Page 15 of Undoubtedly Reckless (Rebel by Night #2)
Mind the Teacher
Sabina could see the gentlemen digging the ditch from where she stood at the edge of the garden. The manor was built into a rolling hill, perhaps to give the inhabitants a view of invaders and ensure the boiling pitch rolled downhill.
She was being fanciful, but the twins had insisted she take the morning for herself and disappeared. She would be more alarmed if Sage had not promised to keep an eye on the girls. Of all the students she ever had, Sage was the most responsible and sensible.
Sabina would even turn a blind eye to the one incident with the hill. All ladies should roll down hills at least once in their lives, and she did not know when they would get the chance again.
For the first morning in possibly years, Sabina had ended up with unencumbered time in the morning. She finished her drinking chocolate, a delight she had not expected, and found herself wandering the garden, haphazardly readied for winter.
It was a shame that it was winter, for she would have dearly loved to have seen the garden in full bloom. She could make out the shape of it, knew that someone had poured their love into it. She could see traces of more delicate blooms that would not return, could see what the original architect had intended.
The garden was meant for children, from the well-worn swing to the apple tree that seemed to have been planted specifically to be climbed. Sabina could see children there, a family. A person could be quite happy, living in this home.
“Have you something warmer?”
Aria asked. Sabina turned and saw Lady Ariadne Darewood holding a laundry basket. “I saw you from the kitchen yard. Are you not cold?”
“Thank you. My shawl is sufficient. May I help with the laundry? I have been known to be useful in my time,”
Sabina said in bemusement. She did not question why a member of the Ton would be holding a laundry basket. The Darewoods were known to have been on the edge of poverty before marrying into the Lindquist family. “I thought you were taking a basket to our erstwhile ditch-diggers.”
“I am perfectly capable of hanging my own laundry,”
Aria said dryly, leading Sabina to the kitchen. “Would you take the basket to the lads? Pinkie!”
Aria called, not waiting for Sabina’s answer. “Sabina will deliver to the ditch diggers.”
Sabina blinked at the array of old but terrifying men who were performing various tasks about the kitchen. Had she not known better, she would think they were all highwaymen, smugglers, or pickpockets. However, at the moment, all the dangerous men were industriously peeling root vegetables, switching bread pans from the oven, and dressing poultry.
At that moment, Lenoir and Isolde Villiers came in from the kitchen yard. From their dress and the paddles in their hands, they had been occupied with beating carpets. Sabina jerked and realized she was a terrible governess. This was not a holiday for herself. These young women were her charges and here they were, performing common tasks.
“My heavens, what have you been doing?”
Sabina asked.
“Oh, pish, Mrs. Kembrooke.”
Lenoir grinned, her cheeks rosy. “We were beating rugs and it’s been enormous fun.”
“Speak for yourself,”
Isolde scoffed, stealing an apple scone with a cheeky wink at the baker, who was missing the tips of two fingers. “I am so weak I could only beat the damned thing half as well as Lenoir. Mark my words, before we return to London, I will be the best carpet-beater in Romney Marsh. Sage! We need more rugs!”
Sage had followed the girls in, a kerchief holding back her carrot curls. She set her fists on her hips and raised an eyebrow.
“There are curtains to be beaten, which look like they have not been beaten in years,”
Sage said, “but first we need to bring the rugs back inside. It would be shoddy if we left the task half-done. Unless you care to test your hand at the scullery?”
“Ah, no. Housemaid suits me fine.”
Isolde shared her scone with her twin.
“Neither of you should be doing housework,”
Sabina started.
“Neither of us should be doing anything but sitting in a drawing room, bored to tears,”
Lenoir scoffed. “Verdon is in London and we are here. I want to do things, Sabina. Don’t you ever wish to be free and do as you wish?”
Sabina stared at the girls, at a loss for words. Her job was on the line but she knew better than the girls did, of how it felt to be chained.
Oh crumbs.
“You can never tell his lordship,”
Sabina said finally.
The girls hooted with joy and ran out the kitchen door, showing a lack of decorum they never had in the country.
Sabina looked at Aria helplessly.
“What could it hurt?”
Aria assured Sabina, setting a basket on the table. “Let them run free. We won’t let the duke know. Look how happy they are here. Honestly, we appreciate the help. This is Roland’s first year as Viscount Schofield and we intend to make a good first impression. The baskets alone are a monumental task.”
“Of course, we are happy to help. At least, I am happy to help. For the ladies, ‘tisn’t appropriate.”
Sabina took the sausage rolls Pinkie had prepared and wrapped in brown paper. She helped Aria pack the basket with apples, fruit tarts, and lemonade.
“It’s a holiday for all of us,”
Aria said. “I had plans for parlor games and shopping trips but the state of the place takes precedence. I should have let you all return to London when we saw the dust. Bless the Villiers for insisting on staying. They can have their adventure now and before Christmas, they will return to their lives.”
“But will they be content with their lives?”
Sabina asked. “Or will they wish to return to Romney Marsh? Sometimes it is better to not know the taste of freedom, for then we will always know the lack.”
Aria looked at Sabina for a long time, making Sabina intensely uncomfortable, though she would never show it. Finally, Aria straightened, as if coming to a decision.
“Roland likes gherkins in everything. It is a bizarre and disgusting thing, but he is a man, so it is to be expected. And the sharpest, smelliest cheese you can find. Should you put a slice of cheddar on his apple tart, he will give you the moon,”
Aria said.
Sabina stared at Aria a long time, knowing what the girl was offering her, and smiled sadly.
“I’m not fishing, Aria,”
Sabina said.
“No, you don’t need to,”
Aria said. “Not when they’re throwing themselves at your feet.”
“Nevertheless, noted, with thanks. It’s interesting, Roland said they never lacked cheese and apples on Ariadne, so he is surprised he does not hate it,”
Sabina remarked. Aria looked up sharply.
“On what?”
Aria asked, very still. “What did you say?”
“Ariadne. His ship,”
Sabina clarified. She then saw the expression on the younger woman’s face. “Surely you knew he named his ship after you?”
Aria shook her head slowly.
“Your brother named his ship after you, lass?”
said the grizzled man straining chicken stock. “Tis no higher honor a sailor can give. A ship is a seaman’s home.”
A most awkward silence reigned in the kitchen as Sabina finished the basket. Sabina felt Aria’s eyes on her and refused to meet her gaze.
“How did you know the name of Roland’s ship?”
Aria asked Sabina.
“He mentioned it the other evening,”
Sabina said, not looking at the younger woman. She knew Aria didn’t believe her and was grateful when the basket was finished.
Aria shrugged out of her red quilted jacket.
“That shawl is useless,”
Aria said, holding out her jacket.
“I quite like this shawl,”
Sabina loyally defended her brown shawl, which has been with her longer than any of her clothes. “It belonged to my aunt.”
“Here, take my jacket and give me your shawl. I’ll only be airing out the library then stealing scones, whereas you’ll be walking far,”
Aria insisted. Sabina rolled her eyes but acquiesced, eager to be on her way. Then she laughed when Aria deftly stole some hairpins from her coiffure.
****
“Oh, thank God, vittles,”
Ransom said, throwing aside his shovel. Roland set the last of the rocks to stanchion the ditch and surveyed their work.
“Delivered by the comeliest lass in the county,”
Tristan observed. Roland finally looked up, expecting to see their sister. Instead, he saw Sabina in his mother’s quilted red jacket and his mind stuttered.
This woman with dark sable hair and laughing hazel eyes was walking toward him wearing his mother’s jacket. He felt something deep in his chest unfurl and warm him. This was right. This woman was right. She belonged here, with him. She would care for this place as she cared for anything in her possession.
“I come bearing sustenance.”
Sabina smiled, then seemed alarmed when large men converged on her basket. She hastily handed it over to Tristan and stepped back.
“Manners, pups!”
Roland barked and Tristan nearly dropped the basket. “What do you say when you distress a lady?”
“Are there currants on the seedcake?”
Tristan asked Sabina. “I loathe currants.”
“Tristan,”
Roland growled and Ransom kneed Tristan gently in the thigh.
“Apologies, Mrs. Kembrooke,”
Tristan apologized, rushing his words as if to hurry to his luncheon. “Sometimes my stomach trumps my manners.”
“That was an excuse, not an apology,”
Ransom said mildly.
“I accept your apology, Lord Tristan,”
Sabina said swiftly, perhaps to avert bloodshed.
Tristan had managed to untidily and thoroughly unpack the whole basket in record time. With unexpected grace, the lads set a somewhat clean sheet down on the back of the wagon for her to be seated, and Tristan politely served Sabina a portion of sliced chicken and cheese on bread.
Roland had checked to make sure she was taken care of before putting away the tools that had been abandoned at the thought of food. Sabina moved as if to serve him but he urged her to stay as she was and joined her shortly with his own portion. He only had to wrestle a little to procure the food, which had been claimed by the two younger men.
“No spectacles today?”
Roland teased, biting into his chicken. For chicken roasted the night before by sailors, he was always amazed at the tenderness.
“We’re in the country. No one is looking for me in Kent,”
Sabina said mildly. “I don’t care if your cook was a pirate. This chicken is worthy of a ducal house.”
“Ah yes, the rosemary lemon chicken. It was one of the first things I ever tasted from his kitchen. Pirate or no, he has a place in my household for life,”
Roland said.
“Do not depend on that, brother. Pinkie will leave with Aria when she marries, mark my words,”
Tristan said, shoving a truly astounding amount of seed cake into his mouth.
“And he was a smuggler, not a pirate,”
Ransom corrected around a mouthful of bread and cheese.
“Do say that louder for the local magistrate to hear you,”
Roland admonished.
“You’re the local magistrate,”
Tristan pointed out. Roland blinked. He had completely forgotten. “It’s in the paperwork.”
“You left a desk stuffed with papers in no discernible order,”
Roland said.
“I knew where everything was. I didn’t expect to hand over the estate to my dead brother,”
Tristan explained, then reached for more food. He handed a slice of apple pie to Ransom with a grimace.
“Oh come off it,”
Ransom said in exasperation, but took the pie.
“Cooked apples are a sin against humanity,”
Tristan said adamantly. “I couldn’t eat a cooked apple if the Ottoman emperor held a knife to my throat.”
“The Ottoman Empire has a sultan,”
Sabina corrected gently.
Tristan waved her off with a playful swish of his hand.
“My point,”—Tristan paused for emphasis— “is that apples were meant to be eaten fresh. The crunch, the sweetness, it is incomparable and certainly the poorer after having been heated to death.”
Roland threw a fresh apple at Tristan, who caught it and bit with relish.
“My brother agrees with me,”
Tristan said. Roland held up the apple pie he was eating with cheddar on it, causing Tristan to make very gentlemanly gagging noises.
Sabina observed this interaction with interest, probably wondering if they were fit to dine with the Villiers twins.
A rickety cart came rolling towards them. The driver was stout man who handled the reins with determination, if less-than-notable skill. Mr. Noyes was the land agent and worked closely with the Schofield man of business.
Roland was not proud to admit that he had been avoiding Mr. Noyes. He had never expected to be a large landowner and the intricacies were frankly overwhelming.
“That one will be wanting to speak with you about canals,”
Tristan said idly to Roland.
“Canals? Are you certain?”
Roland asked.
“Canals. Schools. Mr. Thompson’s gout,”
Tristan waved a hand. “It could be any of those issues. I stopped paying attention when you took the title.”
“You couldn’t have aided me these past months with a smooth transition into our ancestral land holdings?”
Roland asked acidly.
“They were never our ancestral land holdings. The Darewood lands are over yonder, be it ever so humble. This is Schofield land, newly-inherited, and now your cross to bear.”
“It was under your stewardship for years. You have a responsibility.”
“Why does no one take my sensibilities into account?”
Tristan said, seemingly hurt. “I was expected to be Viscount Schofield, Baron Darewood, for years. And I did prepare. I was committed. I had the man of business summarize for me every quarter. Then you come back from the dead and wrench it all from my hands. So no, brother, I was not in a position to aid your transition. A person in mourning is not expected to help anyone.”
“Oh come off it,”
Ransom said tiredly. “You have been freed to seek your own destiny. You are in a position to be envied. Don’t be an ass.”
Sabina kept her eyes on the ditch, but she was listening. She was likely wondering how to politely extricate herself from the situation. He was not ready to be parted from her.
“Mrs. Kembrooke, would you care to see more of the estate? There is one place that would be of particular interest to you,”
Roland said. She turned to him, at his blandly polite face.
“A place here of interest to me?”
Sabina smiled. “I should be on my way back to the manor. I believe there are decorations to be created.”
“And I am the master of this manor,”
Roland replied. “It is my wish that your time be spent as you wish it.”
“Oh, indeed, lord of the manor,”
she said, not a little mockingly.
“Yes, indeed. If I am to have this title, I shall flaunt it.”
“Shamelessly,”
Sabina agreed.
“Is there a different manner?”
“None so obnoxious, I’m sure,”
Sabina said.
“If you are both done,”
Tristan interrupted in agonized tones. Roland saw Ransom give Tristan a kick to the calves. “Shall we be on our way to the school? Or the mill? Or perdition? Let us chaperone you on this delightful jaunt. Because there is nothing I would rather do after digging a godforsaken ditch in December.”
“We could go to church,”
Ransom said blandly.
“Never say,”
Tristan scoffed.
Roland grinned and hailed Mr. Noyes.
“Ho there, Mr. Noyes. Let me hand Mrs. Kembrooke up and off we will be. The school, yes?”
****
Sabina understood his game. Roland showed Sabina the school because he knew she would want to see it. He was right. She was immediately enchanted by the promise of it. She saw Roland pretend to listen to Mr. Noyes but his eyes were on her. Then she was distracted by the problems.
“These windows are drafty,”
she said, half to herself. “Why is the roof leaking?”
“If’n it pleases you, ma’am,”
Mr. Noyes said, “there was a storm a month past and it did some damage. Yet even so, methinks the benches could be replaced.”
“These benches are perhaps good for kindling,”
Sabina noted. “No child could sit on these comfortably, they were meant for adults. Are those the slates?”
She was looking at a stack of broken writing slates.
“Yes, they were donated by a charity group in Dover,”
Mr. Noyes said.
“Surely we can afford writing slates,”
Roland said. She could see he was embarrassed. He had not realized the state of the place.
“Do you authorize funds for new writing slates, my lord?”
Mr. Noyes asked. Sabina turned to him but he did not need her encouragement.
“Naturally. Sabina, what do you see amiss?”
Roland said.
“We need benches and tables suitable for children toward the front, and larger sets toward the back for the older children,”
Sabina indicated with her hands. “The roof and windows need to be patched. It would be helpful to get hooks and cubbies along the wall for the student’s bags and cloaks. How is the school heated? I do not see a furnace.”
“The children don’t come to school when it’s cold,”
Mr. Noyes said and then stepped back at Sabina’s affronted stare.
“We will of course install a wood heater,”
Roland said. “Mr. Noyes, please survey the damage to the outside of the facility and send me a report. I shall authorize funding for all repairs and improvements to the school.”
Mr. Noyes excused himself to do that and Ransom ushered Tristan out with a glance back at Sabina and Roland. Sabina looked up from the pitiable collection of school primers and stared at Roland, attempting to temper her exasperation.
“The state of this place, Roland, really,”
Sabina said.
“I’ve had the title only a few months, Sabina, I didn’t even know these estates had a school. Rest assured, I shall implement all your suggestions,”
Roland assured her, moving closer.
She held her tongue. Heaven knows she had practice. There was so much that could and should be done with the school but now, her thoughts were crowded with the thought of lips and tongues and the breath she could see him letting out into the chill air.
It was not long ago when it had been her own breath fogging the air as he had his beautiful hands on her. Sabina had thought of that incident incessantly, especially being under his roof.
Where was her mind? He was a lord and she was a governess. But she wanted him. Quite dearly and recklessly.
“Go sit in the corner and think about what you did wrong,”
Sabina mocked sternly.
Roland laughed softly and she was an idiot cow, trying to memorize the crinkles outside of his eyes. She felt warmed to her core despite the weather, so proud to have made him laugh.
“I don’t think that will temper my cheekiness, mistress. Tell me, how do you handle your more recalcitrant students?”
Roland moved closer.
If she twitched a finger, she could stroke his coat. A step would bring her body flush up against his. He would be warm, so warm and safe, always safe for her.
Sabina looked up to meet his eyes. Heavens, but this man awoke alien notions inside of her—wicked, wayward impulses that could lead nowhere good.
In that brief instant their eyes touched, she could see them, bodies entwined, breathing in each other’s air. This time she wanted to be naked, wanton that she was.
The quick fumble on a roof in Cheapside had done nothing more than awaken her hunger. There was more, of that Sabina had no doubt. She could see him bringing her to completion again, perhaps better than she could herself. And she wanted that. She wanted him, and the oblivion he could give her, to be wanted for herself.
Madness.
“Mrs. Kembrooke, may I show you the town tavern?”
Roland asked, loud enough for the boys to hear.
Sabina broke out of her trance to the sound of Ransom and Tristan cheering at the notion of food, much like the lads they still were.
“Oh yes, and you must see St. George. It’s the Cathedral of Romney Marsh, you see, quite famous. Built in the 13th century,”
Mr. Noyes said cheerfully.
The lads cheered with much less enthusiasm. Still, Sabina was grateful for the distraction. Roland grasped her fingers briefly, and escorted her to the carriage.
Madness. Thank goodness one of them was sane.