The Earl's Runaway Governess Page 7

  Marianne had received a cordial goodnight from both ladies as they’d climbed the stairs, and a request to meet with Lady Kingswood after breakfast to discuss Cecily’s learning. Cecily had looked a little anxious at this and Marianne, remembering what it had been like to be twelve, had felt some sympathy for her.

  And now she was in her room, alone at last, with time to reflect on the events of the day. There was no denying the comfort of knowing that this was to be her own room for some considerable time, that she had a roof over her head, food to eat, and a position that gave her some security. Temporarily, anyway.

  During the evening her room had been given a cursory clean by Agnes, Mrs Cullen’s daughter, who had also made up Marianne’s bed. She had promised to set a fire in the grate from tomorrow, but had not had the time to do so tonight. Marianne had thanked her and asked her to leave her basket of cleaning materials. Agnes had eventually left, after talking incessantly at Marianne for quite half an hour.

  Having sat down with relief when Agnes had finally left, Marianne had now forced herself to get up again and unpack. She had never before had to perform this task for herself—yet another luxury she had taken for granted. She shook out and hung up her few other items of clothing and stowed her bandboxes—with Mama’s jewels still safely inside—on top of the armoire.

  Afterwards, picking up a duster and cloth, she began cleaning the main surfaces of the room herself. It was surprisingly satisfying to see the grime come away. The tallow candle was burning down surprisingly quickly, so she gave the window panes a quick wipe, vowing to herself to do more in the morning, with clean water. Closing the curtains, she quickly undressed and climbed into bed. The room was so cold that she could see her breath.

  She blew out the candle.

  Lying there, in a strange bed, far from home, Marianne could not help shedding a tear for all she had lost. Not only her happy life with Mama and Papa, but her home, her security and now her identity. She was Miss Anne Bolton now, and she would do well to remember it. ‘Marianne...’ she whispered to herself. But Marianne was gone.

  * * *

  Ash stood outside, enjoying the cool freshness of the air and reflecting on his first full day as master of Ledbury House. The night was cold, clear and quiet, and the silent stars wheeled across the night sky in a slow dance. Here he was, stuck in a forlorn, miserable, rustic house, far from the civilisation, lights and busyness he was used to.

  He was trapped with three emotional females—who of course had all bonded together at the least provocation—and the prospect of congenial company was weeks, if not months, away. He generally avoided females—apart from his chères-amies, of course—preferring the company of his male friends. He missed their company—the eating and drinking, the card parties and horse racing, and the innocuous repartee that characterised his interactions with them.

  He sighed and turned to go inside. As he did so his eye was caught by a light coming from a first-floor window. A candle on the sill illuminated Miss Bolton, vigorously cleaning the window panes, her breath clearly visible in the cold air.

  He stood watching for a moment. The light shone upwards, giving her pretty face a warm glow. He could not help a sneaking admiration for the woman. Governesses did not normally perform menial work, yet there she was, cleaning at midnight, oblivious of his presence.

  Ash could not help feeling a little ashamed—as master, it was his responsibility to ensure that the house was suitable for its occupants.

  But you have only just taken the place on, he reminded himself.

  Still, the onus was now on him. He had gone from having no cares to suddenly having to work out how rooms were cleaned, chimneys swept and fires lit.

  For a moment he considered what Miss Bolton’s first impressions must be. A dirty, rundown house, a master and mistress constantly arguing, a lack of staff and a cold room with grimy windows. Despite his earlier irritation with her, he felt a pang of guilt, and a feeling of what felt strangely like warmth towards her.

  It was entirely new to him to feel anything like it. He was used to considering only his own comfort, and could not recall the last time he had given any consideration—beyond common courtesy—for anyone else. It was an unsettling feeling, and he did not like it.

  Deliberately, he put Miss Bolton out of his head and went inside. Locking the main door, he could not help but compare it to a prison. Except that he was imprisoning himself.

  Chapter Seven

  Marianne sat stiffly, feeling a degree of pressure, as she repeated some of the responses she had given Mrs Gray in the registry. In response to Lady Kingswood’s questions she had outlined her level of knowledge on the main subjects that Lady Cecily would be expected to learn. Despite apparently losing a series of governesses, Lady Kingswood was being very thorough, and Marianne could feel her anxiety rising in response. She needed this position.

  Lady Kingswood nodded. ‘That all sounds satisfactory. I expect high standards from Cecily—but I warn you, do not make a bluestocking of her.’

  Marianne raised her eyebrows questioningly.

  ‘I was married at sixteen, Miss Bolton. I should like my daughter to be prepared for an early marriage also. She must be accomplished in all the arts—she needs to improve her skill on the harp, and her painting and drawing. She must behave with decorum and propriety at all times, and she needs to know how to go on in society. I have noticed that—so far—your manners are excellent, and I hope that, as our...our situation improves there will be opportunities for Cecily to begin to go out in society, in preparation for her debut in a few years. Once we are out of black gloves she will need to experience a range of social events so that she learns how to behave in company.’

  Marianne nodded—none of this was unusual.

  ‘But,’ Lady Kingswood continued, ‘Cecily is not destined to be a governess. Therefore, she must be accomplished without being bookish or too knowledgeable. It would be sure to put off potential suitors, for no man wants a wife who claims to know more than he does.’

  Marianne’s shock must have shown on her face.

  ‘Trust me, Miss Bolton, I know what I am talking about and I insist on this. Do I make myself clear?’

  ‘Yes, Lady Kingswood.’

  Well, what else could Marianne say? Her employer must be obeyed. She had never before considered learning to be a bad thing—she had been encouraged by her parents to develop her own mind and her own opinions. Still, she thought, it was certainly true that society expected young ladies to be ‘demure’—which often, Marianne believed, meant vapid and insipid.

  In her mind, she told herself off. Her role was to make Lady Cecily into whatever Lady Kingswood believed was appropriate for a young lady—not what she, Marianne, believed. Marriage had never been more than a vague idea in her own mind, and she had not come under any pressure from her own parents to marry young. They, like her, had been content to wait for a suitable husband to come along. But he never had. Indeed, she had never met any man who had touched her heart...

  She pondered this for a moment. If she had been safely married when her parents had died she would have been protected from Henry, from having to run away—and from poverty and the need to take paid employment.

  That would have been nice, she thought wistfully, before mentally shaking herself. An invisible husband who did not exist was no good to her. And she had never been one of those who sought marriage as soon as they were of age. Like Lady Kingswood, evidently.

  ‘What was it like, to be married so young?’ she wondered aloud, then bit her lip. Was that an impertinent question?

  ‘Romantic,’ said Lady Kingswood, with a short laugh. ‘At first, anyway. I had more than one suitor, and I had thought the most difficult part would be choosing the best husband.’ Her eyes became unfocused. ‘I often wonder what would have happened if I had made a different choice...’

  Her voice tailed
away for a moment, then she seemed to gather herself.

  ‘But the hardest part was adapting to my life as a wife, and soon after as a mother, while living here with my husband’s parents. Still, I survived. I still survive.’

  Marianne nodded. ‘You have great strength, if you do not mind my saying so.’

  Lady Kingswood’s face lit up. ‘Thank you. Strength of character is one of the things I admire in myself. I only wish Cecily was similarly strong. But I fear she is too often led by her soft heart.’

  ‘A good heart is a different kind of strength, surely?’

  ‘Indeed it is not!’ her employer replied sharply. ‘Now, go to where Cecily awaits you in the sitting room. I shall expect an update each day as to her progress!’

  ‘Yes, Lady Kingswood.’

  Was this how Mama had behaved towards Marianne’s governesses? She rather thought not. Mama had been too kind, too gentle, to be so determined. She had trusted Marianne and her governesses to work together in the best way possible, and somehow it had worked out. Lady Kingswood, it was clear, took a different approach. And she had strong expectations of her daughter.

  As she left the room, Marianne hoped she could navigate what might prove to be choppy waters.

  * * *

  A few hours later, Marianne closed her book. ‘That will do for now, Lady Cecily. I think I have a good idea about your level of French,’ she said in that language. ‘Let us have a break, then later you can play a piece on the harp for me.’

  Cecily grimaced. ‘Very well.’

  ‘You sound reluctant. Do you not enjoy playing?’

  ‘Oh, I do! Or, at least, I did. But Mama expects me—At least, my progress is not what Mama wishes. I must practise harder!’

  ‘I am sure your mama only wishes the best for you.’

  ‘Yes, of course.’ Cecily’s tone was flat.

  ‘Lady Cecily! Miss Bolton! Come and see what has arrived!’ Agnes exploded into the room in a flurry of excitement.

  Cecily perked up. ‘What is it, Agnes?’

  ‘Only the finest carriage I have ever seen. And the horses are as like as twins—all four of them!’

  Marianne was confused. ‘Do you mean Lord Kingswood’s phaeton? That we travelled in yesterday?’

  ‘Lord, no, miss—though that’s a fine carriage too. This one is enormous! And I don’t know where Thomas will put another four horses!’

  Lady Cecily had already risen and moved to follow Agnes into the front hall. Her curiosity piqued, Marianne followed. Mrs Cullen had opened the front door and was frantically trying to tuck loose strands of hair beneath her cap.

  ‘Who is it, Ma?’ asked Agnes.

  ‘The new master’s personal servants, bringing his luggage,’ her mother returned. ‘You’d best get out of the way before they come in, though.’

  As she spoke, the carriage door opened and a personage emerged. He was a young man in his late twenties, of slim build and noble carriage, and he paused on the step to look around him.

  ‘Lawd!’ gulped Agnes. ‘Look at ’im! Look at his clothes! His hair!’

  The man’s clothing was, in fact, neat and restrained. Dark trousers, a plain waistcoat with no seals or fobs, and a plain black coat of excellent cut. But he carried it with such an air that even Marianne could not help but stare.

  Recovering herself, she stole a glance at Agnes. The maid’s jaw was hanging open.

  ‘Is it a duke, Ma?’ she breathed.

  Mrs Cullen shook her head. ‘No, Aggie. It’s worse than that. It’s a valet. Lord Kingswood told me yesterday he would come this afternoon.’

  ‘Lawks! A real-life valet...right here in Ledbury House!’ Aggie considered this. ‘What’s a valet, Ma?’

  ‘A manservant. Lord Kingswood’s man. Lord, the state of the house!’

  A second man was descending from the carriage, and Thomas had now appeared to help the coachman with the horses. As they watched the valet moved to the back of the carriage in order to supervise. Thomas began to unload various trunks.

  ‘A servant? He’s never a servant!’

  Agnes’s incredulity meant that her voice rose a little, and she jumped when a deep voice behind them interjected.

  ‘He’ll be an ex-servant shortly, if he causes you all to continue hanging around the hallway, gaping like urchins at a circus!’ Lord Kingswood’s tone was scathing.

  They all whirled round, as if caught stealing sweetmeats.

  ‘Miss Bolton,’ he continued, in the same manner, ‘I am surprised to see you here. Might I help you with something?’

  Marianne flushed, and stammered something incoherent.

  ‘Quite,’ the Earl replied with deadly politeness.

  He stalked past them through the open door, where he greeted the second traveller. ‘You are Cronin, I presume? Good. I shall expect to see you in Lord Ki—in my study in ten minutes.’ He turned to the valet. ‘Loveday—I shall never travel without you again! You are required to make my life here bearable.’

  The valet bowed serenely and exchanged a few quiet words with his master, before returning to Lord Kingswood’s numerous trunks.

  Marianne felt fear ice through her—she might lose her position. She had to get away from the hallway before the Earl stepped back in!

  ‘Come, Lady Cecily.’

  Outwardly calm, she led her pupil back to the parlour, but inside she was berating herself. Lord Kingswood was quite right—it was her job to instil a sense of decorum into Lady Cecily. Her first day and she was already making a mull of it!

  Relieved that Lady Kingswood had not witnessed her lapse, she reached the safety of the parlour and closed the door.

  Lord! She groaned inwardly as she recalled Lord Kingswood’s cool comment and angry expression. Knowing that he had the power to throw her out on a whim, if he so decided, was frightening enough. Realising that she had given him exactly the sort of ammunition he needed to do so was worse.

  But would he? She tried to review the situation with a rational eye. Lord Kingswood had the air of a man exasperated, it was true, but the arrival of his own servants might calm him down.

  The second man who had emerged from the carriage—Mr Cronin—had had the look of an administrator, or a secretary, perhaps. He had been called to the study, which made sense. Perhaps the Earl wanted to meet with him about matters of business. Her own father had used to spend long hours with his man of business, poring over lists and accounts and documents. Hopefully Lord Kingswood would be distracted long enough to forget her lapse.

  She picked up a book from the side table and pretended to read. It would not do. In her mind she saw scenes of disaster playing out—imagined him ordering her from the house, berating her for being the worst governess ever, telling her that he would immediately seek a proper governess, one who was actually capable of carrying out the role. She would end up going back to Mrs Gray with an admission that she had served for only one day.

  She pictured Lord Kingswood’s angry face as she had seen it earlier. Did he dislike her?

  Stop it! she told herself. Not since her first foray into the Assembly Rooms in Middleton on her debut had she worried so much about other people’s opinions of her. Of course everyone had turned out to be most amiable at all the balls and assemblies, and Mama had admonished her for her foolish fancies and for letting her imagination get the better of her.

  And now she was doing so again. Really, she did not know enough about the Earl, or Lady Kingswood, to say whether they liked her or not. And as the governess surely it mattered not. So long as she performed her duties to their expectations she would remain.

  Ah, but you want him to like you! a little voice whispered in her mind.

  Nonsense! she retorted.

  Lord, now she was having arguments with herself!

  She focused on her book again, and this time manage
d actually to read.

  * * *

  Ash stifled a yawn. Papers were scattered all over John’s desk, with some piles on the floor. He and Cronin had, he thought, made some headway in understanding the various tasks to be done in terms of the estate. But the doing of it, he knew, would take weeks, if not months.

  He glanced to his right, where Cronin was adding to the largest pile—the unpaid bills. It seemed that Lady Kingswood had not paid so much as a single bill in the past six months. She and Mrs Cullen had continued to order supplies from all the local tradesmen, as well as—he perused the document in his hand—expensive dresses. Had Fanny not thought about how the bills were to be paid?

  Ash foresaw that he would have to throw substantial amounts of his own money into setting it all to rights.

  He sighed, resentment once again bubbling up inside him. He should be in London right now, enjoying a drink with his friends, not sitting with his new steward sorting out dull papers. This was not his life.

  ‘You may be interested in this one, my lord—it apparently arrived the day before yesterday.’

  Cronin handed him a letter, which Ash quickly scanned. It was a note of introduction for Miss Anne Bolton, the new governess. It outlined the wages to be paid to her, and her expected arrival on the mail coach.

  The day before yesterday.

  If it had arrived two days ago then Fanny should have seen it. Should have known to expect Miss Bolton. Should have sent Thomas to meet her. But she had not done so. And her anger against Miss Bolton had seemed genuine.

  Ash frowned. ‘How do you know when it arrived?’

  ‘A maid told me. She handed the letter to me as I came in.’

  ‘That would be Agnes. As I mentioned, she is currently the only maid here.’

  Cronin’s eyebrows raised a little at this. ‘I took the liberty of questioning her further. She said that she had instructions to open all the letters arriving at the house.’