comfortably in the crook of his arm, which only angered
her further. But she took some comfort in gloating over how totally out of his
element Donovan would be at the poorhouse, like a pilchard out of water as he
was surrounded by orphaned children, the aged, and the infirm. He would
probably flee for the nearest door, sickened by the smell of filled diapers and
the sight of drool . . .
"Here we are," Corisande announced almost
gaily in front of a neat two-story brick building, eager to see his handsome
face turn green. She even took his big hand and led the way up the few stairs,
her move clearly surprising him as he raised a thick black brow. As soon as she
opened the front door, she felt almost giddy as the smell of curdled milk porridge
and mackerel and potato pie greeted them, hardly palatable fare for a highborn
gentleman such as he.
"Ah, Corie, I wasn't sure you were coming today."
Corisande smiled at the thin, kind-faced woman who
rushed forward to greet them, then turned to Donovan. "Mrs. Eliza
Treweake, the good governess here. Eliza, Lord Donovan—"
"Oh, yes, I've heard all about him," Eliza
gushed before Corisande could finish, the woman's bright blue eyes crinkling at
the corners as she smiled warmly at Donovan. "Such an honor for you to
come and visit us, my lord. I'm so happy for you both too. A wedding tomorrow?
How wonderful!"
"Yes, it is wonderful," Donovan agreed
pleasantly, giving Corisande's hand a firm squeeze. "And such a pleasure
to meet you, dear lady."
"Yes, well, I'm sorry we're late, Eliza."
Pointedly tugging her fingers free from Donovan's, Corisande stepped further
into the entrance hall as the sounds of children laughing and spoons clattering
against china carried from behind the closed doors to the dining room. "There
was so much to do at the church today. We had such a crowd."
"Ah, no trouble, no trouble. I hope you don't
mind, but we already began our meal. The children were so hungry we couldn't
wait."
Corisande nodded in understanding and followed Mrs. Treweake
through the broad double doors, knowing Donovan was right behind her. Although
she was fuming again at the insufferable man who took every opportunity to
torment her, she was able to feel a bit smug again, too, at the lively
commotion that greeted them.
At one end of the long oaken table sat the older folk,
most contentedly focused upon their generous helpings of Cornish pie and mashed
turnips while a dozen boisterous children of varying ages squirmed upon wooden
benches set along the sides. At the far end, an attendant bustled around three
gurgling babies in high seats, and it was between these littlest ones and the
wriggling children that chairs were brought for Corisande and Donovan. Plates
heaped high and steaming cups of watery tea soon followed, as Mrs. Treweake
took her place at the quieter end of the table between poor Alice Ripper, who
was blind and quite feeble, and a crippled old Inner by the name of John
Thomas.
"Enjoy your Sunday dinner, my lord."
Corisande knew she was grinning like a fool into her food as Donovan picked up
his fork, but her smile soon became a look of pure amazement when he began to
eat with gusto, clearly enjoying his meal.
"Wonderful fish pie, Mrs. Treweake," Donovan
offered a few moments later when his plate was almost empty. He glanced over at
Corisande, who was staring at him incredulously, and, imagining her thoughts,
couldn't resist adding in a low sarcastic aside, "Surprised, my dear? You
shouldn't be. We Don Juans must keep up our strength no matter what's put before
us. One never knows when an innocent maiden ripe for despoiling might come
along. No, one never knows."
"Cad!"
Her emphatic whisper was drowned out as a baby nearby
began to wail, the exasperated attendant throwing up her hands as she spun to
face Mrs. Treweake.
"Little Mary won't eat 'er porridge, ma'am. I've
done everything—"
"Here, I'll help." Corisande had begun to
rise, but Donovan caught a handful of skirt
her further. But she took some comfort in gloating over how totally out of his
element Donovan would be at the poorhouse, like a pilchard out of water as he
was surrounded by orphaned children, the aged, and the infirm. He would
probably flee for the nearest door, sickened by the smell of filled diapers and
the sight of drool . . .
"Here we are," Corisande announced almost
gaily in front of a neat two-story brick building, eager to see his handsome
face turn green. She even took his big hand and led the way up the few stairs,
her move clearly surprising him as he raised a thick black brow. As soon as she
opened the front door, she felt almost giddy as the smell of curdled milk porridge
and mackerel and potato pie greeted them, hardly palatable fare for a highborn
gentleman such as he.
"Ah, Corie, I wasn't sure you were coming today."
Corisande smiled at the thin, kind-faced woman who
rushed forward to greet them, then turned to Donovan. "Mrs. Eliza
Treweake, the good governess here. Eliza, Lord Donovan—"
"Oh, yes, I've heard all about him," Eliza
gushed before Corisande could finish, the woman's bright blue eyes crinkling at
the corners as she smiled warmly at Donovan. "Such an honor for you to
come and visit us, my lord. I'm so happy for you both too. A wedding tomorrow?
How wonderful!"
"Yes, it is wonderful," Donovan agreed
pleasantly, giving Corisande's hand a firm squeeze. "And such a pleasure
to meet you, dear lady."
"Yes, well, I'm sorry we're late, Eliza."
Pointedly tugging her fingers free from Donovan's, Corisande stepped further
into the entrance hall as the sounds of children laughing and spoons clattering
against china carried from behind the closed doors to the dining room. "There
was so much to do at the church today. We had such a crowd."
"Ah, no trouble, no trouble. I hope you don't
mind, but we already began our meal. The children were so hungry we couldn't
wait."
Corisande nodded in understanding and followed Mrs. Treweake
through the broad double doors, knowing Donovan was right behind her. Although
she was fuming again at the insufferable man who took every opportunity to
torment her, she was able to feel a bit smug again, too, at the lively
commotion that greeted them.
At one end of the long oaken table sat the older folk,
most contentedly focused upon their generous helpings of Cornish pie and mashed
turnips while a dozen boisterous children of varying ages squirmed upon wooden
benches set along the sides. At the far end, an attendant bustled around three
gurgling babies in high seats, and it was between these littlest ones and the
wriggling children that chairs were brought for Corisande and Donovan. Plates
heaped high and steaming cups of watery tea soon followed, as Mrs. Treweake
took her place at the quieter end of the table between poor Alice Ripper, who
was blind and quite feeble, and a crippled old Inner by the name of John
Thomas.
"Enjoy your Sunday dinner, my lord."
Corisande knew she was grinning like a fool into her food as Donovan picked up
his fork, but her smile soon became a look of pure amazement when he began to
eat with gusto, clearly enjoying his meal.
"Wonderful fish pie, Mrs. Treweake," Donovan
offered a few moments later when his plate was almost empty. He glanced over at
Corisande, who was staring at him incredulously, and, imagining her thoughts,
couldn't resist adding in a low sarcastic aside, "Surprised, my dear? You
shouldn't be. We Don Juans must keep up our strength no matter what's put before
us. One never knows when an innocent maiden ripe for despoiling might come
along. No, one never knows."
"Cad!"
Her emphatic whisper was drowned out as a baby nearby
began to wail, the exasperated attendant throwing up her hands as she spun to
face Mrs. Treweake.
"Little Mary won't eat 'er porridge, ma'am. I've
done everything—"
"Here, I'll help." Corisande had begun to
rise, but Donovan caught a handful of skirt
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