Page 21 of Better Than a Duke
That sounded like Papa, too. Beside her, Edward was poking a finger at the pig bladder holding a quantity of red paint. “If you break that,” Rebecca warned him, “you’ll get red on everything.”
“I won’t break it. It just feels odd. Poke it. But be gentle.”
Reaching over, she poked it with the tip of one finger. It felt soft and solid all at the same time. “It feels like a thing just waiting to cause trouble,” she commented, giggling.
“Definitely,” he returned. “I can’t believe they allow children to purchase these.”
“They generally don’t,” Mrs. Brubbins said, holding out her hand for the blob of paint. “You’re being trusted not to cause a mess. In exchange for a bit of caution, you have permission to paint twelve wooden birds. A fair trade, don’t you think?”
Eddie handed her the bladder, a bit smaller than a chicken egg. “Yes, it’s fair, Mrs. Brubbins. We’ll be careful.”
Rebecca nodded her own agreement. “But do we have to stop painting when that lady comes for luncheon? I think we should be able to finish the birds before the paint dries.”
“His lordship wants you to meet Lady Pauline,” Brubbie said, putting the red paint gingerly back into the box with the other six colors they’d chosen.
“But why does he need to get married? He’s been a widower since I was born, less one hour. I like us this way.”
“My mother says people always want widows and widowers to get married because they make everyone else feel awkward.”
“I don’t feel awkward,” Rebecca countered. “Will you have luncheon with us? Papa said I could invite you.”
“I am not going to a luncheon where everyone’s talking about getting married and kissing and flowers.” Eddie made a face. “No, thank you.”
“That’s disappointing. I don’t want to go, either.”
“Well, you have to go. I’ll keep painting.”
“No! We’re painting together. If you won’t have luncheon with me, you have to go home.”
For a minute she thought Eddie would argue more with her, but he shrugged. “I’ll go home, then, if I can come back after your luncheon so we can finish painting.”
“I agree to that. Go out to your garden, and I’ll give you a signal when we’re finished.”
Mrs. Brubbins sighed. “Or you could send over a note, as is proper.”
“We’re fighting against time here, Brubbie. We can’t waste minutes writing notes.”
“Very well. Do as you will—on this one occasion. But you are not to spend the luncheon thinking about painting birds. You’re meeting someone who could become a very significant part of your life.” The governess tapped her on the knee with her forefinger. “Pay attention and be polite. What you want and what your fatherneedsmay well be two different things.”
She couldn’t imagine why her father needed someone else tromping about the house when he already complained that by herself she made more noise than an elephant, but adults were frequently odd. Her father less so than most, but even he was old, one-and-thirty now. If he needed someone to help take care of him and Hentrose Park, Rebecca supposed she could understand that. As long as Lady Pauline Grenedy didn’t try to keep her from getting a pony.
Once they returned to the schoolroom they set about mixing dabs of paint with each other, making some glorious oranges and greens and purples, and even if most of those weren’t strictly the colors of the English birds the wood-carver had made, the colors were too pretty to go to the trouble of making and thennot using. Eddie’s birds looked more real, but hers were more lovely.
A knock sounded on the open schoolroom door. “Lady Becks,” Bradley said, “your father has requested you go upstairs and dress for luncheon. It’s half twelve, nearly.”
“Oh, goodness.” Mrs. Brubbins stood up. “Let’s go, Lady Becks. Master Edmund, Bradley will see you home.”
“It’s just next…” Eddie shook his head. “Never mind. I know you won’t listen. I’ll see you after, Becks. Don’t forget to signal me.”
“I won’t.”
Upstairs Brubbie thought she should wear her green muslin with the little birds embroidered on the skirt, but Rebecca wanted to wear her pink muslin with the yellow daisies along the sleeves and hem. Because there wasn’t time for a good argument she won, but it felt a little like cheating.
“I’ll wear the green one tomorrow,” she said, turning so Brubbie could tie the bow at the back of the gown. “But pink is my prettiest color, don’t you think?”
“Pink is your favorite color. And you would look pretty and proper in either gown. Thank you for listening to my advice, even if you chose not to follow it.”
Rebecca groaned. “You don’t have to make everything into a lesson, Brubbie.”
