He began by joining the children for their lessons the next morning. That was innocuous enough; he did so regularly to see for himself how they were getting on.
Miss Kenway had an essay for Henry to write, real life kitchen mathematics for Ginny, and she sat herself with Philip for his reading practice.
Henry was probably best left to himself with his task, so Hartwell sat down with Ginny and the kitchen ledgers.
Miss Kenway had recently persuaded Mrs Keith (the housekeeper) to let Ginny practise with the real tasks that awaited her later. So once a week, Ginny had to double check the kitchen ledgers, and propose what needed to be ordered for the coming week, how much of it, and estimate the cost of such an order. She enjoyed it tremendously; it made her feel really grown up.
"Soon you will be able to rely on me as the mistress of Matlock," she promised her father. "Would you like that?"
He chuckled. "Well, it would save me and Mrs Keith some work."
Together they sat bent over the ledgers. Hartwell made a few suggestions, but mostly he let Ginny get on with it herself. And for a novice, she did indeed an admirable job of it.
"Papa," Henry asked on his other side. "How do you spell 'unfathomable'? Is it an -able or an -ible?"
"An -able," he replied. "How is it going?"
"Good." Henry bent down over his work again, so his father let him be. Instead, upon hearing a frustrated whine from his youngest, he looked over to Miss Kenway with Philip.
"I don't know," the boy complained. "You changed the order again."
"Yes, because you need to read them, not recite them."
"But I can't read. It's too hard!"
"Philip." He saw her repressing a sigh. "We have talked about this. Many times."
Philip scowled and crossed his arms in defiance.
"Everyone has a few talents; things that are easy for them to learn. Like music for you. But nobody has a talent for everything. That does not mean they cannot learn it, but it means that for them, it takes practice, practice, practice to learn it. But they can learn it!"
"I don't want to practise anymore. It's too hard."
"Everything is hard until you have mastered it, Philip."
"I don't want to master it. Someone else can read for me."
"Now Philip," his father butted in. "I admit there are some things everyone learns that most people can do perfectly well without, like foreign languages, or when the Vikings came to England. But reading, writing and arythmatics are not part of that. Everybody needs to learn that to be able to handle life. Even the servants' children learn how to read and write. You can do it."
"Well, can't I hire a secretary then when I grow up? Then he can read everything for me?"
"Then how do you know he is not cheating you?" Miss Kenway put in. "If you cannot check the text yourself, he could tell you anything."
Philip let out a whine. "But it's too hard! I'll never learn, no matter how much I practise."
"Enough, Philip," his father chided. "No matter how much practice it takes, you have to learn to read. And that is final."
Philip growled in frustration, and Miss Kenway suggested, "Shall I get out the old list and you match up the words with the new one? That is practice, too."
Philip reluctantly went along with that, and Hartwell reflected that in this particular matter, he did not envy Miss Kenway her task. She showed the patience of a saint, even if she had confessed to him once or twice that Philip's baffling problems with reading and writing occasionally drove her to distraction as well. But what could they do but practise, practise, practise with him?
He himself often tried to read with Philip in every-day situations, too, but it was an exercise in frustration. It was unfathomable that an otherwise bright and intelligent boy was incapable of grasping the relationship between a letter and a sound.
Come to think of it, had he ever really discussed anything but the children with Miss Kenway? Their entire relationship was built around the children; there had never been much reason to discuss anything else. So how well did he really know her?
He stared at her pensively where she sat with Philip – until she looked up and caught his eye, causing him to quickly look away.
And he sighed. Whether he really knew her or not, she was still a far better prospect than any of the ladies he met at Sir Reginald's yesterday. There was nothing for it: he would have to find a way to try and get to know her better. All of her. Maybe…?
He glanced at Ginny. Maybe the Birtwistles had a point.
So when the breakfast gong sounded, he let the children run off to the breakfast parlour by themselves, and instead addressed their governess.
"Miss Kenway?"
She looked up from collecting Philip's reading material. "Yes, sir?"
"Would you mind very much to join us for dinner tonight?"
Her eyebrows shot up in surprise. "Me, sir?"
"Yes. It has been brought to my attention that Ginny lacks a proper role model for learning how to comport herself as the mistress of the house. So I was hoping… You do know how to act as the lady of the house, do you not?"
"Well… I think so, yes. Of course I have never been in that position myself, but my mother did teach me."
"That should do well enough. So will you join us for dinner tonight?"
"As the mistress of the house?!"
"Well, maybe not exactly as the mistress. But it would be good for the children to see how a lady behaves at the table. Ginny especially."
She frowned. "I don't understand. Is there something wrong with her behaviour?"
"Not that I can see, but…" He threw up his hands. "Miss Kenway, I am a man! And a man, I dare say, with very limited exposure to the intricacies of a lady's duties: I spent most of my youth at school, my mother was never excessively present in my life, and my wife and I were either sniping at each other throughout the meal, or preferred to make sure we did not have to eat together at all. If I am to teach my daughter how to comport herself as the lady of the house, I am going to need help. And in our family's situation, you are the most logical person for me to turn to."
Miss Kenway capitulated. "Alright, I see your point. I am not sure how I can be a role model for a mistress of the house in my position, but I will try."
"Good. Thank you." A sigh of relief. That had been more of a challenge than he had anticipated. "Maybe we can simply start with you being our guest, and take it from there?"
The news of the evening's dinner guest brought on its own challenges.
"Why?" Henry, with one eyebrow sceptically raised.
"Can I sit next to her?" Ginny, all eagerness.
"No, I want to sit next to her!" Philip claiming his territory.
"She can sit in between us," was Ginny's practical solution.
Hartwell sighed. "No, she can't. To start with the why: Miss Kenway is going to help me teach you etiquette at the dinner table."
Henry grimaced, clearly not particularly happy with the prospect.
"And according to the rules of etiquette," his father continued, "A female guest of honour sits at the master's left hand. If we then continue with the most common practice of alternating ladies and gentlemen, Ginny sits to my right, so across from Miss Kenway, with the next male in consequence as her dinner partner."
Henry let out a long-suffering sigh; Ginny scowled. "I would rather have Philip." The two eldest were having one of their (fortunately infrequent) sibling spats these days, in which all they seemed capable of was to either vex each other or completely ignore each other.
And Hartwell sighed. The timing of this dinner could certainly have been better. "No discussion," he decreed. "The rules are what they are. Which leaves you, Philip, to sit at Miss Kenway's other side."
Philip stuck out his tongue at Ginny. "There. I get to be Miss Kenway's dinner partner."
"No, that is me," his father corrected. "A gentleman dinner partner always sits to the right of his lady. We don't have enough ladies tonight to give you your own. But gentlemen certainly do not stick out their tongue at people."
Philip smirked.
"Philip?"
A sigh. "Sorry, Ginny." It did not sound particularly repentant, but Hartwell let it go for now. He had more important things to worry about.
"Now I want you all to be on your best behaviour tonight, is that clear?"
"Why?" his eldest challenged. "It's just Miss Kenway."
Hartwell flinched. If that was his son's attitude toward her as a dinner guest, how would he react if…? Maybe Miss Kenway was not such a good idea after all.
But he pushed away his doubts and emphasized with all the authority he could muster, "She is our guest tonight, no matter who she is. So I want you all to be on your best behaviour. Is that clear?"
Philip and Ginny agreed readily enough; Henry rather grudgingly.
"Good. Then off you go to change for dinner."
It was mere minutes after Ginny's arrival that the door to the drawing-room opened again and Miss Kenway appeared on the threshold.
"Miss Kenway!" Hartwell was immediately on his feet and hurried to her side. "You are very welcome in our family circle! I hope you are well tonight?"
"Um…" She was obviously taken aback by his enthusiastic greeting.
"Just play along," Hartwell hissed.
"Ah." A hint of a smile touched the corners of her mouth, and with a sudden twinkle in her eye she seemed to shake off the worst of her awkwardness at the situation. "Lord Hartwell," she curtseyed, receiving a bow in return. "I am very well tonight, thank you. And how are you? And your family?"
"Very well indeed. And enchanted with your presence." He bowed over her hand, and she barely held back a smirk.
Behind his father, Henry rolled his eyes.
"Thank you, sir," Miss Kenway said. "It is truly an honour to join you tonight. I thank you for the invitation."
He looked over to the children. "May I introduce you to my family?"
Ginny giggled, but the three of them obediently lined up – albeit with a dark frown and an unintelligible mutter from Henry.
"This is my eldest, Master Fitzwilliam. And my daughter, Miss Fitzwilliam. And my youngest, Master Philip Fitzwilliam. Children, allow me to present Miss Kenway to you."
Henry's bow was rather curt, but Ginny and Philip played along nicely.
"Enchanted to make your acquaintance, Miss Kenway," Ginny sang, only to burst out in irrepressible giggles.
Miss Kenway's smile had broadened considerably as well as she curtseyed. "The honour is all mine, Miss Fitzwilliam."
But Ginny had already dropped the charade. "Miss Kenway, now that you are with us tonight, can we play that Mozart duet for Papa after dinner?"
Miss Kenway raised an inquiring eyebrow at the girl's father, and upon his affirming nod, she agreed to the plan.
And Philip took her hand. "You are sitting next to me at dinner. Papa says I can't be your dinner partner because I am on the wrong side, but we can well pretend a little, can't we?"
Hartwell sighed. The children were already completely monopolizing Miss Kenway's attention. Which in itself was no more than logical of course: both she and the children did not know any better than that she was employed at Matlock solely for their benefit. How were they to know that he had an entirely different objective in mind when he arranged for Miss Kenway to join them for dinner? And with no one aware of his true purpose, he had no ally who could divert the children's attention either.
Well, hopefully he would have a better chance at dinner. Or afterwards, as Ginny had already conveniently roped Miss Kenway into their after-dinner entertainment. At least that was something to be grateful for.
He looked over to where Henry had flopped down in a chair, and opened his mouth to try and coax a smile from his sour looking son, but just then Eldridge appeared to announce that dinner was served.
Hartwell was quick to lay claim to Miss Kenway's arm. "Henry, you offer Ginny your arm and follow me, and Philip comes last."
"Why?" Philip challenged. "I want to accompany Miss Kenway, too. She is sitting next to me, too."
"No." His father sighed. "We are doing it according to the rules now." He frowned at his eldest. "Henry, your sister's arm is not a snake. Do it properly now."
Henry's taking Ginny's arm properly was accompanied by a ferocious scowl for his sister – which she reciprocated with a death glare of her own.
But at long last, they all proceeded into the dining-room and took their seats – by which time Hartwell was contemplating banning his trio to the nursery for the evening and instead having dinner with Miss Kenway as his sole companion.
But once he had said grace and the soup was served, things seemed to progress well enough.
"I hope you like mushroom soup?" he inquired with his guest.
"Yes, I do. Thank you, sir," was her reply.
They spooned up their soup in silence for a few minutes, but when they were nearly finished, Hartwell opened the conversation again.
"Miss Kenway, may I ask where you are from? You are not from around here, are you?" He knew of course from his father's old letter, but it was an easy conversation opener.
"No, sir," she answered obligingly. "I originally hail from Dorset."
"Ah. The beautiful Dorset."
She looked surprised. "I did not know you were familiar with Dorset, sir."
"To some degree, yes. Due to the war, my Grand Tour was limited to the British Isles. Which means I have covered nearly every county in England. So where in Dorset are you from?"
"The Shastonbury area," she replied, and when he admitted the name did not ring a bell with him, she clarified that it was close to Gillingham, just off the Great Road to Exeter.
"Northern Dorset then?"
"Indeed."
He shook his head. "I do not believe I am familiar with the area. As I recall, my stay in Dorset was mostly focused on the seaside."
She smiled. "As is the case for most visitors."
Henry sighed audibly, earning him a stern glance from his father.
Meanwhile, Ginny asked Miss Kenway whether she had ever been to the seaside herself.
She granted the girl a smile. "Indeed I have. A few years ago, with you, remember?"
"But I mean your seaside. In Dorset."
"Yes, I have been there, too. But only once. It was still quite far from our home."
"So what is northern Dorset like?" Hartwell inquired.
"Do you have mountains there, too?" came it from Philip.
She chuckled a little, and shook her head. "No, I am afraid not. It is mainly rolling green hills – much like Hertfordshire, where your Uncle Darcy got married. Though Shastonbury itself is located on something that could be called a small mountain."
"Is it a nice little town like Bakewell?" Ginny wanted to know. "Or more like Liverpool? Or London?"
"No, it is a lovely little town. Rather picturesque, too. Though of course I have not been there in many years."
"Why not?" Philip prodded. "Don't you like it there anymore?"
"No, it is… It is just too far away. And my home is now here in Derbyshire."
She coloured slightly as she spoke, and Hartwell recognized that they were venturing into a sensitive topic. Better divert the conversation before the children's questions made her truly uncomfortable.
So he signalled for the soup bowls to be taken away and asked, "I understand you have lived in London as well. How did you like London?"
She waited with her answer until all the soup bowls had been removed. "London was busy. So many people, so many buildings all crowding together… I much prefer the country."
Hartwell smiled. "As do I."
"I assume though that you have lived in town, too, sir, have you not?"
"Of course. But I cannot say I enjoyed it. Too many people, as you say."
"Papa never goes to town," Ginny confided. "I wish he did; then I could go and visit with Rosalie. Have you ever been to Gracechurch Street when you lived in London, Miss Kenway?"
She shook her head. "I don't think so. Is that where your friend lives?"
Ginny nodded. "She writes it's a busy street, with lots of traffic. And houses and shops and other buildings all lined up, as far as you can see. They can't even play outside; they have to go to a public park for that. But that's several blocks away, and since she is not allowed to leave the house unaccompanied, they can't just go and play whenever they want to." She scrunched up her nose. "I feel sorry for her."
Her father raised an eyebrow in surprise. "I thought you wanted to go to London?"
"I do. To visit with Rosalie, and to see all the shops and things. But from what she tells me, I wouldn't want to live there for real."
Hartwell chuckled, feeling inordinately proud of his girl. "A true daughter of the country, are you? I am glad to hear it. How about you, Miss Kenway? Do you consider yourself a daughter of the country, too?" Maybe this could be an opening to quiz her on her favourite pastimes.
"Indeed I do, sir."
"So given a sunny summerday off, what would you do?"
"Mm…" She pondered that for a moment, but Philip jumped in before she could make up her mind.
"I would go and build a treehouse. By a stream, so when the weather gets hot, I can jump straight from the treehouse into the stream to cool off."
Hartwell chuckled. "You would indeed. How about you, Henry?" The boy had not uttered a single word so far; he just emptied his plate with a sulky scowl on his face.
But Henry just shrugged, without even looking up, earning him another reproaching glare from his father (which he did not see of course, even if he could reasonably expect it to be sent his way).
Hartwell sighed imperceptibly, and turned back to his guest. "What do you say, Miss Kenway? A sunny summerday off?"
She took a deep breath. "I think I would take a favourite novel… and beg some sweet cakes off Cook, and then find myself a secluded field that is covered in flowers. And there I would just read and read and read all day long – and maybe doze a little in the sunshine – until it got too chilly to be out."
He smiled at her. Well, that sure told him a few things.
Ginny's eyes, too, had lit up at her depiction. "Could I come with you?"
Hartwell chuckled. "I gathered from the description that solitude was an essential part of it, Ginny." He raised an eyebrow at Miss Kenway, who nodded bashfully.
"Well, maybe I could be at the opposite corner of the field," Ginny proposed. "That way, we could do it together, and still each be alone."
Miss Kenway smiled at her. "We might."
"And what about you, Papa? What would you do?"
"Me? Hm…" He thought for a moment. "I would probably go riding. All alone; just my horse and me, and with no specific goal. Just enjoying the beauty of the land in solitude – although at a certain point I would probably end up like Miss Kenway: lounging in the grass and just basking in the sunshine."
That brought out a smile in Miss Kenway, and Ginny exclaimed, "We could all be family!"
Dinner proceeded pleasantly enough, even if Henry surly persisted in his sulky silence, no matter his father's upbraiding glares.
Chatty Ginny was his main adjutant in keeping up a lively discourse with their guest. Her conversation techniques may be a tad on the unpolished side perhaps, but it was obvious that she had the makings of a great hostess. He was proud of her, and quietly told her so when – a unique occasion in their household – he called for a brief separation of the sexes after dinner.
"Why? What are we to do?" Philip queried as Ginny hugged her father before 'leading' Miss Kenway to the music room to have a last minute rehearsal of their duet.
Henry smirked. "Drink port and smoke cigars of course." It was the first he said all evening, and Hartwell raised an eyebrow at him.
But Philip wrinkled his nose in disgust. "Like Grandfather does? Yuck. I don't like cigars. They stink."
"Perhaps Papa will lend us his pipe then."
"There will be no smoking tonight," their father decided.
"Then what do we do here?" Philip pleaded.
His brother lowered his voice to a semi-bariton. "Talk men-stuff of course."
"Like what?"
A shrug. "Politics for example."
"What are politics?"
"What they do in Parliament."
"Oh." A frown. "What do they do in Parliament?"
"What Grandfather does. Making laws and stuff."
Hartwell was already pre-chuckling at the predictable, 'How do they make laws' question, but Philip went off on another tangent.
"Can we not talk about something else? I know nothing about lawstuff."
"Sure," his father jumped in. "But before we do that: Henry, I want you to display a little more hospitality towards Miss Kenway. This grumpy silence of yours is no way to make a guest feel welcome. Is that clear?"
Henry scowled, but nodded – albeit reluctantly.
The momentary heavy silence that followed was broken by Philip. "So what else do men talk about?"
A mischievous grin spread over Henry's face. "Of course! There is one topic that men never tire of: girls!"
But his little brother grimaced in distaste. "Who wants to talk about girls…", causing their father to snort.
Needless to say, the separation of the sexes did not last very long. Soon they joined the ladies in the music room and made themselves comfortable to listen to their duet. (Henry instead picked up a book and retreated to a far corner of the room – something his father was not happy with, but couldn't very well fault him for.)
They listened patiently and (in Hartwell's case) with pleasure to the musical exhibition. The playful Mozart piece was executed quite well, but just to be on the safe side, Hartwell kept a hand on Philip's knee to remind him to hold his tongue.
But no: Philip applauded dutifully at the end, before eagerly replacing the ladies at the instrument for his own, superior recital. They listened to some of his favourite pieces – executed flawlessly by the little maestro – before it was decided that they would indulge in the children's favourite boardgame.
It was not quite how Hartwell had envisioned spending the evening in Miss Kenway's company, but he reckoned this was just the start, and there would be plenty more evenings to follow.
He was rather taken aback therefore when she rose to go with Philip when it was his bedtime. "Are you leaving already? I had hoped…"
"Yes, come on, Miss Kenway," Ginny cajoled. "We can play another round. But it's no fun with just two, so we need you." She sent her reading brother a glare for good measure, before turning back to the recipient of her plea. "Will you not stay a little longer?" she begged, tilting her head and in general making herself look much younger than her twelve years. "Please? Pretty please?"
"Yes. I, too, would appreciate it if you would stay with us a little longer," Hartwell concurred. "I am sure Philip can find his own way to the nursery."
"Of course I can," Philip muttered indignantly.
Miss Kenway hesitated.
"Please?" Hartwell added.
She sighed. "Alright then." And she sat down with them again.
But a similar scene played out when it was time for Henry and Ginny to go off to bed.
Hartwell stood to wish his guest a formal goodnight. "It was a pleasure to have you dining with us tonight, Miss Kenway," he said. "May I invite you to join us again tomorrow?"
She sighed, and averted her eyes. "Sir, I…" She fell silent.
"Did you not enjoy yourself, Miss Kenway?" came it disconcerted from Ginny, who was still loitering in the doorway.
"No indeed, I had a very good time," she assured the girl. "It's just…" She turned back to her employer. "I usually use these hours to prepare my lessons for the following day."
"Oh!" He shook his head in self-recrimination. "I am sorry, Miss Kenway. I did not realize that. Would you like me to take the children before breakfast tomorrow, so you will have a chance to prepare yourself?"
"No, I will be alright. But I am sure you understand that this is not something we can do every night."
"Of course." Damn. "Good night, Miss Kenway." A formal bow.
"Good night, sir." A perfect curtsey. "Come, Ginny. Time for bed."
"Good night, Papa."
"Good night, sweetie."
The ladies closed the door behind them, leaving him to heave a heavy sigh.
Now what…?