this unpitying sympathy. Christina could be a wild, muddy hoyden, but she could also be patient and kind. She had a good heart. She went on social calls with their mother, even though she found them excruciating. She played games with Amelia by the hour and never tired of her niece's childish prattle.
She noticed when Michael's leg was bothering him, and helped him however she could. With salves and warm coats.
"Thank you, Tina," he said. "Perhaps you'll help me into my coat?"
"Of course." She tightened her hand on his as he stood, her fingers rough from all the digging she did outdoors. She held the coat for him to slip on, and smoothed the warm tweed folds over his shoulders. "There! You will be the handsomest man in the neighborhood when you go riding out."
He laughed. "More handsome than young Henry Haigh-Wood? I hear all the ladies swoon when he walks into assemblies."
Christina wrinkled her freckled nose. "You are a hundred times more handsome than Henry Haigh-Wood. Only silly ladies swoon over his foppish gold curls and pink waistcoats!"
"I doubt Louisa Ross would agree with you. Mother says they're betrothed."
"Then Louisa Ross is only the silliest lady in the neighborhood. All the ladies sigh over you, Michael. They weep that you never dance at assemblies, and they are stuck with only Henry Haigh-Wood."
Michael grinned at her. "You are a good sister indeed to flatter your old brother, Tina. Did Mother entreat you to say that? Has she enlisted you in her cause to see me marry again?" Unconsciously, his hand drifted to his left cheek, to the long scar that sliced from his temple across his cheekbone into his hair. The ridge was hard beneath his touch.
Christina caught his hand, pulling it down. "Michael. Your scar is not nearly so great as you think. It has quite faded away. And Mother did not bribe me—the ladies do watch you. Emmeline Ross in particular. And she is slightly less silly than her sister." Her smile turned mischievous, elfish. "Mother says you should marry Emmeline."
Michael laughed. "Oho, does she now? Even though Miss Emmeline, at the tender age of seventeen, has already broken three betrothals?"
"It is not so bad as all that...." Christina gave in with a giggle. "Oh, very well, not Emmeline Ross. But there are many pretty ladies in the neighborhood. Not all of them are silly jilts. I know you say you will not marry again...."
"Precisely. No lady would want a crusty widower, all set in his ways."
"Pah! You like to pretend you are ancient, when you are but thirty." Her words were stout, but her pretty face spoke of her fifteen-year-old conviction that thirty was surely near death. "You are handsome and rich. You have a fine house and a finer sister. And Mother says Amelia needs a mama."
Michael's grin faded. That was an argument it was becoming harder to dismiss. Amelia was getting older. She would soon be seven, and she needed a lady's influence—a lady with more energy than her grandmother and who was not a young aunt who would marry and leave their household. "Soon she'll have a governess. This Mrs. Brown."
"Oh, yes. Mrs. Brown." Christina's face took on that stubborn cast. She stepped away from him, fists planted on her hips. As she opened her mouth, Michael held up his hand to stop her predictable words.
"I know," he said firmly. "You don't want a governess."
Christina shook her head. "I just want to continue my own studies in botany," she said strongly. "That's all I care about. I'm making such progress!"
Michael remembered the rows of plants and dirt samples lined up in Christina's chamber, the bunches of herbs drying on racks. They covered up the dainty dressing table and escritoire their mother purchased for her, and unusual smells were always escaping beneath the door.
Much to their mother's everlasting chagrin.
"I realize that, Tina. Of course I do," he answered. "But how do you know that Mrs. Brown knows nothing of botany? She could be of a very scientific turn of
She noticed when Michael's leg was bothering him, and helped him however she could. With salves and warm coats.
"Thank you, Tina," he said. "Perhaps you'll help me into my coat?"
"Of course." She tightened her hand on his as he stood, her fingers rough from all the digging she did outdoors. She held the coat for him to slip on, and smoothed the warm tweed folds over his shoulders. "There! You will be the handsomest man in the neighborhood when you go riding out."
He laughed. "More handsome than young Henry Haigh-Wood? I hear all the ladies swoon when he walks into assemblies."
Christina wrinkled her freckled nose. "You are a hundred times more handsome than Henry Haigh-Wood. Only silly ladies swoon over his foppish gold curls and pink waistcoats!"
"I doubt Louisa Ross would agree with you. Mother says they're betrothed."
"Then Louisa Ross is only the silliest lady in the neighborhood. All the ladies sigh over you, Michael. They weep that you never dance at assemblies, and they are stuck with only Henry Haigh-Wood."
Michael grinned at her. "You are a good sister indeed to flatter your old brother, Tina. Did Mother entreat you to say that? Has she enlisted you in her cause to see me marry again?" Unconsciously, his hand drifted to his left cheek, to the long scar that sliced from his temple across his cheekbone into his hair. The ridge was hard beneath his touch.
Christina caught his hand, pulling it down. "Michael. Your scar is not nearly so great as you think. It has quite faded away. And Mother did not bribe me—the ladies do watch you. Emmeline Ross in particular. And she is slightly less silly than her sister." Her smile turned mischievous, elfish. "Mother says you should marry Emmeline."
Michael laughed. "Oho, does she now? Even though Miss Emmeline, at the tender age of seventeen, has already broken three betrothals?"
"It is not so bad as all that...." Christina gave in with a giggle. "Oh, very well, not Emmeline Ross. But there are many pretty ladies in the neighborhood. Not all of them are silly jilts. I know you say you will not marry again...."
"Precisely. No lady would want a crusty widower, all set in his ways."
"Pah! You like to pretend you are ancient, when you are but thirty." Her words were stout, but her pretty face spoke of her fifteen-year-old conviction that thirty was surely near death. "You are handsome and rich. You have a fine house and a finer sister. And Mother says Amelia needs a mama."
Michael's grin faded. That was an argument it was becoming harder to dismiss. Amelia was getting older. She would soon be seven, and she needed a lady's influence—a lady with more energy than her grandmother and who was not a young aunt who would marry and leave their household. "Soon she'll have a governess. This Mrs. Brown."
"Oh, yes. Mrs. Brown." Christina's face took on that stubborn cast. She stepped away from him, fists planted on her hips. As she opened her mouth, Michael held up his hand to stop her predictable words.
"I know," he said firmly. "You don't want a governess."
Christina shook her head. "I just want to continue my own studies in botany," she said strongly. "That's all I care about. I'm making such progress!"
Michael remembered the rows of plants and dirt samples lined up in Christina's chamber, the bunches of herbs drying on racks. They covered up the dainty dressing table and escritoire their mother purchased for her, and unusual smells were always escaping beneath the door.
Much to their mother's everlasting chagrin.
"I realize that, Tina. Of course I do," he answered. "But how do you know that Mrs. Brown knows nothing of botany? She could be of a very scientific turn of
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