Miss Baxter had little patience to spare after spending all afternoon positioning articles for the piecing together of, as Thornhaugh phrased it, "the ultimate attire." For hours he had dithered between this arrangement and that, mumbling inaudibly to himself as he mulled over every detail with intense scrutiny. It ought to have exhausted him; or if it had, he was disinclined to acknowledge any discomfort while pacing endlessly from one end of the crowded bed to the other, surveying his options beneath a sunken brow like a general on a map of coveted territory. She recalled hearing in all that time no more than two or three dry coughs, as if he and his merciless lungs had made a special bargain on this day to join forces for the defeating of a common enemy.

His gaping robe garnished a gaunt but striking figure. The silk banyan of vibrant green looked more like a cape in how it so elegantly swayed with his fluid stride that she could swear had increased in vigor since yesterday's wager. Far less elegant were the traces of deep scarring peeking out from beneath his open shirt collar, which, at her timid inquiry, was said to have been the work of redskins who made abundantly plain their disinterest in negotiations with the party of white travelers who had lost their way along the largely unexplored American frontier. Her question of how he had managed to survive such encounters was given an ambiguous reply of, "Oh that I had!" And settling this response in her mind as another one of his jests she said no more on the subject, choosing rather to continue her own quiet study while awaiting the next order.

Her mind drifted into an absurd reverie of romance as was generally the case when in his company for almost any length of time. Affliction proved hardly a detriment to his presence which so effortlessly filled the room, drawing the eye like a bloom to sunshine, leaving little space for musings that did not include him. His frequent state of half dress no longer embarrassed her as it once had, though she remained in full awareness of its indecorum, particularly when they were alone in such intimate quarters (a wide-open door notwithstanding). Despite her fondness for this appointment, the occasional misgiving could not be helped, so deeply instilled was her understanding of a governess's place in terms of servitude and proximity to the other sex. It was decidedly improper for him to be sharing this space with her at all, let alone without a neckcloth. The more he neglected that accessory, the better she appreciated its necessity from her view of the small tract of exposed chest hair, a sight from which she had trouble removing her eyes despite the unnervingly sharp protrusion of his collar bone. In the interest of his desire to present the perfect image, she could not but imagine what a handsome picture an extra thirty pounds would make, and how his health in its prime must have yielded a devastatingly attractive figure. Not that it would have posed any temptation to her, of course, any more than a second glance in her direction would have been spared.

And thusly wandered her thoughts in the long duration of this particular chore, which, despite the tedium of it, was treated with the seriousness required of her. He would motion with his club where she was to set one color or pattern against another, taking in her own opinions and suggestions with an acute ear and curt nod before gesturing for her to shift another garment, then another, till success was achieved at last.

With the chore now complete Miss Baxter lounged in the sitting room, enjoying a cup of tea at the fireplace while he lingered in the dressing room donning layer upon layer. Mr. Fleming's services had been, as usual, refused that morning but for a sparce bit of grooming; and at the valet's appearance in the doorway to offer his expert share in the prinking process she waved him off just as her charge would have, leaving the master's man looking again as if he had been most egregiously snubbed. She chuckled at this and rested her weary feet upon the ottoman, the ticking clock lulling her into a state of deep repose.

When Thornhaugh finally emerged in full dress she had just slipped into a catnap, only to be wrenched from a pleasant dream with the chanting of her name and impish rattling of her chair. Her eyes sprang open and went immediately to the clock, then to him, so smartly put together in a medley of maroon and black as to leave her short of breath. With but a quarter of an hour till commencement, all that remained were the sparkling sleeve buttons from which he had dwindled his selection down to two choices: blue glass or onyx.

"Blue," he said much to her approval (for how well it did contrast the deep red of his topcoat), and then raised a rawboned wrist for her to oblige him. On her hesitation he added a hushed "Please" to his request, snapping her out of her trancelike inspection of the frail limb offered to her. His calloused hand trembled slightly, as an old man with palsy, reminding her that his withering frame could not—and might never again—sustain the vigor he had displayed in the painstaking selection of a wardrobe she now knew was intended to be worn but once.

"I should like to be buried in this," he said while she worked, "or burned, whichever is deemed suitable."

"How am I to fulfill that wish, sir?" Her head remained bowed so as not to reveal the tears that her voice had already betrayed. "Are you not leaving us?"

He replied as if the second question went unheard. "Tell Darcy. He will see to it, whatever it may be."

"Yes, sir." She wiped her cheek.

"Close your eyes, Baxter," he whispered.

"Sir?"

"I want to try something, may I? Trust me."

A lifetime of principled cultivation demanded she refuse such a request and resist such a man, such a voice that was so commanding and yet so tender all at once. Remain at all times on your guard had been the master's (mostly) heeded warning from the night she accepted this unfitting post. But she had lately, admittedly, allowed her heart to overrule her wisdom and would do so again, seeing in him what the master could not, trusting that he meant no harm to her, that he took no real pleasure in harming anyone, and that every intent to harm had stemmed rather from pain than rage. As she had provoked neither, Miss Baxter thus permitted her instincts to be her guide, letting her eyelids fall, unflinching, stomach knotting in anticipation. At length she felt the feather-light touch of his fingertips at the back of her neck, and then something against her forehead—his lips, she realized—pressing gently. The sensation was as exhilarating as it was frightening, for a kiss had only ever meant to her a method of solace, nothing deeper than a means of calming a weeping child. She was not a child but a woman, a maiden, and this was…she knew not what, only that it sent her heart to fluttering violently. Was this a good feeling or bad feeling? Whatever the answer, it was not disagreeable. Her eyes remained shut as she savored this sorely fleeting moment, discerning in its aftermath his drawing back, stepping away, farther, and then a sigh of…frustration? disappointment? She hoped her inkling was mistaken, for there to be no meaning behind that slight but potent puff of breath, and then wished dearly to have waited another second or two before opening her eyes as the look in his stole away that hope. He turned from her, took up his black beaver (matched so well with the floral brocade of his waistcoat), and asked nonchalantly, "Topper or no topper?"

She felt the flutter ebb into a steadier heartbeat at this more comfortable return to his old self. Matching his tone she answered, "A hat so fine as that one ought to be seen, sir."

"True, and it does complete the ensemble. A shame it should go to waste, though. Have you a father or brother who might have use for it?"

"I have sadly no more family, sir, and am acquainted with no man for whom your hat would make a good fit. Know you any with a crown like yours?"

He laughed at this, so hard in fact that he was forced to draw out one of his new handkerchiefs, which, when the brief spell was over, was scrunched tightly upon examination. "Get me another, Baxter," he commanded roughly, motioning towards the dressing room. "We haven't much time."

"Yes, sir," and she rushed to fulfill the order, the tissues not easily found amid the other articles and general décor. So long she had taken that she was surprised he had not called after her, but then realized upon her return just why that was, for he had disappeared. "Sir?" she said, looking all about until the sound of hushed voices turned her head toward the doorway. She followed the sound out into the hall; and there Thornhaugh stood engaged in a tête-à-tête with David the footman, whom she knew to have been assigned to the much-desired drawing-room post that evening (how the low rung servants did love the promise of a good show).

She stepped unnoticed to where the surreptitious pair stood, cloth extended in offering, feigning disinterest but in fact trying desperately to catch something of what was being said. The artful referencing of a conference between tonight's guest and his lovely wife provided all the context she needed as David's looks and manners reeked of conspiracy, Thornhaugh's of mischief, thereby sparking the governess in her to take immediate action. "David!" she cried sharply, giving both men a start. "Are you not meant to be downstairs?"

Thornhaugh, defiant as ever, snatched the tissue from her extended hand and snapped, "Bugger off, Baxter," before turning back to the footman now looking most hesitant to resume their corrupt exchange.

Miss Baxter brushed right past her cheeky charge to sternly address his guilty cohort. "You will tell Mr. Bridges that you are feeling indisposed, and are thus unable to perform your duties this evening. No harm done; another footman will jump at the chance to take your place. It is a lucky thing indeed that you are so easily substituted, do you understand?"

"Y-Yes, Miss Baxter," David muttered nervously.

"You are exceedingly lucky if I do not report you, which I am heavily contemplating. Now leave us at once."

"Or stand your ground, David," Thornhaugh challenged with equal severity. "Are you to be browbeaten by this battle-axe? Who is she to you?"

"His superior," she said flatly, her punitive glare upon the footman unwavering, "and a very cross one. While you nurse your cold, young David, I suggest you leave behind the romantic appeal of the present and think hard on a more feasible future. Now go!"

David did just that, darting off like a scared rabbit. She watched him with a sad shake of her head. "Diabolical!"

"Better than hypocritical, I find."

"Sir?" She met Thornhaugh's infuriating smirk with the notion to slap it right off his pallid face.

He leaned in a bit to whisper archly, "I suggest you perform what you preach or alter your speech, Baxter. But that is your choice, of course."

Her eyes flashed and cheeks burned. "I've not a notion of what you mean, sir!" she shot back. "As for David, one can only hope his replacement has not been thusly groomed. I do pray he learns from my censure and thinks hard on the future with consideration as to which between the two of us has one to look forward to!"

His smile dropped and eyes flickered as a puffed-out flame, which leveled her ire enough to ask in a calmer voice, "Just how many minions have you amassed in your time here, sir?"

"Including you?"

She took this jarring reply with the mean spirit in which it was undoubtedly intended. Gone was the good humor of just minutes before, his eyes now black and hard as coal, his colorless face moistened with the sheen of sickness. He stared her down, stiff-shouldered, two-handed grip tight as teeth upon his cane. In an even icier tone he stated willfully, "Have the boy sacked for all I care, Baxter. I have all that I need."

Her expression softened as she further perceived traces of injury in his. Quickly her thoughts traveled back to what might have prompted his sudden relapse into this self-shielding state, and then she flushed upon recognition of herself as the culprit for her own spiteful comment made in a fit of fury and mortification. Careful not to give away her fresh feeling of guilt lest he take advantage, she replied simply, "I would no sooner have him sacked than I would strike a trained hawk for filching a chop to feed its starving master."

"Whereas your appetite is well satiated in the despotic wielding of unmerited authority," he uttered contemptuously and then glanced at his watch. "I have no further need of you, either."

If he was determined to add insult upon injury, she was determined to disappoint him. "Nonetheless," said she, "I shall remain at my post for as long as the master bids. I'm afraid you are stuck with me till then, sir. Now, shall I ring for your chariot or will a shoulder suffice?"

"Neither!" he barked, "for I am in the bloody pink! Just look at me, Baxter."

"I see you, sir. Very handsome." And she meant it.

"Handsome?" His eyes brightened, the flame rekindled, and he sought to verify her compliment by availing himself to the nearest hallway mirror. She watched his health and spirits heighten in real time. "Handsome, indeed! I dare say dashing."

"Mr. Wickham!" Miss Baxter flinched at the sight of him not ten feet away, emerging from a shadowed place as if out of thin air. "Where on earth did you come from?"

"The nursery, ma'am. I've a message for his Lordship."

"Were you spying, young man?"

"Never mind that," said Thornhaugh, looking rather impressed by the magic trick. "What is your message, Wickham?" He fluttered his watch. "Be quick about it."

"Only good luck, sir."

Thornhaugh's brow lifted. He inched closer to the boy, staring in hopeful suspense, and said, "And this message is courtesy of whom?"

"From all of us, sir. Aunt Lizzy, too." George procured from his pocket a four-leaf clover and extended it in offering. "Janie found it this morning, near the deer paddock." The clover was accepted with silent but discernible gratitude. With that encouragement, George went on: "Malcolm found another frog by the pond and wished to give that to you; but Ben would not allow it, so he found this shiny rock for you instead." This too was quietly but happily received; George's excitement grew. "And look what I found, sir! on today's ride!"

Another object was extracted and held up before their probing gaze. Miss Baxter matched Thornhaugh's look of shock upon perception of polished gold pinched tightly between George's thumb and forefinger. And there the shining object lingered as Thornhaugh studied it with minimal interest. "Must have been an arduous search, Wickham. How long did it take?"

"Not that long, sir. Ben and Malcolm helped. We rode out together. I cleaned it for you." George stretched his arm, bidding Thornhaugh's acceptance, but received only a weak headshake. "Sir?"

"You found it, Wickham, and have therefore earned it. Bravo!"

"But it is your family seal, sir—not mine."

"Nor mine. Not anymore. I've a much finer ring now, worth a great deal more." He showed off the gold band too large to fit any one of his bony fingers, then jerked his chin at the unwanted signet. "That one is worth only its weight in gold—"

"But sir—"

"—which would buy a damn fine horse, Wickham." Thornhaugh stepped out of Miss Baxter's ear shot, taking the boy with him, guiding him with a pressing hand into the shadowed place from whence George materialized. "Yes, do that. Melt it down, sell the gold, then purchase a stallion of your very own."

"But I have a horse, sir. Uncle let me choose—"

"Choose differently, I beg you. Accept nothing that is freely given lest you be at the giver's mercy." Thornhaugh drew closer to the boy, his voice rising to eagerness. "And then after the purchase, take out your new horse at every possible opportunity. Ride him hard and often. Learn to leap fences, water, any obstacle in your path. Then learn to drive a carriage—all varieties! Become expert at everything and keep riding, driving, so hard and so fast that no one can catch you. Enter contests, races, any event that might win you a purse or something easily traded for coin. And once you have accrued a good sum, ride away from here, forever. Go your own way. Live as you please. You are no landlord, are you? You have no heart for Eton, have you?"

"Uncle said I might go to Greenwich instead—"

"Hang Greenwich! Hang Eton! Listen, George. You could be working on a ship as young as twelve. At thirteen, you will be free to join the Navy. And you will start as no powder monkey but as an apprentice, for you have that much schooling already with thanks to Baxter over there. You could be an officer, rise to the rank of captain, perhaps even an admiral! And whenever you land on English soil, your horse will be there waiting for you; and you will have the means to ride elsewhere, anywhere, start a new adventure, and then another. You will keep riding, sailing, doing! and from doing you shall continue learning any skill that suits you, anything you—"

"Sir, I…I was hoping you might barter Uncle Darcy's ring for this one."

"It is not Uncle Darcy's ring. It is mine!" Thornhaugh stepped out from the shadow, and with a touch to his topper added, "Thank you all the same, little George, and now back to the nursery with you. Come along, Baxter."

And thus began his high-spirited trek through the guest wing with nary a glance back at the boy. Baxter joined her charge with a brief check on Mr. Wickham's despondent retreat to the opposite family wing, her question as to the nature of their conference ignored as Thornhaugh looked to his imminent destination with much enthusiasm.

"Poor, lamentable governess!" cried he. "How I mourn your disadvantage! To be stuck with you means that you are also stuck with me."

"A pity indeed, sir."

"But never dull, as you will very soon see. I have a few surprises in store; and before this night is over you will be altered, I wager, as will your dedication to this post, perhaps even your situation in general."

"Is that a threat or a warning, sir?"

"That is a promise, madam. I have lived so many of these events that I would lay my scant future on it."

Miss Baxter shrugged. "You do take much glory in making trouble, sir, as the master is well aware and for which we are all duly prepared."

"Oh I doubt that!" he laughed. "And my glory is never in the deed, always the response. How I revel in it! The joy is indescribable! Incomparable!"

"But what of your rivals, sir, and their surprises? Do you never fear your own response?"

"What have I to fear, especially now? and I have always adored surprises. But while I welcome the unexpected and most often thrive in the face of it, neither this evening's foe nor the evening in general pose any such threat. If I am wrong, all the better! but what are the odds that I could be so pleasantly surprised?"

They reached the staircase, his light and graceful steps unfaltering as he made the descent. About midway down, he met with an ascending Lady Blackwell, who paused in her climb the instant his looming figure was spotted. Their eyes locked. Thornhaugh went still, smiled wide, removed his hat, and then graciously moved aside to allow her plenty of room to pass through. "Madam," he saluted with a sweeping bow.

The uncommonly pretty woman looked him up and down before curtseying in response. If she were at all impressed, either by his appearance or gesture or both, any resulting response to that feeling was kept confined. She picked up her skirts and resumed her ascent, and while passing uttered, "Good luck to you, my Lord," in a tone of almost perfect civility and the merest trace of impertinence.

"And to you, Mrs. Frederick," he drawled, thus triggering a fierce reaction that came as a complete shock to Miss Baxter and absolute thrill to its object.

"I am Lady Blackwell, sir!" The echo of her furious cry filled the stairway and well into the entrance hall. "Lady Blackwell is my name! Do you hear!" Her shrill admonishment endured throughout the remainder of Thornhaugh's calm, leisurely amble out of the livid woman's sight, with him utterly unfazed, eyes ever forward, beaming with supreme satisfaction and delight.


Author's note: I'm still torn over Baxter's age, undecided on whether to portray her as a few years younger than Thornhaugh or several years older. Any suggestions are most welcome.