by M. C. Beaton
“Your servants thought very highly of the Scottish governess, my lord. Gossip travels quickly in the country and the news is that you let her go rather than get rid of your … er … lady companion. They do not understand London ways and believe your behavior shows a dangerous fickleness and that you could suddenly turn on them. Most have endured terrible times of hardship and they cannot quite believe their present luck.”
“What’s up, Beau?” Mr. Jolly asked.
“Demme, it’s Nancy.” Nancy was in her bedchamber, and the viscount and his friends were sitting in the library, drinking burgundy.
“Thought you’d be delighted,” Mr. Trump said.
The viscount sighed heavily. “It’s like this. I wouldn’t have had Nancy at my house in Town. The servants wouldn’t have stood for it. So can you imagine what effect she is having here! Besides, I am responsible for those two brats. If the lawyers get wind of this, then Toad Basil may inherit all. The thought, I admit, is tempting. But I cannot go back to my old life and leave things unfinished here.”
Lord Charnworth looked at him sorrowfully. “The fact is, Beau, you’ve changed.”
“How so?”
“Used to be up to every rig and row in Town. Now you’ve got the cares of the world on your shoulders. There’s no fun in you anymore. Say good-bye to this place and return with us.”
The viscount gave a rueful smile. “In truth, if I left my tenants and farmers to Basil, I would never sleep easy. I am sorry, but I must ask you to leave and take Nancy with you.”
“All that way back to London!” Lord Charnworth looked at him in horror. “It’s miles and miles and miles. Besides, we’ve only just arrived here. Think of the noise Nancy will make.”
“I’ll deal with Nancy. You must see that I did not write that letter. Of course I will be glad to entertain you anytime, but not with Nancy.”
“You’ll lose her,” Mr. Trump warned. “Lord Tenbar has been trying to get her away from you.”
“Then let him. See to your packing and I’ll get rid of Nancy.”
The viscount went up to Nancy’s bedchamber after having written out a generous draft on his bank. Nancy was lying asleep on top of the bedcovers. He studied her for a few moments, wondering why he had ever become involved with her. But how dainty and pretty she had looked on the other side of the footlights. All the men were mad about her, and he had set out to secure her, driven by the spirit of competition. Courtesans such as Harriet Wilson, for example, dubbed the Queen of Tarts, were always in demand because they were in fashion rather than because their charms were superior to those of any other member of the demimonde.
He shook her gently awake. Her eyes opened and she slowly smiled up at him and held up her arms. What, he thought irrationally, would Jean Morrison look like in bed, holding up her arms to her lover? He shook his head angrily.
“Nancy, you must leave. I am sorry, but my friends should not have brought you.”
She sat up and scowled at him. “You’ve turned pompous and respectable, Beau.”
“Perhaps. But perhaps this will ease our parting.”
She opened her mouth to start to create a scene, but then her eyes fell on the bank draft he was holding out to her and her eyes widened. It was a magnificent sum. Her hands like little claws, closed tightly around it. Nancy, unlike other members of the fashionable impure, was thrifty with money, squirreling away the bulk of it. Her aim was to amass enough and then to retire to some provincial city and take on the character of a lady.
“Do you not want to see me again?” she finally asked.
“No, Nancy, I will be too much occupied here.”
“Lord Tenbar is keen for my favors.”
“Let him have them, if that is your pleasure.”
“That governess has changed you,” Nancy said waspishly after she had carefully stowed the bank draft away in her jewel box. She sighed. “Men always fall for that sort of thing.”
“What sort of thing, Nancy?”
“The morals of a puritan and a passionate face. Leave me, Beau, before you make that speech about wanting me to leave as soon as possible.”
Jean Morrison sat sewing. Her aunt was taking an afternoon nap, but she had left her plenty of sewing and darning to keep her occupied. Mrs. Delmar-Richardson had graciously condescended to forgive her niece, for she had now an unpaid companion for life. Jean read and played the piano so well. Like most women who were incapable of making friends, Mrs. Delmar-Richardson could ignore that fact so long as she had a companion in her power. Various companions had come and gone, finding the harsh regime and the fact that no free time was allowed too much for them.
Thinking her life was over, Jean stitched away diligently and tried not to cry. If only those last two weeks at the castle, before his friends had arrived, had not been so happy and pleasant. And Nancy! How could he?
That such things went on, she knew very well. Her aunt in Edinburgh, a stern Calvinist, enjoyed nothing more than talking salaciously about the affairs of the aristocracy over the teacups with her friends. If she had not known Lord Hunterdon and someone had told Jean that he kept an opera dancer, she would not have been shocked in the least, particularly as the viscount was unmarried. She had been unrealistic, Jean told herself sternly. She had wanted the viscount to remain forever on his pedestal, golden and smiling, to be looked up to and admired. She could not have him and therefore no one else should. And yet, whatever her reasons, she could not have remained as governess to two young and impressionable girls with that Cyprian in the same house. She had done what was right and the fact that she gained no pleasure from her actions was just too bad. But she had hoped he would call, even to berate her. During her first few miserable days with her aunt she had comforted herself with visions of what he would say and what she would reply.
Now she felt he would not come. Why should he? All he had to do was to find another governess. Jean was wearing her gray dress, which she was beginning to hate, her aunt having taken one horrified look at her new gowns and pronounced them unsuitable.
No, he would not come, and she, Jean Morrison, would be left to rot here under the thumb of the domestic tyrant that was her aunt.
The twins were in a fury. The days since Jean had left were long and boring and unstructured. They had assumed that as soon as Jean had left, the viscount would get her back. They crept down to the library one night and found the draft of a new advertisement for a governess of distinction.
Amanda missed the readings and Clarissa missed the rides, for the head groom said he would not allow them to take any horses out of the stables unless they were supervised by a governess. Normally they would have then taken out their spite on someone like their lady’s maid, Betty, but Betty was such a powerful woman and the viscount had told the servants that they were to report any disobedience on the part of the twins to him, so they could not relieve their feelings that way.
“I think,” Amanda said one morning after a restless night of thought, “that we should appeal to his sense of duty.”
“What?” Clarissa demanded.
“Well, why doesn’t he go back to London instead of riding about seeing that a lot o’ peasants are comfortable? Duty, that’s what it is. He’s got a duty to us although we ain’t pointed that out.”
“All sounds a bit high and windy to me,” Clarissa commented. “Good thing Gully got clear. Hunterdon rode to St. Giles the day after and found out about him, but Gully was far away by then, thank God! Where is our lord and master at this moment?”
Amanda leaned out of the window. “Just come back. It’s raining like the devil and he’s all wet and muddy. Let’s catch him before he goes off again.”
They scampered down the stairs. The viscount was just drawing off his gloves. He saw the twins and scowled. “Now what?” he demanded.
“It is very serious,” Amanda said, putting her hands behind her back and standing before him like a model schoolgirl.
“What is?”
“Yo
ur lack of care for us. We understand that under the terms of our father’s will you were to care for us and find us husbands.”
“So? You’re too young at the moment.”
“But how are we going to get any if we’re not schooled,” Amanda wailed, exasperated. “It’s your duty to see to our welfare.”
What an unlovely pair they are, he thought. “I am doing my duty. I am sending a new advertisement for a governess out today.”
“Why go to that trouble?” Amanda demanded. “Get Miss Morrison back.”
“How can I get Miss Morrison back? She is probably halfway to Scotland.”
“No, she’s not,” Amanda said triumphantly. “She’s at her aunt’s in Gunshott.”
“And how do you know that?”
“We asked about,” Amanda said vaguely. “So she’s there.”
“May I remind you that Miss Morrison left my employ of her own free will?”
“Miss Morrison left because you brought your light o’ love into your own home,” Amanda said. “She has a strong sense of duty, you see. She cared for us.”
He stood for a moment, thinking. It certainly would make life easier if he persuaded Jean Morrison to come back. The house had seemed … temporary … without her, as if it had lost something. The servants missed her, he knew that, and it was odd that servants would have such regard for a governess, that usually despised class.
“I will write to her.”
“No,” Amanda said stubbornly, “that won’t do. Her aunt may open the letter and she’d never get to hear of it.”
“If I go in person, I may never get to see her,” he pointed out. “All her aunt has to do is to show me the door.”
“Mrs. Delmar-Richardson sleeps in the afternoons between two and four,” Amanda said.
“You appear to be remarkably well informed.”
The twins stood staring up at him.
“Oh, very well, I will ride over this afternoon. Go away now and do something or other.”
Hand in hand the twins mounted the stairs. Amanda stopped on the first landing and turned around. “She took The Perils of Lady Devere with her before she’d finished it. Get her to bring it back.”
“Don’t give me orders,” the viscount snapped, but the twins had continued their upward climb.
Jean was very tired. As usual, her aunt had risen at six in the morning and then had gone for a walk, accompanied, of course, by Jean, who had to walk slightly behind her and carry her fan and shawl. Then over breakfast Jean read from Mr. Porteous’s sermons. After that she had to check the household accounts and go out to the village and question any shopkeepers whom her aunt felt might be overcharging, which was usually every shopkeeper in the village. Back again to watch her aunt take a “light” luncheon. Jean was not allowed any, breakfast and dinner being considered sufficient for her. During luncheon she read the newspapers to her aunt and played the piano to her after the remains of the meal had been cleared away.
Promptly at two o’clock Mrs. Delmar-Richardson would retire to bed, after having looked out a quantity of sewing for Jean.
The sun was shining outside, the weather having cleared after the morning’s rain, but Jean knew she dared not leave her sewing and go out. Her aunt checked every stitch to make sure she had not been slacking.
Jean sighed heavily. This was to be her life from now on. God had decreed it thus. Nothing would ever happen now to change the weary boredom of her days.
The door opened and a maid said, “Lord Hunterdon to see you, miss,” and Jean stabbed the needle into her finger in surprise.
The maid did not wait to see if Jean was prepared to see Lord Hunterdon, for poor relations did not have any social standing.
Jean put aside her sewing and stood up as the viscount walked into the room.
She had comforted herself by thinking of him as some debased satyr, and it was upsetting to see him there, golden and elegant, starched cravat, impeccable morning coat, shining boots, and emanating unruffled calm.
He bowed slightly. He began without preamble. “I am come to offer you the post of governess again.”
Jean’s heart leapt up and then sank when she thought of Nancy.
He studied her downcast face and said impatiently, “My friends have left and, yes, Nancy as well. But although I will not invite any of my … er … pleasures to my home again, I do not wish any more of your moral strictures.”
“Have you cast her off?” Jean’s green eyes looked up at him seriously.
“Yes, if you must know, I have, but that is none of your affair.”
“My lord, what will she do now?”
“Miss Morrison! Oh, very well. If you must know … She plans to accept the protection of Lord Tenbar.”
Jean sighed. “Poor thing. And when Lord Tenbar is tired of her, she will pass to some other gentleman until no one wants her and she is left destitute.”
“You have been reading too many novels. I did not seduce Nancy Cruze. She was a well-established member of the demimonde when I took her on and she knew exactly what she was doing. Unlike her kind, she does not indulge in drink and saves as much as she can. By the time she retires from her profession, she will be a wealthy woman. She will reappear in York or some such place under a new name and set up house as a widow and be a pillar of the community. Now, does that put your mind at rest? For I am heartily sick of the Misses Courtneys’ complaints about your absence.”
“They miss me?” Jean exclaimed. “Why?”
“I cannot begin to imagine. I have much to do. Are you coming or are you not?”
Jean hesitated. Her aunt would never have her back now. Once the twins were safely launched on their Season, her job would be over and she would need to find another and move from household to household until she grew too old and then, unlike Nancy, she would find herself hard put to manage. But better to live for a few years in comfort and to have something to remember than spend her days in this genteel drudgery.
“I will pack my bags, my lord,” she said. “I am not going to wake my aunt, for there would be an awkward scene.”
He nodded. “I will wait for you outside.”
Jean ran to her room and packed feverishly, terrified her aunt would wake and call for her. Two maids helped her down the stairs with her baggage and said, yes, they would tell the mistress she had gone.
Her luggage was strapped on the back and Jean climbed into the open carriage and sat beside the viscount, who said, “I am going to call on Farmer Tulley on our way back. I ordered phosphates for his fields and want to make sure they have been delivered.”
Jean sat beside him, suddenly very happy. As they mounted a rise, she could see the curtains of rain moving out to sea, and, inclined to be fanciful in her happiness, imagined the rain curtains as being the curtains of a theater, opening on a whole new act in her life.
They drove up to Tulley’s farm. “Wait here,” the viscount ordered curtly. “Certainly,” Jean Morrison replied primly, like any correct governess knowing her place. He tethered the horses and walked into the farmhouse. Jean sat for a few moments in the carriage and then climbed down and walked a little way away, for he had stopped the carriage in the yard next to the dung heap.
She leaned on the fence at the far end of the yard and looked out over the nearest field, which was a carpet of tiny blue flax flowers interspersed with blazing scarlet poppies. It seemed an outrageous burst of color in the normal green and brown of an English farm landscape. Bees hummed among the flowers and a lark sang overhead. Clouds of tiny blue butterflies as blue as the flax flowers fluttered erratically on the lightest of summer breezes. The sun was warm. She untied the ribbons of her bonnet and took it off, enjoying the heat of the sun on her bare head.
She heard a quick footstep behind her and turned. A stout, red-faced woman was hurrying toward her. “I am Mrs. Tulley,” she said, “and you be Miss Morrison, the governess. I said to his lordship that you should step indoors and try some of my lemonade, for it’s a mortal
hot and dusty day.”
“You are very kind,” Jean said with a smile.
They walked back together to the farmhouse. “You must tell me all about your life,” Jean said. “I know very little of farming.”
‘“Don’t they have farms in your part of the country, miss?”
“Yes, but not like this, not in the Highlands. It is all heathland and sheep. Very few crops. That is, in the far north, of course.”
Mrs. Tulley led the way into the stone-flagged farm kitchen where the viscount sat at his ease at the scrubbed table. “Here’s Miss Morrison,” Mrs. Tulley said. “I gather she is going back to the castle, my lord.”
He raised his eyebrows superciliously. “Gossiping, Miss Morrison?”
“Her hasn’t said a word.” The farmer’s wife poured Jean a glass of lemonade. “Stands to reason, that’s all. We all heard she had left and now she’s back.”
Mrs. Tulley began to tell Jean of the new pianoforte they had bought and Jean said she would like to see it after she had finished her lemonade. The viscount, as Mr. Tulley was telling him about the delivery of the phosphates, glanced at Jean. What was it Nancy had said? Something about puritanism and passion? Her mouth was certainly beautifully shaped. Could this correct governess ever be passionate? Jean caught his cool blue speculative look and suddenly blushed.
It struck her at that moment that he wasn’t a god, nor a fallen idol either, but a man: a sensual, attractive, highly desirable man.
She rose quickly to her feet and urged Mrs. Tulley to show her the piano. She followed her from the room with a feeling of relief. She must never think of her employer like that again.
It was not … correct.
Chapter 4
FOR A WHILE Jean found the days pleasant. The girls treated her with as much courtesy as she could expect, considering their characters. But a change came about when Jean finally ran through the small stock of novels available in St. Giles. The viscount sent an order to a London bookseller for a selection of the latest works and so Jean decided to fill in the intervening time by improving the girls’ moral tone with readings from the Bible.