What a Lady Demands

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What a Lady Demands Page 6

by Ashlyn Macnamara


  “I believe they call them communiqués.”

  “Yes, that’s it. Com…communiqué.” The new term rolled hesitantly off his tongue. “But we must be very careful what we say, because if the other side…in-inter—”

  “Intercepts. And where did you learn such a word?”

  “Miss Crump told me. If the other side intercepts this, we’re all in deep, deep trouble.”

  He opened his mouth, clearly about to rattle on, but she laid a hand on his arm. “Now, let me catch up. You’ve said quite a lot, and I can’t write so quickly.”

  He watched as she formed the last words on the page.

  “Was there anything else?”

  “No, I reckon not.”

  “Since this is an official communiqué, that’s just fine. In regular letters, people tend to ask after the recipient’s health and such things.”

  “I guess you could add that.”

  “How about I add it in my message, and we’ll send them together?” She set the quill aside. “Now, the last step is signing your name. Wouldn’t it be a wonderful surprise for Miss Crump if you learned to do that yourself?”

  She held her breath while waiting for his response, half expecting him to knock over the ink bottle and claim she’d tricked him, after all. But he stared at her for the space of a blink or two, and she held in a smile. She had him.

  “Here, I’ll show you.” She took up the quill and printed the letters of his name on the page, while spelling them out. He followed the flowing ink with his gaze as avidly as if she really were teaching him a secret code.

  “It doesn’t look the same,” he protested.

  “For now, I’m using print letters. They’re easier to start with. Once you’ve learned to write this way, you can move on to a more complicated code.” She was definitely going to have to check Lindenhurst’s library and see if he happened to own any books on ciphers. If she could make learning his letters a step to knowing a real code, so much the better. And if Lindenhurst owned no such books, she’d simply have to ask him to obtain some.

  “Do you think you can copy that?” she asked when she was finished.

  A crease formed between his brows. “I don’t know. Miss Bowman made me try. So did Miss Ramsey. I could never get it right.”

  “Why don’t we practice?” She pushed the page aside. “We could try the shapes using our fingers first.” She moved to one side of the chair, leaving just enough room for him to take a seat. Then she picked up his hand, and moved it in the form of the letters, repeating each one.

  After a few repetitions, she pulled out the last sheet of vellum, inwardly thankful she’d made no blots on the pages she intended to post, and stood. “Now, let’s try it with the quill. You sit in my spot, and I’ll guide your hand the first time. Then you can try it on your own.”

  She leaned over him and placed her hand over his. Beneath her fingers, his hand trembled, whether from excitement or nerves, she didn’t know. Please. She sent up a silent prayer. Let it be excitement.

  If she could reach Jeremy, she could succeed as a governess. She could prove to Alexander when he discovered her here that she was an adult and responsible and able to deal properly with small children. That she might be ready to take on a life of her own accord, and perhaps even confront marriage and motherhood at last.

  If anyone would have her.

  Once more, she spelled out each of the letters as they formed on the page, rumpled certainly, but not bad at all for a first attempt.

  “Now you try without me,” she said when they were done.

  Brow furrowed in concentration, Jeremy gripped the quill. His mouth worked as he traced the first curve of the J. Then a pause before he moved on to form a jagged e, overly large and out of line. By the time he painstakingly reached the y, his hand shook so much the tail resembled a bolt of lightning.

  “It doesn’t look right,” he wailed.

  “That was only your first try.” She laid a hand on his shoulder and gave him a reassuring squeeze. “You should have seen me when I first tried to write my name. It came out far worse.”

  He swiveled his head until he looked her in the eye. “How do you write your name?”

  “Like this.” She took the quill from him and carefully spelled out Cecelia Sanford.

  “Why do you have two different letters when your first name and last name start with the same sound?”

  Goodness, and wasn’t that an astute observation? If Jeremy hadn’t learned to read yet, the fault certainly did not lie in any lack of intelligence. “To make matters more complicated, I suppose. You ought to be happy your name doesn’t do that. Come now, let’s try again.”

  He took the quill, dipped it in the ink, and obeyed.

  “See, you’re improving already.” He wasn’t really, but she felt it best to encourage him. “Keep on and when you’re good enough, you can write your name on the letter for Miss Crump, and won’t she be proud?”

  He smiled at that and applied himself all the harder. “Jeremy, Jeremy,” he muttered under his breath as he spelled his name out over and over.

  Before she knew it, the door to the nursery opened. Cecelia raised her gaze from the ranks of shaky Jeremys scrawled one beneath the next to find Mrs. Carstairs on the threshold.

  The housekeeper glanced at the paper, but if Jeremy’s progress made an impression, she did not let it show. “His lordship will be expecting you at supper this evening.”

  “Good heavens.” Without thinking, Cecelia raised a hand to pat her hair into place. An old habit more than anything. “I was hardly expecting a supper invitation.”

  “It’s Tuesday,” the housekeeper added.

  Cecelia blinked. “Well, that explains everything. At any rate, I don’t think I’ve anything appropriate to wear.”

  “This is not a formal supper.” Mrs. Carstairs eyed Cecelia’s muslin day dress, still wrinkled from their abandoned constitutional this morning. “What you’ve got on is just fine.”

  “But what about Jeremy?” As governess, she’d expected to oversee his meals.

  “One of the maids will bring a tray as usual.” One had yesterday, in fact, but Cecelia had assumed that deviation was part of her settling in. “They know the routine. Now come along. His lordship doesn’t like to be kept waiting.”

  “No, of course not,” she replied faintly. And here she’d hoped to take advantage of the meal to learn a bit more about her charge. At least she’d discover if he liked his greens or not. “Jeremy, if you’d like to keep practicing on your own, you may.”

  He nodded, a brief jerk of his head that allowed him to keep concentrating on his letters, but that movement showed on the page as a blot in the middle of an m. Pursing her lips, Cecelia followed Mrs. Carstairs from the room.

  Heavens, Lord Lindenhurst went about matters strangely. Cecelia could never once recall her governess being required to take a meal with her parents. They’d always eaten together in the nursery as a mannerly little family of their own, she and Jane and Alexander and Miss Knightley.

  The housekeeper trooped down two staircases, winding along ever-widening passages toward the receiving rooms. But Mrs. Carstairs bypassed the dining room. Cecelia remembered formal meals taken in the dark-paneled space, as a guest of her brother’s friend.

  Instead, the housekeeper came to a halt in front of Lindenhurst’s study.

  Lindenhurst himself sat behind his desk. A tray before him bore a plate heaped with roast beef, potatoes, and vegetables. A crystal glass of rich red wine stood near his right hand, its fragile stem awaiting his fingers. Several of the staff lined the wall opposite the desk, each man holding himself stiff, hands behind his back—like soldiers on guard—and not one of them seemed to have any means of partaking of the meal. Indeed, other than Lindenhurst’s plate, no other food appeared to be in the offing.

  Mrs. Carstairs filed in behind Cecelia and took the spot next to the butler. Lindenhurst looked up, and with a glare and a curt nod, Cecelia slipped to the end
of the line.

  Silence reigned while Lindenhurst cut into his meat. He dipped a bite into a rich-looking sauce and forked it into his mouth. The food’s rich aroma tantalized Cecelia’s nostrils and reminded her she hadn’t eaten a thing since breakfast. The cup of tea in Mrs. Carstairs’s rooms hardly counted.

  Lindenhurst swallowed his mouthful. “Smithers.”

  “Yes, my lord.” The butler snapped himself straighter, hands at his sides, truly a soldier at attention. “I’ve taken inventory of the silver, and it’s been polished for the week. I’ve given orders to the first footman to remove the carpets in the morning room for cleaning and…”

  As Smithers continued his report, Cecelia kept her gaze riveted on that plate of food, shadowing every last forkful to Lindenhurst’s mouth, watching the movement of his jaw as he chewed, tracking the bob of his Adam’s apple as he swallowed a mouthful of wine. Fluffy potatoes dripped with butter. The carrots swam in a sauce flavored with orange, if the scent reaching her nose was any indication.

  Her stomach gave a growl, and she pressed her hands to her belly, glancing sideways to see if anyone had noticed. Every last one of the staff kept his eyes trained straight ahead. Trained, yes, and wasn’t that the most apt expression? They’d known what to expect and had doubtless come prepared. She made a mental note to request a substantial tea next Tuesday.

  Smithers finished his report, and Lindenhurst called on the next man, a complete stranger to Cecelia, the head gardener, based on his report and his rough dress.

  She glanced sideways down the line. But for Smithers, the housekeeper, and the head groom, every single face was new to her. She searched through her memories of the times she’d spent here as a guest and dragged up a recollection of the giggling upstairs maid who used to come in to light the fires in the morning, of a gawky groom who used to blush every time he had to assist her onto a horse. Gone, all of them. Dismissed for gossip, if there was any substance to Mrs. Carstairs’s hints.

  No one’s position is safe here. Not even mine. Especially not mine.

  One by one, each servant gave a detailed report of his activities. The head gardener reported all the flower beds were weeded and mulched, and tomorrow he planned on trimming the hedges along the front drive. Regan had made certain all the tack was polished and noted that one of the carriage horses had thrown a shoe.

  Mrs. Carstairs was interviewing candidates to replace a downstairs maid while a new upstairs maid was settling into her duties. “Grant shows a tremendous desire to please, my lord.”

  “Make certain she understands all my expectations, and she should not fail.” During all this reporting, the food on Lindenhurst’s plate disappeared. Had he no heart at all?

  But even as she asked herself the question, her mind leapt back to his vast expanse of a dining room, the table large enough to seat any respectable ton gathering—and he had no one to share it with. Could the echoing solitude of that cavern have driven him to eating before his staff, so he wouldn’t have to dine alone?

  “Miss Sanford,” he said suddenly.

  She nearly jumped. “Yes, my lord?”

  “Well?”

  Good Lord, did he expect her to give him a report, as well? “Your pardon, my lord.” She nearly curtseyed, but that felt rather like overdoing things. “No one informed me I’d be required to report to you.”

  He laid his fork aside and ran his serviette over his lips. “And you couldn’t surmise as much as you listened to the others go before you?”

  “Why, yes, I suppose I might have, but…Forgive me, I was just so surprised. I’m quite certain my governess never had to do such a thing for my father, and I find myself unprepared.”

  “My years in the army taught me the value of well-informed officers. I’ve extended the practice to my civilian life.”

  “It won’t happen again,” she added for good measure. She had no idea what else to say.

  “See that it doesn’t. And now, would you kindly inform me as to how you spent your day with the boy?”

  The boy again. She pressed her lips together. “Jeremy and I attempted to engage in a constitutional, and we got to know each other somewhat. As you know, I might add, since you came across us on the grounds. I plan to continue the practice with your permission.” She paused, half expecting him to mount a protest, but he gave a curt nod, all the reply she needed. His expression was sufficient to remind her of his strictures.

  “Naturally, we will remain on those areas of the grounds that meet your approval,” she went on. “I have also noted Jeremy’s avid interest to all things military, and he seems adept at picking up notions of military strategy. I believe it might be a good idea to encourage him along that path.”

  While she spoke, Lindenhurst had used a chunk of bread to sop up the sauce in his plate, but he let the crust drop with a moist thump. “No.”

  Just one word, simple and final, and clearly Lindenhurst thought it sufficient to put an end to the conversation. “But if it interests him, perhaps I could take advantage to encourage him to learn to read and write and calculate, which is what you require of me.”

  “No. He has no business believing he can make a career in the military.”

  The glare he’d turned on her might have been sufficient to cow any number of his servants, but she refused to let him intimidate her. Perhaps arguing with him wasn’t the best strategy, but something inside her prodded her to rebel. “He wouldn’t have to believe you’d buy him a commission, but—”

  He turned the full force of his scowl on her. “Miss Sanford, do you not understand a direct order when you hear one?”

  She clenched her hands into fists. “Yes, sir.”

  “Then do me the courtesy of obeying.”

  She’d like to show him courtesy. She’d like to take that wineglass and dash the dregs straight into his arrogant, overly handsome face. “If you say so.”

  “I do.” Once more, he dabbed at his lips with his serviette. “Tell me, how many times has he fallen today?”

  Her mouth dropped open. And what sort of question was that? She stopped herself before she blurted something unconsidered in front of the rest of the staff. “I’m afraid it never occurred to me to keep count. Is that something you’ll require me to tally in the future?”

  “It might be worth taking note of.” He raised his wineglass and drained it. “Dismissed.”

  The others were obviously well trained, because they filed out of the room. Cecelia remained rooted to the spot, not quite believing the bizarre ritual that substituted for the Tuesday evening meal in this house.

  Lindenhurst looked up at her, his expression quizzical. Yet somehow that gaze still penetrated. He possessed an odd power, one that made her feel like she was fifteen again, except now she was the one who was naked, not him. A delicious sort of shiver passed down her spine. “I said dismissed. I cannot think why you’re still here.”

  Delicious, except when he barked orders at her. “Forgive me. I am not used to this household and its routines. Mrs. Carstairs told me you expected me for supper, and naturally, I assumed…”

  “The staff gives me their reports during my Tuesday evening meal.” An evening meal he couldn’t even be bothered to take in the dining room like a civilized gentleman. But once again she recalled the cavernous hall with a table that seated twenty-five or more guests. “I find it a more efficient use of my time to take care of both matters at once.”

  “I see.” And had his eccentricities led to the other governesses not staying on?

  “I believe the others take their supper in the kitchens. If you hurry along, you might catch them. Or if you think yourself above that, you might take a tray in your chambers.” As she had last night.

  Just as he’d said, dismissed. All that was missing were the hand gestures to shoo her along.

  As she trudged toward the kitchens, she tried to call to mind the man she’d known before—her brother’s school friend. Lind. The young man she remembered had never been so serio
us. Quiet, yes. Intense about all he set his mind to, most definitely. Fiercely competitive, certainly. But the intervening years had stolen something from him.

  No doubt his experiences in the war and his wife’s passing had contributed greatly to that. A pity, though. Perhaps, somewhere, the person she once knew still lurked.

  But that wasn’t her purpose here. She’d come to prove a point to her brother, and to succeed at that, she’d have to concentrate on Lindenhurst’s son.

  —

  For the next two days, she did just that, ensuring Jeremy applied himself to writing his name with the same devotion and attention to detail he employed in lining up his tin soldiers. And eventually, despite his letters remaining rumpled and uneven, his improvement became clear. Even he could see it.

  “I’m getting better,” he crowed.

  She placed a hand on his neck, and her throat went oddly tight. Legible, not perfection. That’s all Lindenhurst had asked for. “You are indeed.”

  She couldn’t wait to show Lindenhurst. For Jeremy’s sake.

  Chapter Seven

  Lind downed the last of his brandy and leaned against the fireplace, drumming his fingers on the marble mantel. But for the pain the movement would cause, he’d have paced. The sitting room was large enough to accommodate a good show of tension; at least ten feet separated the paneled door from the mullioned window that overlooked the back terraces.

  Sanford was due to arrive at any moment, and Lind hadn’t seen his blasted governess for two solid days. Not since she’d made her weekly report along with the other servants, but he hardly counted that particular interview, even if she had shown more cheek in front of his staff than he ought to tolerate. His mind would much rather dwell on an earlier event, when she’d left him on the grounds to make his wearisome way back up to the house step by painful step.

 

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