She was simply too...what? Too attractive? Certainly he benefitted from the pleasure of enjoying her pretty face and perfect form. This morning’s episode while riding had been preoccupying him all day.
She seemed to be growing more beautiful by the day—though perhaps it was simply that he had been away from London too long. Yet, strangely, he had no desire to travel to the capital, even though it was full of brothels and willing courtesans. Somehow, a simple governess had caught his fancy.
Was she too fascinating? There was depth to her and character. She had what his grandmother would have called ‘countenance’—a composed, self-assured disposition that was admirable in itself. And yet, there were moments, too, when he felt that her composure was but a mask and that hidden emotions and opinions agitated beneath her calm expression.
Tonight, he had definitely read disapproval in her arch look towards him, as they were taking their seats for dinner. She had denied it, of course, but he could not shake the impression that he had disappointed her in some way. Having racked his brains all evening, he was no closer to discovering what action or word of his had so displeased her. Could it have been the incident involving his handkerchief? She had undoubtedly been mortified and he would not have dreamed of taking advantage of the situation. She had seemed to welcome his spontaneous hug at the time. And she had trembled when he had kissed her hand. Had she been shivering still with fear, or was it something else?
She had given him back his handkerchief earlier, with a no-nonsense, ‘Thank you’. It now rested in his pocket and he was conscious of the urge to make a treasure of it. It had, after all, adorned that bosom that so completely occupied his thoughts.
And then—then she had not as much as glanced his way when he and Bramber had joined the ladies, preferring instead to shower her attentions on Bramber.
Bramber! My secretary!
Nicholas was unused to being passed over in such a way. Somewhere he retained a dim memory of wondering if she would do for Bramber, but that was in the long distant past. Besides, Bramber had made it clear that another lady had taken his fancy.
Yet somehow, his logical brain had been suffocated by the swell of emotion he felt when he thought of Miss Smith.
She is my friend. I think.
Somehow they had already developed an amity which had helped alleviate the tedium of his sister’s visit—and indeed, of the empty days preceding it. For the first time, he dared to question the choices he had made—his abhorrence of London, his decision to remain cooped up here, thinking only of scholarly pursuits. Miss Smith had re-animated something within him that he had not even noticed had died.
The friendship part is easy, he told himself, selecting and discarding cards with half a brain, but I have never before been so drawn to an attractive woman in two ways at once.
He paused to reflect on this. He had had easy friendships with women occasionally—his friends’ sisters, usually, but it had only occurred with women he did not find particularly attractive. With Miss Smith, however, there was a heady mix of being drawn to her face and body, as well as to her mind and character. And yet, unaccountably, tonight she had seemed to favour his secretary. He glared at Bramber, who sat opposite him, paired with Miss Amabel.
‘For goodness sake, Nicky, are you deliberately trying to lose us the trick?’
Surprised, he glanced down at his discard. ‘Apologies, Sister, it is getting late and I confess I am becoming fatigued. I shall remain riveted to the cards for the rest of the game.’
She snorted. ‘See that you do so. If I had known you would be so distracted, I should have partnered with Mr Bramber instead! Tonight, Bramber, you are by far Nicky’s superior!’
‘Why, thank you, ma’am.’ Bramber grinned.
Nicholas’s scowl deepened, as he was possessed by a sudden determination to win the game. Pushing thoughts of Miss Smith aside, he gave his full attention to the cards, mercilessly combining with his sister to thoroughly defeat Bramber and Amabel.
Bramber, who occasionally had been known to display a streak of rivalry during their card games, seemed tonight to be in a strange humour. The more ruthless Nicholas became, the more amused his secretary seemed to be. Nicholas could make no sense of it at all.
* * *
According to Jarvis, the elderly butler, the library at Stiffkey Hall had been the pride of three generations of Dennys. The walls had been shelved from floor to ceiling and there were in the room hundreds of books, pamphlets and scrolls. To Mary, it seemed like a treasure house. The Denny scholarly tradition had apparently been passed from father to son to grandson, and Sir Nicholas had talked to Mary of the vital importance of developing a well-informed mind. Like Papa, he seemed not to discriminate between males and females, although Mary was wary of assuming this.
Having been raised with a fine appreciation of knowledge and wisdom, Mary was now discovering within herself a genuine love of sharing learning with others. Miss Cushing was busy with the younger children this morning, so Mary, without informing either her or Mrs Fenhurst of her intentions, had simply repaired to the library with Miss Beatrice after breakfast.
Sir Nicholas was yet to join them, so they both enjoyed having a little time to explore the library’s treasures. Like excited children they giggled and exclaimed their way around the room, marvelling at the sheer number of texts and discovering notable books everywhere they looked.
‘Oh, my goodness, it is The Divine Comedy—and in the original Italian!’ Mary breathed, stroking the book cover with reverence.
Beatrice’s eyes grew round. ‘I could never read a book in Italian.’
‘Of course you can!’ smiled Mary. ‘It is simply a matter of practice. Ooh—look at this! Much Ado About Nothing—the one with your namesake in it. I must say I do prefer Mr Shakespeare’s comedies over his tragedies!’
‘I could not agree more.’ It was Sir Nicholas, standing in the doorway. Mary’s heart skipped, as it always did when she encountered him. ‘The language in both the tragedies and the comedies is inspired, but at least at the end of one of the comedies there are characters yet living!’ He stepped inside, closing the door behind him.
Mary laughed. ‘Yes! And there is usually a love story, too, which always helps.’
His gaze steadied on her; his smile faded. ‘I do not abhor a good love story.’
All at once Mary’s mouth was dry. Beatrice, seemingly unaware of the sudden suspense in the air, skipped towards Sir Nicholas. ‘Uncle Nicky, thank you so much for allowing me into your library! I cannot take in my good fortune!’
He smiled down indulgently at the girl, causing Mary’s heart, already racing, to turn over with some unnamed emotion. ‘Well, what are books for, if not to be read?’
‘Indeed, and there are so many I wish to read!’
Mary allowed her gaze to sweep around the shelves. ‘I could spend a lifetime in this room,’ she murmured.
Beatrice nodded. ‘It would surely take a lifetime. What do you think, Uncle? May Miss Smith and I live here forever? I promise we should not be in the way!’
Mary watched him closely. It seemed as though his eyes widened briefly, before his customary neutral expression reasserted itself. He pretended to consider the matter, tilting his head on one side and rubbing his chin thoughtfully with one long finger. ‘I suspect,’ he said finally, ‘that we three, if we lived together for always, would become the greatest scholars in Christendom!’
Beatrice clapped her hands at this and Mary was struck by how the girl’s natural animation had revealed itself inside this world of books.
‘Now, to work!’ Sir Nicholas added, his tone denoting mock sternness. ‘Miss Smith and I discussed your education last night, and we decided that you shall begin with Ovid.’
‘The Metamorphoses? How exciting! I have read parts already—in English of course.’ She sent Mary a dubious look. ‘Some of it was
very shocking!’
‘Ah, well, they were like that, the ancients,’ Sir Nicholas murmured, his voice sending a wicked shiver up Mary’s spine. She could not help it; she caught his eye, then blushed at what she saw there. Heat. Desire. Passion.
She recognised it somewhere deep within her mammal body. How could she not, when she felt exactly the same? Really, Sir Nicholas was expanding her education in many unexpected ways.
They settled Beatrice down with side-by-side copies of The Metamorphoses in English and Greek, then picked up their own books to quietly read. Strangely, Mary could not sustain her attention on her own book. She, who normally craved moments like this—a good book, in a quiet place, and time to read.
Yet today she kept being distracted by the situation itself. By Sir Nicholas. Even by their shared responsibility for Beatrice. There was almost an air of family about it. She sighed. If only her papa could be here, safe and free. The scene would then be perfect.
* * *
Nicholas was conscious of the strangest feeling. Something about the conversation had profoundly unsettled him and he was unsure what it was. Amid the ticking of the library clock and the occasional rustle of a page being turned, he could feel his heart thrumming with emotion. Beatrice, at fifteen, was an engaging child and Mary, though not her mother, was being a better mother to her just now than Susan. He shook his head slightly. Mary was a bare few years older than his niece. Why should he be thinking of her in such a way?
Instantly an image came to him, of Mary nursing a baby. Shockingly, the notion infused him with a sense of rightness he had never before felt.
Like a skittish horse, he shied away from the thought. She is a good teacher and will some day make a good mother.
No, he would not think of who the father of her child might be. It was none of his concern.
Chapter Fourteen
Mrs Fenhurst found them out, of course. While her outward complaint was about Beatrice being quite clever enough already, Mary knew that Mrs Fenhurst’s disapproval also stemmed from her own involvement. It was Sir Nicholas’s house and he had to be indulged, but she could not like it.
Days went by and Mrs Fenhurst grumbled, yet each morning, without fail, Sir Nicholas, Beatrice and Mary would gather in the library to read and learn together. Mary could sense a firm friendship building between uncle and niece and it warmed her heart to see it. He spoke of it one day, as they were leaving the library together and Beatrice hurried ahead.
‘Thank you.’ His voice was low and she turned to him in confusion.
‘For what?’
‘For helping me see the true Beatrice. The younger ones, too. It is only Amabel that I still feel I do not know—although perhaps it would always have been more difficult to be her friend, for she thinks only of fashion.’
Mary thought of Amabel—her brittleness, her fear of ridicule. ‘Amabel needs you, too. Do not doubt it.’
He cast her a warm glance. ‘If you say so, then I believe it. You have a sound head, Miss Smith.’
She flushed. His gaze added warmth to the words, reminding her of things unspoken. Her mortification about the riding habit incident had faded a little, but her desire for Sir Nicholas had not. There had been no opportunity for them to ride again—there was an unspoken understanding between Mary and Sir Nicholas that to do so under Mrs Fenhurst’s eye would be madness. However, they had taken the opportunity to walk in the gardens occasionally, discussing anything and everything that occurred to them. By unspoken agreement, they tended to walk in the gardens behind the house, which were not overlooked by Mrs Fenhurst’s chamber, or the Yellow Parlour, where she tended to sit in the afternoons.
These past two weeks, Mary knew, had served to strengthen a sense of companionship between them, as they shared their joint passion for scholarly pursuits and a simple enjoyment in each other’s company. It gave her a delightful feeling of warmth to know that she had found a friend.
Helpfully, Mrs Fenhurst’s attention was becoming increasingly engaged by the events she was planning, the first of which—a soirée musicale—was to take place tomorrow night. Mary had been busy assisting with the guest lists and planning with the housekeeper, cook and butler. She now felt she knew most of the staff reasonably well, particularly Seth and James, the shy footmen, Sally, the pert scullery maid, and Mrs Kett, the warm-hearted housekeeper.
Mrs Fenhurst, like her brother, seemed to make no effort to engage with servants as people. The Dennys had clearly been raised with a firm notion of their place in the world. However, Mrs Fenhurst did seem to genuinely find it helpful that Mary was helping with her planning.
‘Miss Cushing is a dear,’ she declared confidentially to Mary, after a successful review of the plans with the staff, ‘but she has no head for organising!’
Mary was simply relieved that Mrs Fenhurst had admitted she found her useful. That night sleep came a little more easily, although she woke early, threads of a delicious dream just out of reach.
* * *
‘Today is the day!’ declared Beatrice, with an air of excitement. They had all three convened as usual in the library after breakfast and were reaching for their books and finding their places. ‘The soirée musicale is tonight and I am to be included!’
‘Is this, then, your first grown-up party, little one?’ Sir Nicholas’s tone was indulgent. It did Mary’s heart good to see this softer side to him. Beatrice, too, was continuing to grow in confidence and Mary delighted in the bond forming between the girl and Sir Nicholas. She, too, was forging strong bonds with both of them—it felt now as though she and Sir Nicholas shared a sense of pride in their protegée, Beatrice.
‘It is! Our new gowns are not yet ready—indeed, we are to return to Norwich next week for a final fitting—so I shall wear my green satin evening dress. And Amabel has fixed her gown so that it will be quite presentable.’
‘I am delighted to hear it!’ His tone was dry. ‘Miss Smith, do you enjoy social events?’
Mary considered this. ‘A few short weeks ago, I would have replied with an unhesitating “no”. And yet, I do find myself looking forward to tonight. I am a fickle creature, I suppose.’
‘Not at all! For a few weeks ago you had not yet sampled the delights of residing in Stiffkey Hall!’ His eyes danced with humour.
‘True! And all its fascinating residents!’
‘The reclusive uncle...the shy maiden...’ He indicated Beatrice, who joined in with glee.
‘Miss Smith, you shall play the put-upon governess in this scene!’
‘Oh, no!’ Devilment glinted in Sir Nicholas’s eye. ‘That role has already been claimed by Miss Cushion!’
‘Cushing!’ Mary and Beatrice corrected him in unison and they all laughed aloud.
Mary was struck by how much in charity with them she felt. Despite everything—her desperate worries about Papa, the anxiety about being found out as the daughter of a man accused of treason—she was glad that fate had brought her here, to this house and these people.
* * *
That glow of rightness sustained her through afternoon lessons with two devil-may-care boys, under the watchful eye of Miss Cushing. It took her through Miss Cushing’s lecture afterwards, highlighting all of the things she had failed to do correctly and should try to do better tomorrow.
It became a little rickety when Mrs Fenhurst snapped at her during afternoon tea, having discovered that no one had dyed her spare gloves purple, as she had apparently requested. Mary had no recollection of any such request and it was not anywhere on her list of tasks for the staff, but she knew better than to argue. Taking a breath and biting back the words she truly wanted to say, instead she simply apologised.
‘Hrrmph! You must do better, Mary. How am I to rely on you when you forget the most important tasks?’
Mary diverted her a little by asking what dress Mrs Fenhurst planned to wear and persuading her
that her white evening gloves would be just the thing. ‘If you are planning to wear a purple gown, ma’am, with purple feathers and purple gloves, then who knows, the gloves may have made your ensemble too purple, in effect.’
‘Too purple? Hmmm, perhaps.’ She wagged a finger. ‘But I have not forgotten that you failed to ensure it was done!’
Lord! She could dismiss me on a whim and there is nothing I could do about it.
Mary was unused to this lack of security, having always had a home with Papa to fall back on. Constantly biting back her words and hiding her spontaneous thoughts was proving to be more challenging than she had anticipated. Yet, giving in to an impulse to speak freely could lead to disaster.
* * *
Finally, it was time for their dinner guests to arrive. Mary’s stomach fluttered as she descended the staircase and saw, for the first time, Sir Nicholas in full evening wear in the hallway below.
My, he is handsome!
He looked up at her, his gaze sweeping over her elegant hairstyle, bare neck and silk gown in a pretty shade of primrose.
‘You look delightful, Miss Smith!’ he declared, taking her hand as she reached the second step from the bottom. He bent over her hand and she felt the warmth of his lips through her thin evening glove. Her heart was pounding and, as he straightened, she realised that his face was directly level with hers. Level and close, so close.
Her breath caught in her chest. In fact, she could not breathe. Time stood still as she gazed into his dark eyes, unable to speak.
He wants to kiss me!
To Mary’s left, someone walked towards the front door, breaking the spell. She glanced across to see the footman open the door. The first of the guests had arrived. Sir Nicholas, his expression shuttered, bowed and turned away.
A Waltz with the Outspoken Governess Page 11