gripped the racket, determined to hit the ball over the net this time. He controlled his swing, barely tapping the racket against the ball and sent it dribbling into the net.
“That’s better,” she said, no hint of laughter in her voice. “Let’s try another.”
She continued sending balls his way. He missed as many as he managed to hit, but she continued encouraging him with every one.
Then he began to catch on and managed to send more balls back to her. Gradually he gained confidence because Miss Shepard was so patient and encouraging. He enjoyed watching her vitality as she ran across the court, so unlike the passive stance of the other women he’d glimpsed on the court at other times in the day. Perhaps it was because she was still a girl. She had not yet assumed the airs of a young lady just come out. Even the perspiration making her face shine appealed to him.
In some ways she reminded him of the girls of his boyhood. In their ragged frocks and bare feet, there was no room for stiffness and formality. They ran and skipped about, unfettered by social constraints or petticoats and high-buttoned shoes.
She continued sending balls his way a while longer. He was beginning to think it a tame sport when a ball went flying over the net so fast it made a whooshing sound as it cut through the air. He had to sprint to connect with it. He just made it and sent it back over.
She laughed as she went running for it. “This is the way I prefer to play!” Again, it came hard at him, and he had to jump to the side to reach it. He missed it.
“I see.” He retrieved the ball and returned to his place. He swung hard at it and again, the ball went too high.
“I’m over here, you know!” Laugher bubbled in her voice.
He winced in embarrassment at his overconfidence. Before he could run after the ball, she had gone for it. This time she resumed her gentler game. “I think we need to practice a bit more before you’re up to my speed.” The words were said to him in a friendly manner but he took them as a challenge, vowing to find a way to master this game.
Beads of sweat rolled down his temples as the sun grew warmer in the sky. At that moment, she picked up the ball and strolled to his side of the court. “You really need proper tennis garments. You must be sweltering in your suit. Why don’t you take off your coat?”
He mopped his brow, thinking how unpolished he must look compared to the suave young men she’d played with yesterday. Instead of removing his coat, he snapped open his watch. “I really must go. I need to get to work.”
She nodded, though her down-tilted face and puckered lips expressed disappointment. Then she brightened. “Have you breakfasted?”
He shook his head.
“I haven’t either. Come, you must be as hungry and thirsty as I am.” Before he could refuse, she was walking off the court. “Leave the racket here. I’m sure someone will be out to play later. Hurry, I’m famished!” She waited for him to catch up to her and the two walked back to the house.
Her next words surprised him. “Are you from London?”
He wasn’t used to anyone taking a personal interest in him. “No. I grew up in Birmingham.”
She tilted her head. “That’s funny. You haven’t any accent that I can tell.”
“That’s because my mother was—” He bit his tongue, he’d almost said “a lady.” He hesitated. “From Kent.”
She smiled. “Not far from here?”
“A bit. She was born in Whitstable.”
“Ah, by the sea.”
He found her blue eyes fixed on him as if waiting for more information. “She was a governess before she married my father.” He looked away. “He was a miner.”
“Oh.” The single note was filled with wonder. “However did they meet?”
“She was working with a family up there and had left them.” Refusing the master’s advances, he added mentally. “She had begun a small school for the miner’s children.”
“And she met your father!” Her eyes gleamed in excitement. “Oh! Love at first sight, I bet it was.”
He looked straight ahead of him, amused and irritated at the same time by her romantic schoolgirl notions. “He died when a mine shaft collapsed, leaving my mother to raise four sons. He was a widower, when they met. His two boys were at the school. Then my brother and I came along.”
“How sad,” she said softly. “My mother died giving birth to me.”
He looked sharply at her. Her tone was almost casual. “I’m sorry,” he said finally, feeling the inadequacy of the words.
“Oh, it’s all right. It happened so long ago. Tell me what happened after your father died.”
He took up the thread of his own history, his mind still on her motherless condition. “My mother moved us into town, where she found work in a mill.”
Miss Shepard was silent for only a moment. No doubt she’d lost interest by now. “And when did you come to London?”
He smiled at her persistence. No one from her station had ever asked him about his origins. “When I was fifteen, my mother gave me five pounds she had saved and bought me a rail ticket to London. I found work at a bank. I was good with numbers, you see. Numbers and letters. She’d made sure we all received learning.”
“And now you’ve become my father’s private secretary?”
He nodded.
“That’s good. Poor old Simpson is becoming forgetful, I’ve heard. He’s been with Father forever!”
They reached the house and he held the door open for her then followed her into the breakfast room. He still hadn’t gotten accustomed to the fact that there were separate rooms for breakfasting and dining—and that most in the household took their breakfast in bed.
He stopped short at the threshold of the breakfast room at the sight of his employer. Mr. Shepard was seated squarely behind The Times and Nick debated a few seconds what to do. Retreat? Go forward as if accompanying the man’s daughter were the most natural thing in the world?
Before he could decide, Miss Shepard breezed in ahead of him. “Good morning, Father. You’ve beaten us down to breakfast.” She leaned over and kissed him on the cheek.
“What are you doing about so early?” He glanced over his paper, then lowered it further when he caught sight of Nick. Nick greeted him, hesitating at the doorway. The man gave a mere nod in acknowledgment and turned his attention back to his young daughter.
“I was just practicing tennis. Look whom I found.” She turned to Nick. “He hasn’t breakfasted either, so I brought him along. What will you have, Mr. Tennent?” Before her father could say anything, she moved to the sideboard and began lifting lids. “There’s scrambled eggs, kedgeree, bacon…”
Mr. Shepard grunted and turned back to his paper.
Nick
