The austere gentleman led her in a different direction this time, to Willoughby’s study she presumed.
But when he opened the door, she was quite taken aback by the sight before her eyes. Lord Willoughby lay sleeping on the settee with Lady Althea on top of him, head tucked beneath his chin. Lady Eloise was sitting at the large desk writing in a small journal.
When Tilde went to step inside, Lady Eloise raised one finger to her lips and whispered. “Thea had nightmares again, so Papa brought us down to his ossiff.”
Indeed.
Cravat loosened, the earl remained in his boots, but was using what appeared to be his jacket as a makeshift pillow. And if Tilde was correct, the garments were the same he’d been wearing yesterday. As she stepped closer, she could easily make out his full day’s growth of beard and dark circles etched beneath his eyes. Lady Althea wore nightclothes and had been wrapped in a miniature sized quilt.
Both father and daughter emitted soft, even snoring sounds.
Tiptoeing carefully back across the room, Tilde found a chair near Eloise, placed Peaches on the floor, and then joined the miniature adult at the desk.
“Are you writing letters?” Tilde opened up her pelisse and withdrew a small notebook and pencil.
Which immediately drew Lady Eloise’s attention. “What’s that?”
“I make it a practice to take note of anything significant when beginning a new post.”
“Am I of signific–singivicence?” She leaned forward in an attempt to see the notebook contents better.
“Oh, absolutely. If you’re writing letters, then that tells me that you can read and write. That’s very important for a teacher to know about her students, wouldn’t you agree?”
Lady Eloise nodded. “But I’m not writing letters.” She admitted with a frown. “I’m drawing pictures.”
“How lovely! I’ve not much talent for drawing, myself. May I look at yours?”
Lady Eloise hopped off her seat and came around the desk with her sketch book. After biting her bottom lip for a few seconds, she tentatively handed it over.
At the front of the book, the drawings were exactly what Tilde would expect of a five-year-old intelligent little girl. A family. Trees. Fish. Dogs. Tilde smiled. “Is this one Peaches?” The leg were short and the body was long.
Eloise nodded.
But as Tilde flipped the pages toward the end of the book, a sick feeling settled into the pit of her stomach. “Who is this?” She pointed at a drawing of a woman with pointed teeth and devilish looking eyes. The woman was holding a switch above a little girl with dark hair.
Eloise stared at the floor. “She’s the monster lady who comes in the middle of the night.”
Tilde swallowed hard. “Is she a real person?”
But Lady Eloise did not answer, choosing instead to reach out and take back the journal. “I want to learn how to paint, too. Papa’s mama says we’re too young to learn to paint but Papa said he’d see what he could do. Are you going to teach us to paint, Miss Fortune?”
Tilde, still shaken from the unusual drawing, and from Lady Eloise’s explanation, forced herself to focus on the question at hand. And in that moment, she had no doubt that she’d do whatever was necessary to bring some comfort and security to these children’s lives.
“You see,” Tilde retrieved her own notebook and pencil from the desk. “This is exactly the sort of significant information I must take note of.” And then she read aloud what she was writing, “Lady Eloise wishes to learn to paint. Task. Purchase necessary supplies.”
When she glanced back up, a pleased smile danced on Eloise’s lips.
“Do you have bad dreams too?” She could not help but wonder. She noticed that the child had dark circles beneath her smaller gray eyes. They were just as expressive as her father’s.
Eloise began to answer, but then rustling sounds drew her gaze behind Tilde. Lord Willoughby was doing his best to arrange Lady Althea on the settee without waking her.
“What in the world?” Lord Willoughby sat up and stared at Tilde with confused eyes.
Tilde glanced meaningfully at the clock. “Our appointment, my lord.”
She could see the moment he realized what he’d done. Pitiful man that he was.
He scrubbed one hand down his face and groaned. “I must beg your forgiveness for, what now? The fifth time? And if I’m correct, you’ve yet to grant it for my last two transgressions.”
