“Miss Lindsay!” Vanessa dashed across the drive and flung herself at the woman without the least care for what damage her dirty hands might wreak. “I’m Vanessa, and this is Tom, and that’s Uncle Andrew. We’re so-o-o-o glad you’re here. Aren’t we, Tom?” This last remark was accompanied by a conspiratorial poke.
The governess gave no sign of being discomfited by this assault. “I’m pleased to make your acquaintance,” she said with a hint of a twinkle. “Miss Vanessa, is it? And Master Tom. My name is Miss Linley, not Lindsay.”
Vanessa and Tom executed their well-rehearsed curtsey and bow respectively, only their giggles spoiling the effect.
“This be Lord Bryn,” said the coachman as Andrew approached.
A startled expression flashed across the chit’s face. “Lord Bryn?” she said.
Far too pretty for a governess, he thought sternly. Light brown curls peeped out of her bonnet, and her features were entirely too fine. Well, it didn’t signify here in the country; the house had no mistress to be jealous, and no nearly grown son to go all cow-eyed over her.
Unaccountably, the marquis found himself disconcerted as the girl took in his grimy appearance. “It is not my custom to greet new arrivals in this condition,” his lordship apologized, willing to extend his politeness beyond the customary level due a member of one’s staff. He devoutly hoped to induce the woman to stay on, at least until he took a wife. “However, the children and I were, er, having a bit of an adventure.”
“That sounds delightful.” The woman eyed him in a peculiar manner, as if she were trying to puzzle something out, or perhaps to make up her mind about some matter.
“I assure you, they’re ordinarily well-behaved.” The marquis hoped this slight untruth might be forgiven, for it would be unkind to frighten the woman. Still, she didn’t look the sort who panicked easily.
Miss Linley—deuced careless of Standish to get her name wrong—glanced at the eager, dirty faces staring up at him. “I should be surprised if they were too well-behaved,” she said. “It isn’t in the nature of children.”
“No doubt you know best in that regard,” agreed the marquis, determined to be affable. “Standish assures me you have excellent references.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“As a governess.” What was wrong with the girl? Perhaps it was the strain of travel; he could only hope so. A nitwit wouldn’t last five minutes with these little ruffians.
“Ah. A governess.” She nodded, as if to herself.
“You are Myra Lindsay—excuse me, Linley—are you not?” inquired the marquis.
“Actually, my name is Margaret,” replied the young woman. “And you are quite certain that you are Lord Bryn?”
No doubt she meant to be humorous. A peculiar method of going on for a woman of her station. “So my servants tell me,” he responded in kind.
The marquis noted with relief the approach of the butler and housekeeper. “Mrs. Franklin, be so good as to show Miss Linley to her room. And then have Bertha—no, not Bertha—someone give these urchins a bath.”
“Yes, my lord. Shall I bring tea to your study?”
“That would be splendid.”
Ensconced in his study with a hearty tea of sandwiches and fresh-baked scones, Lord Bryn reflected on the peculiar demeanour of the new governess.
A bit of a quiz, indeed. He could have sworn he’d seen a squint, although she’d unscrewed her face as soon as he drew near. Standish hadn’t said anything about weak eyes.
No matter. She liked the children, and they appeared to share her sentiment. Temporarily, at least. He had no illusions on that score.
How did she feel about small animals, particularly mice and frogs? Hardly the sort of question one’s man of affairs was likely to have posed, but she did seem the matter-of-fact sort, not easily frightened off.
Why, he wondered, would a girl as pretty as that be content to work as a governess? Why had she agreed to come here to Cheshire? Although the salary he offered was ample, it was scarcely enough to compensate for the charms of a beau.
Well, the private lives of the staff were none of his affair, reflected the marquis, relaxing at last. The girl’s manners were impeccable, and her appearance unexceptionable.
She would do. Indeed, she would have to do.
He did wish, however, that his thoughts wouldn’t keep drifting to that up-tilted chin, the lively expression on her face, and the hint of merriment in her voice. Dangerous territory for a man about to get himself leg-shackled. Moreover, Lord Bryn despised those craven fellows who inflicted themselves upon helpless female servants.
Not that Miss Linley struck him as helpless. She appeared thoroughly capable of dealing with bounders and cads.
The marquis chuckled at the notion. Yes, his new governess possessed the starch that Standish had described. She would suit the position admirably.
Chapter Five
A governess!
Untying the strings of her bonnet, Meg sank onto the bed in a fit of laughter. Lord Bryn had mistaken her for a governess!
Why hadn’t she corrected his misapprehension at once? she asked herself. Pure astonishment, perhaps. And what on earth had happened to the real Myra Lindsay?
Oh, dear. That poor woman at the posting inn. Could that have been she? It would explain why a carriage had been sent. But surely she would write to explain her change of heart. Still, it might be days, even weeks before she got round to it. The woman’s distress had been severe enough for her to require a lengthy recuperation.
Part of the reason she hadn’t revealed the mistake at once, Meg admitted to herself, was the children. How dear they were, although she suspected they would display a mischievous side on closer acquaintance. At home in Derby, she had played often with the servants’ children, and knew how changeable they could be—friends one moment, fierce enemies the next, and whimpering babies an instant later. It took all one’s patience to deal with them, but the annoyance was quickly forgotten when they threw their arms around one and held tight.
A tap at the door announced the tea tray, and Meg greeted the maid with suitably restrained politeness. The girl stayed longer than necessary, fussing with the tray; unquestionably so as to have a few details of the new arrival to carry back to eager ears in the kitchen.
Well, now what am I going to do? Meg asked herself. Lord Bryn will have to let me stay the night, and then I shall be packed off to Derby.
The prospect of joining the Barkers struck her as less and less appealing after the events of the past few days. How tedious it would be, listening to them prose on about sin and corruption, sitting by the fireside evening after evening with a bit of embroidery in her lap and a yawn dutifully suppressed.
She did love Derby, with its beautiful churches, parks, and fine new Georgian houses. But in recent years, as her vision weakened, Meg had been unable any longer to take so much pleasure as formerly in her walks, nor did the state of her purse allow for many purchases of the city’s exquisite silks.
Indeed, even had there been social occasions to which she might be invited, the Barkers would never agree to chaperone her. There would be no calling cards left, and no gentleman asking to take her driving, as had occurred from time to time in London.
Briefly, as she changed from her dusty travel clothes into a dark bombazine gown suitable for dinner in the country, Meg allowed herself to wonder what it would be like to be courted by Lord Bryn.
Now, why should the idea of him quicken her pulse? He was said to be all but promised to Germaine Geraint, Helen Cockerell’s cousin. Certainly the man had given no sign of attraction to a mere governess.
Yet there was something about the way he’d looked at her. In all honesty, Meg was forced to admit she had never seen a man quite so handsome—dark, yet not intimidating, courteous yet not obsequious. She had immediately liked the honesty in his face, and the masculine set to his shoulders made her wonder how it would feel to be held in those strong arms.
Stuf
f and nonsense. She’d never been given to excessive daydreaming. And of all men, the reclusive Lord Bryn was far beyond her reach. She would be best to guard her musings, and her heart.
Still fighting the memory of those grave, gentle eyes, Meg pinned up her locks with more skill than most women of her station could have managed, for the Linleys’ lack of funds made a hairdresser a rare luxury. It struck her that, with her practical turn, she might serve well as a governess, if such a thing did not prove an embarrassment to her mother.
Such musings were neither here nor there. She was not a governess, nor was she the woman who had been expected today. As soon as possible, she must tell the marquis the truth.
Ruefully Meg reflected on how to accomplish that. What could she say? Excuse me, sir, I am a lady with weak eyesight, who entered your carriage by mistake. Indeed, I am the fool who set all London a-twitter by my bumblings. Pray excuse me and send me home.
But the real governess had turned back. Who would care for the children? Meg knew enough of the usual manner of treating staff to recognize that his lordship’s politeness toward her betrayed a growing desperation with his young charges.
Those berry-stained faces! She chuckled softly, remembering them. They might need a firm hand, but at heart they were good youngsters. If only she could have such children someday.
If I am not to marry, I shall never have children at all.
The thought was too painful to be borne. Swiftly Meg rose and slipped on the sensible shoes from her trunk. The clothes she’d brought were plain enough for a governess, that much was true.
Another knock at the door admitted the housekeeper, Mrs. Franklin. “Is everything to your satisfaction, Miss Linley?” she inquired.
“Yes, thank you,” she said.
“It’s an excellent room,” the woman continued. “Have you noticed the view from the windows? In the daylight, one can see halfway across Cheshire.”
“Indeed?” Courtesy obliged Meg to join Mrs. Franklin by the curtains, but the deepening twilight revealed only indistinct shapes. “I fear I misplaced my spectacles on the journey. My eyes are a bit weak.”
“Oh, my, what a shame, and you so young!” declared the housekeeper. “Now let me think. The late Lady Bryn, Lord Andrew’s mother, had spectacles. Perhaps I could find them if you like. I doubt his lordship would object.”
“Could you?” This turn of events was an unexpected blessing. “I’d be most grateful.”
“Certainly.” Mrs. Franklin smiled warmly, and Meg began to wish she really were the governess and could stay in this hospitable place for a time. “Now, would you care to see the nursery and the schoolroom before dinner?”
“Yes, indeed.” Much as she hated to deceive the kindly woman, Meg considered it improper to confide in her before revealing the truth to the marquis.
“His lordship is expecting you for dinner,” added Mrs. Franklin as the two women climbed to the second floor together.
Meg nodded. Some households, particularly in the country, included the governess as one of the family for informal occasions, although she would never have been invited to dine with guests.
From the musty smell of the schoolroom, it had not been used for some time. “When did the last governess leave?” she asked.
“Two months ago,” replied the housekeeper.
“May I ask why?”
“Peculiar woman.” Mrs. Franklin led the way back into the hall. “Declared she heard ghosts walking at night. I cannot imagine what made her think so. Brynwood has never been haunted.”
“Except perhaps by children,” murmured Meg.
They proceeded into the nursery, where the youngsters were dining at a small table. As soon as they entered, Tom jumped to his feet and ran toward Meg. “Miss Linley! May I show you my collection of bugs? I’ve pressed them so neatly—”
“Enough o’ that, Master Tom.” A beefy serving woman caught the youngster deftly by the collar and hauled him back into place.
“Thank you, Jenny,” said Mrs. Franklin.
The children hurriedly finished eating and came to sit beside Meg on a padded bench. “We’ll leave you for a few minutes, then,” said the housekeeper, and Jenny followed her out.
“Would you like to see my bugs?” asked Tommy.
“Oh, yes. I adore bugs.” Meg forced herself not to flinch as he produced a wooden box filled with dried flattened specimens. “You must tell me all their names.”
“I dunno their names,” he said. “Do you?”
“That is a six-legged bug-opterus,” Meg improvised, pointing, but not able to bring herself to actually touch the crusty thing. “And that is a hard-shelled thing-a-ma-bob.”
Tommy regarded her sceptically. “You don’t act much like a governess.”
“What makes you so certain I am one?” Meg replied with equal gravity.
“Well, of course you are!” said Vanessa. “What else would you be?”
“Perhaps a lady of fashion,” Meg suggested.
“Then what would you be doing here?” the girl demanded.
“Well—” Meg pretended to rack her brains “—perhaps I was on a journey when your coachman mistook me for the real governess, and I mistook him for a hired post chaise driver.”
“What fun!” cried Tom, stuffing the box of bugs back into the toy chest.
“Oh, don’t be a goose,” snapped his sister. “Everyone knows ladies don’t travel alone. And no one would be such a nodcock as to mistake uncle’s carriage for a post chaise.”
Meg smiled ruefully. “I’m sure you’re right.”
“Now we must be good hosts and show you around the nursery,” announced Vanessa, standing up.
“Vanny, don’t,” pleaded Tom, his eyes widening. “I like her.”
“Well, of course you do.” Vanny had learned young to imitate her elders’ hypocrisy, Meg noted; the young girl parroted polite phrases even while clearly intending mischief.
“I should be delighted to see more of your playroom,” said Meg. If the children made convincing enough ghosts to frighten off the last governess, she was mightily curious to see what else they would try.
She heard a whispered conference. In compensation for her eyesight, it seemed, Meg had developed keen hearing and made out the words, “Where is it?” and “...under the chest, where it always goes.”
“This way, Miss Linley.” Vanessa straightened and led the way about the large nursery, pointing out its shelves of books, the rocking horse, and a chipped music box. With aplomb, Meg shook hands with a stuffed bear and conducted a mock conversation with a china doll, pretending not to notice that its voice issued from Vanessa’s mouth.
“I like her!” Tom repeated, more forcefully than before.
“Get it!” hissed his sister.
After a moment’s hesitation, the boy scrambled away, while Vanessa provided a diversion in the form of a curtsey. “This is how my mother taught me, Miss Linley. Do you think I’m ready to be presented at court?”
“I shouldn’t be in any hurry for that if I were you,” Meg said.
“Why not?”
“It’s a horribly stiff affair, everyone in black dresses afraid they’ll make some slip,” she said. “Queen Charlotte is most imposing, and if you give offence, you are banished from London at once. Not officially, of course, but it comes to the same thing.”
“You sound as if you’ve been there.” The childish face gazed up at her with new interest.
“Didn’t I tell you I wasn’t really a governess?” As she spoke, Meg felt something small and furry drop onto her foot and arch itself against her leg. “Well, what have we here?”
She knelt and scooped up the white mouse, which regarded her with beady black eyes. “What’s his name?”
“Terror,” admitted Vanessa, not the least abashed. Tom could only stare up at the fearless governess in awe.
“Do you know,” continued Meg, who had once owned a pet mouse, “that he might suffer serious harm being dropped on a per
son’s foot that way? Suppose someone kicked him off by mistake?”
“It’s been done,” Tom said.
“Was he injured?”
“He limped for two days, just like Uncle Andrew,” the little boy said.
Meg stifled a whoop of laughter. A cat may look at a king, and a small boy may joke about the afflictions of his distinguished relative. “You take my meaning. If you cannot treat an animal well, you should release him to the out-of-doors.”
Carefully she lowered the rodent into Tom’s outstretched hands, and watched as he tucked the animal into a wooden box punched with airholes. “I promise never to do it again, Miss Linley.”
Meg turned to see a triumphant look in Vanessa’s eyes. “You must be a governess!” the little girl declared. “A lady would have shrieked down the roof. You know all about children, don’t you?”
“Not everything,” said Meg modestly, “but I’ve met a few in my time. And I was one myself once.”
“That’s what Uncle Andrew always says,” declared Tom. “Though I don’t think he was ever really a child. Not like us.”
The housekeeper returned, appearing pleased at how well the three were getting on. The maid Jenny followed her to take charge of the youngsters’ bedtime preparations, while a pensive Meg departed with Mrs. Franklin.
How could she leave these two children, when she’d barely begun to know them? Clearly they needed guidance and a feminine touch, someone who knew when to join in their games and when to take a firm stand. Someone to help them over the difficult path to adulthood that lay ahead.
Yet it was unthinkable to masquerade as a governess. What a terrible scandal would ensue if anyone should find out. She dared not even picture Lord Bryn’s fury.
But Meg might never have a husband and children of her own. True, she hoped to have nieces and nephews, but they would never be entrusted directly into her care. And she could not help reflecting how much more pleasant it would be to remain at Brynwood for the rest of the season. Letters could be dispatched to the Barkers and to London, saying she had encountered an old school friend en route. Lady Mary might think it peculiar, but no doubt she would accept the situation, for at the home of a friend Meg would at least have the opportunity to meet eligible gentlemen.
A Lady's Point of View Page 4