Love in the Afternoon (The Hathaways #5)(32)

“I offer no miracles,” Beatrix said with a smile. “Merely persistence.”

“God bless you, miss. He’s a savage creature. If dog is man’s best friend, I worry for Captain Phelan.”

“So do I,” Beatrix said sincerely.

In a few minutes she had found the blue shed.

The shed, built to contain light gardening implements, shuddered as the creature inside lunged against the wall. A fury of barking erupted as Beatrix drew closer. Although Beatrix had no doubt of her ability to handle him, his ferocious baying, which sounded almost unearthly, was enough to give her pause.

“Albert?”

The barking became more passionate, with cries and whimpers breaking in.

Slowly Beatrix lowered to the ground and sat with her back against the shed. “Calm yourself, Albert,” she said. “I’ll let you out as soon as you’re quiet.

The terrier growled and pawed at the door.

Having consulted several books on the subject of dogs, one on rough terriers in particular, Beatrix was fairly certain that training Albert with techniques involving dominance or punishment would not be at all effective. In fact, they would probably make his behavior worse. Terriers, the book had said, frequently tried to outsmart humans. The only method left was to reward his good behavior with praise and food and kindness.

“Of course you’re unhappy, poor boy. He’s gone away, and your place is by his side. But I’ve come to collect you, and while he’s gone, we’ll work on your manners. Perhaps we can’t turn you into a perfect lapdog . . . but I’ll help you learn to get on with others.” She paused before adding with a reflective grin, “Of course, I can’t manage to behave properly in polite society. I’ve always thought there’s a fair amount of dishonesty involved in politeness. There, you’re quiet now.” She stood and pulled at the latch. “Here is your first rule, Albert: it’s very rude to maul people.”

Albert burst out and jumped on her. Had she not been holding on to the support of the shed’s frame, she would have been knocked over. Whining and wagging his tail, Albert stood on his hind legs and dove his face against her. He was rawboned and ragged, and distinctly malodorous.

“My good boy,” Beatrix said, petting and scratching his coarse fur. She tried to slip the leash around his neck, but was prevented as he wriggled to his back, his quivering legs stuck straight into the air. Laughing, she obliged him with a tummy rub. “Come home with me, Albert. I think you’ll do very well with the Hathaways—or at least you will after I’ve given you a bath.”

Chapter Twelve

Christopher delivered Audrey safely to London, where her family, the Kelseys, had welcomed her eagerly. The large Kelsey brood was overjoyed to have their sister with them. For reasons no one had quite understood, Audrey had refused to allow any of her relations to come stay with her in Hampshire after John’s death. She had insisted on grieving with Mrs. Phelan unaccompanied by anyone else.

“Your mother was the only one who felt John’s loss as keenly as I did,” Audrey had explained to Christopher during the carriage drive to London. “There was a kind of relief in that. Any of my family would have tried to make me feel better, and surrounded me with love and comfort, which would have kept me from grieving properly. The whole thing would have been drawn out. No, it was the right thing to live in grief for as long as I needed. Now it’s time to recover.”

“You’re very good at organizing your feelings, aren’t you?” Christopher had asked dryly.

“I suppose I am. I wish I could organize yours. At present they seem to resemble an overturned drawer of neckcloths.”

“Not neckcloths,” he said. “Flatware, with sharp edges.”

Audrey had smiled. “I pity those who find themselves in the way of your feelings.” Pausing, she had studied Christopher with fond concern. “How difficult it is to look at you,” she commented, startling him. “It’s the resemblance you bear to John. You’re more handsome than he was, of course, but I preferred his face. A wonderful everyday face—I never tired of it. Yours is a bit too intimidating for my taste. You resemble an aristocrat far more than John did, you know.”

Christopher’s gaze darkened as he thought of some of the men he’d fought with, who’d been fortunate to survive their wounds, but had suffered some manner of disfigurement. They had wondered how they would be received upon their return home, if wives or sweethearts would turn away in horror from their ruined appearances. “It doesn’t matter what someone looks like,” he said. “All that matters is what he is.”

“I’m so very glad to hear you say that.”

Christopher gave her a speculative glance. “What are you leading to?”

“Nothing. Except . . . I want to ask you something. If another woman—say, Beatrix Hathaway—and Prudence Mercer were to exchange appearances, and all that you esteemed in Prudence was transferred to Beatrix . . . would you want Beatrix?”

“Good God, no.”

“Why not?” she asked indignantly.

“Because I know Beatrix Hathaway, and she’s nothing like Pru.”

“You do not know Beatrix. You haven’t spent nearly enough time with her.”

“I know that she’s unruly, opinionated, and far more cheerful than any reasoning person should be. She wears breeches, climbs trees, and roams wherever she pleases without a chaperone. I also know that she has overrun Ramsay House with squirrels, hedgehogs, and goats, and the man unlucky enough to marry her will be driven to financial ruin from the veterinary bills. Would you care to contradict any of those points?”