He lifted an indifferent shoulder. “So I thought. But Mr. Fornoff made it clear he likes doing things his own way. Said I was a know-all.”
She saw the resentment in her old friend’s face and tried to tease it away. “Well, you always were the cleverest lad in the village. That’s what my father always said.”
“I remember.” He grimaced. “Much good it’s done me.”
Robb Tarvin had been something of a prodigy to her learned father. A boy raised by uneducated people who thirsted for knowledge like a scholar. He read Johnson’s Dictionary and every book he could lay hands on. Mr. Lane had given him leave to borrow books from his own library, and the boy had been insatiable, reading one scholarly tome after another, without apparent limit to his interests. Later, the Wilfords had allowed him to borrow from their vast collection as well, and when a circulating library had opened in Worcester, her father, the Wilfords, and a few other neighbors had joined forces to pay the lad’s subscription fees.
Rebecca had accompanied her father when he went to speak to Mr. Tarvin, Senior, to offer the boy access to education, to a future beyond the limits of his birth.
The man had responded none too kindly. “What use has he for education? He knows all he needs to manage our business here. And when I am gone, all this will be his. Why would I send him off for more useless book learning?”
The man had called Robb over then and there. “Do ya want to go off with a bunch of bookish snobs and learn hoity-toity ways, or do ya want to work here with me?”
For a moment, hope had sparked in the lad’s eyes—a flash of eager interest and intelligence. But then he looked at his father and the spark faded. The lad wanted to please his parent, as was only natural. So he’d swallowed and said, “Why would I want to go anywhere? When the good parson lets me read all the books I want while I work here.”
The elder Tarvin nodded triumphantly. “There, you see? He has all he wants and needs. Don’t go filling his head with a lot of useless nonsense.”
Her father, seeing his efforts were in vain, had given it up and taken his leave.
Blinking away the memory, Rebecca asked, “And how is your mother? In good health, I trust?”
“Oh, she is all right. Misses Papa, of course.”
He looked toward the hotel and asked, “And what are you doing here? Does not your brother still let the Wilfords’ lodge?”
“He does. I saw him there yesterday.” She was not keen to spread her brother’s troubles nor to admit that the once proud and respected vicar’s daughter had been compelled to seek employment. However, considering the young man’s recent setback, she deemed it a kindness to tell him the truth. “I am companion to a woman staying here.”
“Ah. I see. Well. Nothing to be ashamed of.”
Yet she did not miss the gleam of satisfaction in his eyes.
———
After her uncomfortable reunion with Robb, Rebecca walked back through the hotel and out into the cloister courtyard, tucking the manuscript under her arm as she went.
She strolled along its perimeter, enjoying the smell of freshly clipped grass and a border of cheerful tulips. Then she tilted up her face and closed her eyes, relishing the warm sunshine penetrating her skin and the peace of the secluded place.
After a moment, she opened her eyes again and glanced around. A few wrought iron tables and chairs were placed here and there, lent shade and elegance by potted trees.
At one of these tables several yards away, a man sat silhouetted against the stone wall, a gracefully spouted teapot at his elbow. It looked like Sir Frederick, but was he not at his canal meeting?
Torn between greeting him and slipping back into the cloisters unnoticed, she stood there, vacillating.
A waiter in crisp black and white came out with a plate of something. Looking up at his arrival, Frederick saw her as well and lifted a hand.
“Miss Lane. Will you join me? Another cup, Bernard, if you please.”
“Right away, sir.”
Frederick stood, and Rebecca walked slowly across the grass, feeling reluctant. Was he just being polite? She glanced around. The courtyard was visible from the cloisters and the windows above. It was a public place, though at the moment, quiet. Would it look like a private tête-à-tête to a passerby?
As if reading her thoughts, he said, “I don’t think there is anything untoward about taking tea together out here. Afterall, we are old friends. At least, I am old.” One corner of his mouth quirked in a boyish grin, and he pulled back the chair for her before the waiter, returning with an extra place setting, could do so.
“Thank you,” she murmured as he bent to push the chair in again, a feat over the thick turf. Hands on either side of the chair, Frederick’s shoulders seemed to envelop her, and she breathed in the smell of his shaving tonic, spicy and slightly sweet, like citrus with a hint of cloves. Or perhaps the aroma of the tea was influencing this impression.
She set the large envelope on the ground, hoping he would not inquire.
“Important papers?” he asked.
