Tibby glanced at it and flushed. “It’s far too generous,” she said lamely.
“Nonsense, that boy will be a handful, I’m sure. Sharp as a knife, but rough around the edges. He’s run wild all his life, I’d say.”
Tibby smiled. “Oh, I don’t mind that. I like Jim and his rough edges. He has a bold and curious spirit. For the time being, I’ll instruct the two boys together. Coming from such very different backgrounds, there is much they can learn from each other.”
Ethan looked up from his cards. “What would a crown prince have to learn from a lad like Jim, a lad who can’t even write his own name?”
Tibby turned to him and said composedly, “Just because Jim’s never had the opportunity to learn does not mean that he isn’t an intelligent and valuable human being, Mr. Delaney. With a little education, who knows what Jim could make of his life? People may be born into poverty and ignorance, but they do not have to remain so.” She folded the sewing she was doing and put it aside. “Perhaps I picked up a few radical notions from my father, but I believe people can learn much from walking in another’s shoes.”
Ethan stared at her.
“Besides,” Tibby went on. “I expect most of Nicky’s learning will have come from books. Jim, on the other hand, though wholly untutored, has a vast store of knowledge of the natural world. And excels in the practical application of it.”
“Miss Tibthorpe, it’s a shame you never met my great-aunt Gert,” Gabriel said. “I believe you would have had a great deal in common.” He nodded toward the painting of the severe-looking woman.
Tibby suddenly frowned as if she’d just thought of something. “How can I teach Nicky with Jim when you are taking him up to London tomorrow?”
Gabriel looked surprised. “You will come with us, of course. You said you needed to do some shopping.”
“Yes, I suppose so…but what about Jim?”
“He will come, too. I expect he would love a trip to London. And Nicky will have a companion for the long journey.”
“But do we know his father has indeed passed on? We cannot just pick a child up like a stray puppy and transport him out of the parish.”
He looked thoughtful. “You are right. I shall investigate the matter more fully.”
He turned to Callie. “Princess, can I interest you in a game of cards? And Ethan, perhaps Miss Tibthorpe would offer you a game of chess. I noticed last night she seemed more than a little acquainted with the game.”
A few moments later Callie found herself frowning over a hand of cards, trying to recall the rules of bezique. With no apparent effort he had everyone sorted: Tibby’s employment, Callie’s future, her son’s education, Jim’s, too, and their entertainment for the evening.
“Why would you concern yourself with the education of a chance-met orphaned fisher boy?” she asked him, playing a card at random.
He glanced at the portrait of his great-aunt. “It’s Great-aunt Gert’s legacy. She was a great one for taking in stray, unwanted boys. I suppose that’s how Mrs. Barrow ended up working for her—they were kindred spirits from opposite ends of the social scale. Great-aunt Gert took me in and Mrs. Barrow took in Harry.” He played a card. “Great-aunt Gert shaped our futures and Mrs. Barrow mothered us.”
“But I thought Harry was your brother.”
“My half brother,” he corrected her. “Born on the wrong side of the blanket. We had the same father, but Harry’s mother was a maidservant. When she found herself increasing, my father paid the village smith to marry her.”
“Oh,” she said, then didn’t know what to say, because she could hardly ask him whether he was born on the wrong side of the blanket, too. She put another card down.
“My mother was married to my father,” he told her. “But they’d been having tremendous rows at the time, and both of them had been unfaithful, so when she told him I was not his true son, he believed her.”
“But that’s dreadful!” she exclaimed. “How could she do that to him? And to you?”
He shrugged. “I believe their marriage was famously tempestuous. Or should that be infamously?”
“What do you mean, you believe? Didn’t you know?”
“No, they reconciled when I was three, and again when I was six, but my father would never allow my mother to bring me home on any of these occasions. I was kept in London. He refused to tolerate the sight of me, even though she insisted I really was his son.” He shrugged. “He never believed her.”
“But that’s terrible.”
“Not really. He had no reason to trust her word; her infidelities were almost as legendary as his.”
Callie frowned. “Then how—” she began, then stopped. She’d been about to ask the most impertinent question. She bit her lip.
“How do I know I really am my father’s son?” he supplied. “And I warned you about that lip-biting—you’re doing it all wrong. D’you want me to show you again?”
