Teaching His Ward: A Regency Romance

by Noël Cades

  So this was the lie of the land, was it? Already fatigued from his journey and irritated by the episode with the horse, the Earl of Southwell’s voice was like ice as he spoke. “I regret that you have been caused any inconvenience, sir, but since I am returned, we will dispense with my ward’s lessons today.”

  Roger Cherwell had naturally fallen head over heels in love with Jemima within a day of meeting her. She was young, beautiful and intelligent, and he was of an age to be considering matrimony. His ardour, however, was not reciprocated. Jemima, her heart already lost to another, was quite oblivious to the affections of her tutor. She had even made the fatal mistake of revealing that she was unhappily engaged to a man “not of her choosing”. This had only deepened Mr Cherwell’s devotion, for it elevated Jemima from a mere girl to a damsel in distress in need of rescue.

  Faced now with her raging tower of a guardian, Mr Cherwell felt that he had guessed the source of this distress. He was, however, not quite foolhardy enough to attempt rescue at the present time. Had Marcus’s superior rank, size and status not deterred him, the violent glint in the Earl of Southwell’s eye must certainly have done so.

  The curate did not even dare to inquire as to whether the lessons would continue the next day. Bidding them both adieu, he took his leave in a manner that was perhaps rather more indicative of haste than chivalry.

  Marcus turned to Jemima. “So this is how you have been spending your time?” His tone held a cold, accusatory fury.

  Jemima was at first confused as to his insinuation. “Just as you requested, my lord.”

  “I did not request that you spent hours in intimacy with some young bounder gazing upon you like a moon-calf.”

  The shock of his implication and the unfairness of it left Jemima temporarily unable to respond. When she did, she struggled to keep her own anger in check. “My lessons with Mr Cherwell covered classical literature and poetry, and nothing more. You are welcome to peruse my exercises to satisfy yourself on that point."

  They looked at one another, one rigid with rage, the other trembling with outrage.

  Any resolve that Marcus had had to enlighten Jemima as to the identity of her future bridegroom had evaporated. She could damn well spend a few more weeks labouring under her misapprehension.

  Chapter 22

  It did not assuage the Earl of Southwell’s temper to learn that his entire household had apparently become enamoured of his ward. He had hoped that the girl would behave to them with respect, but for her have become so universally adored was unexpected and not a little disconcerting.

  As he had held interviews with the various senior members of his staff, he found himself increasingly impressed and exasperated. The girl seemed to have become embroiled in scrape after scrape, yet had emerged from each one covered with glory.

  She had assisted with the childbirth of one of the kitchenmaids. She had managed to get Satan to accept a saddle and rider. She had helped the stable boy Juan to write and send a letter home.

  Her nervous companion had been coaxed onto horseback for the first time. Some Irish potion cooked up in the stillroom had brought relief to the cook’s lumbago. When Satan and two other horses, spooked by a thunderstorm, had broken out of their enclosure and bolted, she had ridden out with two of the grooms to bring them back.

  It was all too much, Marcus thought. He felt bound to reprimand her, but could find no fair grounds on which to do so. Her exercise book was indeed filled with neat pages of writing, each one dated with that day’s lesson. There was no evidence here, anyway, of anything untoward taking place with the curate.

  He found Mrs Owen to be a pleasant and intelligent woman, who had no reports to make of any improper behaviour. "Her empathy with horses is quite remarkable, Lord Southwell. I would never have believed myself capable of riding but the horses become so docile around her."

  Marcus thought to raise the issue of the curate with her. “I understand that there has been a change in tutor for her Latin and Greek lessons?” The question in his expression was clear.

  “There has indeed. It was a kindness of Mr Cherwell to assume the Reverend’s obligation to your ward. The Reverend is nearly restored to health, so I am assured. But he is no longer in his strongest years, as you must be aware.”

  Marcus was well aware and sensed a mild reproach in the companion’s tone. He had not considered how strenuous it might be for an elderly man to travel the three miles to Southwell and back each day.

  “The lessons with the curate… carry on as normal?” He did not articulate his suspicion but it was clear from his tone what he wished to know.

  Mrs Owen understood. “If I may be candid with you, my lord, I fear that some attachment may have developed on Mr Cherwell’s side. I can assure you that Miss Carlow is quite unaware of this, and that there has been no impropriety whatsoever between them.”

  Mrs Owen privately considered that Roger Cherwell would be an excellent match for Jemima, but knew it was not her place to suggest such an alliance. She was aware that the Earl planned for Jemima to marry a titled gentleman, who would doubtless be able to provide her with a more comfortable home than a country curate could offer. She had learned of the girl’s antipathy to her guardian’s plans, but was hopeful that her descriptions of her future bridegroom were greatly exaggerated.

  Mrs Owen was able to express much praise for Jemima’s improvement in needlework, though this impressed Marcus less than the news of his ward’s horsemanship.

  Jemima’s conquering of Satan made Marcus all the more determined to tackle the stallion himself. Somehow he found he could not support the idea of the beast refusing to bear anyone but Jemima and Juan.

  With this in view he accompanied his ward on her ride the following morning. He had avoided her much of the previous day, taken up with estate business and absorbed by his own disturbed sentiments. It was the first time that the Earl of Southwell had been forced to examine his own feelings to such a degree.

  He felt, not without some reluctance, that he owed his ward an apology for his conduct towards her the previous day. His accusation of impropriety with the curate had clearly been unjust. Mrs Owen, though quiet spoken, was no fool.

  Marcus was not yet ready, however, to make such an admission. Instead he strode across to the stables with Jemima, who this morning was more properly clad in a gown rather than the distracting breeches. Where she had found them he had no idea.

  Jemima, unperturbed by her guardian’s silence, tried to explain the best approach to take with the stallion.

  “As I have said, he must be gently coaxed, not forced, my lord. A spur or whip disturbs him very much more greatly than other horses. But they are not needed, you see, for he is responsive to the very lightest pressures.”

  “I hope you don’t doubt my ability to manage him?” Marcus asked.

  “O! Not at all. It is only that he is not like most other horses, as I am sure you are also aware. But you will see for yourself.”

  Marcus did see for himself.

  Satan, irritated by both the saddle and the unaccustomed weight of the Earl of Southwell compared to Jemima or Juan, played up. Marcus, feeling impatient to get the ride over with, had ignored Jemima’s entreaties to introduce himself to the stallion and win his sanction before mounting.

  “He is not a kitten, Jemima, nor the Queen of Sheba. I do not need to waste time petting and flattering a horse before riding it.” In this Marcus came across as harsher than he was, for he was typically a gentle master to his animals. Left to his own devices he indulged their whims equally as much as his ward did, whether with a sugar lump or friendly greeting.

  But the devilish look in the stallion’s eye set him on edge. Marcus felt that he had a point to prove: that he was master. And not solely the master of a wild-eyed tower of horseflesh.

  So Marcus mounted Satan. From the start, he struggled to control him. All the usual signals and pressures one gave to a horse appeared to be lost on Satan. The stallion simply would not d
o as Marcus commanded.

  Finally, exasperated, he gave the beast’s flank one sharp, tap of the crop. The effect was instantaneous and nearly catastrophic. Satan halted and bucked, attempting to throw his rider off. Marcus barely managed to cling on, such was the stallion’s power.

  Jemima, terrified that Marcus would be thrown, came running up towards them. Marcus, equally terrified that his ward would get trampled, cried out to her to step back.

  In the end either Marcus managed to get the horse under control, or it was calmed by Jemima’s proximity and entreaties. All three stood there, Jemima’s arms around the stallion’s neck, doing what she could to soothe it. Marcus remained in the saddle, wondering whether it would be better to dismount rather than risk the hundred odd yards back to the stable.

  “He will be quite calm now,” Jemima said. “It was only that he was not used to you. Only if you might refrain from the whip, lest he take fright again…”

  The damn horse was less frightened than stubborn and unruly, Marcus considered. Looking at his ward giving so much affection to the animal, and remembering the panic he had felt at imagining her trampled under its hooves, he felt a desire to hold her.

  “If you think he will bear both of us, perhaps you may demonstrate how best to control this brute,” Marcus said.

  Startled, Jemima looked up at him. Before she could respond, Marcus reached down and swept her onto the horse, seating her in front of him. Satan, confused by yet more weight yet reassured by the presence of Jemima, finally behaved.

  It was Jemima who felt far less reassured. Her guardian’s arms encircled her waist, her back pressed against the muscular heat of his chest. She had never felt so distracted when on horseback. Somehow she communicated to Satan to convey them back towards the stables, alternately wishing the distance were not so far and regretting that it was not much longer.

  Marcus regretted what he had done as soon has he had done it. The proximity of his ward, holding her so close, the soft swell of her against him… his physical reaction was almost painful.

  Convention be damned! Maybe he should simply take her back to his bedchamber now and have done with it. He could take her to London and marry her on the morrow by special license.

  It was with some considerable strain that Marcus managed to dismount and hand Satan over to Juan.

  “You do not wish to ride anymore?” Jemima asked, when her guardian did not request another horse to be saddled.

  There was disappointment on her face when he declined. She assumed he would return to his estate business, leaving her to the company of Mrs Owen.

  Whatever Marcus’s plans might have been and however little cooled his ardour by the time they reached the steps of Southwell, both were to be extinguished by the companion, who greeted them in an state of fluster.

  “My lord Southwell! Miss Carlow! I have word - the letter was delayed - that my son, he who is in the navy, arrives in Southwell Dene this day. He comes to my sister’s house. I beg your leave to visit him, for he can but stay a few nights.”

  Jemima was about to give Mrs Owen her blessing, but checked herself, glancing at her guardian.

  The convenience that the companion’s absence might represent for Marcus’s plans also shed a less than gallant light upon them. To take advantage of Mrs Owen being away to seduce the girl, unwed, under his own roof, was not behaviour becoming to a gentleman and her future spouse. This sobering thought informed his subsequent invitation.

  “Your son is very welcome to dine at Southwell, as are your sister and her husband,” Marcus said. “I will send the carriage for them.”

  Mrs Owen, nearly overcome by such an invitation - for her sister and son to be invited to dine with an Earl! - hardly knew what to say. “It is very kind of you, my lord. It is very kind, so very kind,” she repeated and Jemima steered her companion away to the morning room so that she might recover herself.

  Chapter 23

  It was the first time that Jemima was to dine in company for several months. Since leaving London she had only had occasion to dine with Aunt Harlington, once with her guardian the first night at Southwell, and then Mrs Owen.

  Fortunately she finally had better attire. Mrs Owen’s skill with the needle, and some material that Mrs Marland had uncovered - for the housekeeper had eyed Jemima’s drab wardrobe with sympathy - had been combined to make a very becoming evening gown.

  Jemima had not worn this gown on the first evening of the Earl’s return, for he had been out late on some urgent business, and not returned until long after the dinner hour. This had been a disappointment to her. But after three months abroad she was aware that he had much to occupy himself with.

  Tonight she took pains to arrange her clothing and hair as attractively as possible. The gown was fashioned in a pale silver silk, that accentuated the silver in her eyes and the rich rosewood hue of her hair. Mrs Owen had stitched tiny pearl beads around the neckline and across the bodice, creating the shimmering effect of moonlight. Jemima had also convinced the companion to fashion the neckline lower than her other gowns, though not immodestly so.

  Would her guardian notice her appearance? Since his return he had seemed to be avoiding her. She hoped that he was not still annoyed about Satan.

  As his ward descended the stairs, Marcus caught his breath. She was even lovelier than he remembered from the times he had seen her dressed up in London. He barely had more than a few seconds to dwell on her before their guests arrived and were admitted.

  As they appeared, Marcus instantly regretted his invitation. He had no complaints so far as Mrs Owen’s sister and brother-in-law were concerned. Mr Hodgson and his wife were both very agreeable and genteel people.

  But their nephew - Mrs Owen’s son - was quite another matter. Richard Owen was a tall, fair young man of twenty-one years, with a ruggedly handsome countenance as yet little weathered by the sea. He was good humoured, his manners were pleasing, and while his family’s wealth had dwindled following the death of his father, he was of excellent breeding.

  He was clearly delighted to encounter Jemima, having not expected to be in the company of any young women during his stay in Southwell Dene.

  "Miss Carlow, I am very glad to make your acquaintance. My mother has spoken highly of you in her letters to me."

  "I wonder what things she may have said, sir, for I fear she cannot have commended my needlecraft," Jemima said.

  Richard Owen laughed. "She described many far finer qualities than that."

  "Then I fear she has very greatly exaggerated."

  Marcus, engaged in conversation with Mr Hodgson but paying more attention to Jemima’s exchange with the young naval man, was far from reassured by what he heard. Once again he felt his years, which irked him. If the curate had not been bad enough, now he had to suffer some young pup making up to his ward throughout dinner. Such were the numbers that he could not, however, adjust the seating arrangements. They were three men and three women, and Jemima was placed between Mr Hodgson and Mr Owen.

  Jemima, for her part, was impressed by the naval officer. She was fascinated by travel and he was able to regale her with numerous tales of exotic lands. He seemed very much more natural and interesting than all the young men she had met in London. Jemima found herself thinking how much Kitty would like him, and plotting how an introduction might be made. For nothing in her friend’s letters had suggested that she had formed any attachments to anyone in London.

  Jemima’s guardian, of course, was unaware of her thoughts. He saw only her rapt delight in listening to the younger man, and it took all his self-control to remain even-tempered and agreeable.

  He knew it was his own fault. Had he revealed his plans - and really, the delay was becoming nonsensical - she might even now be regarding him in that manner.

  Instead, he was forced to watch her converse and laugh with another. Marcus was not a man who had ever experienced jealousy before, nor such an uncomfortable awareness of his advancing years. Thirty-five might not
be elderly, but it was a long way from twenty-one, let alone seventeen.

  It struck Marcus that with enough time allowed, there was every chance that Jemima might become enamoured of a man such as Richard Owen. Should such a thing happen, he knew he could not in all conscience forbid a suitable match. He was not quite the wicked ogre of fairy tales, despite his desire for her.

  The prospect of a rival suitor, however, eroded his resolve to wait any extended time before revealing his own hopes of matrimony with her. He had also thought to wait another year or so before wedding her, given her age, but the image of her with another man likewise quashed that noble intention.

  For with his earlier shock and anger abated, he knew that he wished Jemima to come willingly to him as a bride. Allowing her to misunderstand his intentions was a base trick, and he did not want her choosing him merely out of a sense of relief. The thought galled him so much that it made it even harder to find a way to reveal his true sentiment.

  Following dinner, the three ladies retired to the more comfortable salon that Jemima and Mrs Owen were accustomed to occupy during the evenings. A warm fire burned in the grate, and it was a quiet and comfortable scene.

  Mrs Owen picked up her embroidery, and she and her sister discussed a few items of news from the village. Mrs Hodgson also had many words of praise for her nephew’s manner and appearance - “I might hardly have recognised him, he appeared so tall and of such manly bearing! Only to remember that a few years ago, he was the most mischievous of small boys!” She reminisced about some of her nephew’s antics, being clearly very fond of him.

  Mrs Owen sat quietly, but there was a glow of happy appreciation on her face. She had great pride in her son, and to see him grow into the image of his father was no little compensation for the premature loss of her husband.

  Jemima was also enthusiastic in offering praise. “He was just as you described! His tales of the sea were delightful. I hope that we will see him again, before he leaves.”