Mr Willis had them digging troughs in the dirt with their shovels. Next he showed them how to plant the seeds, starting with one row of peas, alternating with one row of radishes.
Soon they were happily placing the seeds in the trough and carefully covering them with soil. Anna was pleased that Cal participated in the activity with enthusiasm. She gazed at him, so absorbed in his planting and looking for all the world like a normal boy.
He needed time, she was convinced. Would his father give him time or would he lock him away in an asylum? Who was she to know better what a boy needed than a trained physician?
But she did know.
Would Lord Brentmore see his son as she did? Would he trust her to bring the boy out of his bashfulness? She could do it, she knew. She’d done it for Charlotte.
Charlotte.
Sometimes she missed Charlotte so much it hurt. She missed talking to her, confiding in her, laughing with her. There was no one here at Brentmore to talk to. Sometimes at night she wanted to weep out of loneliness.
And yet worse than the loneliness was the worry that Lord Brentmore would discharge her for being so brazen as to tell him and a physician what they should do. What would she do if she lost this lonely job?
Suddenly a shadow fell over her and a man’s voice broke into her thoughts. ‘Why are my children digging in the dirt?’
Mr Willis snapped to attention and the children froze.
Anna turned and faced an enraged Lord Brentmore.
‘My lord.’ She made her voice calm, though her legs trembled. ‘We are engaged in a botany lesson. We are planting peas and radishes.’
The children dropped their seeds and scampered behind her skirts.
‘My children will not dig in dirt.’ His voice shook with an anger that mystified her. What was wrong with planting a garden?
‘Let me explain,’ she began in a mollifying tone. ‘We would not wish to frighten the children, would we?’
His eyes flashed.
She must take care. ‘This is a botany lesson. Your children are learning how plants grow. We’ve read about it in books and now we are going to see how seeds grow into food we can eat.’
He looked no less displeased.
Her own temper rose. ‘Your children are engaged in a useful occupation out of doors, in the fresh air, and are wearing old clothes which can be laundered. How is it you object to this, my lord?’
From behind her she heard Dory gasp. She felt Cal’s grip on her skirt.
Lord Brentmore’s eyes held hers for a long moment and she half-feared he was going to strike her.
Still, she refused to look away. It was imperative that the children not feel that enjoying themselves in useful activity was wrong.
His eyes still glittered, but he took a step back. ‘Carry on your lesson, then.’ He continued to hold her gaze. ‘Attend me when you are done, Miss Hill.’
Before she could reply, he turned on his heel and strode back into the house.
None of them moved until he was out of sight.
‘Why is Papa angry?’ Dory cried.
Anna crouched down and gave the little girl a hug. ‘Oh, I think we surprised him, didn’t we? He probably thought Mr Willis and I were making you and Cal work like field labourers!’ She said this as if it were the funniest joke in the world. ‘Come on, let us finish. Mr Willis has the rest of the gardens to tend to.’
Luckily they had almost completed the task. Only two lines required seeding. The joy that had been palpable a few minutes ago had fled, however. Their father had made it vanish.
Anna put her hand to her stomach, trying to calm herself. Here she wanted Lord Brentmore to be her ally in helping Cal, and now she had offended him for planting a garden.
Would she lose her position over a botany lesson, over finding an excuse to take the poor reclusive children out in the fine June air?
Chapter Four
As soon as Brent entered the house, Mrs Tippen was waiting for him. He’d already had an earful from her when he arrived just a few minutes before.
‘Do you see what I mean, sir?’ the housekeeper said. ‘She gives the children free rein over the house, the garden, everywhere! Allows them to get dirty—’
This he did not need. Tippen and her husband had come from Eunice’s father’s estate and had been Eunice’s abettors. He’d never liked either of them.
He leaned down, bringing them face to face. ‘Tend to the house, woman, and keep your nose out of what does not concern you!’
She gasped and backed away.
He pushed past her and made his way to the hall where her husband was in attendance. ‘Bring me some brandy!’ he ordered. ‘In the library.’
The library was about the only room in this house he could stomach. Eunice had possessed little desire to inhabit it, so the only ghost that lingered there was his grandfather’s.
A footman soon appeared at the door with a bottle of brandy and a glass. Brent did not recognise him, but then he’d come to the house so rarely, he did not know half the servants. Eunice had replaced all his grandfather’s old retainers.
Brent grabbed the bottle and glass from the man. ‘Bring me another,’ he ordered. ‘Make that two. While I am here I want a bottle of brandy in the cabinet at all times.’
‘Yes, m’lord,’ the man said.
Brent poured himself a glassful and downed it in one gulp. He poured another.
An hour passed and still Miss Hill had not shown herself. Was the chit defying him? She would regret it if she were.
Brent paced the room, still attempting to calm himself. The sight of his son crouched down on the tilled soil had set him off.
He closed his eyes as memories washed over him. Digging hole after hole after hole, his stomach rumbling with hunger, his bare feet cold from the damp earth. He could still smell the soil, potatoes and manure. He rubbed his arms, his muscles again aching from the work.
By God, his son had looked exactly like him.
He poured another glass of brandy.
Where the devil was Miss Hill? He needed to have this out with her.
One more hour and two more glasses of brandy later, Miss Hill knocked at the door. ‘My lord?’
He’d achieved a semblance of calm, but now his head swam from the drink.
She’d changed from the plain frock she’d worn in the garden to something
