The Governess (Sisters of Woodside Mysteries Book 1)

by Mary Kingswood

  “Have you told any of this to Mr Willerton-Forbes?”

  “Oh yes! He also wished to know… if I had been aware of her ladyship’s condition and her feelings on the matter. I have told him everything I have told you, trusting that you would wish me to be entirely open with the gentleman.”

  “Indeed, that is for the best, for otherwise you might have been suspected of being her lover, and murdering her to conceal the evidence for it,” Allan said, with brutal frankness. “As it is, your obvious affection for Eloise must remove you from any suspicion of that nature.”

  But he thought bleakly that Mr Willerton-Forbes’ list was growing short indeed. Only his own name and George’s still remained.

  ~~~~~

  That evening, however, brought all his fears to an end. As soon as everyone gathered in the saloon before dinner, Willerton-Forbes asked permission to address the company.

  “My lord, ladies and gentlemen, I have good news. Today sees the conclusion of my investigation. After thorough questioning of everyone in this house and connected with it, and after long consideration, I have concluded that there is no evidence that Lady Brackenwood was murdered. It is my belief that her health preyed upon her mind to harmful effect, and brought her to such a state of low spirits as to be called lunacy, whereupon she took her own life. There is, therefore, no blame attached to any person here present.”

  Allan was so thankful that he ordered champagne to be brought up from the cellar, and dinner passed in a very convivial manner.

  “There, is that not a relief?” Marisa said, as they drank their soup. “Now you can begin to entertain again, for you have invited no one to dinner for weeks, apart from Mr Wilcox and that stuffy parson from the village.”

  “That is true,” Allan said, with a sigh. “We owe hospitality to so many people. I hardly know where to begin.”

  “Why not throw a party?” she said, smiling. “That way you might fulfil all your obligations at once.”

  “A party!” Allan said, appalled.

  “Would it not be fun? I dearly love a good party, and you are such a dull old dog these days, Allan, that it would do you the world of good. I should be happy to arrange it for you, if you find it too much trouble. If you make a list, I can send out the invitations for you, and talk to Mrs Dawkins, and if your mama is not up to the exertion, I should not mind playing hostess in her stead, you know. What could be more fitting, since Eloise is no longer here to stand by your side, than that her sister should take her place? No, do not thank me, for I should be happy to do it.”

  “I do thank you for the offer, Marisa, but your assistance is entirely unnecessary, I assure you. If I wish to hold any kind of entertainment, my secretary and my mother are perfectly capable of arranging matters between them. And let us be clear — only two people will ever stand at my side to receive guests. One is my mother and the other is the next Lady Brackenwood.”

  Allan had spoken louder than he intended, and the table fell silent. From his seat a few places down, Mr Willerton-Forbes watched them intently. Annabelle was studiously drinking her soup.

  Marisa tittered. “The next Lady Brackenwood? How intriguing! Are you making an announcement, Allan?”

  “Hardly that. It is customary to ask the lady first before announcing a betrothal.”

  “But I can barely contain my impatience to know the identity of the lady in question. Is she someone we know? Is she, in fact, seated at this table even now?”

  “She had better not be,” the dowager said in a low growl.

  Allan only smiled at Marisa. “My dear sister, you forget that Miss Winterton is the only lady here present who is unrelated to me. Plessey, remove the soup, if you please. I am ready to begin carving the mutton.”

  Marisa flushed an angry red and subsided into sulky silence, but Allan was very conscious of Willerton-Forbes’ perceptive eyes flicking back and forth between them.

  ~~~~~

  Allan knew that his mother would summon him to her room that night for a lecture, for he could not come so close to declaring his intentions without suffering her wrath. He was not minded to be summoned like a child, however, so when the dowager declared herself tired and ready for bed, he followed her out of the saloon.

  “Mother? Five minutes of your time in the library, if you please.”

  “I am going to bed, Allan.”

  “Library. Five minutes. If you please.”

  With a huff of annoyance, she took the arm he proffered. He settled her in the wing chair opposite his own, her back rigid with disapproval, her mouth pursed.

  “Now, Mother, since the subject has arisen, I wish you to know my intentions for my future happiness.”

  “You’re going to marry the governess,” she said in tones of utter disgust.

  “I plan to offer marriage to Miss Winterton, yes. I cannot presume to know her answer—”

  “Of course she’ll take you! Why wouldn’t she? It’s what she’s been scheming for ever since she entered this house, the conniving little hussy.”

  “I will not have her spoken of in that manner, Mother,” he said calmly. “It is not what you want for me, I am aware of that, but my admiration and esteem for her have grown to such proportions that my life will not be complete without her. I can only hope she will have me.”

  Not long ago, he would have been shaking in fear at speaking so to his mother. She had terrified him when he was a boy, and not a great deal less as a man. But now he was not afraid. He had already told Annabelle of his intentions, and he was therefore irrevocably committed. Honour compelled him to offer for her, and now that Willerton-Forbes had concluded his investigation, it could be soon. Soon! Perhaps tomorrow, perhaps the day after, but before too long he would know his fate, and perhaps, if he were lucky, he could look forward to the day when he might call her wife. Even his mother could not deter him from his course.

  The dowager snorted in derision. “She’s got you wrapped around her thumb, that’s clear enough. Men are such fools, to see the meek as milk exterior and not see the devious mind at work, drawing them in. You’ll regret it, you know.”

  “I think not,” he said. “We are very well suited, much better suited than Eloise and I were, and considerably better suited than some of your suggestions.”

  “But at least they would have brought some money to the marriage. What does this chit bring with her? Nothing but a family history of wastefulness and dissolution. Her father was a gambler and a whore-monger who threw away everything he had, and she has his blood in her. She may seem demure enough now, but she’ll lead you a merry dance once she’s got your name to protect her. You do know that she’s no innocent, I take it? That Keeling fellow—”

  “Oh, is this the story you cooked up with Wilcox?” Allan said, amused. “Sorry, but that is a faradiddle, Mother, and you know it.”

  Her mouth dropped open momentarily, then snapped shut. “You’re determined to disgrace the family name, then. Stubborn, that’s what you are, just like your father. Pfft. If only Duncan had lived, then—”

  “Yes, if only!” Allan said with sudden passion. “Do you imagine I ever wanted this? I can never take his place, never! He was everything a man ought to be — lively, handsome, a good dancer, gallant towards the ladies, and that magnificent voice when he sang... He was everything I am not. He enjoyed life and made everyone happy, not like me, drifting through the days, doing my duty. Well, no more, Mother. I did my duty with Eloise, and made us both miserable. Now God has seen fit to bestow on me the grace of a second chance, and I intend to grasp that opportunity wholeheartedly, with regard for my own happiness as much as for the future of the family. Miss Winterton will make me an excellent wife, should she choose to do me that honour. I can only hope I may be worthy of her, in time, and bring her the happiness she deserves.”

  The dowager pressed her lips into a thin line, but, to his great relief, she argued no more and rose wordlessly to quit the room.

  Two minutes after she had left, while
Allan was still contemplating whether to have a small brandy to celebrate his triumph, a knock at the door announced Mr Willerton-Forbes.

  “Might I have a little word, my lord?”

  Allan’s heart sank at the serious look on the lawyer’s face. “Must you? I am in a particularly good mood tonight, and I have a feeling that your little word will reduce me to gloom.” He sighed, then went on, “I beg your pardon. Do come in.” He ushered him in and poured brandy for them both, a large measure for Willerton-Forbes and a smaller one for himself. Then, gloomily, he poured more into his own glass. “Now then, what is on your mind?”

  “Mrs Pargeter is on my mind,” the lawyer said starkly. “Something occurred to me at dinner… something I had not previously considered, since it seems impossible, but… My lord, let me speak plainly.”

  “Oh, please do.”

  “Is it conceivable that Mrs Pargeter might mistakenly believe you could marry her?”

  “Difficult as it may be to imagine, she did indeed have some thought of that when she first arrived here,” Allan said. “Naturally, I disabused her of the notion very quickly. Any marriage between us would be forbidden by the church, even had our feelings drawn us in that direction.”

  “Quite so, and perhaps I am not speaking out of turn if I say that the direction of your feelings is plain to see. But as to Mrs Pargeter’s feelings… Again, I must be blunt, my lord. Is Mrs Pargeter in love with you?”

  Allan shook his head. “I cannot think so. When we first met, years ago… there was some attraction between us then. But I married Eloise, Marisa married Jacob Pargeter and I did not see her again until a few months ago, although she and Eloise wrote to each other constantly, as sisters do.”

  “Really? We have found no letters from Mrs Pargeter to her sister. And she never came to visit, nor did Lady Brackenwood wish to visit her sister? Hmm. I wonder what impelled Mrs Pargeter to visit you after so long apart?”

  “Mr Pargeter died in April last year, and once her year of mourning was over, she wished to travel,” he said easily. “There is nothing odd in that. A lively young woman married to a much older man — naturally she wanted to spread her wings a little.”

  Willerton-Forbes nodded thoughtfully. “Spread her wings… I see. So she flies straight to you, thinking you might marry her, you explain that you cannot and yet… she is still here? Why do you suppose that is, my lord?”

  “I have no idea,” he said. “Not from any encouragement from me, you may be sure, nor from my mother. And she is a rich woman now, she need not play the poor relation at my table. Perhaps she just likes it here.”

  “Perhaps. She is very friendly with Mr George Skelton.”

  “She will have no luck there,” Allan said. “He is smitten with the Lady Grace Bucknell, a duke’s daughter, and most unlikely to be interested in a widow older than he is.”

  “Stranger things have happened. Widows have… a certain fascination for young men.”

  “George has been on the town long enough not to be taken in,” Allan said with a smile.

  Willerton-Forbes nodded. “Hmm. Mrs Pargeter often goes into Chester for the day, so there may be a gentleman friend,” the lawyer said. “For a moment there, I wondered if I had overlooked another name for my list. If Mrs Pargeter had nurtured a secret passion for you all these years, and had not realised you would never countenance such a match, perhaps she murdered her sister to marry you herself. But I do not see how it could be done if she was in Devonshire the whole time. If she had sent poison to Lady Brackenwood by way of the mail, then the label could hardly be in her own hand, and Mrs Pargeter was not here to decant poison into an existing bottle.”

  “What a devious mind you have, to consider such possibilities.”

  “I have a lawyer’s mind, my lord. We see the worst of humanity in the courtrooms of England, and it makes us unduly suspicious of human nature. But in this case I believe I may keep to my previous opinion. Lady Brackenwood died by her own hand.”

  22: Questions

  Annabelle felt oddly calm. The investigation had concluded, no one was to be hauled off and hanged for murder after all, and especially not Allan. Not that she had ever imagined him guilty, but once one started asking questions and rooting around in the past, one never knew what might be unearthed. It was a relief that it was all over at last, and in a few days, after Mr Willerton-Forbes had compiled his final report, he and Captain Edgerton and Mr Neate would take themselves back to London, and everything would be tranquil again.

  And now… now she waited. One day soon, she would receive a summons to the library, and Allan would make his offer in form. Or perhaps he would ask her to meet him in the Grecian Temple, as he had done once before. Or the schoolroom door would open and there he would be, and her whole life would change. The moment she accepted him, she would no longer be the governess, tucked away in her secluded corner or shut away with her pupils. She would be Miss Winterton of Woodside again, and the future Countess of Brackenwood.

  It was as well that she had developed a firm routine for her lessons, for without that anchor to keep her in place she might have drifted into lassitude, doing nothing as she waited. But the girls bounced into the schoolroom each morning for their lesson in French conversation — they had progressed beyond the baby house and now looked through books with pictures for their inspiration. After that, there were reading, writing and ciphering lessons, and then music, singing and deportment, followed by their walk around the lakes or into the woods, or a riding lesson. Then the hour in the library with Allan before they went back to the nursery for supper and baths and bed. There was little time for reflection or nervousness, and if she lay awake at night wondering just how she would manage as mistress of this great house, and how she would get along with the dowager, she supposed such worries were normal.

  But the hours flew by, and the days, and still he did not speak. In fact, they hardly exchanged a word which did not relate either to the children or to the food on the table. On one particular day, the only time he spoke to her was to ask her to pass the buttered mushrooms at dinner.

  The summer heat had become oppressive, and after dinner the ladies drifted onto the terrace, where cushion-strewn sofas and chairs promised a cooler spot to await the gentlemen. They sat, fanning themselves, making desultory conversation, as moths blundered into the lamps. A thin band of colour lightened the horizon, but distant rumbles heralded a storm.

  Annabelle was too hot to sew, and felt awkwardly out of place under the disapproving glare of the dowager, so she wandered down the lawn to the marble bench beside the lake. There was no breeze, but it was mercifully quiet and she could fan herself and think her own thoughts in peace.

  “May I join you?”

  Her heart leapt at the sight of him. He was correctly dressed, as always, but there was something careless about his evening coat, knee breeches and stockings, made more for comfort than fashion, as if he were doing his best, but would really rather be wearing buckskins and top boots. Dear Allan! So much more at home in the country than in town.

  He sat down beside her, a proper distance away, but then he lapsed into silence. She dared not look at him, for fear of what she might see there, so she hung her head, staring at her fan. Was he regretting his impulsive declaration? Perhaps now that he was free of the threat of trial for murder, he wished to look higher for a wife than the penniless second daughter of nobody in particular.

  “Annabelle, will you marry me?”

  So abrupt, so plain-spoken. That was his way, of course, for flowery words never came easily to him. But still, to say nothing of admiration… affection… or love. There should be something said of love.

  “Please, Annabelle. Please.”

  She lifted her head, still not looking at him. “May I ask you a question?”

  “Of course.” He was slightly breathless.

  “Is this driven by a sense of obligation? Because of the rum?”

  “No. No. Nothing like that. I offered t
hen as much from obligation as anything else, but you refused and so I feel that honour is satisfied on that score. This time I offer from my own wishes, Annabelle.”

  She turned to look at him, and what she saw in his face made her tingle with joy. So much anxious hope written there, as he leaned slightly towards her, his hands twisting restlessly. At once she understood. His reticence was all due to nerves. He was not a man who made speeches easily, and his hesitation was no more than an indication of his shyness.

  Before she could speak, he rushed on, “Forgive me, you deserve a more articulate proposal than that, but somehow I cannot make my foolish tongue shape the words. I have been struggling for days to find the proper phrases, but I can wait no longer. I must tell you what is in my heart, however unadorned the speech. All I know is that I want you with me always. Please, please tell me that you will be my wife.”

  She took a deep breath, but there was no hesitation in her answer. “Yes, I will. Thank you for the very great honour you do me, my lord. I should be delighted to marry you.”

  “Dear Annabelle!” he cried, his face alight with happiness. “But do you really mean that? Oh, forgive me, that is impertinent. I mean only that I should not like you to feel under an obligation, either. To… to marry me from gratitude or… or because your recent experience with a young man has left you despairing of making a match of the heart. Because I must tell you that your beauty and good nature must always attract admirers and, in truth, you could do much better than a dull specimen like myself.”

  It would be so easy to make a flippant answer, or to flatter him, to tell him that he was as lively, as handsome as any man of her acquaintance. But it would be wrong to begin her life with Allan with anything less than perfect honesty.