Those two would never be at the front of any class except to be ridiculed by the master, Hayden growled to himself. If they calmed down and paid attention, they’d perhaps keep themselves from the bottom of the heap, but as it was, they had no chance. The boys were dullards, like their father, with no intention of applying diligence to better their lot.
They’ll be running the nation in fifteen years, Hayden thought with a shudder.
Their enraged papa had refused to pay Hayden’s fee and advised him to return to Glasgow where he belonged.
Hayden decided it wasn’t worth it to explain that Shetland was nowhere near Glasgow and that its inhabitants had descended from an entirely different stock, namely Vikings who’d torn apart soft Englishmen like him.
He’d stomped away into the growing darkness, making for his club.
“You just missed Wolfe,” Stone told Hayden when Hayden reached the Twenty-Fifths and called for a large pint of their strongest ale.
“Damn him,” Hayden growled, then nodded reassuringly at the waiter who’d brought him the pint. “Not you, lad. Thank ye.” When the waiter left, he resumed. “I wanted to pull another recommendation from Wolfe. I’ve been sacked and need employment.”
“I am sorry to hear it,” Stone answered as Hayden took a long swallow of ale. “Did you know we are not to admit we work for a living? We are supposed to exist in genteel poverty, as though it is a virtue to go hungry.”
“I wasn’t raised to believe it shameful to earn an honest crust,” Hayden said without offense. “Wolfe knows everyone in London and can persuade someone they need to hire a tutor.”
Stone regarded him in quiet sympathy. “You should be at a university, explaining to the three men who can understand you about higher maths and the whirling of the planets and so forth. Not grubbing with little boys who’d rather be running through the mud.”
Hayden took another fortifying gulp of ale. “Universities hire men they know, who were usually students in that college themselves, not outsiders with no connections. I don’t mind teaching the lads, as long as they’re willing to learn. Besides, fellows at the highest colleges are notoriously penniless.”
Stone shrugged. “They give you a place to live. You can write papers for obscure journals and retain your dignity.”
Hayden relaxed into his chair, his fit of pique assuaged by the decent ale and the chance to vent his spleen. “Dignity doesn’t make one rich. I don’t need much but wouldn’t mind something to put by for my old age.”
“You are always maddeningly cheerful,” Stone said with a hint of a grin. “Leave it with me. I met a duchess today who has a small boy. He might need your skills. Although—” Stone pointed a stern finger at Hayden. “Confine your attentions to teaching. The duchess is not for you.”
“Oh, aye?” Hayden raised his brows, his attention caught. “She’s for you, is she? You intend to carry out the wager?”
Stone nodded and looked wise, but Hayden could pry no more information from him.
Interesting, Hayden mused to himself and succumbed to the comfortable chair to enjoy the rest of his ale.
It was ridiculous to fuss about one’s garments when one was simply going to greet Mr. Stone and then leave him to wander the gallery alone to make his notes.
Caro had changed her mind about avoiding him altogether, convincing herself it would be rude not to at least say good morning. After all, Mr. Stone was doing them a great favor, charging nothing to root around in the house’s vast and dusty gallery.
Caro surveyed the frocks she’d laid out on her bed. They were sadly few in number, every one of them out of fashion and many times mended. She hadn’t minded before this, because she went out so seldom these days and paid little attention to her appearance beyond being tidy.
Handsome Mr. Stone with his charming smile was the sort of man who’d effortlessly attract women to him like butterflies to a flower. And like butterflies, those ladies would be elegantly beautiful in stunning gowns and dripping with jewels.
Their hair likely stayed in place as well, Caro thought impatiently as she pushed back yet another strand. Sleek topknots, perfect ringlets.
Ah, well. Unless one had a devoted hairdresser, one had to make do.
Caro was becoming thoroughly tired of making do.
Why hadn’t she worried about the cut of her gown and state of her hair when Leopold had been alive?
Answer, because she’d been happy. There had been contentment in knowing that another person accepted her as she was.
Mr. Stone had already engendered completely different feelings inside her, and such emotions could not be good.
Caro sighed and lifted the best gown of the lot. It had long sleeves and a matronly cut, but it was a pretty shade of dark green with lighter green flowers embroidered on the hem. Several of the embroidery’s colorful threads had worked loose, but a few snips with her small scissors took them off. She rubbed the rest of the threads to hide the gaps in the pattern.
The gown went over her shift and small stays. The ensemble wasn’t too dowdy, Caro decided, as a chance beam of sunlight caught the sheen of the broadcloth.
She donned her worn leather shoes, tucked in strands of hair once more, and sailed forth.
