From Waif to Gentleman's Wife

by Julia Justiss

  Had the Sergeant been standing at the doorway long enough to overhear Mary’s invitation to him? If so, tonight might not be the best time to introduce himself to a young man who was clearly jealous.

  A moment later, Jesse Russell whirled around and stalked away from the bar. With eyes gone suddenly bleak, Mary watched him until he’d thrown himself into a chair.

  Trying to ascertain if the Sergeant were also irate over other, more political, matters was a question Ned would be prudent to leave until another occasion. Along with the query about what Mary might—or might not—be concealing about the Sergeant’s activities at the Hart and Hare.

  And maybe on the road to Blenhem Hill.

  That sobering thought in mind, Ned slipped quietly out of the room.

  Chapter Eight

  T he next morning, Joanna dressed carefully in her best gown, her nerves humming with anticipation. Today she would meet the children who would be her pupils—and even better, Mr Greaves would be her escort for the whole of the morning as he took her about the estate introducing her to the tenants and their offspring.

  She wanted to look presentable when she met the people of Blenhem Hill, she told herself as she sat before the glass. But a devilish twinkle in the eye of the woman staring back at her countered that it wasn’t the tenants she wished to impress with her intricate crown of braids and form-flattering gown.With a sigh, she stared sightlessly at the mirror, recalling her interlude with Mr Greaves at the school yesterday. Had she really swayed towards him, mouth lifted, practically begging for his kiss? Heat flushed her cheeks. What had come over her?

  Fortunately, after a fraught moment in which he leaned imperceptibly closer, making her heart hammer and her body tremble, greedy with need, he’d abruptly pulled back. Behaviour much more prudent than hers and honourable, too, as it underscored with action rather than just words his contention that he did not trifle with female dependants in his household.

  Prudent and honourable he certainly was, but a little glow of purely feminine satisfaction burned within her at the conviction that, refrain from kissing her or not, he had been tempted. She’d read it in the desire that turned his tawny eyes molten, in the rasp of his breath and the abrupt clench of his fingers, in the sudden heat that wafted his scent to her, a compelling mix of shaving soap and virile male.

  Which had elicited a matching response from everything female within her. Would it be so awful if they were to dally?

  The doctor who had attended her after she had lost Thomas’s child predicted sadly that she would probably never conceive another. But it would not be wise to put so much trust in those words that she recklessly embarked upon a potentially scandalous tryst with Mr Greaves.

  Goodness, she could scarcely believe she was actually contemplating committing in truth the sin for which, all innocent, she’d recently been ejected into an uncaring world! She should remember the horror and sense of impending disaster that had filled her heart and mind as the driver from Selbourne Abbey deposited her at the dark and silent coaching inn, leaving her without a backward glance like rubbish by the roadside.

  The good folk of Blenhem Hill would likely be as adamant as Lady Masters in calling for the immediate dismissal of a schoolmistress whose morals were not what they should be. Should she lose this situation, she was in an even worse position than she’d been two weeks ago, for she had no money at all with which to travel to London—or care for a child, were she to leave with a bastard babe in her belly.

  Unless Mr Greaves offered to marry her. That sudden notion for settling her future had a startling appeal. Not only would she be able to indulge the sensual yearnings that afflicted her whenever they were together, she’d already found working with Mr Greaves on his many projects about the estate highly satisfying. She liked learning the intricacies involved in successfully farming a plot of ground. For the first time, she appreciated how great a benefit it was to the tenants to have the skilful direction and concerned assistance of an estate agent of Mr Greaves’s expertise.

  She’d always enjoyed the sense of being useful she’d felt in running Papa’s household and tending her younger sisters; ’twas that feeling of fulfilment as much as necessity that had led her to accept the governess position with Lady Masters. She’d been content caring for the little Masters girls too, before her ignominious exit.

  Now that she’d been forced to abandon her hopes of sharing her life with the man she adored, pledging her hand and her loyalty to a man as honourable and attractive as Mr Greaves seemed a sensible and attractive alternative. As schoolmistress, she’d be able to aid him in his work and assist in his many efforts to better the life of the tenants of Blenhem Hill. Be of use not just to a single family, but to the entire community.

  She’d forfeit her status as a gentleman’s widow, of course, but that position had brought her little but loneliness and the humiliation of being repudiated by the Merrill family, who thought her connections too lowly to be associated with their exalted lineage. Far better, in this parson’s daughter’s opinion, to be the wife of an honourable man of less exalted birth who performed a more useful service for his fellow man than owning several households, spending summers and autumns on his estate or at his hunting box and indulging himself during the Season in London’s clubs, shops and entertainments.

  She was sure that given just a little more encouragement, she could entice Mr Greaves to kiss her…and more. But it was a very long leap for a man between the pleasures of a tryst and an eager embrace of the parson’s mousetrap.

  Honourable as Mr Greaves was, with his firm personal code forbidding the seduction of women in his household, should she tempt him into dalliance, he might well feel compelled to marry her afterwards. Liking and respecting him as she did, she could not deal him so monstrous an injustice as to compel him into matrimony, nor had she the least desire to wed an unwilling partner.

  With a sigh she rose from her dressing table. Better instead to tame her unruly desires, discipline her mind and resist Mr Greaves’s appeal as effectively as he seemed able to resist hers. Firmly squelching the insistent little voice pleading with her to ponder further how she might seduce Mr Greaves without forcing them both into wedlock, she vowed henceforth to concentrate her thoughts and energy only on the successful establishment of the school.

  Goodness knows, having never instructed more than three children at once and then all from the same family, she should devote some serious contemplation to that matter. How was she to teach half a dozen or more active youngsters, all accustomed to spending most of their time outdoors, some probably none too eager to trade the freedom of the fields and kitchen gardens for a hard bench in her schoolroom?

  She’d have time enough later, after she mastered that complexity and had refilled her now-empty purse, to decide whether to remain at Blenhem Hill or try to return to her family. Leaving behind both the sense of satisfaction—and the constant temptation—of working for the all-too-alluring Mr Greaves.

  Four hours later, Mr Greaves pulled up the gig at the last tumbledown cottage on their tour. They had already called upon some dozen or so families, meeting everything from open resistance to grudging agreement for the children of the household to attend school.Mr Greaves, Joanna noted, had exhibited a deft touch even with the most reluctant. Rather than arguing with or trying to bully the sceptics, he had first acknowledged their concern at taking children from their chores, then had gone on to explain how schooling would allow them to make even more important contributions. Whether it be totalling the sums due at harvest, keeping household accounts, or reading local journals to discover which towns were paying the best prices at market, offspring skilled at letters and sums would not learn to think themselves above their stations, but to harness their natural talents to render the whole family more prosperous and successful.

  She could only shake her head admiringly at his persuasive rhetoric as they left each farmhouse having extracted enthusiastic, or at least grudging, approval for the childre
n within to begin their school careers.

  ‘One last stop,’ he told her now, smiling over the reins.

  He’d smiled at her often as the day progressed. Every time, a little thrill sparked through her. Despite her stern advice to herself earlier this morning, she couldn’t seem to help staring at the dimples a smile created at the corners of his mouth—imagining what it would be like to taste them. Which led to imagining what it would be like for him to taste her…and not just her lips, but all those parts that seemed to have suddenly awakened, whispering of need.

  Battling those inappropriate desires once again so distracted her from attending to the rest of his speech that she was surprised when the door to which he led her was opened by a solitary, elderly crone who appeared well past the age of being able to add any pupils to her venture.

  ‘Excuse me,’ she murmured. ‘What is the name of the lady we are calling on?’

  ‘Dame Cuthbert,’ he replied, giving her a concerned look before turning back to greet the old woman. ‘Good to see you, too, ma’am. I’ve stopped by today to introduce Mrs Merrill, the mistress for our new school.’

  ‘Why, Mr Greaves, what a surprise! How kind you be, taking the time to brighten an old lady’s afternoon.’ She hesitated a moment, throwing a nervous glance over her shoulder before turning back with a tentative smile. ‘Well then, come in, the both of ye, and welcome, Mrs Merrill! I’ve heard tell of the school. What a boon for the neighbourhood, Mr Greaves, letting the children get some learning! If I weren’t so old and half-blind, I’d be tempted to go myself. Come to the table and let me pour you some cider,’ she said, ushering them to a bench. ‘I’ve bread fresh from the oven, thanks to ye for the flour, Mr Greaves, and some fine butter too.’

  ‘Thank you, ma’am, we’d be delighted to sit for a minute. I fear I’ve fatigued poor Mrs Merrill, dragging her around to all the farms this morning. I knew you would offer her a welcome that would bring the roses back into her cheeks.’

  He must have noticed her inattention as they walked from the gig, when she’d been preoccupied with her fantasies of lovemaking. Feeling her cheeks redden in earnest, Joanna protested, ‘Indeed, I am not at all fatigued, but I do appreciate your kind hospitality.’

  Thank heavens the burn of her cheeks couldn’t reveal the reason for her chagrin!

  After halting in the centre of the cottage, staring past them while she gave her head an odd little shake, the old woman continued on to the larder to fetch the cider. ‘What Mr Greaves means is, jawing as I do worse ’n a Methodist preacher on Sunday, I’ll prob’ly keep ye at table so long, ye’ll be frisky as a newborn lamb by the time ye kin get away!’ she told Joanna.

  ‘’Tis all yer own fault, though, Mr Greaves,’ she continued in mock-severe tones, directing a look to Blenhem’s manager. ‘Encourages me to chatter on whenever he visits, as if he didn’t have a thousand other things to be doing! By the way, sir, I thank ye kindly for the ham and jugs of cider you left day afore yesterday. Treats me fine as if I were his own kin!’ Biddy Cuthbert pronounced as she sliced bread and set it with a crock of butter before them on the rough wooden table.

  By now, Joanna noted with interest, Mr Greaves’s face exhibited a blush that extended to his ears. Embarrassed to hear himself praised, was he?

  Seizing a chance to try to glean from the talkative old lady more about the manager’s activities on behalf of his tenants than that reticent gentleman would probably volunteer on his own, Joanna said, ‘So I’ve been hearing. Sergeant Jesse Russell stopped by the school yesterday to have a letter written and also brought a good report.’

  Before Mr Greaves, his flush darkening, could insert a word—and turn the subject, Joanna suspected—true to her claims of loquaciousness, Biddy Cuthbert cut him off. ‘Aye, there’s much to report!’ she exclaimed. ‘Now that the thatch is on the schoolhouse, the workmen are coming here tomorrow to do my roof. All the farmers hereabouts has told me the same, how Mr Greaves promised ’em new tools for the fields and carpenters and stonemasons to repair their homes. Not just promised, neither, but already hired the masons.

  ‘Dame Johnston stopped by after he called at their farm yesterday,’ she ran on enthusiastically. ‘Brought me some of her chicken stew—which you set her on to, I know, Mr Greaves, so don’t you try and deny it!—and told me her man was going to Manchester to fetch back her brother to work at the new mill. Mr Greave’s promised wages, real money wages, to all that be willing to work there and on the land. He’s nothing less than the saviour of Blenhem, and God’s truth, how it needed saving!’

  Joanna’s delight in hearing praise of Mr Greaves diminished as a distressing realisation filtered through Dame Cuthbert’s paean. It must have been Greville who’d allowed the situation here to deteriorate. Though the manor house ran smoothly enough, she was admittedly no judge of land management. Just how badly had her brother handled the estate?

  Something in her face must have given away her dismay. After glancing at her, while Biddy Cuthbert paused for breath, Mr Greaves said quickly, ‘Blenhem Hill is blessed with good land and industrious tenants. All the property requires is attentive oversight by a man of broad agricultural experience to bring it back to prosperity. Mrs Merrill’s efforts at educating the children will be an important part of that effort. With cities and manufactures expanding, they need to be ready to fill a place either on the farm or in industry. Now, Mrs Cuthbert, with a mind as shrewd as yours, perhaps you ought to reconsider your decision not to claim a seat at the school—eh, Mrs Merrill?’

  Before replying, Joanna had to swallow a trembling breath, moved as she was by his attempt to excuse the brother she remembered so fondly. Giving him a tremulous smile, she said, ‘Indeed! One is never too old to learn. Such joy it brings! I can’t tell you, when I was far away in India, how many times a book or poem would trigger fond memories of the parsonage of my youth. Or how I’ve been enthralled by the glimpses into a foreign world obtained in the pages of a travel journal.’

  ‘Granny, I want to go to school too!’ called an eager voice from the dimness behind them at the corner of Biddy Cuthbert’s cottage.

  Startled, Joanna looked over her shoulder to see a young boy pushing aside a homespun curtain that divided a sleeping space off from the rest of the room. ‘I know you warned me to stay hidden,’ he addressed the old woman as he walked towards them, ‘in case the master come after me, but he won’t never stir this far outta Manchester. Old Barksdale’s gone, so he can’t send me back. I kin do all the work I promised when ye took me in and go to school, too. Can I please come, ma’am?’

  Halting before Joanna, fervour shining in his eyes, he continued, ‘I wanna be able to read. I wanna know if the preacher be right when he quotes from the Bible of a Sunday. I wanna know all about them foreign lands. Gonna sail to ’em some day and make my fortune, like Mr Jones at the cotton mill,’ he pronounced as the old woman hurried towards him.

  Grabbing his thin wrists, she pulled him behind her and placed her frail body in front of his. ‘Davie, I told ye to stay back there and hold yer tongue,’ she scolded before turning appealing eyes to Mr Greaves. ‘You won’t send him back, will you, sir? He’s hardly more’n child hisself! And a useful lad. I’d swear on the preacher’s good book he never done nobody wrong, no matter what Mr Barksdale claimed!’

  She gestured urgently towards the table and larder. ‘You kin take back all ye brung me and never bring no more, but please don’t send the boy back!’

  After moving protectively towards Joanna the moment the boy emerged, having apparently decided the child posed no threat, Greaves halted a pace away. ‘Please, Mrs Cuthbert, you mustn’t be upset,’ he said in soothing tones. ‘I’d never send away any kin of yours.’

  The old woman swayed on her feet, looking as if she might collapse. ‘Oh, bless you, Mr Greaves, bless you!’ she cried before dissolving into tears.

  Instantly interpreting the frantic glance Mr Greaves sent her, Joanna stepped over to support the lady, curious
to note that the otherwise supremely competent Mr Greaves seemed undone at the prospect of handling a weeping women.

  ‘There now, calm yourself, Mrs Cuthbert,’ she said soothingly, patting the old woman’s narrow back. ‘Come back to the table and take a sip of this good cider. Of course Mr Greaves would not harm a child!’

  In the meantime, the lad about whom this little tempest had broken stood his ground, hands on his narrow hips as he regarded Mr Greaves defiantly. More child than young man, but so thin it was difficult to judge his age, Joanna guessed he might be anywhere from ten to fifteen years old. Despite his dearth of years, he had a strength about him, along with a fine-boned, determined face that might turn out to be handsome with a bit more growth and some flesh on it. Some indefinable something in his stalwart stance—the angle of chin, the line of his shoulder—suddenly reminded her so forcibly of her Thomas, she ached to draw the boy into her arms.

  ‘Don’t you worry, Granny,’ he told the old lady. ‘I ain’t goin’ back, and he can’t make me.’ Turning to the manager, he said flatly, ‘I mean to stay and help Granny like I promised, and go to that lady’s school if she’ll let me. Lessen ye call the magistrates to haul me away, I’m stayin’ right here.’

  Apparently more comfortable addressing a hostile youth than a sobbing old woman, Mr Greaves simply nodded at lad. ‘Davie, isn’t it? Why don’t we sit down and discuss it?’

  Warily, as if he expected that any moment Greaves might jump him and try to drag him away, Davie pulled a stool towards the table. After waving off Joanna’s offer of cider, he sat, his eyes never leaving the older man’s.