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Tabitha entered through the kitchen door and watched as Timothy unpacked the last of his books, cooing like a mama dove at her bevy of chicks. As she had condensed the tools of her trade, his had expanded to the degree they needed a donkey and cart to transport them. Once they settled in Sorrento, the books had bred like bunnies.
Here, he had an entire wall of bookcases at his disposal, interrupted by the sitting room hearth and running from floor to ceiling. Two comfortable chairs flanked the fireplace, a tea table between them, with side tables prepared to accept cups of tea and piles of reading or a workbag. It was as cozy as an illustration out ofThe Lady’s Monthly Museum,and it made Tabitha want to—
Want to sit down straightaway with a hot drop. Yes, indeed. That was the response of a lady and a contented woman: tea.
She thrust a poker at the fire in the stove and set the kettle on the hob.
Time to begin as she intended they go on.
A glance over her shoulder revealed Timothy sitting on the floor, absorbed. This happened every time he unpacked his library: his attention was caught by an old favorite, whatever progress he made came to a halt, and he was lost to the outside world.
So lost, the knock that fell upon the door went unheeded.
“Tim?”
“Eh—Tab?” He looked up, squinting like a bat at noon.
“Door.”
“Door?” Another knock, stronger, sounded. “Ah!” Timothy rose smoothly to standing and opened the door to a little maid holding a tottering pile of linens. “Hello there! If these are for us, we are spoiled indeed.” He beamed down at the girl as he relieved her of her burden, his big brown eyes sparkling.
“How d’ye do?” The girl bobbed a curtsy with the proper degree of deference required for an Honorable brother and sister. “Her Grace sends her compliments as well as the sheets and toweling cloths.” She nibbled her bottom lip with two large front teeth.
“Good morning and thank you, miss…?” Tabitha asked.
“Oh, Mary Mossett. I’m from down the Hall, doing bits for Mrs. Birks.”
“As well as being a talented seamstress, or so I hear.” Tabitha had heard directly from the duchess.
“A seamstress?” Timothy set aside the linens and the book he still held; Tabitha watched the girl’s eyes follow the latter like it was a sumptuous, laden platter being put out of reach. “I have several garments in need of repair. I am useless with a needle, and never mind my sister who, though she may stitch a wound as finely as a lady’s hem, let her near a button and the less said, the better.”
“Thank you for nothing, Timothy,” Tabitha said. “What Mr. Barrington means to say is we are both in need of a talented needlewoman. What is your fee?”
“Fee?” The little creature—Tabitha guessed she was a mouse; the two front teeth and the large ears sticking out from her cap gave it away—looked as though she had been knocked for six. “Like, money?”
“The going rate in Southern Italy is equal to two English pounds.”
“Two pounds?” Mary Mossett looked enraptured and enraged at the same time. “That’s a fortune, that is. You got done, if you don’t mind my saying.” Any reservations the maid had in the presence of titled strangers flew out the window. Tabitha liked her all the better for it.
“A barter, perhaps?” It was a day for bargaining and haggling. “Since my dear brother has disparaged my skills—”
“Lack thereof, darling sister.”
“—then I propose an exchange of your skills for his,” Tabitha said. Timothy beamed; he, too, had seen Mary Mossett’s fascination with his book. “Mr. Barrington will, of course, be conducting lessons in the servants’ hall, but a few extra sessions here and there might be welcome?”
“Yes, miss! Yes, sir!” The mouse-maid treated them to a flurry of curtsies. “Although I reckon you could be charging more than two pounds for book learning.”
“Value is in the eye of the beholder, Mary.” Timothy took down a primer from the shelf. “I am paraphrasing Plato, who was a Greek philosopher. To many, the study of reading and writing is not worth the expense of time it takes to learn. Whereas to others, no price can be set on it, as it expands one’s world far beyond its physical borders. Have you your letters, or…?”
As her brother patiently paged through the book with the little maid, Tabitha collected the largesse from the Hall and rushed up the stairs to exchange them for their mending. Timothy’s room was the picture of chaos, as usual, and she tidied as she gathered shirts, a waistcoat, and his heavy jacket. They hadn’t needed the latter for years. Oh, Italy! As genial as France had been, as tolerant as the Netherlands were, as lazy and hot as Greece was, Italy had spoken to her even if she could not return the favor—her grasp of the language never advanced past remedial.
What a day for cataloging her lack of skills, and yet she considered leaving behind the only thing she’d ever mastered.
Tabitha’s far more orderly chamber was a respite, her pile of mending already assembled, with the view to bribing Timothy into doing it. She piled his clothes on her bed and stood at the window, seeing all the way up the hill that was part of the Duke of Llewellyn’s domain. Should she draw the curtains? For she was sure she had drawn his attention, finally, and was certain he would learn as much about her as he could.Fair enough, she thought. While his plight called to her instincts, others had stirred in that grove, playful, flirtatious instincts that had no place in her life. She twitched the curtains closed and left those thoughts to stew.
***
After sending Mary Mossett on her way, Tabitha deemed it time to roll out the big guns as far as the duke was concerned. The kettle was boiled, the pot was warmed, and the tray was arranged with plates and cakes and serviettes and the star attraction: the steaming pot of tea.
