Edmund took an involuntary step backwards, clasped his hands behind him and stared at the little boy as if he were a wild creature, which, of course, he was.
"Won't you say good morning?" the soft voice of the schoolteacher—dash it, what was her name again?—penetrated through his mind. She was undoubtedly talking to the boy, but the strange look in her green eyes and the barb in them seemed to indicate that she meant him.
He was instantly transported back to the schoolroom and reduced to the shy, stammering boy he once was.
"G-good morning." He hadn't stammered for two decades, and as soon as a bloody teacher showed up, it all came back? He would rip his tongue out if he could, only it wouldn't work. He'd know; he'd tried it once. All he'd ended up with was a bleeding tongue, a scolding teacher, and an even more persistent stammer.
With the child standing right in front of him, with his big, black, hopeful eyes and his chubby hand still outstretched, Edmund extended, after some considerable inner struggle, a finger or two to shake his hand, just to put an end to this ridiculous situation.
At least this time, the child's hand was not wet. It was soft and warm. He dropped it like a piece of charred ember.
"Well done, Noni. You did very well."
Illogically, he felt a rush of relief, as if she'd meant him.
Irritation flashed through him. This was exactly why he should not have any teachers under his roof. Or children. Not only were they a nuisance and an inconvenience, but they stirred in the pits of his memory like the witches of Macbeth in their cauldron. It steamed and puffed and bubbled, and all sorts of strange things came out that one would have preferred to remain in the cauldron.
He would have to put his feelings aside and concentrate on the practical.
"I say, what's this you're doing?" he drawled, trying to hide his unease.
"Since I was waiting for you, and not knowing how long you would be, I thought I would use the time to teach Noni the alphabet."
Edmund stared grimly at the letter that Noni had laid out with scarlet woollen strings. "You're teaching him with woollen strings on the floor?”
The red-haired creature nodded. "I asked the maid to bring me some wool. I hope you didn't mind that I used it for this purpose. You can also use other materials such as sticks or pieces of straw."
"Whatever happened to plain slate and chalk?" The back of his head ached just thinking about slates, as his schoolmates had thrown them at him at every opportunity.
"In my limited experience of teaching younger children, for I am a teacher of older girls, if you remember, I have learnt that the little ones retain the alphabet better if they do it this way, with their hands, before they are required to hold a real pencil or piece of chalk, which they may find difficult. Besides," she shrugged, "I don't have any chalk or slates here, do I? But that's not why I came back." She took a deep breath. "I've been thinking things over, and I want to take you up on that offer you made yesterday. Assuming it still stands."
She looked him straight in the eye. Green, they were. Like shards of emerald.
He stared at them, stunned. Then he collected himself. "It still stands."
She seemed to exhale in relief. "Well, that's good."
He rang for Susie, who took the child to the nursery.
The woman remained with him in the drawing room, fiddling with the bottom button of her spencer. It was a hideous mustard-coloured thing that clashed with her dress. First thing to do was to get a new wardrobe for her.
No, wait. The first thing was to get married.
Not even that. He was getting ahead of himself. He paced the room, trying to gather his thoughts. "The first thing is to get a special licence," he thought aloud. "Archbishop. St George's. Madame Minion." He nodded to himself. That was the right order.
"Madame Minion? Who is she?"
"A dressmaker."
She stared at him blankly.
"We're going to Dobberham's country house party early next week, and you can't go like that." He waved his fob at her. "Madame Minion is the only one who can get you fully dressed in just three days."
She nodded reluctantly.
“And St George's for the wedding, of course," he added.
“Is that necessary if it is to be a pretend marriage to begin with?"
