“Goodness, you are riding well,” said the duke as he watched his brother. “Show me a turn, then.”
Meredith looked over anxiously at Archibald. They had not practiced anything like that, but then he had been riding before, just not often.
She should not have been concerned, however. Cheeks flushed with the excitement of being the center of attention, Archibald gently turned Polly around in a circle and then stopped her to a halt.
Meredith watched her master applaud, his own stallion standing resolutely still.
“I am impressed, I really am,” said the duke as his younger brother glowed with the pleasure of the praise. “I had no idea you were so proficient.”
“Miss Hubert is teaching me all about tack,” said Archibald enthusiastically, “and about speeds, and distances, and how far I can go when I ride at a hundred miles an hour!”
The duke looked at Meredith, who smiled. “We have not actually attempted to ride at one hundred miles an hour, you understand. Just the theory, for now.”
To her surprise, he laughed. “Yes, well, I had rather gathered that. Now, I think Polly looks tired. Why don’t you take her back to the stables—you know the way, don’t you?—and Miss Hubert and I can finish exercising our horses.”
Meredith stared. What on earth had possessed him to suggest that? The idea of spending time with him was rather intoxicating. She could not forget that look he had given her in the library.
But this was all somewhat irregular. Unless he needed to speak to her privately—unless she had done something wrong and was about to be reprimanded?
“I will go back to the stables, and Henderson can rub her down,” Archibald was saying.
“You can help him,” said Meredith with a smile. “Caring for a horse is not just knowing about tack, Archibald.”
“Miss Hubert is right,” said the duke. “We do not just enjoy horses, we take care of them.”
Archibald nodded as Meredith stared with surprise. She and Alfred watched Archibald nudge Polly back the way they had come, turning the corner before glancing at each other.
“This way, I think,” said the duke and nudged his steed forward.
Meredith had no preference and so happily followed. “Of course, Your Grace.”
“Now, I am almost certain that I instructed you to call me Rochdale, and even that is rather formal,” he said with a wry smile. “I suppose Rochdale is too much to ask?”
Meredith swallowed. This was not the master she had come to expect. Where was the tension, the barely bottled irritation?
Perhaps, like her, he felt more comfortable on a horse, more relaxed, more himself. Assuming that this was himself. How was she to tell?
She should not judge him. She was still getting to know him, and if he was anything like some of the dukes she had met in London, that was an impossible task. There was always something held back.
“Rochdale, it is,” she said, the name feeling a little strange in her mouth. “Yet I am not sure whether I will still use it in public.”
“Use it when we are alone together, then,” was his reply, and it made shivers go up her spine.
Did he think they would be alone often?
They continued to trot gently in silence for a few minutes, Meredith looking over a few times to ensure he was not bored. He did not appear to be. If anything, he appeared…well. Joyful.
“You will have to forgive me for saying so, R-Rochdale,” she said, the name still feeling wrong, “if I remark that I have never seen you so at peace as now, on a horse.”
He laughed. “Yes, any excuse to get out on a horse, and I will take it. I used to invent errands when I was younger, just to take out Parker here, though I have too many real calls on my time now. With each passing year, it feels as though I ride even less.”
Meredith smiled. “Why allow real life to get in the way of a good ride?”
Their eyes met, and Meredith felt a shiver move up her spine. What was that?
“The election takes up most of my time now,” he said shortly as their path took them through woodland, the dappled shade giving them relief from the heat. “It is not enough to invent errands now. I have a duty to follow, and I follow it to the letter.”
There was such sadness in his voice. Meredith nudged Beauty closer, so their horses walked alongside each other.
“Why do it?” she asked quietly.
It was an impertinent question, but Rochdale did not appear to mind.
“Tradition, the name, the history of it all,” he replied. “’Tis funny, before a few months ago, I had never even questioned it myself. To question it would suggest that there was another option, another choice for me.”
“That does not feel very fair,” said Meredith, aware she was speaking to a duke, who probably owned all the land they were riding on. Fairness was relative.
Rochdale laughed shortly. “Well, ’tis not as though I am the only person with responsibilities one does not care to carry out. Besides, one day Archibald will have to go through it all himself if I do not…”
His voice trailed away, and Meredith found her heart stirred in pity for the duke who rode beside her. A great name, a great family, even a great fortune did not appear to have brought the man much happiness at all.
He was a good man. She had ridden past the retirement cottages he had built on the edges of the Rochdale estate for those servants who could no longer perform their duties. He cared for people, it was clear. He even cared for Archibald, in a way.
Alfred Carmichael, Duke of Rochdale, would make a good member of Parliament. But that did not mean he would be happy. He appeared miserable, and the election hadn’t even happened yet.
Meredith swallowed as they turned a corner. She knew what she was about to say was rather out of turn. A governess should not really be having private conversations with her master unless it pertained to the study and education of the child. But wasn’t it? Wasn’t whatever she did for the elder brother going to benefit the younger, in time?
“No one,” she said quietly, “should do what they don’t want to do, even if it is because of family. Even if one feels a duty.”
She glanced at him and saw Rochdale smile. Something akin to affection rose in her heart, but Meredith pushed it down immediately.
She was offering advice to her employer. That was all. The last thing she needed was to get entangled in…in that way.
Rochdale sighed. “I am sure you are correct, for most people. I am not most people.”
That temper she only ever had just under control sparked. “You are more special than everyone else?”
“I have greater restrictions than everyone else,” he said, his voice low. “For example. I am enjoying this ride. I am enjoying being in the cool of the woods rather than in the bustle of Rochdale Town. I am enjoying spending time with you, Miss Hubert. Your company is…most pleasant.”
Heat seared Meredith’s cheeks. Now, what precisely did he mean by that?
“And yet despite all that enjoyment, I must away,” said Rochdale, his voice rising and becoming more businesslike. “I have an appointment in less than twenty minutes with some of the townspeople to hear their grievances against each other, and I cannot be late.”
Meredith was surprised to hear this. “I was not aware that was a role for a member of Parliament.”
She nudged Beauty to the next right fork as he did, turning toward the main road to Rochdale Town.
He laughed. “No, it isn’t. I am the magistrate here, too.”
Meredith laughed. “No wonder you are tired of it all! You require a summer break, a proper one. One in which no one can demand anything of you and ices are brought to you every hour, on the hour.”
Her cheeks flamed as she heard herself. That was the flirtatious suggestion of a governess to a man of her acquaintance—not to her master!
But Rochdale did not seem to think anything was wrong. To the contrary, he halted his horse, and Meredith slowed Beauty to a stop.
&nbs
p; Rochdale’s eyes found hers, and they were fierce. “Is that a governess’s orders?”
Meredith’s breath caught in her throat. They were alone here, right on the edge of the woodland by the road. He was looking at her like…like she had never been looked at before. There was a hunger there, a longing she did not understand.
Was he desirous of what they were speaking of, a summer during which no one made any demands, or was…was this hunger for something else?
For her?
Rochdale pulled out his pocket watch and glanced at it. Meredith found she could breathe again, now the connection was broken.
“Yes, I will be late now,” he said with a sigh. “My apologies, Miss Hubert. You know the way.”
He disappeared in a cloud of dust as he encouraged his horse to a trot, then a canter, then a gallop. The small figure vanished from the horizon within a minute, though it was a few more before Meredith collected herself and started back toward Rochdale Abbey.
Chapter Eight
August 20, 1812
“—if you do not pay attention, then I am sorry to say, Your Grace, that I may as well leave!”
Alfred jumped. He was not accustomed to being shouted at in such a manner, and besides, he had paid attention. Mostly.
And who was Mr. Walker to say such things, anyway? It had been a long time since anyone had shouted at him, a duke. It was a very uncomfortable feeling.
“I am paying attention,” he said defensively, hating the childish tone in his words.
It was a lie, of course, and Mr. Walker seemed eminently aware of that. They were sat, along with Mr. Hemming, in the drawing room at Rochdale Abbey. Alfred had invited them…no, actually, now he came to think about it, they had invited themselves.
No matter, they were here to discuss more about the election. It did not appear to be a proper meeting because Mr. Shaw and Mr. Brown had not been included, but it certainly felt like one. Alfred sighed as he looked down at the sheaf of papers strewn across the table before him. Party lines, official agreements, disagreements, notes of intent…
It was all so dull. Fascinating to Mr. Walker, evidently, and even Mr. Hemming had managed to stay awake during the long, warm afternoon.
They would never have to bear the mantle of this burden. It was easy to send others to war and hear their exciting exploits. Better that than go yourself.
Mr. Walker was examining him with a frown.
“I really was listening,” said Alfred defensively. “You were speaking about…the conversation was on…”
His voice trailed away, and his gaze fell onto the papers once more. Damn and blast it. He should have been paying attention. How could he berate Archibald for failing to attend when he was the worst culprit of them all?
Mr. Walker sighed heavily. “Your Grace, I speak harshly as one would to a friend, and I hope you consider me such. Mr. Hemming and I are only here for your good. We have no wish to scold you.”
Alfred nodded. “I know that, old friend. Your service to the Carmichaels is legend, ’tis all over Rochdale.”
The man straightened up in his chair at those words, and Alfred caught sight of Mr. Hemming reddening somewhat.
Even when he attempted to be kind to one man, it somehow managed to offend the other. This was precisely the problem with politics. One could not win!
“Your mind has not been here all morning, Your Grace,” said Mr. Hemming stiffly.
Mr. Walker nodded. “Nor all week, I would say. What has got into you, Your Grace? What important matters of state, of the election, are clouding your mind?”
Alfred swallowed. There was absolutely no possibility of him revealing what—or who—was distracting him so successfully from his duties. He would simply have to push her—it—out of his mind.
He could not permit anything to distract him. He had to stay focused.
“The election is fast approaching, and you are not taking this seriously at all,” continued Mr. Walker. “What can we do to help you?”
The mere fact that he ended on a note designed to support rather than chastise made Alfred feel all the worse. These gentlemen had dedicated hours of their time to his cause, and what had he done?
Spent most of it thinking about…
“I am very sorry for my inattention, good sirs,” Alfred said hastily. Anything to stop thinking about what he knew was a ridiculous distraction. “I will attempt to do better.”
Mr. Walker rose from his seat to come by the table, rifling through the papers in search of one in particular.
“Please do not misunderstand us,” he said, gesturing at Mr. Hemming. “We do none of this to weary you—my father served your father, and all I wish is to do the same. Why, my family has served your family for generations. All I ask is that you allow us to help you.”
Alfred nodded. There was something about the way Rochdale families were intricately linked over time. Just as he belonged to the land, the Walkers belonged to the Carmichaels. It was a special sort of bond, and Mr. Walker, as the current Walker, deserved better from him.
“Let us begin again, shall we?”
Mr. Hemming nodded. “After you, Mr. Walker.”
Mr. Walker had found the paper he was searching for. “Well. As I was saying, the number of gentlemen eligible to vote in this election, as opposed to the last election, has altered dramatically. If we first consider…”
He managed five minutes this time, but Alfred found he had suddenly lost track of Mr. Walker’s speech and utterly forgotten to heed his words.
His damn mind wandering again! He did not do it on purpose, yet could not bring himself to listen. The topic that consumed his mind, that took him away from the election where he should be focused, was…
Miss Meredith Hubert.
It went against his better judgment, but there it was. One could not always control what, or who, absorbed one’s mind, and Miss Hubert was a rather pleasant topic.
She had been here—what, a month now? Maybe a little more, and yet it was hard to tell because she had slipped into the Rochdale way of life so quickly, it was hard to remember what life at the abbey had been like before her.
Meredith was a part of his home. Alfred swallowed. Miss Hubert, of course. Some sort of decorum had to remain, even in his thoughts.
The difficulty was, of course, that because he felt so comfortable around her, he was beginning to allow things to slip. Feelings he had kept hidden for so long, misgivings about this cursed election, for example, had spilled out before her.
“I have a duty to follow, and I follow it to the letter.”
“I disagree,” said Mr. Hemming loudly, jerking Alfred from his reverie momentarily. “I think many of the young ones have a regard for His Grace and are not so easily taken in by this Talbot welp.”
“That’s as may be, but when I spoke with…”
Alfred nodded, for that appeared to be the only contribution either Mr. Walker or Mr. Hemming required.
He had felt so free on that ride with her. He always did when riding, as though the option still existed to ride off into the distance and never deal with the election again.
If only he had not been forced to leave her for that magistrate meeting—or perhaps, Alfred thought, shifting in his seat uncomfortably, it had been a godsend.
What would he have said to her next if he had remained in her intoxicating presence?
Alfred knew he was being ridiculous. The boy’s governess! She was hardly a social equal, not the sort of acquaintance he should be pursuing.
There were plenty of noble or genteel families in the neighborhood, he knew, though he had never forged close bonds with any of them. Away for school, then university, and then as a bloody politician down in London, Alfred knew them by name but not many by face.
And Meredith was…intriguing. She was far more enticing than a governess had any business being, that was for sure.
“Talbot will be crushed!” Mr. Walker was saying passionately, cheeks red and whispers vibrating.
“No one takes him as a serious contender. We all know he is only standing to be an irritant!”
“I am not saying His Grace will not win. I merely seek to put him on his guard!” protested Mr. Hemming.
It was getting rather heated in the drawing room, Alfred was vaguely aware, but it was nothing to the heated thoughts within his mind. Then his imagination could run wild, unheeded, and in those quiet moments, Miss Hubert was not wearing those gowns always so proper…
The election! Damnit man, concentrate!
“I think Talbot a brigand, as most do,” he said in a rare moment of silence between the two gentlemen. “I believe most in the area know that though ’tis difficult. Does not his sister, Wilhelmina, have a good reputation? He could trade on that.”
His remarks had been vague, unprecise, and contributed little, but Mr. Walker looked suitably impressed.
“Just what I have been saying,” he said stiffly.
Mr. Hemming looked outraged. “I have said nothing to the contrary! Nay, further, I too have expressed the respectability of his family, if not John Talbot himself, and indeed I think…”
Alfred had managed to say enough to convince them he had been paying attention.
It was a shame, really. One of the few tricks he had actually learned in Westminster: the art of not really paying attention, but giving everyone the impression that you were.
Mr. Walker deserved better. Even Mr. Hemming deserved better, though it was Walker, Alfred knew, who had done far more for him and his family. Poor Mrs. Walker was quite abandoned during these election months.
“Do you not agree, Your Grace?”
Besides, for all his daydreams and pretending, Meredith—Miss Hubert, that was—was a governess. A servant, a servant under his roof, and he would be a fool to even consider attempting to cross that line.
No, he was no cad to put a female servant under his protection in that position.
And damnit all, he knew almost nothing about her. It had not slipped his notice that Miss Hubert was very quick to share ideas but slow indeed to share any information, particularly about herself.
“Your Grace?”
A Governess of Great Talents Page 10