The Earl's Runaway Governess Page 2

  How could it?

  He turned away as the service ended, accepting a few handshakes and murmuring appropriate responses to the expressions of sorrow being offered.

  ‘My Lord?’ It was the vicar. Ash started, realising the man was addressing him. Strange to think that because of John’s death he was now not simply Mr Ashington but the Earl of Kingswood.

  ‘Yes?’

  The vicar shook his hand and thanked him for attending the service. ‘A funeral is always a sad occasion, but laying to rest such a young man is doubly sorrowful. Why, he was not much more than two and thirty!’

  I know, thought Ash. For John and I are—were—almost the same age.

  ‘And to think of his widow and daughter, now left alone in the world...’ The vicar sighed, then looked at Ash intently. ‘Lord Kingswood—er...the previous Lord Kingswood spoke about them often to me in his final weeks.’

  ‘Indeed.’ The last person Ash wished to think about was John’s widow. Thank goodness women did not attend funerals.

  ‘He also spoke about you.’ The vicar’s warm brown eyes bored into Ash’s. ‘I think he regretted the distance between you.’

  Ash was feeling extremely uncomfortable. He was unaccustomed to discussing his personal affairs with someone he had just met. In truth, he was unaccustomed to discussing his personal affairs with anyone. He preferred it that way.

  Adopting his usual defence in such moments, he maintained an even expression and said nothing.

  The vicar made a few more general comments and Ash listened politely. He thanked the man and turned away to where his coachman, Tully, waited with the carriage. If he left now he could be back in London by tonight.

  ‘Er...’

  The vicar. Again.

  ‘Yes?’ Ash’s patience was beginning to wear thin, but he forced himself to maintain a courteous expression.

  ‘I was asked to pass this to you.’ He offered Ash a sealed note.

  Ash frowned but took the paper. Opening it, he ran his eyes over the contents.

  ‘Confound it!’ he snapped, causing the vicar to raise an eyebrow. ‘I am requested to go to the house after the funeral. By the family lawyer.’

  The vicar looked bewildered at his reaction to what must seem a perfectly reasonable request. They were literally standing together at the Fourth Earl of Kingswood’s funeral, and Ash was now the Fifth Earl.

  But he had never expected to accede to the title.

  Why, John had been only thirty-two, with plenty of time to sire a son with Fanny. Everyone—including Ash—had assumed that John would eventually have sons, and that he—Ash—would never have to worry about the responsibilities John had carried for so long.

  Ash debated it in his mind. Could he ignore the note and leave immediately for London, as planned? He could ask the lawyer to see him there. No. It would look churlish and impolite. Damn. He would have to comply as a courtesy. Which meant possibly seeing her again.

  Fanny. John’s wife—John’s widow, he corrected himself. After all these years of successfully avoiding her.

  Placing his hat firmly on his head, he bade farewell to the vicar and made for his carriage. If he must face this ordeal, better to get it over with.

  Chapter Two

  Marianne reminded herself to breathe. Her shoulders were tense and she could feel fear prick her spine. She had paid the fee and entered her name into the registry book at the office recommended by Mrs Bailey, and now she waited.

  Well, she acknowledged, not her actual name. Her made-up name.

  She had decided during the long journey to London that she must not go by her usual name, for fear Henry might look for her. She would use her father’s surname—her real father—as it would give her comfort, and she was confident Henry would not remember or recognise it.

  After being known as Marianne Grant for most of her twenty years, she would now go back to the surname she had been given at birth—Bolton. Charles Bolton had given her her dark brown eyes, her dark hair and, according to Mama, her placid nature. The Grants were altogether more fiery.

  She was seated in an austere room with a dozen other would-be servants, all patiently awaiting their turn to be called. Among the would-be grooms, scullery maids and footmen she had espied two other young ladies, respectably dressed, who might also be seeking employment as governesses. She had exchanged polite smiles with both of them, but no one had initiated conversation.

  It was greatly worrying that on a random Tuesday there were three young ladies of similar social standing all seeking positions at the same time.

  The door to the inner office opened and everyone looked up. The young man who had been called a few moments earlier now emerged. His demeanour gave no sign as to whether he had been offered a position or not, but he kept his head down as he left.

  I wonder, thought Marianne, if he is a footman?

  ‘Miss Bolton? Miss Anne Bolton?’

  With a start, Marianne realised that it was her turn. The lady in charge—the one who had been calling people in for the past hour—was standing in the doorway. Anne Bolton was, of course, the false name Marianne had written in the registry book, and her ears had not responded when the name had been called.

  Blushing, she stood. ‘I am Miss Bolton.’

  My first lie. Or is it?

  The lady eyed her assessingly. ‘Come with me.’

  Trying to maintain a dignified expression, and hoping that her shaking hands were not obvious, Marianne followed her into the inner chamber and closed the door.

  ‘Please sit, Miss Bolton.’

  Marianne complied, watching as the registry lady took her own seat behind an imposing rosewood desk. So much depended on the next few moments and this woman’s decision!

  ‘I am Mrs Gray.’

  She was a stern-looking lady in her later years, with iron-grey hair, dark skin, piercing dark eyes and deep lines etched into her face. She wore a plain, high-necked gown in sombre grey and no jewellery. Despite this, it was clear that she was a person of authority. It was something about the way she carried herself, how still she was, the way those dark eyes seem to pierce right through Marianne’s flimsy defences.

  ‘I see that you are seeking a position as a governess,’ she stated, ‘but you have come with no recommendation. Tell me about your situation and why you are here.’

  Mrs Gray’s tone was flat, expressionless. Marianne could feel her heart thumping in her chest.

  Haltingly, then with increasing fluency, Marianne told the tale she had concocted. Mrs Gray listened impassively, giving no indication whether she believed any of it. Doubt flooded through Marianne. Perhaps she should not have pretended that her father was a lawyer and that he had left her with little money and no connections. What if Mrs Gray asked for some proof? Her heart fluttered as anxiety rose within her.

  ‘When did your father die?’

  ‘Six months ago.’ Marianne’s throat tightened as it always did when she thought about Papa.

  Mrs Gray’s eyes narrowed. ‘And your mother?’

  ‘Also dead.’ Marianne swallowed. Her hands clenched into fists as she fought the wave of grief that threatened to overwhelm her.

  Mrs Gray’s gaze flicked briefly to Marianne’s hands, then she leaned back slightly in her chair. ‘Tell me about your education, Miss Bolton. What are your talents?’ Mrs Gray spoke bluntly, giving no clue as to whether she would favour Marianne.

  Hesitantly, Marianne spoke of drawing and painting, of her musical skills, her ability to sew and to converse in French and Italian—

  ‘And what do you know of Mathematics, Logic and Latin?’

  Marianne blinked. Mrs Gray had asked the question in perfect Italian! ‘I have studied the main disciplines of Mathematics,’ she replied, also in Italian.

  Mrs Gray quizzed her on these, then switched to French, followe
d by Latin, to discuss the finer details of Marianne’s knowledge of Logic, improving texts and the Classics.

  Thankfully Marianne’s expensive education had equipped her well. She had been an apt student and had enjoyed her studies. Was that, she wondered, a glimmer of approval in Mrs Gray’s eye?

  The woman paused.

  Marianne forced herself to sit still. Please, she was thinking, please. If she could not gain a position as a governess she had no idea what she would do. Returning home was not an option. That door was closed in her mind. She had no home. So everything depended on Mrs Gray.

  * * *

  This house is freezing, thought Ash, stepping towards the fireplace in John’s study. Hopefully he could be on his way quickly—the last thing he needed was a prolonged encounter with the grieving widow.

  He paused, holding out his hands to the pathetic fire, but there was little heat to be had. The door opened and closed, sending smoke billowing into the room. Ash coughed and stepped away from the fire.

  Have the dashed chimneys ever been cleaned?

  He had not been in Ledbury House for many years, but he could not remember it looking so dilapidated.

  ‘Lord Kingswood, thank you for coming.’ The lawyer, a bespectacled gentleman in his middle years, bowed formally. ‘My name is Richardson.’

  Ash nodded his head. ‘I received your note asking me to come to the house after the funeral. I understand you wish to read the will immediately.’

  He kept his tone polite, despite his impatience with the entire situation. Every moment he spent here meant a later arrival in London.

  ‘I am required to outline the extent of your inheritance, plus a number of other matters added by the Fourth Earl to his will.’ The lawyer pushed his spectacles up his nose, where they balanced precariously. He went behind John’s desk and began taking papers out of a small case.

  Ash stood there, wishing for nothing more than to leave and never return. Every part of him was fighting the notion that he was now Earl of Kingswood. The last thing he needed was ‘other matters’ complicating his life further.

  ‘What other matters? And why did John—my cousin—see fit to add to the responsibilities of the Earldom?’

  Mr Richardson sniffed. ‘That is not for me to say. My role is simply to see that the requirements of the will are carried out.’ He arranged the papers methodically on John’s desk.

  ‘I see.’

  But he didn’t. Not at all. Why had John added to his burdens, knowing how much he would hate it? Particularly when they had not been intimate friends for fourteen years?

  John had settled into life as a country earl, staying in this rundown mausoleum of a house with his wife and daughter and rarely visiting the capital. Ash, on the other hand, barely left London, unless it was to attend a house party. Life in the country was intolerably tedious.

  Perhaps, Ash mused, John has left me a memento—something from our childhood or youth.

  Still, if he was forced to stay for the reading of the will it meant that he would not be able to avoid running into—

  ‘Mr Richardson! Thank you so much for being here in our time of need.’

  Ash turned to see Fanny glide into the room, followed by a girl who must be her daughter.

  Fanny had always known how to make an entrance. Her black gown was of the finest silk, with self-covered buttons and black lace detail at the sleeves. Her blonde hair was artlessly arranged in an elegant style, and her matron’s cap did nothing to dim the beauty of her glorious features. The cornflower-blue eyes, cupid’s bow lips and the angelic dimples that had driven him mad with desire all those years ago were all still there. If anyone could make mourning garb look attractive it was Fanny.

  Despite himself he felt a wave of recognition and remembered longing which almost floored him. For a moment he felt eighteen again.

  She stopped, as if noticing him for the first time. ‘Why, Ash! I did not know you were here already.’

  She was lying. The servants would have told her of his arrival—and the fact that he and the lawyer were in the library for the reading of the will.

  He bowed. ‘Hello, Fanny.’ He made no attempt to take her hand. Or kiss it.

  ‘This is most unexpected,’ she murmured. It was unclear whether she was referring to the immediate reading of the will or to his coming into the title.

  ‘For me, too.’ Pointedly, he eyed her daughter. ‘And this is—?’

  ‘My daughter, Cecily.’ The girl, as pretty as her mother—though with John’s hazel eyes—curtseyed politely, then looked quizzically at him.

  ‘I am an old friend of your father. And I am also his cousin.’

  ‘We were all friends, Ash.’ Fanny seated herself on a faded sofa and smoothed her skirts, indicating with a gesture that Cecily should sit with her. ‘May I offer you some refreshments? Tea, perhaps?’

  ‘A brandy would be preferable.’ He would need something stronger than tea if he was to endure the next half-hour.

  She pressed her lips together and reached for the bell.

  Ash sighed inwardly. Fanny had not changed one iota.

  * * *

  Mrs Gray had been making notes throughout her quizzing of Marianne, but now she lifted her head to fix Marianne with a steely stare. ‘It is difficult to find a situation for a governess who comes with no reference, no recommendation.’

  ‘I understand.’ With some difficulty Marianne kept her expression neutral. It would not do to show desperation. ‘But I assure you I will make a good governess. When I lived with my parents I taught our maid to read and to write. I found it enjoyable, and I believe I have an aptitude for it.’

  That is mostly true, she thought. I did teach Jane—though the implication that she was our only maid is misleading. Oh, dear—how hard it is to be a liar!

  Mrs Gray tapped her finger on the table, considering. ‘There is one possibility. A young girl in need of a governess. Her father died recently, too—indeed, my understanding is that he was to be buried today.’

  Marianne felt a pang of sympathy for the unknown girl. She knew exactly how it felt to lose a beloved parent.

  Mrs Gray was watching closely, and now she nodded in satisfaction. ‘She lives quietly with her mother in the country.’ She eyed Marianne sharply. ‘You do not mind leaving London and living in some quiet, out-of-the-way place? Will you miss the excitements of the capital?’

  Marianne shuddered at the very thought of the ‘excitements’ of London. Since arriving in London last night she had been almost overwhelmed by the noise and the smells and the feeling of danger all around her. It had reinforced her notions of the city, gleaned from second-hand tales of Henry’s activities and from the behaviour of the London bucks he had brought to her home.

  ‘I have no desire to live in London. I am myself country-bred and will be perfectly content in the country.’

  It would also make it harder for Henry to find her. If he even bothered searching for her.

  ‘I have one further question.’ Mrs Gray eyed her piercingly. ‘Those who come to me for a situation know that I sometimes place those whom other registries will not touch. But I insist on my people being of good character.’

  Marianne’s chin went up. No one had ever dared question her character before! ‘I can assure you, Mrs Gray, that my character is blameless.’

  ‘No need to get hoity-toity with me, Miss—’ she glanced down ‘—Miss Bolton.’

  Marianne blushed. Mrs Gray was making her scepticism about the name obvious.

  The woman’s dark eyes fixed on Marianne, bored into her. ‘Are you with child?’

  Marianne gasped. ‘Of course not! I’ve never—I mean I wouldn’t dream of ever—I mean, no.’ She kept looking at Mrs Gray. ‘It’s impossible.’

  ‘Very well.’

  As if she had not just asked Marianne a perfectly ou
trageous question, Mrs Gray took a fresh sheet of paper, and began writing.

  ‘You will receive board and lodging and will be paid a yearly wage and a tea allowance. You will be entitled to two days off per month. Take the Reading stage from the Angel on Thursday and get out at Netherton. I will arrange for someone to meet you there and take you to Ledbury House.’

  She looked up.

  ‘Remember, Lady Kingswood and her daughter, Lady Cecily, are in mourning, so they will live very quietly. I have placed servants and staff there before, who have left because the situation is too remote. I believe it is why Lady Cecily’s last governess left. The child needs someone who is willing to stay for a long time. After losing her father—’

  ‘I understand.’

  Living quietly sounded perfect! Marianne had loved her quiet, easy life with Mama and Papa, visiting neighbours and friends and never aching for the so-called delights of the city.

  ‘Lady Kingswood had been focused, naturally, on nursing her husband through his last illness, which is why she has entrusted the appointment of a new governess to me.’ Mrs Gray handed her the paper. ‘Do not let me down!’

  Marianne assured her that she was to be relied upon, then looked at the document. It gave the address as Ledbury House, Netherton, Berkshire. It also included a summary of Marianne’s terms of employment.

  Her hand shook a little as she accepted it. Amid the relief which was coursing through her there was also a sense of unreality. Strange to think that from now on she would no longer be Miss Marianne Grant, a young lady of wealth and status, but instead plain Miss Anne Bolton, governess, orphan, and near-pauper.

  She swallowed. The alternative was absolute poverty or—God forbid—returning to Henry. Fear flooded through her at the very thought. She would have to make this work, be careful and, crucially, be effective as a governess. She would also have to learn to respond to the unfamiliar name.