A Lady's Point of View

by Diamond, Jacqueline

  In spare moments, when the children were absorbed in their books, she wondered about Germaine Geraint. Friday-faced, Helen had called her, but a great gun, too. The marquis must care for her, if he planned to marry her. Such was the gossip even among the servants, for Miss Geraint and her parents were invited to visit in three weeks’ time.

  I hope she will suit him, Meg thought. He deserves the best possible wife.

  She pushed away the idea that she could have been happy with such a man as this. For what did she really know of his soul? And if he had chosen Miss Geraint, surely it was from love. She was grateful for this chance to know him, and hence to learn a little more about herself, and to grow closer to the children. At least she could find some happiness during this interlude, which was more than would be possible in Derby.

  On. Friday Mrs. Franklin fetched Meg three letters from the village post. One, from her mother, expressed surprise and pleasure at the news that Meg was so well situated for the summer.

  The second, from Helen, similarly conveyed good wishes, along with a piercing account of the rude behaviour of Lady Darnet at Vauxhall. It also announced that a garden party at the Cockerells’ Kensington home would introduce Angela to society.

  How typically generous of Helen, Meg thought as she turned to open the letter from her sister.

  “Dearest Meg,” Angela wrote, “Mother has explained to me the strictures of our finances. I hope you won’t mind that we have made over your old dresses for me.”

  Mind indeed, silly goose! Meg read on, and was startled to learn of the conversation between Edward Cockerell and her sister at Vauxhall.

  “I don’t think he will tell anyone about your eyes,” Angela wrote. “Pray forgive me, but I could not allow him to think so ill of you.”

  Stiff cheese. Meg remembered Helen’s description of her brother, and laughed, picturing him confronted by the irascible Angela. The girl leaped readily to the defence of those she loved, and perhaps her doing so had proved fortunate. Else Edward might not have agreed to the garden party.

  She folded the letters away carefully. They would be answered that same night, and Meg regretted that she must tell lies. She supposed she might invent two children for her imaginary friend—whom she had already described as married—and so draw upon the real antics of Tom and Vanessa.

  She really should put a stop to this nonsense, she told herself. She ought to tell everyone the truth, and go home. Perhaps at this juncture they would consider her actions a mere eccentricity.

  She had resolved to confront her employer on Saturday. However, that morning, as Meg and the children assembled for their reading, Lord Bryn strode into the schoolroom.

  “No lessons today,” he declared. “We’re going on a picnic.”

  Meg’s spirits rose. She longed to see something of the countryside with the aid of her newly acquired spectacles. Let the children have their fun, and that evening she would confide her errors to Lord Bryn.

  A barouche awaited them in front of the house, its top folded down and a coachman perched in his high seat. The horses, Meg noted through the glasses, were a perfectly matched pair of chestnuts.

  “Shall we go to Marple?” Vanessa asked as her uncle handed her into the carriage. “I need new ribbons and laces.”

  “And emeralds and rubies?” inquired his lordship with a lift of the eyebrow. “Up you go, Tom.”

  “Can’t I ride with Coachman?” demanded the little boy. “I want to take the reins!”

  Meg laughed. “They’ve no scruples about asking for what they want, have they?” She laid her hand atop the marquis’s as he assisted her, and wondered at the warmth that brightened her cheeks at his touch.

  “I don’t call that asking.” Lord Bryn climbed up to sit beside Tom and signalled Coachman to be off. “I call that ordering, don’t you, Miss Linley?”

  “Indeed.” Meg placed a restraining hand on the bouncing Tom while informing Vanessa, “Ladies do not insist that gentlemen purchase items for them.”

  “He’s not a gentleman! He’s Uncle Andrew,” was the reply, at which the adults exchanged amused glances.

  It was a splendid day for an outing, and Meg revelled in the newfound privilege of being able to see her surroundings. Each tree and cloud, each flower and bird was a marvellous discovery. To Meg, the barouche travelled through a wonderful landscape filled with previously unsuspected details and hues.

  “You take an unusual interest in the scenery,” observed the marquis.

  His deep voice rumbled through Meg’s bones, nearly unnerving her. Whyever was she reacting in this childish manner? Doing her best to retain her composure, she said, “As I have explained, I cannot see well, and these lenses have opened a new world to me.”

  “Indeed?” His lordship frowned. “I had thought the thing merely an affectation.”

  He reached across and lifted the devices from her face. As Meg had affixed them to a long black velvet ribbon about her neck for fear of losing them, this required that she lean toward him.

  Bryn removed the spectacles quickly. “Maddening,” he said. “They distort.”

  “Do they?” said Meg, straightening. “I believe they correct distortion where any exists.” However, aware that the glasses did little for her appearance, she do not replace them upon her nose.

  His lordship regarded her pensively, taking advantage of the children’s absorption in spying rabbits among the tufts of grass. “What is your age, Miss Linley?”

  Meg knew she was much too young to be a governess, but she would not give him a direct lie. “Nineteen, my lord,” she said.

  “Nineteen?” The marquis stared in disbelief. “Whatever can Standish have been thinking?”

  Meg swallowed, and took the opportunity to say, “I fear I must correct a misunderstanding. You see...”

  “A fox!” Vanessa jumped to her feet.

  As she spoke, a small, red-coated animal darted almost beneath the hooves of the horses, which shied. The young girl would have been tossed into the road and perhaps severely injured but for the speed with which her uncle seized her.

  Amid Vanessa’s squeals and Tom’s yells, the barouche jerked to a halt.

  “Oh, my!” the girl gasped. “Please let me get down. My legs are trembling! Tom, can you see that?” She raised her skirt, curiosity overwhelming any trace of modesty,

  “You call that trembling?” snorted Tom. “When I had the fever last winter, I shivered so much the bed shook.’’

  “Pooh! You’re making that up.”

  “I think we shall eat our luncheon here,” remarked the marquis calmly.

  “Vanessa, you must never stand up in an open carriage again,” scolded Meg as they descended to the ground. Despite the children’s nonsensical argument, her heart still thudded painfully.

  “I shan’t, Miss Linley. But wasn’t I trembling mightily?” The child bounced to the ground, the lesson was already forgotten.

  Coachman spread out a blanket for them beside a stream, where overhanging trees blocked the midday sun. The driver took himself off to enjoy his own lunch.

  In the basket Cook had prepared, Meg found cold chicken, fruit, wine, and peach tarts. Before eating, the children raced each other up and back along the waterway, but afterward, with their stomachs full, they dozed on the grass.

  “How peaceful they look,” Meg observed. The domesticity of the scene reawakened her longings with a stab of pain.

  “You are very good with them, despite your youth, Miss Linley,” said the marquis.

  She smiled, her gaze meeting his in shared affection for the youngsters. Here was an opportunity to confide the truth. Meg swallowed hard against a sudden nervousness. “Do you remember what I told you when I arrived?”

  He reflected for a moment. “No, I’m afraid I do not.”

  “That tale of being a lady who had mistaken your carriage for a post chaise?” she prompted.

  “Ah.” A smile warmed the darkness of his eyes. “Indeed I do.”

&
nbsp; “Suppose it were true?” Meg asked. “Suppose I were not a governess at all, but someone of good family:”

  “Are you flirting with me, Miss Linley?” he asked with mock sternness.

  She blushed. “I didn’t intend it, my lord.”

  “I’m sure you didn’t.” To her confusion he reached over and lifted her hand, turning it in his and examining the palm. “A delicate hand. What is your story, Miss Linley? Were you orphaned, perhaps?”

  “My father died when I was young,” she admitted, “and my mother has fallen upon hard times. I have a younger sister whom I dearly love and hope to see well married.”

  “But not yourself?” He retained her hand in his.

  “Me?” Meg feigned lightness of spirit. “Oh, perhaps when I am older.”

  “You like children.” It was not a question but a statement. “And you are quite fetching, my dear, if you will forgive my boldness. I cannot imagine why you should have chosen to take this post so far from town.”

  “Nor can I,” she said. “It was not precisely a decision so much as an accident, my lord.”

  “Selecting the wrong carriage?” he teased. His face was very near.

  “Yes,” she whispered. “I had meant to tell you “

  His lips grazed hers, ever so softly. “Forgive the liberty,” he murmured, still without releasing her hand. “I know you’re a respectable young woman, Miss Linley, but you’re the first person I’ve met in two years, aside from the children, who can make me forget the past.”

  Meg knew she shouldn’t be sitting here, shouldn’t have permitted the highly improper kiss, but her mouth would not speak, and her knees would not obey her will. She could neither stand nor protest, only sit gazing mutely into his soul.

  I could love such a man, she thought. If I dared.

  But at this moment, she no longer felt certain that love was a matter of choice.

  Lord Bryn found himself in a quandary. Until the past few days, he had imagined his life neatly pigeonholed, and his future guarded against any unwanted emotion.

  There would be a marriage to Miss Geraint, or if she declined his offer, to someone else with the same uncomplicated nature. The lady might spend part of her year in London, if she wished; they would maintain separate bedchambers, of course, except for the need to produce an heir.

  Not that Lord Bryn lacked the normal urges of a young man, but he had long ago learned to suppress them. To allow anyone to come close was to expose himself to even more pain, and to risk losing what little remained of his pride.

  Now danger had come from an unforeseen quarter. He needed a governess for the children, and had been delighted to find Miss Linley so well adapted. But now...

  His conduct today was not only unorthodox, but objectionable. The woman should have slapped his face after that kiss. Did she fear losing her position and being turned away without references? He would never forgive himself if he were taking advantage of her vulnerability. But in her gentle eyes he saw no unhappiness, only warmth.

  Did she feel as he did? Or was he mistaken, and this Miss Linley a woman of dubious character? In any event, she was surely unsuitable to be his wife. How then could he nurse such tender feelings for her?

  Disturbed by his reflections, the marquis jumped to his feet and began to stroll along the bank, pretending to study the patterns of ripples and the silver swirl of fish. He should send her away. But on what pretext? The children would be horrified, though Miss Linley might have just reason to wish herself far from his presence.

  No, he must find some better solution. If, for example, she were to marry, all problems would be solved.

  Andrew did not like that prospect, but he had to concede that it was an excellent idea, and would serve both his purpose and the children’s. If Miss Linley were to marry someone who lived in the neighbourhood, she might continue to work here on a daily basis without risk to her character. Under such circumstances, the marquis concluded, she would be protected against his weakness.

  “Miss Linley.” He returned to sit beside the young woman, who appeared perplexed. He had not meant to leave her so abruptly, but he had needed time to sort his thoughts.

  “Yes, my lord?” How sweet and trusting she appeared.

  “There is an entertainment planned for tonight at the home of Squire Roberts, who owns the estate that marches with mine,” said Lord Bryn, who until this moment had intended to send the squire his regrets. “The invitation was meant to include my household, and as you are now a part of it, I believed you might enjoy making new acquaintances.”

  A troubled expression crossed the young woman’s face.

  “You need not go if you do not wish it,” he hurried to add.

  “The people who will attend all live hereabouts?” asked Miss Linley. “They are not from London, by any chance?”

  “No,” he replied, puzzled.

  “As I mentioned, my family has come down in the world, and I wouldn’t wish the embarrassment of encountering some old acquaintance,” she explained. “But since that isn’t likely to occur, I’m pleased to accept your generous offer.”

  Lord Bryn smiled warmly at the prospect of the evening ahead. They might even dance together, although not more than once. But it would be enough to hold her in his arms and whirl her gently through a waltz.

  Then he remembered that the object of this exercise was to find Miss Linley a suitable husband. Damnation! The fellow had better appreciate her, or he would have to answer to Andrew Davis.

  “Coachman!” called his lordship. His loud voice awakened the children, who stirred sleepily. “It’s time to go home!”

  Chapter Eight

  The society in northeast Cheshire was sharply limited by the size of the population and by the region’s remoteness. However enchanting the black-and-white magpie houses and the wild moors might be, they could not adequately replace ladies wearing fashions copied from the French and gentlemen dressed to outdo the Beau.

  Or so any member of the elite would have said.

  Curiously, the residents of Marple, Stockport and vicinity remained unaware that they were deficient in any regard. They believed talk of Wellington and Napoleon, of farming conditions, and of trouble over industrialization in the North to be an adequate replacement for gossip and rumour. They also knew how to amuse themselves in dancing and cards.

  In these parts it was considered that if a lady possessed intelligent conversation, a warm heart, or a talent for the domestic arts, she might be an excellent candidate for matrimony despite a thick ankle, unfashionable clothing—or weak eyes.

  And so it was, at the solid home of Squire Roberts, that Meg Linley found herself for the first time an object of approval and even admiration.

  The Alton sisters, both approaching their late seventies, commented favourably on her bell-like voice. Mrs. Albert Ludden, wife of the curate, remarked upon the excellence of Miss Linley’s manners, while her plain daughter, Veronica, stared at the newcomer with something approaching awe. Squire Roberts, who had been seeking a second wife since the death of his first several years earlier, found Meg thoroughly enchanting, even to the gleaming facets of her spectacles.

  As Mrs. Ludden played the pianoforte, Meg joined the assembly in a set of country dances and then, her breath recovered, sang with them. What a pleasure to read the words upon the page through her eyeglasses instead of mouthing empty syllables! Her pleasant soft soprano blended effortlessly with the marquis’s rumbling baritone.

  “ ‘Tis rare good fortune to find such a pearl newly arrived in our region,” the host declared when they had finished, pressing a glass of ratafia upon Meg. He was a man of middle years, stocky in build, with a face that might once have been handsome, but now showed traces of excessive imbibing.

  “I’ve never felt more welcome anywhere,” Meg said truthfully. “The good fortune is mine.”

  She allowed the squire to introduce her to his eldest son, Jeffrey, who at two and twenty was a strapping lad with a solid, dependable
way about him.

  “Not much younger’n you, Miss, I daresay, for all you’ve need of spectacles,” joked the squire. Meg smiled and held her tongue.

  She noted Lord Bryn regarding her with a curious expression, as if she’d done something mildly displeasing. Meg searched her memory for some misdeed but found none. Perhaps it was the simplicity of her dress, a blue muslin that she had considered flattering; it was the most elegant of the gowns she had brought.

  Confused, Meg retreated to the rooms set aside for ladies, where a maid helped restore an errant curl. A moment later, a large girl entered, whom Meg recognized as Veronica Ludden, the curate’s daughter.

  The younger woman sank into a chair beside Meg, envy writ large on her freckled face. Not a displeasing countenance, Meg decided, although the girl moved awkwardly, as if she had only just been introduced to her knees and elbows.

  “You’ve spent most of your life in London, haven’t you?” asked Veronica without preamble.

  “Only the past few years,” Meg said. “Why do you ask?”

  A shrug. “That must be why you always know the right thing to do.”

  This observation struck Meg dumb with astonishment. She, Meg Linley, the great gawk, suddenly become an arbiter of manners? The suggestion was highly amusing, but she took pains to hide her reaction from the earnest Miss Ludden.

  “That’s very kind, but I’m afraid I don’t deserve such a compliment,” Meg said.

  Veronica regarded her in the mirror. “You met him, didn’t you?”

  “Who?”

  “Jeffrey.”

  Ah. The reverential tone with which the name was uttered told everything.

  “Is he your beau?” Meg ventured.

  Veronica shook her head ruefully. “If I knew how to go on as you do... But my father doesn’t hold with fripperies. He’s the curate, you know. I’m not to have deportment lessons, and my mother’s made-over dresses are good enough for me.” She gestured down at the heavy chintz gown she wore, in a style ten years out of date.