Sweet Summer Kisses

by Erin Knightley

  “Good morning, my lord.”

  Her voice was musical and yet avoided that foolish note so often to be met with in Polite Society. It triggered an odd sensation in his chest, as though he had swallowed a fish bone. He coughed to clear it, excused himself and bowed over the hand she extended.

  “Good morning, Miss… Burcott, I believe?”

  “That is correct, sir. Mrs. Rathbone told me to expect a visit from your lordship this morning. Do, please, come in and observe.” She pulled the door wide and stepped back to allow him to pass into the schoolroom.

  Hugo took one step and froze. Cursing inwardly, he sought frantically for a viable reason not to do so.

  “I should not wish to appear the overbearing employer on your first day, Miss Burcott. I merely wished to welcome you to Marchbanks and inform the children that should they behave to your satisfaction, a picnic on the island will be their reward this afternoon.”

  He began to back away, but she tilted her head to one side in a considering manner, a small smile of understanding shaping a mouth fractionally too wide for beauty.

  “Of course. You have many claims on your time, I am sure. I should, however, like to thank you for taking the trouble to have the schoolroom redecorated against my arrival. It is such a joy to have a bright, airy space in which to work. Even the children have remarked upon it.”

  As she finished speaking, a mop of unruly gold curls appeared around the door on a level with her hip. A pudgy chin was thrust forward and two rosy cheeks, surmounted by a pair of bright blue eyes presented themselves, followed by a chubby figure in a crumpled nankeen jacket and untidy neckcloth. Since Hugo had earlier witnessed Master Edmund’s emergence from the nursery, fresh from his nursemaid’s care, he wondered what illicit enterprise he could have indulged in between the breakfast table and now to have so disordered his raiment.

  “Do come see, Uncle Hugo!” the shrimp piped up. “We have curtains at the windows and everything!”

  Cornered thus by the triumvirate of sparkling brown eyes – she might attempt to hide them behind those lush eyelashes, but it was a fool’s mission – beseeching blue ones and his own inner voice berating him for his cowardice, he had no option, were he to avoid hurting his nephew’s feelings and appearing less than a man before the governess. Why this latter should concern him, was an issue he preferred not to inspect too closely. It was simply a question of showing Edmund, by example, that it behoved a gentleman to act with courtesy at all times and not to ride roughshod over the sensibilities of his retainers.

  While Edmund was unlikely to inherit more than a younger son’s portion of a small estate from his mother’s dowry, Hugo believed, that as the boy’s guardian, it fell to him to educate him for a role in the aristocracy nevertheless. Being considerate of those less fortunately placed in the world was a valuable lesson to be learned.

  Clamping down on his inclinations, therefore – which were to leave the house on the instant and gallop his horse to the far reaches of the estate – he gripped his hands together beneath the tails of his navy riding coat to bolster his flagging courage, clenched his teeth and forced his feet forwards. He was rewarded with a beam of delight from Edmund and, he could have sworn, a nod of approval from Miss Burcott. As though conjured by magic, suddenly he was surrounded by children of all sizes, each chattering and exhorting him to appreciate how light the room now appeared, to approve the cheerful yellow curtains and cream walls, to see all the new books on the shelves and to pass his opinion on a drawing of Edmund’s pony. Swept over the threshold by five children aged between five and fifteen years, Hugo’s arrival in the schoolroom was far less traumatic than he had expected, the hovering spectre of Father Bertram unceremoniously kicked aside by the joyous chatter and wave of love. It overpowered him to such a degree he felt a knot of emotion lodge in the back of his throat.

  He had not been so moved since he had parted from his regiment a few days following the Battle of Waterloo. He, his fellow officers and his men had been through so much together, they were more akin to Robin Hood’s band of Merrie Men than the raggle-taggle remnants of a once illustrious corps of elite soldiers. Many of them had succumbed to unashamed tears at the parting of the ways, not least because those with injuries faced such an uncertain future.

  He had been back at Marchbanks a matter of two or three weeks – and still could not call it home. With its classical arrangement of rooms, it had been designed as a show place; a mansion to demonstrate its owner’s wealth and standing. As children, he and his siblings had been confined to the nursery floor, with the occasional trip to their mother’s boudoir to bid her a formal and orchestrated goodnight. He remembered kissing her scented cheek when he was about seven, whereupon she had turned away from him, flicking her fingers in dismissal. That night he had cried himself to sleep and in the morning had vowed never to allow anyone to hurt him that way ever again.

  His memories of her now were of an angular, white-faced woman, with an outrageous wig of powdered curls perched upon her head and her lips painted scarlet in readiness for a ball; or on the back of an enormous, bad-tempered bay hunter, her face covered by a veil and a wicked-looking whip in her hand. His father had been an upright, reserved character, often from home as he had taken his Parliamentary duties seriously and spent much time in the Lords – and, Hugo suspected cynically, in some whore’s bedroom. His parents’ marriage, as was so often the case, had been one of alliance rather than romance and for the most part, they had lived separate lives.

  Some twenty years older than his wife, George Alexander Marchbanks, Earl of Raftesbury, had died unexpectedly following a bout of rheumatic fever and his lady, the Countess Maria, had lost no time in arranging her departure to the Dower House. Succeeding to the title, Frederick, Viscount Marchbanks, had spent a good deal of money on refurbishing the house in the latest modes, but then the troubles in France had adversely affected his fortunes on ’Change and he had taken to the gaming tables in an effort to restore his losses. In contrast with most young men in a like situation, he had enjoyed a considerable success and had been set to marry the beautiful daughter of a wealthy neighbour. With the family’s future seemingly assured, the Honourable Arthur Marchbanks, three years junior to Frederick and four years Hugo’s senior, had persuaded Frederick to purchase a commission for him and had ridden off to join the Household Cavalry.

  Unfortunately, during a trip to the Continent, Frederick had slipped and fallen into the hold of the ship he had bought passage on. He had died without ever gaining consciousness. It was left to the somewhat dishonourable Stephen Marchbanks, eighteen months younger than Hugo, to marry a young lady he had dallied with and by his own (and his wife’s) efforts, fill the nursery. However, in a tragic twist of fate, he and his wife were killed in a carriage accident just days before the news reached Marchbanks that Arthur had been killed at Salamanca, leaving Hugo to inherit a title he had had no expectations of succeeding to and seven children.

  Tall for his age following a growing spurt, Hugo had run away from the horrors of his childhood home as soon as he turned fourteen. Although Father Bertram had later been summarily dismissed for marking his face, Hugo had not escaped being severely beaten for his piece of insurrection. Perhaps if that time had not been so traumatic, he might have found some humour in the fact that had the priest marked his flesh other than on his face, no-one would have been concerned. They considered him a lazy good-for-naught. So, as soon as he was able, he had travelled to Bristol, taken the King’s shilling and not looked back. At last those globes he had struggled to comprehend made sense. Travelling aboard a ship, seeing foreign climes and witnessing other cultures, his enquiring mind had revelled in all the new information. He asked questions, he learned and it was as though he were a sponge, absorbing everything he saw and heard.

  Joining the 52nd Foot, he worked his way through the ranks, eventually to captain his own company. Life following the drum suited him; at last he had respect and the trust of his peers and his
men. Once told something, he did not forget it and that had proved invaluable time and again. A fellow officer and good friend, Major Mark Beamish, had been used to relieve the long periods of inactivity by reading aloud from his battered copy of Henry Fielding’s The History of Tom Jones, A Foundling. The adventures of the hapless rogue had been much enjoyed by them all, but being an extremely long novel, had been published in two volumes. On reaching the end of the first, the officers of Number One Battalion had been unanimous in demanding more. Beamish had raised his hands apologetically.

  “Believe me, I wish I could go on, but we have reached the end of this book. The novel is in two parts.” He gave a rueful laugh. “My sister sent this as a gift, little realizing there was a second volume.”

  They had groaned good-naturedly and thought no more of it, but Hugo still had a desire to know the ending of the story. In some ways he felt an affinity with Tom; he had recognized parallels in his own journey from despised small boy to the Earl of Raftesbury. He made a mental note to send to London for a copy. Perhaps he could think of a reason to have his secretary read it aloud; even at fifteen, it was hardly suitable for young Alexander.

  “Uncle Hugo? Uncle Hugo!” An insistent tug on his sleeve, coupled with the urgent appeal in his name, jerked him back from his reflections. “I asked you if you meant it about the picnic.” The tone rose with a definite query on the final word.

  Picnic? His wits wandering for a moment, he gazed at them, the five children – two were still in the nursery – and the governess… she seemed to be looking anywhere but at him and a gentle flush coloured her pale cheeks. Before he could consider that any further, a younger female voice informed him, with the merest touch of impatience:

  “You said we might take a picnic to the island. Surely you have not forgot so soon?”

  “Harriet, you should not speak thus to your uncle,” the governess gently reproved the elder of his two nieces present. “With all of you clamouring around him in that rambunctious manner, I am sure it is not to be wondered at. I can hardly remember what was said myself – and I am not newly returned from the war!”

  Edmund put his head on one side. “Why? Does returning from war make you forget things? I don’t forget things. I have a memory like an elephant. Florrie says so!”

  Miss Burcott’s gaze flickered to Hugo’s and then away again. A ghost of a smile emerged and then vanished as swiftly as a ray of sunshine braving a storm cloud. Ignoring the boy, she asked pleasantly:

  “Will someone please inform me where the island is? It all sounds very exciting. Is it a haven for smugglers and pirates?”

  “There is a sandy beach and a cave!” pronounced Edmund, distracted at once.

  “It is not really a cave,” put in Alexander, with the superiority of a young gentleman soon to embark on a university career. “It is merely an abandoned badger sett.”

  “I saw a pirate, once.” Jenny, a thin wisp of a child at seven, coiled her long, blonde plait around her finger.

  “You did not!” Harriet, as usual, was scathing. Dark of hair, Hugo had already perceived she saw life with an analytical eye.

  “She did so!” argued Robert. At almost nine, or so he told everyone he met, he was Jenny’s self-appointed knight-errant. “I was there. He was a big fellow, with a bushy red beard!”

  “So where is this magical place?” Miss Burcott interposed in a calm tone before Robert’s siblings could debate the truth of his assertion. “How do we get there? Do we take a carriage, do we walk or do we flap our wings and fly?”

  Hugo’s lips twitched as the children burst into laughter and suggested, in none-too-polite terms, that she had taken leave of her senses. It was a far, far cannon shot from his experiences in this very room. The spectral crow with the cruel lips faded a little more.

  “As I understand it, Miss Burcott, we must take a Spanish Galleon across the lake!” he answered her with a grin.

  Chapter 2

  That grin had transformed his whole face, Amelia mused, as she changed into the only walking dress she possessed. Until that moment, she had formed the impression of a deeply troubled man for whom life was a constant battle. He appeared to have the cares of the nation resting upon him rather than those of a country estate.

  The housekeeper had dropped a discreet word of warning in her ear when she had shown Amelia around the schoolroom and the governess’ private chamber.

  “Most insistent, he was,” she had confided, “that I take on a governess. No clergy of any description and I was to be sure that whomsoever I hired would be able to control the children without ‘squeezing all the fun from their lessons’, to quote his exact words. It is not my place to say more, but I am sure you can make up your own mind from that as to what the unfortunate lad endured in this house.”

  Bobbing a brief curtsey, she had withdrawn, shaking her head as she left Amelia to ponder her words while she unpacked her meagre belongings.

  The rooms she had been allotted were luxurious when compared with those she had occupied at her last position. Indeed, they were of a quality unprecedented for a mere governess and remarkably similar in appointments to somewhere she had once known great happiness. She compressed her lips and inhaled deeply. That belonged in another life, long ago, and had no place in her thoughts now. History could be repeated but not undone and she must make the best of the crumbs Providence had scattered her way.

  The night before, she had washed a pair of stockings and a spare chemise and hung them in front of the generous fire one of the housemaids had lit for her. Now dry, she folded them carefully and put them into a drawer in a walnut cabinet, shook out her morning gown and hung it on the door of the matching armoire in the vain hope that the creases might magically disappear. Moving to the sage green canopied bed, she picked up her chip-straw bonnet from the matching counterpane. Spotting a frayed edge, she sighed. At the first opportunity, she must procure some ribbon to refurbish it, since it had suffered badly from being crammed into her travelling bag. While such ladylike accomplishments were now part of her stock in trade, as her father would have put it, and she could set a neat row of stitches when she had to, needlework was an occupation she found inordinately tiresome. There were far better ways to spend her time, she had always felt and had been encouraged in that belief by dear Papa. Brushing away a swift tear, she swallowed, lifted her chin and stepped towards the door. She would not decry his teachings by becoming that one thing he had most deplored, a watering-pot. Casting a swift glance around the bedchamber, which boasted a flowered wallpaper, a moulded plaster fireplace and a mahogany writing desk in addition to the solid walnut furniture one might expect, she opened the door and turned her mind to remembering the route to the entrance hall.

  After only two wrong turns, she descended the main staircase to find the Earl and the children awaiting her.

  “My lord, do please forgive me!” she exclaimed, looking wildly around for a timepiece. “Am I late?” Drawn by the soothing tick, her gaze alighted on a majestic long-case clock, the hands of which stood at five minutes before the hour. She was not late; she could breathe freely again.

  The children having been released from their lessons, his lordship had kindly informed her they would be eating a midday meal in the dining room and she might therefore join them at two of the clock for the excursion to the island.

  “Not at all, Miss Burcott,” he replied pleasantly, although he did not smile. “You are, in fact, very prompt. Edmund, kindly refrain from pinching your sister, or else I might be constrained to pinch you in return, an experience I am sure you would not find to your taste.” As the youngster opened his mouth to deny the accusation, the Earl continued, “In my opinion, a gentleman is not judged by how well born he is, nor by the size of his estate, but by how he treats others, especially those less fortunate than himself.”

  “Oh, indeed, sir, how beautifully put!” Amelia exclaimed before she could stop herself.

  The Earl slowly turned his gaze from contemplation of
his errant nephew and rested it upon her. She felt the heat of a blush climb to her face. His eyes were cool and green, his expression hard to define. He had high, chiselled cheekbones, an aquiline nose and a square set to his jaw which hinted at stubbornness. A thin scar marred the statuesque perfection of his right cheek. She wondered if he had been injured in action, although it was clearly not of a recent order. Subconsciously, she raised her chin beneath his scrutiny. At that same moment, one eyebrow rose an infinitesimal degree. She knew she should look away, play the part of the modest and grateful governess, but that independence of spirit which her father had always encouraged would not permit such cowardice. How ironic was it then, that it had been her independence which had caused him to turn his back on her? Stamping on that train of thought, she boldly stared back at the Earl… and was rewarded with a twitch of his lips which he swiftly repressed.

  “I am honoured that you should think so, Miss Burcott.” He spoke in a tone devoid of humour, yet she suspected him of it nevertheless. Turning back to the fidgeting children, he spread both arms wide. “Come, you vile urchins! If we are to rid the Spanish Main of pirates, we must slip our moorings. Alexander and Robert, will you please bring the basket?”

  The two boys dived with alacrity to where a large wicker hamper waited on the flagged floor next to a carved oak chest. A single silver candlestick stood upon the polished surface, reflected in a similar arrangement on the other side of the door leading to the library. On the opposite side of the spacious hall, a marble statue of the Greek god Hercules was positioned between the doors leading to the dining and drawing rooms. The staircase rose in carved oak splendour from the centre of the rear wall, extending for a dozen steps before branching left and right to the balconied upper floor. It was a handsome space without offensive ostentation, yet offering the visitor the information that the owner of the house maintained a high standing in society.