“I wish it were possible,” he said, “but it is not. I come to see you every day, though, when I am in London. How could I not when you are my favorite person in the whole wide world? Shall we be polite and include Miss Martin in this conversation since I have brought her just to meet you?”
The girl turned her face in Claudia’s direction. She looked in dire need of air and sunshine and exercise.
“Do you read stories at your school, Miss Martin?” she asked politely.
“We do indeed,” Claudia told her. “My girls learn to read as soon as they come there if they have not learned before, and they read many books during their years with me. They may choose among the numerous volumes we have in the library. A library is a place where there are shelves and shelves of books.”
“So many stories all in one place,” the child said. “Mother could not read me stories because she could not read though Papa told her many times that he would teach her if she wished. And Mrs. Smart does not read. Mr. Smart does, but he does not read tome. Miss Edwards does because it is one thing Papa told her she must do when she came here as my companion, but she does not choose interesting stories and she does not find them interesting. I can tell from the way she reads them. She has a flat voice. She makes me yawn.”
“Iread you stories, Lizzie,” the marquess said.
“You do, Papa,” she agreed, lifting her free hand and touching his face before patting it with her fingertips. “But sometimes you pretend to read when really you are making up your own stories. I can tell. But I don’t mind. Indeed, I like those stories best. I tell stories too but only to my doll.”
“If you told them to someone who could write,” Claudia said, “then that someone could write them down for you and read them to you whenever you wished to hear your own story again.”
The child laughed. “That would be funny,” she said.
A plump, elderly woman entered the room then, carrying a large tray of tea and cakes.
“Mrs. Smart,” Lizzie said, “I know it is you. This is Miss Martin. She is Papa’s friend. She has a school and it has a library. Do you know what a library is?”
“You tell me, dearie,” the servant said, smiling fondly at her after nodding politely to Claudia.
“It is a room full of books,” Lizzie said. “Can you imagine?”
“They would not be much good to me, dearie,” Mrs. Smart said, pouring the tea and handing around the cups. “Or you either.”
She left the room.
“Lizzie,” the marquess said after they had eaten some cakes, “do you think you would ever like to go to a school?”
“But who would take me, Papa?” she asked. “And who would bring me home?”
“It would be a school where you could stay,” he said, “and be with other girls, though there would be holidays when you would come home and I would have you all to myself again.”
She was silent for some time. Her lips moved, Claudia could see, though whether it was with trembling or silent words it was impossible to tell. And then she cast aside her empty plate and climbed hastily onto her father’s lap and burrowed close to him, her face hidden against his shoulder.
He stared bleakly at Claudia.
“Miss Edwards said I was not to do this ever again,” Lizzie said after a short while. “She said I was too old. She said it was unseemly.Isit, Papa? Am I too old to sit on your lap?”
But the child had no eyes, Claudia thought. The sense of touch must be far more important to her than it was to other children of her age.
“How could I bear it,” he said, resting his cheek against her hair, “if you were ever too old to want my arms around you, Lizzie? As for sitting on my lap—I think it is quite unexceptionable until you turn twelve. That gives us five whole months longer. What does Miss Martin have to say on the subject?”
“Your father is absolutely right, Lizzie,” Claudia said. “And I have a rule at my school. It is that no girl is ever forced to go there against her will. No matter how much her parents may wish for her to come and learn from me and my teachers and make friends with other girls, I will not allow her to set foot over the doorstep unless she has told me that yes, it is what she wants. Is that clear to you?”
Lizzie had half turned her head though she was still burrowed safely against her father like a much younger child.
“You have a nice voice,” she said. “I can believe your voice. Sometimes I do not believe voices. I can always tell which ones to believe.”
“Sweetheart,” the marquess said, “I am going to take Miss Martin home now. Later, I am going to come back on my horse. I will take you out for a ride on him. Would you like that?”
“Yes!”She sat up, her face alight with joy again. “But Miss Edwards says—”
“Don’t worry about what Miss Edwards says,” he told her. “You have ridden up with me before and always been perfectly safe, have you not? I will have a word with her after I bring you home, and she will be gone by tomorrow, I daresay. Just be polite to her until then. Will you?”
“I will, Papa,” she promised.
