something's not right with your world, Pammy,” he observed amiably. His niece remained for the moment bereft of speech. She gazed up at him, her thumb finding its way into her mouth.
“I'm so sorry if you were disturbed, Mr. Ensor,” the governess apologized. She brushed a limp strand of hair from her forehead where it had escaped the pins. “There was no need for the tantrum. She didn't want her buttered toast so I took it away immediately, but she still . . .” She shrugged, expressing a world of helpless frustration in the gesture.
Max regarded the child. “It must be so unsatisfying when opposition just crumbles at the first objection,” he observed. “There's nothing like a well-justified tantrum for testing limits, but in the absence of limits, what's a small person to do?”
A glimmer of appreciation appeared in Amelia Westcott's gray eyes. “Lady Graham, sir, does not encourage limits.”
“No,” he said. “So I understand. Poor child . . .” He smiled at Miss Westcott. “And poor governess. You have my sympathies, ma'am.”
“Thank you, sir.” Color touched her rather faded cheek. “I think it's over for this evening. In general, once a night is all she can manage.”
He shook his head. “I'll have a word with my brother-in-law.”
She took a sudden urgent step towards him. “Oh, no, Mr. Ensor. That's very kind of you, but I wouldn't like Lady Graham to think I'm complaining about Pammy.”
He slapped his gloves into the palm of one hand. Letitia might for the sake of convenience and her daughter's good humor put up with a governess with suspect political opinions, but she would never tolerate even the hint of disapproval about the child from anyone, let alone someone in her employ. Besides, privately he didn't think it would do any good to talk to Bertie. Lord Graham hated disharmony and kept his eyes firmly closed to anything that might cause it.
“Very well.” He nodded and turned to go.
“Uncle Max.” Pamela finally spoke. She tugged at the tail of his coat. “Where are you going? Can I come?”
“I'm going out to dinner,” he said. “With another lady. I don't think I should put her off at the last minute, do you? It would be most dreadfully rude.”
Pamela considered this. Her one protest of the evening over, she was perfectly prepared to be reasonable. “She might think I was . . . I was a rival for your affections,” she declared with a triumphant clap of her still-dimpled hands.
Max stared at the governess over the child's head. “Where on earth . . . ?”
“Nanny Baxter is very fond of romances, Mr. Ensor,” she said, her face as straight as a die.
“Oh, I see.”
“Lady Graham and Nanny Baxter are in the habit of discussing the love stories when her ladyship visits the nursery.”
“Oh,” Max said again. “Oh, I see.” He gave his niece's pigtails a gentle tug, said, “I bid you good night, Miss Westcott,” and left the now peaceful domestic scene with a swift step.
He encountered his brother-in-law in the hall. “Ah, Max, going to the House?” Bertie asked jovially, the words wafting on a whisky breeze. “Just came from the Lords . . . some cursed boring discussion about agriculture. Can't be bothered with it m'self. As long as the tenant farmers pay their tithes, let 'em alone, say I. What?”
“I represent a rather more urban constituency, Bertie,” Max said. “As it happens, nothing that affects my constituents is on the agenda this evening. I'm taking Miss Duncan to dinner.”
“Oh?” Lord Graham's bleary eyes struggled to focus. “The oldest one. Deuced attractive girl, reminds me of her mother, but she'll soon be on the shelf if she don't take some man . . . plenty after her. Shame about that chappie she was engaged to, can't remember his name now . . . killed in the war. Mafeking . . . or some other godforsaken part of the veldt. In the dragoons, I believe.”
“That was what, five or six years ago?” Max mused. Constance
“I'm so sorry if you were disturbed, Mr. Ensor,” the governess apologized. She brushed a limp strand of hair from her forehead where it had escaped the pins. “There was no need for the tantrum. She didn't want her buttered toast so I took it away immediately, but she still . . .” She shrugged, expressing a world of helpless frustration in the gesture.
Max regarded the child. “It must be so unsatisfying when opposition just crumbles at the first objection,” he observed. “There's nothing like a well-justified tantrum for testing limits, but in the absence of limits, what's a small person to do?”
A glimmer of appreciation appeared in Amelia Westcott's gray eyes. “Lady Graham, sir, does not encourage limits.”
“No,” he said. “So I understand. Poor child . . .” He smiled at Miss Westcott. “And poor governess. You have my sympathies, ma'am.”
“Thank you, sir.” Color touched her rather faded cheek. “I think it's over for this evening. In general, once a night is all she can manage.”
He shook his head. “I'll have a word with my brother-in-law.”
She took a sudden urgent step towards him. “Oh, no, Mr. Ensor. That's very kind of you, but I wouldn't like Lady Graham to think I'm complaining about Pammy.”
He slapped his gloves into the palm of one hand. Letitia might for the sake of convenience and her daughter's good humor put up with a governess with suspect political opinions, but she would never tolerate even the hint of disapproval about the child from anyone, let alone someone in her employ. Besides, privately he didn't think it would do any good to talk to Bertie. Lord Graham hated disharmony and kept his eyes firmly closed to anything that might cause it.
“Very well.” He nodded and turned to go.
“Uncle Max.” Pamela finally spoke. She tugged at the tail of his coat. “Where are you going? Can I come?”
“I'm going out to dinner,” he said. “With another lady. I don't think I should put her off at the last minute, do you? It would be most dreadfully rude.”
Pamela considered this. Her one protest of the evening over, she was perfectly prepared to be reasonable. “She might think I was . . . I was a rival for your affections,” she declared with a triumphant clap of her still-dimpled hands.
Max stared at the governess over the child's head. “Where on earth . . . ?”
“Nanny Baxter is very fond of romances, Mr. Ensor,” she said, her face as straight as a die.
“Oh, I see.”
“Lady Graham and Nanny Baxter are in the habit of discussing the love stories when her ladyship visits the nursery.”
“Oh,” Max said again. “Oh, I see.” He gave his niece's pigtails a gentle tug, said, “I bid you good night, Miss Westcott,” and left the now peaceful domestic scene with a swift step.
He encountered his brother-in-law in the hall. “Ah, Max, going to the House?” Bertie asked jovially, the words wafting on a whisky breeze. “Just came from the Lords . . . some cursed boring discussion about agriculture. Can't be bothered with it m'self. As long as the tenant farmers pay their tithes, let 'em alone, say I. What?”
“I represent a rather more urban constituency, Bertie,” Max said. “As it happens, nothing that affects my constituents is on the agenda this evening. I'm taking Miss Duncan to dinner.”
“Oh?” Lord Graham's bleary eyes struggled to focus. “The oldest one. Deuced attractive girl, reminds me of her mother, but she'll soon be on the shelf if she don't take some man . . . plenty after her. Shame about that chappie she was engaged to, can't remember his name now . . . killed in the war. Mafeking . . . or some other godforsaken part of the veldt. In the dragoons, I believe.”
“That was what, five or six years ago?” Max mused. Constance
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