said.
He looked about the room. "Society won't like it,"
he said. "Society's sympathies lie with your late husband's
family."
"Oh," she said. She felt so weary, suddenly.
She felt like Sisyphus, pushing the great stone up the hill, only to
have it roll back down again. The stone was her past, and it rolled
over the sprout of hope and crushed it. She'd felt the same way the
other day in front of the print shop when she'd realized that her
name was closing another door against her.
"These ancient grudges and prejudices are so
tiresome," he said. "If Peregrine's parents find out you
are teaching him, they will fly into fits. Emotional extravagance is
their nature, you see. They cannot help it. Perhaps this is why they
are at a complete loss what to do about him. Their solution is to
leave him to me while they retire to their lair in Scotland. But if
my in-laws leave him to me, they must live with my decisions."
His gaze came to her then, and he smiled a very little. "All I
need do is make up my mind. Do you know, you look at this moment as
your daughter did when she became annoyed with Peregrine? Perhaps you
wish to strike me with a sketchbook?"
"Would that help you make up your mind?" she
said.
The smile became more pronounced, and she wished he had
kept it hidden away, because the actual thing, rather than the hint
of it, made her heart go much too fast and her brain much too slow.
"I have decided that the boy needs you," he
said. "I have decided that he is more important than old grudges
and scandals."
HE'D COME TO his senses, Benedict believed.
He'd been aware of her entering the print seller's
before he acknowledged it. He'd heard the light step, sensed her
presence. He'd taken his time turning to her, steeling himself first.
Then he'd looked, and the spell was broken, he thought.
She was not the most beautiful creature in all the
world, as he'd believed. She did not appear too young to have a
daughter near Peregrine's age. The face Benedict had found so
unforgettable was careworn, the eyes not so brilliant as he
remembered.
Consequently, he could be certain that he was choosing
strictly as his conscience commanded, unaffected by the Great World's
opinion or the scenes he'd endure should Atherton learn of it. One
must choose what was best for Peregrine.
The instant Benedict said the words, he knew he'd made
the right choice.
What he did not expect was to see the rightness
reflected in her countenance. First her eyes lit, then her expression
softened, then the taut line of her mouth dissolved into a luscious
curve of a smile. The careworn expression fled, taking all signs of
age with it. The blue of her eyes was brilliant, almost blinding, and
she seemed all alight somehow.
If he'd been a fanciful man, he might have imagined he'd
uttered a magical incantation to effect such a transformation.
But he never allowed himself to be fanciful.
"You truly are perfect," she said wonderingly.
Perfect. So everyone said of him. How low their
standards of perfection were!
"Yes, it is a great bore," he said. "I
ought to say, 'Nobody is perfect,' but that is even more boring. My
comfort is, if word of this gets about, people will stop saying I am
perfect. How exciting. At last I shall have a fault."
"I had no idea it was so difficult to acquire one,"
she said. "Luckily, you came to the right place. As you may have
heard, my branch of the DeLucey family possesses them in abundance."
"If I need another one, I shall know where to
come," he said.
"I recommend you grow accustomed to the one first,"
she said. "At present, it is a secret fault. Some people
consider these the best kind."
"One fault, one secret," said Benedict. "I
feel quite dissipated."
"I'm honored to help," she said. "But to
return to business: Shall Lord Lisle come here for his lessons? I
know it is out of the way, but that may be an advantage. He is less
likely to cross paths with anyone who knows him."
"That advantage occurred to me," said
Benedict. "It
He looked about the room. "Society won't like it,"
he said. "Society's sympathies lie with your late husband's
family."
"Oh," she said. She felt so weary, suddenly.
She felt like Sisyphus, pushing the great stone up the hill, only to
have it roll back down again. The stone was her past, and it rolled
over the sprout of hope and crushed it. She'd felt the same way the
other day in front of the print shop when she'd realized that her
name was closing another door against her.
"These ancient grudges and prejudices are so
tiresome," he said. "If Peregrine's parents find out you
are teaching him, they will fly into fits. Emotional extravagance is
their nature, you see. They cannot help it. Perhaps this is why they
are at a complete loss what to do about him. Their solution is to
leave him to me while they retire to their lair in Scotland. But if
my in-laws leave him to me, they must live with my decisions."
His gaze came to her then, and he smiled a very little. "All I
need do is make up my mind. Do you know, you look at this moment as
your daughter did when she became annoyed with Peregrine? Perhaps you
wish to strike me with a sketchbook?"
"Would that help you make up your mind?" she
said.
The smile became more pronounced, and she wished he had
kept it hidden away, because the actual thing, rather than the hint
of it, made her heart go much too fast and her brain much too slow.
"I have decided that the boy needs you," he
said. "I have decided that he is more important than old grudges
and scandals."
HE'D COME TO his senses, Benedict believed.
He'd been aware of her entering the print seller's
before he acknowledged it. He'd heard the light step, sensed her
presence. He'd taken his time turning to her, steeling himself first.
Then he'd looked, and the spell was broken, he thought.
She was not the most beautiful creature in all the
world, as he'd believed. She did not appear too young to have a
daughter near Peregrine's age. The face Benedict had found so
unforgettable was careworn, the eyes not so brilliant as he
remembered.
Consequently, he could be certain that he was choosing
strictly as his conscience commanded, unaffected by the Great World's
opinion or the scenes he'd endure should Atherton learn of it. One
must choose what was best for Peregrine.
The instant Benedict said the words, he knew he'd made
the right choice.
What he did not expect was to see the rightness
reflected in her countenance. First her eyes lit, then her expression
softened, then the taut line of her mouth dissolved into a luscious
curve of a smile. The careworn expression fled, taking all signs of
age with it. The blue of her eyes was brilliant, almost blinding, and
she seemed all alight somehow.
If he'd been a fanciful man, he might have imagined he'd
uttered a magical incantation to effect such a transformation.
But he never allowed himself to be fanciful.
"You truly are perfect," she said wonderingly.
Perfect. So everyone said of him. How low their
standards of perfection were!
"Yes, it is a great bore," he said. "I
ought to say, 'Nobody is perfect,' but that is even more boring. My
comfort is, if word of this gets about, people will stop saying I am
perfect. How exciting. At last I shall have a fault."
"I had no idea it was so difficult to acquire one,"
she said. "Luckily, you came to the right place. As you may have
heard, my branch of the DeLucey family possesses them in abundance."
"If I need another one, I shall know where to
come," he said.
"I recommend you grow accustomed to the one first,"
she said. "At present, it is a secret fault. Some people
consider these the best kind."
"One fault, one secret," said Benedict. "I
feel quite dissipated."
"I'm honored to help," she said. "But to
return to business: Shall Lord Lisle come here for his lessons? I
know it is out of the way, but that may be an advantage. He is less
likely to cross paths with anyone who knows him."
"That advantage occurred to me," said
Benedict. "It
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