THE MAGIC TOUCH (Historical Romance) by PATRICIA KEYSON Page B

fainted. It was Beaumont, the last person she expected to see so early in the morning. He came towards her. “Hope, I came to ask how Constance is. I was worried about her yesterday and wanted to reassure myself that she isn’t any worse.”
    “I’m afraid I haven’t visited her yet. I understand she is still in bed and has managed to sip some tea. I thought it best that she have some time to herself to recover. If you wished to see her then I’m sorry your journey here has been wasted.”
    “On the contrary, I would say my journey has been rewarded already.” Beaumont’s eyes crinkled at the corners as he smiled down at her.
    “I shall inform my aunt that you were here and I will pass on your best regards for her health.”
    “Please don’t dismiss me now,” pleaded Beaumont. “I have things I wish to discuss with you, Hope.”
    She risked a look at Stevenson who was hovering by the door as if standing guard. She beckoned Beaumont to the far corner of the room, wanting to be out of earshot of the butler. “How may I be of assistance?” she enquired politely, trying to keep the tone of her voice calm, even though her body was trembling at his very nearness. She could smell his fresh manly scent and compared it favourably to the tobacco reek of James Henderson.
    “The magic lantern show for the charity event is on my mind,” began Beaumont. “Often I narrate the stories, but you will be pl aying the piano for some of them and I should like the audience to be able to know some of the underlying metaphors. Would you assist me in writing a little about them? I remember you confided in me your aims were to teach and write a book. These two ambitions of yours qualify you perfectly for the post. What do you say?”
    The mention of writing ensnared her immediately. “Do you usually provide written matter for your audiences?” asked Hope. On her visit with Edna she hadn’t been aware of anything like that being available. She wanted to know everything about Beaumont and his shows.
    “Sometimes I do, but they are not always well received. I’ve no idea why.” Beaumont’s good looks were momentarily marred as a frown creased his forehead. “I’ve tried to make the information engaging but…” His voice tailed away.
    “ Have you tried making it too fascinating, I wonder?” ventured Hope. “I ask because when I was teaching my maid, Ruth, to read and write I found I was trying too hard and complicating things for her unnecessarily. She was unable to follow the words I was choosing.”
    “You see, Hope, you’re an inspiration. I think you’re correct. We need something far simpler. I’ve a feeling a good proportion of the audience are unable to read well or even at all. Probably not at the Female Aid Society performance, but at the shows held at fairs and music halls. There’s more to helping the underprivileged than handing out food parcels, although they are essential of course.”
    Beaumont’s vibrant face delighted Hope. She recognised the enthusiasm they shared.
    “Aunt Constance has continued to donate leftover food since your visit here when you broached the subject, and the clothes belonging to Uncle Eustace which she tired herself so dreadfully in sorting, they are to be given away also. Indeed, I believe they already have been. Most of them.” Hope felt her cheeks grow warm as she added the last sentence.
    “I am pleased. But I think it is down to you being so caring, Hope. I’ve never met a woman like you. Most of the ladies I come across think only of themselves and their looks. You, on the other hand, are a compassionate person as well as a beautiful and intelligent one.”
    Luckily Beaumont had lowered his voice and Hope wished with all her might that Stevenson hadn’t overheard their conversation. She had never had so many compliments heaped upon her and thought she would collapse under the weight of them. In order to maintain her equilibrium she murmured, “Shall we return to the