, accepting his cup from Mrs. West. “Make you strong.”

“Then Jamie had best eat two pieces,” he declared, which earned him a sneer from his brother and a frown from his mother.

As if she had anticipated the summons, the housekeeper soon made her appearance, clasping her hands nervously before her even as she dropped into a deep curtsy. “My apologies about the state of the tea tray, Lady Kingston. Mrs. Trout tried three different recipes from that book Mrs. West gave her and nothing came of them that either of us thought worthy of gracing a table in this house. But that left no time to prepare aught else. She’s most vexed, ma’am. Said it must be some mistake in the book’s printing.”

“Sadly, it sounds to me as if your cook’s skills are in decline,” Lord Dulsworthy said, polishing off his third sandwich.

Amanda’s mother blushed. Mrs. Hepplewythe bristled. Amanda said only, “Which book?” though she knew already what the answer must be.

“The one Mrs. West gave to me just after luncheon, ma’am. French pastries, ’twas said to be, though I don’t know…” Amanda tried to keep her expression impassive, but the housekeeper’s voice trailed off all the same.

Her mother took up the explanation. “The recipe book in the drawer of your writing desk, my dear. I went into your sitting room to, er, borrow a piece of paper and found it there.” Amanda said nothing, certain her mother had been in search of the invitations, to decline them. Then, to her surprise, her mother explained, “I urged Mrs. Hepplewythe to have the cook try something new. I thought it might tempt your appetite, dear.”

George took a great slurp of tea. “You are unfailingly thoughtful of others, Mrs. West.”

“Yes, indeed, Mama,” agreed Amanda. Her headache had returned in force, perhaps had never entirely left, and masking her frustration required a more than usually heroic effort. “Sometimes, though, I wonder whether you oughtn’t to give yourself so much trouble.”

“Oh, well, I—”

Amanda turned to the housekeeper. “Mrs. Hepplewythe, would you please retrieve the book from Mrs. Trout and bring it to me?”

“Very good, ma’am.” The woman curtsied once more and was gone.

In the interval of her absence, Philip regaled Lord Dulsworthy with a familiar tale of his triumph in the fencing match that morning. Jamie, a slice of bread and butter in one hand, perched on the arm of Amanda’s chair and returned to his book.

“I hope you are not unhappy with me, my dear?” her mother said, low.

“Of course not, Mama.” Amanda knew it would be too impolite to admonish her, and hints of displeasure were of no use whatsoever. “You meant well.”