‘It is my habit to ride every morning,’ he replied, but his expression remained serious, thoughtful.
‘I have never learned to ride a horse, though I have often wondered what it would be like. I am sure I should be frightened to be so far from the ground.’
‘Miss Smith,’ he declared, giving her a wicked look, ‘I cannot imagine you being frightened of anything, or anyone.’
‘Oh, but I am! Many things frighten me.’
‘Things, not people?’
She considered this. She was currently frightened for Papa, for her own future...yet she could not recall being frightened of a person. Miss Plumpton had angered her, Mrs Gray had made her nervous, but only because she was so admirable. Sir Nicholas himself—no, he did not frighten her, exactly. It was not fear that caused her stomach to melt and her insides to clench in his presence. It was—something else.
Sir Nicholas was still watching her intently. Her heart was now pounding so loudly, she was sure it could be heard all around the room. Ignoring his question entirely, she attempted to distract him. ‘Do you always follow the same route, or do you vary it?’
He hesitated, still looking at her, then almost visibly shook himself out of his inner thoughts. ‘I generally go by Houghton St Giles, then back home along the river.’
Papa’s parish! She had wanted to divert him from noticing her worries about Papa, but she had ended up asking exactly the wrong question. Thinking quickly, she took their discourse in a new direction. ‘I always find I sharpen my ability to read or study after a brisk walk. I believe exercising the body can be good for the mind.’
‘And for the spirit,’ he agreed. ‘Our local countryside has a most soothing effect on my temper.’
She grinned. ‘Then you will own, I am certain, that it would be good for the boys to exercise outdoors each day.’
He leaned forwards, a ghost of a smile finally breaking his melancholy. ‘You shall not trap me into stepping into that battlefield. I can deal with anything except the tears of a certain elderly governess!’
‘Why, I am sure I do not understand you!’ Her eyes danced with mischief.
‘I am very sure that you do,’ he retorted, throwing himself into the debate.
‘And so,’ she said deliberately, ‘you ask me to step into duels that you would not consider for yourself.’
He grinned and she felt a thrill of happiness at having successfully diverted him. ‘I do, and have, and I confess I am enjoying observing how the combat progresses! Sometimes one of you has the upper hand, sometimes the other. It is not clear yet who will be the victor, but if I were prone to gambling...’
‘Yes?’ She could not resist baiting him. ‘If you were to bet, on whom would you place your coin?’
Oh, how exhilarating it is to be in his company!
He laughed, then replied with mock sternness, ‘Gambling, Miss Smith? I would say that you would do well to remember that you, I understand, are the daughter of a vicar!’
‘Who told you that?’ she asked sharply, all humour leaving her.
‘The register office, in their letter of recommendation.’ He was frowning again. ‘At the time, I thought it reassuring. Now...’ His voice tailed away. ‘You are something of an enigma, Miss Smith.’
Aware that she had erred, Mary decided to be daring. To show weakness now could only harm her need for secrecy. ‘An enigma...hmmm...’ She tilted her head to one side. ‘In a good sense, or a poor one?’ she asked pertly, half-aware that she was hoping for some warmth from him.
‘I hope, good.’ He gave her that look again and this time she felt it in every inch of her body, right down to her toes.
‘—of people who continue to rudely converse when I have already turned the table!’ Mary became aware that Mrs Fenhurst was glaring at her and Sir Nicholas from the foot of the table and that everyone else was watching them. Lord!
With no acknowledgement of his sister’s rebuke, Sir Nicholas merely turned to his left, throwing a genial question to Beatrice. Thankfully, Mr Bramber engaged Mary in conversation immediately afterwards and Mrs Fenhurst, thankfully, took her cross gaze away from her brother and Mary.
Oh, dear! There are hazards and entanglements in every direction, and I am not sure I am navigating them with any degree of success.
* * *
Nicholas absent-mindedly thanked his valet. The man departed, leaving Nicholas alone in his chamber. Nicholas extinguished all but one of the candles, then took his half-glass of brandy to the armchair by the fire. As he gazed into the orange glow, his thoughts drifted to Miss Smith. Again. He had noted the interesting intelligence that she had never ridden a horse before and, in fact, was nervous about the thought of doing so. He grinned. He should quite like to see the assured Miss Smith show nervousness.
His thoughts drifted to another fascinating glimpse into her mind. Did something trouble her? Earlier he had seen a shadow cross her face when she believed herself to be unobserved. Surprisingly, he had been in that moment quite overtaken with an urge to comfort her, to ease whatever it was that vexed her.
It was most unlike him to care much about other people. Apart from the occasional trouble of dealing with his sister Susan and her irksome brood, he was generally surrounded by straight-faced servants who, naturally, needed nothing from him. Finding himself concerned with another’s unhappiness was a new experience for him. He wriggled uncomfortably, then finished his brandy in a single draught. Time for sleep.
Chapter Ten
Mary descended the servants’ staircase to the lower floor, seeking Mrs Kett, the housekeeper. Following last night’s near catastrophe at the dinner table, when she had been altogether too indiscreet in her conversation with Sir Nicholas, Mary was determined to do better from now on. The difficulty was, she acknowledged as she moved along the dimly lit passageway, when she was in Sir Nicholas’s company she forgot things.
She forgot to be dull and discreet. Forgot that she was here under—well, not false colours, but with a lack of openness about her need to be in Norfolk. Forgot that the single most important matter she must manage while in Norfolk was to support her papa and hope for his release. Guilt flooded her as she realised that thoughts of Sir Nicholas quite drove her concerns for Papa from her mind at times.
Most worryingly, she frequently forgot that Sir Nicholas was not some new friend, but her employer.
He already seems like a friend, was the answering thought, along with the fluttering in her stomach that she had come to associate with Sir Nicholas. It happened each time she thought of him and reached a crescendo in his company.
Not a friend like Papa. No, what she felt for Sir Nicholas was the most intense response she had ever experienced to another person. He fascinated her. She had now concluded that he was certainly the most handsome man she had ever beheld—even while dimly remembering that, on first meeting him, her impression had been of a handsome man, but nothing unusual. Each evening at dinner, when she sat near him, she revelled in the rumble of his voice, the dexterity of his hands, the impressive proportions of his frame.
These notions were most unlike her. Like most scholars, she had been raised to believe that the mind was to be celebrated, rather than the body. The body had its importance of course, along with the heart, but Mary’s mind was the muscle that her papa had nurtured. Mary had grown up with a fixation on strengthening her intellect, celebrating thoughts and insights, while ignoring the needs of her physical self. Why, she and Papa had frequently forgotten to eat, ignoring hunger and thirst while engaged in some scholarly pursuit or debate.
Until recently, Mary herself had had no interest in the usual preoccupations of young ladies—how to dress their hair, what gown to wear, or how to avoid freckles. Papa, realising it, had sent her to Miss Plumpton’s Academy in an attempt to right this imbalance. That had been failing spectacularly, right up until the moment Mary had escaped from t
here.
Yet here she was, fussing over her appearance for the first time in her life. Normally she dressed to please herself, and for comfort as much as fashion. In the past few days, however, she had begun to notice herself being a little more careful when choosing her clothing or dressing her hair. She had felt for the first time a feeling of satisfaction when she looked in the mirror and saw that her printed muslin was pretty, or that her blue silk evening gown matched the colour of her eyes.
This was not the only change. Since arriving in Stiffkey Hall, and for the first time in her adult life, Mary was continually aware of a man. Sir Nicholas’s nearness had a potent effect on her body. The most wonderful sensations pursued her when he looked at her and when she thought of him. It was all most peculiar.
Straightening her shoulders and marshalling her wayward thoughts, Mary knocked on the door of the housekeeper’s room. On hearing the command to enter, she stepped inside. The chamber was plain yet cosy, with a small fireplace, a metal bed in the corner and a table with two chairs. Mrs Kett was poised in the act of writing, her quill hovering over a long sheet of paper. On seeing Mary, she smiled and set her pen down.
‘Why, Miss Smith, how nice of you to call! How may I assist you?’
Mary responded with a reference to Mrs Fenhurst’s plans and they contentedly discussed the upcoming events together, finding agreement on all the important matters. Mrs Kett was, Mary realised, a sensible woman and her comment yesterday about Lent had given Mary an idea.
‘There is one other matter I wished to discuss with you.’
‘Yes?’ Mrs Kett’s kind face was beaming at her.
Oh, how wonderful it is to meet warm-hearted people!
‘I walked as far as Walsingham the other day and I saw that there is a gaol there.’
‘The Bridewell, yes. It is quite new, you know. They built it only ten or so years ago.’
‘So that is why it is not as dingy as other gaols!’ Responding to Mrs Kett’s questioning look, she explained, ‘I have made it my business to seek out the poor, the destitute and the needy wherever I have lived and I do what I may to aid them.’ This was completely true.
Mrs Kett patted Mary’s hand. ‘Ah, I knew you for a God-fearing girl, the minute I met you!’
‘My father is—was—a vicar.’
Is he yet? Mary did not know. What was the status of a vicar in gaol? Had Miss Lutton made the Bishop aware of Papa’s arrest?
The housekeeper was eyeing her with approval. ‘So what do you mean to do during your stay here?’
‘I would like to visit the prisoners—give them food, and blankets, if permitted, and read to them from the Bible. I called in when I was there and I was shocked by how little they had.’
‘Food we can always give. And we do have a couple of spare blankets...how many would be needed?’
‘There were but four prisoners on Thursday.’
Mrs Kett nodded. ‘Leave it to me. Let me know when you will be free to visit them next and I shall prepare everything for you.’
‘Thank you. Also—’
‘Yes?’
‘Are there any other needy people in the district that I might assist?’ Mary could not escape the feeling that she should not only be assisting Papa. Anyone might aid a loved one. There was no particular goodness in it.
‘Mrs Skipper in the Home Farm has a sick child this week. I was going to bring her some beets and carrots, and perhaps a wheel of cheese, but I have not yet had the opportunity.’
‘If I find myself with a free hour, I shall bring them for you.’
‘You are a good girl,’ said Mrs Kett. ‘I am glad you came.’
I am not as good as you believe me to be, thought Mary.
The way she was deceiving everyone sent a shudder of discomfort through her. Yet she could not risk sharing the truth with anyone. Papa was depending on her.
* * *
‘Miss Smith!’ Sir Nicholas’s voice sent a delicious shiver through her. They were filling their plates at what Mrs Fenhurst called a ‘potluck’ nuncheon. All the food was laid out on the sideboards and, instead of being served while seated, they were all helping themselves in a most informal way.
The others were already seated, leaving Mary, who had waited until last, and Sir Nicholas, who had just arrived, to select their food at the side of the room.
‘Sir Nicholas?’ she replied, looking up at him.
‘I have done something that I hope will meet your approval.’ His tone was low and she matched it, unsure what was coming next.
‘Indeed?’ She raised an eyebrow. ‘My approval is not easily won, I shall have you know.’
‘Now I am quaking in my boots!’ His eyes were smiling, and she noted with great interest how it added to his charm. ‘I have persuaded Miss Beatrice to join me for some Greek and Latin reading in my library.’ He speared some beef with a serving fork, transferring it to his plate. ‘Your jaw has loosened, Miss Smith—not a particularly attractive look.’
She snapped her mouth shut. ‘How on earth did you manage it? Why, the girl seems terrified of you!’
‘My powers of persuasion are equal to it!’ He grinned. ‘Very well—I said that you would also be there and that allowed her to agree.’
Mary frowned. ‘Me? But what of your sister and Miss—’ She glanced around, then added, in a near-whisper, ‘Miss Cushing?’
He leaned down to whisper into her ear. ‘Leave the Cushion to me!’ His warm breath tickled her ear, sending frantic pleasure tingling though her body.
Doing her best to ignore it, she concentrated on his words. ‘You have set yourself a severe challenge, for Miss Cushing is well on the way to detesting me.’
‘Precisely!’ he retorted, taking a step away and turning his attention to the ham.
‘Oh, Sir Nicholas!’ Mary called to him silkily. ‘There is a thing you may be interested to know.’
‘Yes?’
‘I am not a woman who cares overmuch about how attractive she looks!’ With this final, jesting barb, she walked to the table.
Chapter Eleven
Sir Nicholas wasted no time. Barely had the party all taken their seats than he addressed his sister. ‘Susan, my dear, I am impressed to discover that one of your offspring is something of a scholar.’
‘You are referring to my dear David, I collect,’ Mrs Fenhurst responded, munching on a side dish of leeks. ‘He is prodigiously clever—so much so that he frequently outruns dear Miss Cushing. Is it not so, my dear?’
Miss Cushing hesitated. To agree would perhaps lower the assembled group’s notions of her abilities, yet to disagree with her adored employer was impossible. Recognising the governess’s dilemma, Mary could not help but glance towards Sir Nicholas, wondering if he, too, was enjoying the moment. At precisely the same instant, his gaze had sought her out and they shared a glance that was brimful of humour.
Miss Cushing mumbled something non-committal and Mrs Fenhurst continued. ‘I dare say he gets it from his papa, for as you will remember, Nicky, I was never bookish!’
‘I do remember,’ he murmured. ‘But it was not David I was referring to. It was Beatrice.’
‘Beatrice? Beatrice?’ Mrs Fenhurst paused, her fork halfway to her mouth. ‘Beatrice is clever?’
‘I believe so.’ Sir Nicholas continued to enjoy his repast. Beatrice herself had stopped eating, her face as red as a tomato.
‘But, what use is it to have a girl who is clever? For she will never need to work, or speak in Parliament, or deal with matters of business!’
Quite before she knew what she was doing, Mary found herself responding. ‘Oh, but it is wonderful for a female to be clever! We are denounced as the weaker sex, yet many women are scholars and study the sciences, and literature. Some have even written entire books! I believe it to be a myth when people say that women’s brains are less
capable than men’s.’
There was a stunned silence. Belatedly, Mary realised that, in the present company, she might as well have tied her garter in public. Mrs Fenhurst looked horrified, Miss Cushing delightedly shocked. Amabel and Beatrice were gaping at her for her audacity and Sir Nicholas—nervously, she glanced towards him.
Sir Nicholas’s expression was one of unholy glee.
‘Well!’ declared Mrs Fenhurst. ‘You state your opinions with some force for so young a person, Miss Smith! Must I remind you that you are an employee here—a governess, in fact!’
Miss Cushing gave a small cough.
‘I mean to say, of course, that you are not my governess,’ Mrs Fenhurst continued hurriedly. ‘And I am very glad of it! Thankfully, Miss Cushing has altogether more sensible notions of the female sex.’
‘It is immaterial, Sister, whether you believe women should or should not write books, or use what intelligence they have in public life.’ Sir Nicholas leaned back in his chair, the picture of studied indifference. ‘The fact is that I am glad to have discovered it to be the case and I am going to allow Miss Beatrice to have access to my library.’
Mrs Fenhurst’s eyes narrowed, and her expression took on a slightly calculating look. ‘Well, since this is the first time you have shown any interest in your nieces and nephews—’
‘That is not true!’
‘Any interest at all,’ she continued, ‘I shall permit it. Who would have thought that it would be my quiet Beatrice who would finally be noticed by her uncle?’
Beatrice herself, while still looking deeply uncomfortable at unexpectedly being at the centre of the conversation, managed to mumble a few words of thanks.
Mrs Fenhurst herself clearly had bigger fish to fry. ‘Do not forget, Brother, that you also promised we should all have new dresses.’
‘I have not forgotten, I assure you,’ he returned smoothly.
Mrs Fenhurst gave a satisfied nod. ‘I am glad to hear it. We shall travel in the coach tomorrow to Norwich and visit the modiste there.’ She sniffed. ‘She is not what I am used to, but we shall have to make do.’
A Waltz with the Outspoken Governess Page 8