Henry opened his mouth to argue, but stopped. "Very well," he muttered, motioning to a young groom. "It's your own funeral, though Mrs. Fairchild will have my hide if she has to hire a new governess."
When the boy returned with the stallion and a new mount for head groom, Henry lifted her into the saddle, then swung himself up.
"Lead the way, Miss. Let us see what you can do."
An hour later the two of them walked their tired horses back into the courtyard.
"What fun," exclaimed Jane as she was helped down. "I have so missed riding."
"Fun!" remarked Henry as he wiped his brow. "Lord, Almighty, Miss. Where did you ever learn to ride like that?"
Jane laughed. "Do I pass your test?"
The groom bowed and tipped his cap to her. "Miss, the stables are at your command."
* * *
Things had gone very well, she mused as she walked along the path that led over the sloping pastureland towards the neighboring village. Henry had chosen a docile, well-mannered pony for Peter's first lesson Though nearly stiff with fright, the boy had allowed her to lift him into the saddle, where his knuckles turned white from clenching the reins. But after the second circle around the paddock, her at the horse's head leading it in a slow walk, he had visibly relaxed, the drawn look around his mouth loosening into a tentative smile. Twenty minutes was all Jane allowed, not wanting to push him too much. Afterwards she was gratified to hear him tell Henry, as he helped put the tack away, that they would be back at the same time tomorrow.
She smiled to herself, remembering his look of wonderment when he discovered he could do it. Had Nanna felt such delight in teaching her? The thought made her pat her pocket guiltily, the letter from Mrs. Fairchild to her old nurse safely ensconced within the capacious folds of material. She had seen the letter lying on the sideboard and had offered to take it to the village. Truly she had looked forward to a brisk walk and some time to herself—and truly she disliked subterfuge—but in this case it was imperative, she reminded herself.
Still, she disliked misleading Mrs. Fairchild, for here she was, on her way home and the letter was still in her pocket. In order to distract her nagging conscience, she began to pay particular attention to her surroundings.
Stately copses of elm and oak separated vast rolling pasturelands and field of wheat in this section of the estate. The tenant cottages that she passed seemed snug and well cared for—there was just one that seemed to be missing a section of thatch on its roof. She must speak to the steward about it.
That brought another smile to her face. She had first met the man three weeks ago and had immediately pointed out some minor repair that he should attend to at the stables.
The man had gaped at her as if she had had maggots in her head. "What did you say?" he had asked incredulously. She had calmly repeated her request, her gaze unwavering until he had stammered that he would look into it.
Poor Mr. Fielding, it must have nearly given him a fit of vapors. But the repair had been made.
The next day she had cornered him again with another small problem. Now, he was almost used to it. In fact he was even essaying a feeble smile whenever she approached and would pull out his notebook in readiness for her. She would have to remember to tell him to look at the cottage's roof. At least the marquess, despite his other faults, was not a tightfisted landlord.
Jane lifted her face to the warmth of the late afternoon sun. Blackbirds chirped from atop the tall hawthorn hedge that bordered the footpath and as she came to an opening in the stile she saw a profusion of wildflowers among the tall grasses. Impulsively, she turned into the field and gathered a large bouquet, pressing the fragrant blossoms up close to her face and breathing deeply. She twirled around like a little girl, all at once overcome by a giddy feeling of freedom. What a crazy thought, she chided herself. She was but a servant! Yet she had so many fewer constrictions and rules than before—and she wasn't bored. For the first time in her life she felt she was doing something meaningful.
Impishly lifting the hem of her skirts, she gave rein to her high spirits and began to run back towards the path. She raced up and over the stile, then suddenly was engulfed by a dark shadow. A muffled oath followed, then the sound of thundering hooves brought up short. She skittered to a halt and looked up at a very large black stallion which was tossing its head and dancing nervously only a few yards from where she stood.
"Damnation! Have you no more sense, girl, than to run out in front of a galloping horse?" The rider eyed Jane's shabby grey gown and bonnet, tendrils of mousy hair escaping from under its unflattering brim, and made a grimace of distaste.
Jane looked up at him. Above a pair of gleaming Hessians, impeccable buckskins encased well-muscled thighs that were having no trouble controlling his skittish mount. Despite the sudden stop the perfectly tailored riding coat showed not a crease around the broad shoulders, nor was the knotted cravat even slightly askew. Jane shifted her glance upward. The man's features were perfectly chiseled, handsome but hard, with a cold, haughty look to them. His locks, where they tumbled out from under his curly brimmed beaver hat, were as dark as his stallion's coat. And the eyes, a sea-green color, were flooded with annoyance.
Piqued at being spoken to—and looked at—like that, Jane replied without thinking.
"And have you no sense, sir, than to gallop recklessly along a footpath?" Some impulse made her add, "Or perhaps you cannot control your mount."
The eyes now betrayed a flash of anger. "If I could not control my mount you would be very lucky to be alive," he retorted. Then, as if realizing the ignominy of brangling with a farm girl, his face composed itself back to its frozen haughtiness.
This infuriated Jane even more. Heedless of the propriety she addressed another bold sally at him. "This would never have happened if you had not been trespassing. I'll have you know these are the Marquess of Saybrook's lands."
"Ah. Saybrook." The corners of his mouth twitched ever so slightly. "Then aren't you trespassing as well? And stealing, perhaps?" He looked pointedly at her chest.
Jane was momentarily nonplussed. She looked guiltily at the flowers still clutched to her bosom. "I'm not... er, that is... Of course I'm not stealing!" she replied indignantly. "I'm taking these to the manor house. I work there."
A look of surprise creased the rider's brow. "Indeed? And just how, pray tell, are you employed there?"
Jane lifted her chin. The nerve of the man, to question her word! "I am the new governess."
"The governess," he repeated, staring intently at her.
Jane's anger, sparked more than she cared to admit by the shock of the near accident, had just as quickly died down. And now, under the penetrating gaze of the gentleman on horseback, she realized just what a predicament her hasty words had put her in. Not only had she nearly caused him to unseat himself and possibly injure a valuable horse, but she—a servant—had been unspeakably rude to him. It was entirely possible that he was an acquaintance of the marquess, and one word about today's incident would no doubt result in her instant dismissal.
What a mull she had made of her first encounter with the gentry!
"Oh, dear." The words escaped without her even realizing it.
The gentleman had been watching the turmoil on her face. "What's the matter?" he inquired." Did Hero hurt you after all?"
"N-n-no," she stammered. "It's not that." She stopped for a second, then decided she had no alternative but to throw herself at his mercy, much as the idea stuck in her throat.
"It's just that this is my first position and, and I have not yet... I fear I wasn't thinking—I was terribly rude, sir. I beg your pardon." Her eyes didn't dare meet his for fear he would see not contrition but indignation at having to humble herself to such a haughty gentleman.
"Having such a fright would cause anyone to forget her manners," he allowed.
A quick flare of anger sent a rush of heat to her cheeks. But just as quickly, Jane managed a semblance of a smile. "Thank you fo
r your generosity, sir," she said through gritted teeth. There was another pause. "I would ask for your further generosity in not mentioning this incident to Lord Saybrook."
He paused as if to consider the request. "Let us agree that what has happened will remain between you and me alone," he replied with a sardonic smile. "However..."
Jane took a deep breath, waiting to hear the rest.
"...it is to be hoped that the governess can learn her lessons well, too." With that he put the spurs to his impatient stallion and set off at an easy canter.
"Wretch," she muttered at the broad back, fast disappearing down the path. "Arrogant, high in the instep, conceited..." She kicked at a stone in her frustration. "Insufferable." He had certainly gotten the better of her. All the way home she consoled her wounded pride by repeating every disparaging adjective that she had learned from Thomas to describe the odious gentleman.
At least, she consoled herself, it was most unlikely she would ever have to see him again.
* * *
Jane felt tolerably composed by the time she walked into the manor through the kitchen door, even though the mere thought of those sea green eyes still set her teeth on edge. Usually the warmth and the heady smells emanating from Cook's domain were ever so soothing. Perhaps she would linger over a glass of warm milk and fresh scones. Then her spirits would be truly restored.
Instead of the normal calm however, Jane had walked into a scene straight out of Bedlam. Upstairs maids were scurrying with piles of linen, Cook was standing, arms akimbo, shouting orders at spooked scullery maids, and poor Mrs. Fairchild was wringing her hands, muttering "Oh, dear, oh, dear," to no one in particular.
"What on earth is the matter?" cried Jane.
Mrs. Fairchild looked up at her. "Oh, there you are. Thank goodness you have returned. He wants to see you."
"Who does?"
"Why, the master, of course. He has arrived! Unannounced! His rooms must be put in order. Cook is worried about turning out a decent supper in this space of time and I... the house!" She moaned faintly.
"Now Mrs. Fairchild, don't be a goose. The house is faultless, as you well know. Why, the floors and furniture fairly glisten with beeswax and there isn't a speck of dust anywhere."
The older woman managed a wan smile. "I suppose things aren't too shabby, but I should hate to disappoint His Lordship. Oh, he asked that you present yourself to him in the library at six."
"Very well. Now calm yourself."
Mrs. Fairchild nodded. "Yes, of course." She cleared her throat, then added. "You will be punctual? Mister Edward does not tolerate sloppy habits at Highwood."
Jane nodded, not trusting her tone of voice to hide her true feelings. From what she knew of the man so far, she didn't give a fig for what the Marquess of Saybrook could tolerate.
She certainly found it hard to tolerate the apprehension he seemed to bring out in everyone at Highwood.
Even the footmen and parlor maids were affected by the air of nervousness that had descended upon the house. They rushed about, unloading the traveling carriage and freshening the rooms with a hushed seriousness, engaging in none of the usual cheerful banter. Jane did not even receive so much as a smile from any of the distracted servants as she made her way up to her room to make ready for her first interview with her employer. Heaven knows she needed to freshen up her hair and gown—she must look a fright after all that had happened.
The mirror over the washstand told her that she wasn't wrong. A goodly number of tendrils had worked their way loose from the severe bun at the nape of her neck and dangled in disarray around her ears and throat. Behind the errant curls there was a distinct smudge on her left cheek. The wildflowers, still clutched in her hands, had scattered their petals across the bodice of her gown, while its hem was covered with dust. It was hardly a picture to inspire confidence in an employer. She sighed longingly as she thought of her abigail at home and a nice hot bath. Then she began to scrub the dirt from her face and to rearrange her hair.
Jane found that she was curious to finally meet the marquess. She knew his house, his lands, his possessions, his dependents and his servants. From that she had formed a very definite picture of him.
And now she was to meet him in person.
She finished sponging the hem of her gown, for she had decided not to change into her better grey merino one, but to remain in the distinctly less flattering shade of brown. As she regarded her reflection she almost grimaced at the plain, rather unattractive face that peered back at her.
But, she sighed, it had been decided that it was best to look as unremarkable as possible—not that it seemed to matter here at Highwood. Well, the hairstyle certainly accomplished that, along with the walnut leaf rinse which had dulled her once glorious hair to an insipid shade nearly as ugly as that of the dress.
She picked up a pair of spectacles from the dresser. Though only made of clear glass, they added an even dowdier touch to her appearance. She had made sure to wear them occasionally around the house so everyone was used to seeing them on her. Propping them firmly on the bridge of her nose she felt ready to meet His Lordship. Now, if she could just remember to squint...
A knock on the door interrupted her thoughts. Mrs. Fairchild had left nothing to chance. She dutifully followed Glavin downstairs to the library.
The marquess was standing with his back to her, seemingly engrossed in the blazing hearth, when Jane quietly entered the room. She stopped near the threshold, not merely out of deference but out of surprise. The gentleman before her was over six feet tall, with long legs, narrow hips and a broad, muscular back, accentuated by the snug cut of his elegant swallow-tailed coat of claret superfine. There was a lazy, cat-like grace that radiated from his person, as well as something that hinted at a veiled power beneath the lean, hard body. Thick dark hair—not grey, very dark—fell to the back of his collar while his shirt points were moderate, allowing him to turn his head with ease. Her surprise turned to shock when he did so.
Those sea-green eyes!
"You!" she blurted out.
"Please take a seat—Miss Langley, is it?" he said coolly, neither his voice or expression giving the slightest acknowledgement that they had ever laid eyes on each other before. He motioned to an armchair while he seated himself at a massive oak desk facing her.
Jane sat, too stunned to say anything.
Lord Saybrook let the silence last what seemed to be an interminable amount of time before continuing.
"I must congratulate you on your progress with my ward during the short time you have been here. He seems to have actually learned something."
She had recovered her wits enough to detect the faint note of sarcasm in his voice. "I take it you have no high opinion of governesses then, my lord?"
"No," he admitted. "I do not. Most of them I have met have been either vapid or cruel. But you appear to be neither."
Jane kept her eyes focused on her primly folded hands resting in her lap. How was one to respond to such a compliment, if compliment it was?
"With such an opinion, I wonder that you would bother hiring one at all," she said softly.
"It is necessary," was the curt reply. There was another silence. "I have also found my ward to be more... lively. I take it I have you to thank for this as well?"
Jane couldn't resist the opening. "Oh, it is really nothing, my lord. Children naturally respond to a little love and attention." She smiled innocently. "His name is Peter, by the way—in case you have forgotten."
A flush stole across his face, she noted with satisfaction, and his jaw set grimly. So, she had managed to effect a crack in his icy manner. But when he spoke, his voice was quite even.
"You may go now."
Without any further ado, he turned his attention to the papers on his desk.
It was Jane's turn to feel the heat of anger. To be dismissed like a... a servant! But as soon as she thought it, the very irony of the situation nearly made her smile in spite of herself. She rose silently
and left the room, conceding the last word to him. After all, he had had an unfair advantage in the meeting. But she felt she had held her own, and even scored a hit herself.
Yet the whole meeting had infuriated her, only serving to confirm her suspicion that the marquess was a cold, hard man. When she reached her own chamber she was still fuming over the bored, sardonic look on his face, the way his eyes raked over her as if they didn't even see her. She made a vow that he would never intimidate her as he seemed to have done to the rest of the household. Not that it mattered. From what she understood, His Lordship never stayed more than a week or two at a time. But if he wanted to cross wills with her, she was ready!
* * *
The thick oriental carpet muffled the sound of Saybrook's well-polished Hessians as he paced before the fire in his library. The polished paneling glowed in the flickering light, conjuring up evenings long past when he would creep in to find his mother reading by the hearth. The memories caused a sudden lurch in his chest, a longing to make this his home again, a place of warmth, of laughter, of life rather than a place he avoided as much as possible. He loved the smell of the leather books, the familiar furniture, the carved moldings—missing one acorn that he had whittled away with a new pocket knife...
He shook his head as if to banish the painful thoughts.
They plagued him whenever he came back. Most of the time he was able to keep them at bay. So good had he become at hiding his feelings he could almost believe he had none, none at all. Perhaps that was why he felt half dead.
His lips compressed. Thank God it was only a couple of weeks a year that he had to return to deal with his affairs. His steward was a capable, honest man who ran the lands well. There was no doubt that all would be in order and decisions could be made swiftly. Of course, he would inspect things himself, and see that his tenants had been looked after properly. But that shouldn't take too long.
And Mrs. Fairchild ran the manor as well as his mother had. A poor relation from that side of the family, Mrs. Fairchild had come to Highwood when he was still in leading strings. Saybrook grimaced as he remembered how many times she had borne the brunt of some childish prank of his or Liza's—it was a wonder she did not hold him in the greatest distaste! But her good nature had never wavered and now she was delighted with the responsibility of caring for his estate and ward while he absented himself for months on end. Did she have an inkling as to his reasons? He sometime thought she looked at him with—no matter. She ran the house and servants with a gentle, yet firm hand.
Andrea Pickens - [Lessons in Love 01] Page 5