She would write to Carrie, too. Although no longer considered family, since she had married a Gilmore, the sisters remained as close as before. Marguerite knew she could rely on Carrie and her husband, Avery, as much as she could rely on Petra. Which was why she could not allow that horrible man to print that picture and destroy their lives as well as hers.
At the bottom of the stairs, a footman was waiting to escort her to the drawing room. Lord Compton had already arrived and stood by the hearth, a glass of brandy in his hand. He looked magnificent in his dark evening clothes, much less like a country squire and more a man about town. She felt like a country mouse in comparison. But then, that was what she was. An eccentric widowed country mouse and now a drawing teacher.
Lord Compton bowed. ‘Good evening. Lady Marguerite. May I offer you a glass of sherry?’ He gestured to a console where a footman stood waiting to do her bidding.
She inclined her head. ‘Thank you, no.’
‘Something else? Ratafia, perhaps?’
She didn’t wish to appear unsociable. ‘Yes, thank you.’
He gave a little grimace, but nodded to the footman, who poured her a glass, handed it to her and went to stand at the edge of the room, staring straight before him. He looked as if he was trying to fade into the wallpaper, yet Marguerite was glad to have him there. Again, she was grateful that Lord Compton was clearly intent on ensuring no one could accuse them of anything improper.
They sipped at their drinks.
‘Are—?’
‘Thank—’
They spoke at the same time and both laughed self-consciously.
‘Please,’ Compton said, with a slight bow. ‘Continue.’
‘Thank you for the offer of a bed for the night. I do not think this rain intends to let up before morning.’
‘You are welcome, Lady Marguerite. I hope you found your rooms to your satisfaction.’
‘Indeed, I did. They are delightful. I only wish I could see more of the view. It looks out in a different direction than the schoolroom.’
He nodded briefly. ‘The park was laid out by Capability Brown. It does not matter from which window in the house you look out, the views are splendid.’
‘Perhaps the rain will have cleared out by morning and I will be able to appreciate it fully.’
‘Do you paint landscapes?’
She was surprised by the seriousness of the question. Many men, and women, too, assumed drawing and painting were hobbies, something for a lady to engage in to while away the time. Only the paintings done by men were taken seriously. ‘I have tried all branches of the art,’ she said, ‘but I rarely do that sort of painting any more. I mostly draw and paint botanicals.’
He looked surprised. ‘The kind one finds in books about plants.’
‘Yes.’
‘Are they considered art?’ Puzzlement filled his voice.
‘They are illustrations, primarily. For academic treatises. An engraver uses them to create the blocks for the printing press.’ And once he was finished there was nothing left of her original drawing. The process of creation was also a process of destruction.
‘That must require a great deal of detail and knowledge.’
‘Detail, yes.’ The replication of intricate accurate detail was her forte. It was why her other works of art were stilted, as one drawing master had told her. Her need for accuracy sucked the life out of the work. ‘Knowledge, not so much. I simply draw what I see. I am given instruction on how to dissect each plant.’
‘I don’t know how many times I have been grateful for those kinds of books and the artists who illustrate them, especially when it comes to the weeds that infest my fields. And pests. Do you only illustrate plants or do you tackle other species, like insects or birds?’
A warm glow filled her chest at his praise. ‘At the moment I am focusing on plants. I...’ She winced. Should she admit to this? Would he think less of her?
Why on earth would it matter what he thought of her? ‘I have a contract for a set of drawings of English wild flowers.’
‘Really?’ To her surprise, he sounded impressed.
‘Yes.’ She smiled. ‘This is my second book. It is to be published as a comprehensive guide for those who wish to know about the wild flowers of Britain and who wish to start their own collection of dried flowers. It will help them identify the specimens they have found.’
‘Fascinating.’ He frowned. ‘I suppose that was why you were out in the fields when you discovered my daughters.’
‘I was hunting for caltha palustris, otherwise known as the marsh marigold. They grow in damp ground.’
‘I know it. I used to pick them as a child and bring them home to Mama with my feet all wet. Bless her, she always had them put in a vase, no matter how limp they were by the time I got them home.’
He smiled at what was obviously a happy memory. The smile changed his face from stern to gloriously handsome.
For a moment Marguerite could neither breathe nor think. Not only did he look handsome, he looked years younger, the lines around his mouth seeming to soften, his eyes lighting up. Blue eyes, she noticed. Why had she not noticed their colour before?
She struggled to regain her composure.
‘Dinner is served, my lord,’ the butler announced from the doorway into the dining room.
Lord Compton held out his arm and led her into the room. Three footmen stood ready to serve them, while the butler supervised the whole.
The table, a huge long affair as one would expect in an earl’s dining room, was set for two at one end, the settings placed opposite each other. Somehow, despite the size of the room and the length of the table, it felt intimate. No doubt this was how a husband and wife would dine in this house. She could not help wondering if His Lordship ate his meals alone in this room every evening.
He seated her and took his place. The footmen and the butler saw to the filling of their plates and this time Marguerite accepted the offer of a glass of white wine.
They toasted the King.
‘You must let me know when the book is published. I would like to buy a copy.’
Surprised, she stared at him. ‘You would?’ She could not imagine him collecting flowers and drying them.
‘Naturally. I shall want to brag that I know the artist.’
She laughed at his nonsense.
‘I am not jesting,’ he said. ‘You will sign it for me.’
She stilled at the words. Signing a picture was what had got her into a mess. She certainly did not want her name in a book where it could be pointed to and laughed at. ‘I use a nom de plume. I would be happy to sign that name in your copy of the book.’
Hopefully, by the time the book was finished and in print, he would have forgotten all about it. But she could not help the little thrill his words gave her, deep in her soul. She did not need anyone to tell her she was good at what she did. A publisher would not have offered her a contract if she was not, but Jack’s praise warmed her heart in an inexplicable way.
‘How are your crops faring this spring?’ she asked, knowing a man always liked to talk about himself and his own concerns. ‘This rain must be cause for some worry.’
He put down his knife and fork, leaned back and picked up his wine glass, staring into the ruby liquid as if seeking an answer. ‘I will be worried if this rain continues for days. We planted oats in several fields once the frost was out of the ground and rain can only help, unless the fields get so waterlogged the seeds begin to rot.’
‘Let us hope that does not happen.’ She had three more specimens to find and rain would make the task that much more difficult.
He put down his glass and looked at her. She had the feeling he wanted to ask her a question. She waited for him to speak, but he picked up his knife and fork and cut a piece of meat. Whereas she had been feeling perfectly comforta
ble, now this silence felt oppressive.
‘Was there something you wanted to ask?’ she said.
Chapter Six
Jack frowned at the forthright question. He really did not think he was so transparent. But, yes, he had wanted to ask why, since she was clearly receiving an income from her skill as an artist, did she need to offer drawing lessons to children.
Could the publisher be some sort of unscrupulous fellow who did not pay her as he ought? Or was there some other reason she needed money? Indeed, when he thought about it, she was clearly living hand to mouth in that little cottage. When he had gone to see her when she was ill, there had been no fire in the grate and tallow candles in the holders. What was her family thinking of, letting her sink to such depths?
Or perhaps it was the lady herself. He had noticed a certain stubbornness about her, which for some reason made her all the more interesting, but also meant she seemed unable to accept help. Had she also refused help from her family? Was she still mourning her husband? While she did not continue to wear widow’s weeds, she did favour dark colours and severe styles.
And none of it was any of his business.
And yet... ‘It must be difficult, waiting for payment for your work until the book is bought by customers, never knowing how much income you will earn.’ Blast. He really should not be prying into her financial affairs. ‘I beg your pardon. It really is none of my business.’
‘Oh, no,’ she said. ‘I do not mind. It does not work that way. I am paid a flat fee by the book’s author. It makes no difference to me how many copies are sold.’
Then the man must be paying her a pittance. He had the urge to seek him out and demand he do better.
‘I see,’ he said.
‘The work is going a little slower than I had hoped. I have more specimens to gather and that takes time away from drawing. It is why I thought to offer drawing lessons. To tide me over.’
The clever puss knew exactly why he was asking his question. Clearly, she wanted to put his mind at rest. So why did he have the feeling she was hiding something? What could she be doing that she would expect would give him cause for concern?
As long as what she was doing did not involve his girls, he had no reason to feel concern. A suspicion entered his mind. ‘Was it your plan to take my daughters with you on these hunting trips of yours?’
‘It would not do them any harm to learn about the countryside. I have never met a child of Lizzie’s age who was unaware of the pain a stinging nettle could cause.’
So that was her reason for wanting them to go outside. Disappointment at this evidence of her deceit filled him. ‘Well, she knows now.’ Devil take it, he had snarled at her. He reined in his temper.
She smiled serenely. ‘She also knows to look for a dock leaf to ease the pain of it, should it occur again.’
Grimly he glared at her. ‘It will not happen again.’
‘Because you will not let them out of the house, I suppose. It is ridiculous.’
Suddenly he was no longer hungry. The woman was making him out to be in the wrong when all she wanted to do was use the time he was paying for to work for someone else.
‘I am not paying you to hunt for weeds, I am paying you to teach drawing.’
She stiffened. ‘That is not my reason for suggesting they spend more time out of doors. I am thinking of their health. The development of their minds. Surely you do not want them to be fearful of—’
‘My wife was murdered, Lady Marguerite. On this property. Not a hundred yards from this house, by a man who might have been satisfied with the theft of a rabbit, but to whom the clink of coin in a pocket was too much of a temptation.’
His stomach fell away. He could not believe he had just said that to her, out loud, in a tone of such ferocity she had frozen, her fork halfway to her parted lips.
He never spoke of this to anyone. Never indulged in self-pity or sought sympathy. His was the blame. The guilt. His burden to bear alone. He wanted to curse. To leave the table. To deny he had spoken at all. Instead, he took a long draught of his wine.
She took a breath. And another. ‘I—’
He slashed a hand. Warding off her words. ‘I do not wish to discuss it. Suffice it to say, I do not consider anywhere safe enough for my daughters, apart from inside this house. When they are older—’
‘That is absolute nonsense,’ she said, lifting her chin, her green eyes flashing a fire he had never seen there before.
‘I beg your pardon,’ he said coldly. As cold as the chill settling around his heart.
‘Nonsense,’ she repeated. ‘There is danger everywhere. A fall down the stairs. A servant run amok.’
He glared at her.
Her eyebrows lowered in a scowl. ‘With proper supervision they will come to no harm. While I am sorry for what happened to your wife, I hear it happened late at night. You do not suppose that I would suggest the children go out alone after dark. But just as they slipped out of the gate in broad daylight, they might easily slip out after dark if their curiosity, their need to explore, is not satisfied.’
‘You know nothing of this. You do not even have children.’ The woman had him on the ropes. He was fighting dirty.
She stared down her little nose at him. ‘I brought up my siblings, Lord Compton. I am no novice when it comes to the raising of spirited children.’
A punch to the solar plexus could not have winded him more than her confidence. He pressed his lips together. He was not going to argue about this with her. It was not her business. These were his children. His family. His responsibility.
‘You brought up your siblings alone? How old were you when your parents died?’
She flushed. ‘My mother died, not long after my younger sister was born. I was ten. The oldest of four. Papa never married again.’
‘So, you took on the role of mother.’ Sadness filled him. ‘I see it in Lizzie sometimes with her sisters, even though she is so young. But your father was still in control of his family, was he not?’
She stiffened. ‘In control?’
‘He made the decisions? Hired the staff to care for his children? Set down rules for their care?’
She looked uncomfortable. ‘There were very few rules.’ She straightened her spine. ‘But we survived.’
‘More by luck than judgement, no doubt.’
‘I beg your pardon.’
Devil take it, he had not meant to say that aloud. ‘A man needs to guide the women in his household. Set boundaries.’
‘You think they cannot set boundaries for themselves?’ The steel in the tone held a warning.
‘It is well known that women do not reason with logic. They think with their hearts. With their emotions.’
‘Even if it were true,’ she said with a smile that was a little forced, ‘is it so bad?’
Bad. Look at his wife. She had known his opinion about her wastrel brother. Known that giving him money would only result in him asking for more. But her soft heart had taken her out of the house to meet him late at night, behind her husband’s back. And her decision had led to her death.
A man must control his own house, or what sort of man is he?
‘Yes, when logic is required. You know, Lady Marguerite, what I cannot understand is why your family, your brother, the head of your household permits you to live alone as you do.’
She inhaled a deep breath, her eyes widening.
Hah. That had taken the wind out of her sails.
‘Permit, my lord?’ Her voice was frigid.
‘You have no servant. There was no fire in the grate when I visited you and, despite your fine gowns, you look as if you haven’t had a decent meal in weeks.’
She gasped. ‘How I choose to live my life is not my brother’s business. Nor is it any of yours.’
‘No. It is not. But my guess is that your bro
ther does not know of your true circumstances. I cannot believe a gentleman would wish to see a sister living in such dire straits.’
‘And I suppose you intend to be the one who draws it to his attention.’
The bitterness in her voice stopped him cold. He glared at her. ‘I do not interfere in the lives of others, madam, unless they are my responsibility. I am simply expressing an opinion.’
Damn it. He wished he had not started down this road. Did he not have enough people to worry about, with his own family?
‘Very well, I shall not interfere, as you call it, in matters relating to the welfare of your children,’ she said coldly.
Finally they agreed on something.
Only it did not feel good. The fact that she had cared enough for his girls to offer an opinion had...pleased him in some odd way. The friendly atmosphere of a few moments ago dissipated leaving only frigid politeness.
She put down her knife and fork and wiped her mouth on her napkin. Such a pretty mouth. But it was set in a straight line at the moment.
‘If you will excuse me,’ she said. ‘I find I no longer have an appetite. If you do not object, I shall retire.’
How could he object? He wanted to. He had the odd feeling he was in the wrong, when he knew he was right. How typical of a woman to turn the tables on him. It proved his point. Woman were illogical creatures. They needed a man’s guidance.
A footman, blast his hide, dashed forward to help her with her chair, before he could come up with anything to settle her ruffled feathers.
Jack rose to his feet. He watched her leave with a surprising amount of regret. He had looked forward to this evening, but it seemed this woman was one with whom he would never find common ground.
He wished he had never hired her.
* * *
Heat burned in Marguerite’s chest as she stormed up the stairs to her chamber. She could not remember when she had last been so incensed. The man was a complete—Bah. She could not think of a word. Yet beneath her frustration at his intransigence, she felt terrible sadness. The man was still grieving for his wife. He had cared for her. Still cared for her.
A Family for the Widowed Governess Page 7