The Earl and the Governess

by Sarah Elliott

  It was occupied, though. It took Isabelle a moment to locate her. Mary Weston-Burke sat cross-legged on a battered armchair, the arms so worn that the filling showed through the striped fabric. She’d been reading a book, but she lowered it when Isabelle entered. Her grey gaze was rather cool and assessing, Isabelle thought.

  But still, she rose politely, her arms and legs unfolding like the ivory wool-winder the spinsters used, all straight lines and angles. She was tall for her age, too thin, and had hair as red as Isabelle’s—a fact that made Isabelle’s apprehensive heart warm slightly with camaraderie. The girl had not been blessed with beauty, Isabelle thought, but she had an open expression that probably brightened when she smiled.

  If she ever smiled.

  Isabelle had no idea where to begin. She’d even less experience with children than the average female, since she had no siblings. Her father had always talked to her as he would have to an adult. Isabelle had barely spoken to a child since she’d been one.

  And this child was the most disobedient her school had seen in a decade.

  She smiled unconvincingly. ‘Good afternoon, Mary. I am Miss Thomas.’

  The girl curtsied. ‘How do you do.’

  Isabelle looked around the room, hoping some object would provide her with something to say. It was a bright space with views looking down on to the square—rather forlorn, like the girl inside it, but not without scope for improvement.

  ‘I’m told you left your school.’

  Mary nodded.

  ‘I take it you didn’t like it.’

  ‘No.’

  This was going brilliantly well. Isabelle realised she’d never discussed her salary with Lord Lennox. It had better be generous. ‘Then I hope you’ll like me better.’

  Mary looked away, unwilling to offer any reassurance, and Isabelle realised that she was failing already.

  ‘Shall we get started, then?’ she said matter of factly.

  Will didn’t seek Isabelle out until the next afternoon. It was a deliberate choice, since his plans had started to crumble the moment she arrived at his house, an hour late. He hadn’t given a damn about her tardiness—the reason he’d been so annoyed was that he’d started to think she wouldn’t come at all. That thought, and the fact that he’d have no way of finding her if she didn’t appear, had caused an entirely unexpected feeling of disappointment. He shouldn’t care; she was as replaceable as any pretty girl…although not so the novel master-servant relationship he’d been clever enough to devise. At the time, hiring her had seemed like a stroke of genius from which both parties would benefit. Now, however, he wondered if his spur-of-the-moment decision didn’t signal the onset of madness—which did, after all, run rather strongly through the Stanton blood. He couldn’t actually seduce Mary’s governess. Not while she was still employed in that capacity, anyway. He’d merely set himself up for months of torture.

  He entered the nursery after they’d finished their lunch. The door was ajar and made no noise as he pushed it open. He was surprised by the room, which looked barely changed from when he’d used it as a child. He’d been inside only a few times since.

  They were both sitting on the floor. Scattered on the carpet around them was evidence of a busy morning—one bible, a novel, two books of French grammar and a workbasket overflowing with scraps of fabric and yarn. Mary noticed him immediately. Her cool grey gaze, remarkably like her father’s, lifted from the white linen handkerchief she was pretending to embroider. She showed no emotion, but Will thought he saw—just maybe—a flicker of curiosity. He smiled, and she looked away diffidently.

  ‘Good afternoon.’

  Isabelle didn’t register him, however; her attention, and a rather dark frown, was focused on pulling a stubborn stitch through a piece of silk. He watched her for a second, enjoying the way she pursed her lips in frustration. There was something delightfully imperfect about her face, something that made it more memorable and more pleasing than a face that conformed to every convention of beauty.

  She looked up with a small start and immediately began to rise. ‘Oh, good afternoon. I didn’t see you come in.’ She looked uncertainly at the mess that surrounded them. ‘I, uh, we began the day at the desk, but found the floor more conducive to work. It is…sometimes one needs to spread out.’

  He let his eyes savour the smattering of freckles on her nose. ‘I don’t care where you work. You can come downstairs, if you like. No need to stay in the nursery all day.’

  ‘I wouldn’t want to bother you.’

  It undoubtedly would bother him, having her any closer at hand. It just wouldn’t bother him in the way she imagined. ‘I thought we’d have an outing.’

  He could see her struggling with the pronoun, wondering who he meant by ‘we’. Mary and him? All three of them? ‘Oh. Yes, of course.’

  ‘Mary?’

  The girl nodded after a moment’s thought. Will felt a slight pang of guilt. She’d lived in his house for nearly two weeks, and he should have offered to take her out before now. But what did he have to say to a sulky child? All they had in common was a mutual acquaintance: his friend, her father. But such a topic of conversation was no doubt too painful for her so soon to his death.

  ‘Tidy up, then, and we’ll go.’

  As Will waited downstairs, he debated the wisdom of his proposal. He didn’t really know what the protocol was for taking outings with members of one’s staff, nor, he imagined, did Isabelle. But since it was considered appropriate enough for her to live in his house, he didn’t think there should be anything so odd about being seen out of doors with her—which was, after all, far less intimate. It was the only way he’d ever manage to have a conversation with her, at least one that wasn’t strictly professional, since he couldn’t start frequenting the nursery without causing his servants to gossip.

  But when Isabelle and Mary descended the stairs a few minutes later, he was struck by the fact that the protocol for her would be different. If she were matronly and plain, he could take any number of outings with her without raising an eyebrow. But she was young and beautiful. She’d obviously spent a few minutes titivating her person, and her efforts had resulted in a slightly squashed hat and a chignon at her nape. Already, though, her hair was beginning to sneak free from its confines. There was something delightfully untidy about her appearance, necessary to soften the severity of her grey dress. But even dull grey couldn’t conceal her perfect proportions and tiny waist. He admired her tailoring for a second, then realised he was actually just admiring her…

  He cleared his throat and fixed his attention on Mary. ‘Shall we?’

  Chapter Seven

  ‘Where are we going?’ Isabelle enquired, her voice rather hesitant.

  Will had been waiting for her to ask. They’d been in the carriage for twenty minutes and barely a word had been spoken. Mary sat quietly on the seat across from them. As usual, her opaque expression revealed nothing of her thoughts.

  ‘The British Museum.’ It wasn’t a venue he’d have much desire to visit on his own, and he’d decided on it merely because it sounded suitably edifying—just the sort of place he might request Isabelle to take Mary anyway as part of her tutorial duties, ignoring the fact that he just wanted an excuse to sit next to her in his carriage.

  In fact, he now rather wished he wasn’t sitting next to her. She was too close—not from any effort on her part, since every time the carriage turned a corner she all but clung to the wall to avoid leaning in to him. But the fact was, at six foot three he simply took up quite a lot of space, and there was no preventing his leg occasionally touching hers. Like most ideas he’d had since meeting her, it had seemed a good one at first, but now her proximity was causing his body more inconvenience than pleasure.

  ‘Have you been before?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes. A few times, but not for years.’

  ‘Oh?’ He waited for her to expand.

  She looked at him only briefly before lowering her gaze. Reluctantly, she exp
lained, ‘My father was an antiquary, and he used to visit whenever he was in town. Sometimes he brought me along.’

  ‘So that explains your rock collection.’

  She wanted to glare at him—he could tell from the set of her profile—but she caught herself in time to change tack to a mild-mannered shrug. He smiled. Talking to her was never boring.

  ‘What’s an antiquary?’ Mary asked. Will glanced at her, rather surprised. These were among the first voluntary words she’d uttered, and she had a lovely, clear voice, reminiscent of her father’s in its timbre.

  Isabelle didn’t look as if she wanted to discuss the subject in depth. ‘He was interested in ancient objects…uh, Greek vases and sculpture and that sort of thing.’

  ‘Why?’ Mary asked sensibly.

  ‘Why? Um, that’s a very good question. Well, he collected these things and then, uh, he sold them. It was his profession.’

  ‘It’s not anymore?’

  She looked out the window. ‘He died three years ago.’

  Will wondered why she seemed so uncomfortable, although he supposed Mary’s questions were rather blunt. She didn’t have the polished manners of many girls her age, although he didn’t think there was anything unfriendly about her. She was just a touch defensive, and rather plain and awkward to boot. He wondered if he should buy her a new wardrobe. He hadn’t paid much heed until that moment, but the girl’s clothes were hardly more fashionable than Isabelle’s. It would be a small price to pay to cheer her up. Then again, perhaps she didn’t care.

  They rode the rest of the way without speaking. Will was relieved when the carriage finally stopped. He climbed out first, needing to put some distance between himself and Isabelle. The sun shone and a gentle breeze rustled the trees, bringing pedestrians out in droves: scholarly-looking gentlemen, couples out for a stroll and busy families all milling about on the street in front of the large, pediment-topped building.

  They entered the cool, marble-clad hall silently, as if entering a church—although it was, Will noted, better attended than any ecclesiastical service he’d been to in years. In addition to its immense collection of antiquities, the museum was a repository for all sorts of strange and wondrous things: beetles from Africa, Antipodean seashells, a pair of stuffed giraffes. He hadn’t been since he was a boy, but the beetles had impressed him most at the time.

  Mary walked quickly ahead, probably hoping to get the visit over with as soon as possible. Isabelle walked slowly beside him, looking after the girl with concern.

  ‘Are you all right?’ he asked.

  She glanced at him anxiously. ‘Yes, of course. Why?’

  ‘You seem rather distracted.’

  ‘No. I’m sorry. Have you been here before?’ It was a polite question, awkwardly asked and obviously only intended to direct his attention away from her.

  ‘I came with my Uncle Henry many years ago, when I was about fourteen. He wanted me to see some collection of Greek vases and assured me the experience would be salutary. I’d just failed a Greek exam in spectacular fashion, and he thought I needed inspiration.’

  ‘Did you improve?’

  ‘I’m afraid that whenever anyone tells me something’s good for me I take an instant dislike to it. And since there was nothing I disliked more than my Greek tutor, Mr Dunster, I was determined to pay no attention.’

  ‘You were not a good student?’ There was a welcome smile lurking behind her question. He could tell that she was beginning to relax.

  ‘Terrible, but I never had a teacher as charming as you. How is your pupil?’

  The smile faded, and her expression became worried again. ‘Well…quiet. She seems determined not to like me. I might be her Mr Dunster.’

  ‘You’re no one’s Mr Dunster, I assure you. I wouldn’t take her aloofness personally. She doesn’t seem to like me, either. Or anyone, for that matter.’

  ‘Yes. You neglected to tell me she had something of a reputation.’

  He liked the way she couldn’t resist a gibe, even if it was at his expense. ‘I’m not sure I believe it. She hasn’t cut all your hair off yet, has she?’

  She frowned at him. ‘No, but she’s barely spoken. I can’t imagine her being wicked, although Mrs Wright assured me that was the case. I suppose sorrow can cause one to act…erratically.’

  ‘According to Miss Hume, her misbehavior long predated her father’s death.’

  Isabelle thought that over. ‘She’s very clever, I should think.’

  ‘Arthur was clever. The only reason I passed my exams was because I copied from his.’

  She rolled her eyes. ‘I don’t believe you.’

  ‘Oh? You think I might be a bit clever, too, do you?’

  She blushed, but managed to retort, ‘No, I don’t think you passed your exams.’

  He sighed. ‘I shall have to work hard to impress you, Miss Thomas.’

  She looked at him sideways, again with a smile tugging at her lips. ‘If anything, I’d say she’s a bit too clever. Perhaps boredom caused her to be mischievous.’

  Will considered her suggestion. Arthur, too, had been in endless scrapes at school, always the result of an active imagination and too much time on his hands. ‘I wouldn’t worry much about it. You need only entertain her for a few months to keep her out of trouble. Hide the scissors.’ He looked around the room to avoid the dark look that she now directed at him. ‘Rather impressive, isn’t it? I’m sure you know far more than my Uncle Henry. Did your father educate you?’

  She nodded. ‘Unfortunately.’

  ‘Why is that?’

  Her gaze followed his around the vast room. ‘Girls don’t need to know these things.’

  ‘No?’ he asked. ‘But you do.’

  She blushed. ‘Only by osmosis, and I assure you, it hasn’t done me a jot of good.’

  ‘Maybe it has. Maybe that’s why I hired you.’

  ‘My knowledge of Greek sculpture?’ She sounded highly dubious.

  ‘Yes, of course. Why else?’ He knew exactly why he’d hired her; he wondered what she thought.

  ‘Charity, remember?’

  No, not that. Not really. He did feel a powerful urge to protect her, but at the same time his motives could hardly be more ignoble. ‘You’re wrong again. I hired you because you were far prettier than the other candidates.’

  ‘Be serious.’

  Will liked the way her eyes started to flash in annoyance, the way she opened her mouth slightly as if preparing an insult, and then closed it quickly once she thought better of it. Her peppery remarks had been what attracted him to her in the first place. She was so different from the trained poodles Henrietta and Venetia insisted on introducing him to, young ladies who made only anodyne comments and would never dream of disagreeing with him.

  ‘I apologise. I forgot, for a moment, that I was in the presence of a bluestocking. I shall be entirely serious from now on.’

  She frowned sternly. ‘I am not a bluestocking.’

  That only made him start thinking about her stockings, which he’d caught a glimpse of when she’d climbed into the carriage. They weren’t blue at all. They were white and sensible, but they covered a slim, promising ankle. He shouldn’t be thinking about her ankles, either. Or her legs.

  Before he embarrassed himself, he turned his attention instead to a giant, sandalled foot, three feet long and carved from marble. It sat on a plinth in the centre of the room. ‘What is this?’

  ‘I haven’t the faintest idea,’ she said rather grumpily.

  ‘Liar. I’m sure you could tell me exactly.’

  ‘No, I cannot.’

  ‘You’re not a bluestocking. I take it back. Now tell me.’

  His cajoling tone worked. She smiled reluctantly. ‘It’s Roman, the foot of a god, I imagine, and I’m not a bluestocking. Not really. I’d have far preferred to spend my time doing the sorts of things other girls did. It’s just that my father was in charge of my education and upbringing, so he saw that I learned the sorts of t
hings he thought were important.’

  ‘What about your mother?’

  ‘She died when I was young. Her father was a professor of Latin at Oxford, and my father was his pupil. He was there as a scholar—poor as a church mouse, and he showed his gratitude by eloping with his tutor’s daughter when she was seventeen.’

  ‘How scandalous.’

  ‘It was, I suppose.’ Her smile grew, as if at some distant memory. It had an unaccountable effect on him. He caught her eye, and she looked away, blushing. He put his hands in his pockets, trying to control the urge to touch her, and they walked along quietly for several minutes.

  He couldn’t help glancing at her from time to time, though. He liked looking at her. There was something natural and unaffected about her that he found extremely appealing. He liked talking to her, too, especially during the rare moments when she let her guard down.

  He realised he probably shouldn’t be strolling around with her like this, as if they were alone, but Mary was a blessedly unconcerned chaperone. She’d walked ahead and was at the far end of the room, uninterestedly inspecting a large cabinet of terracotta vases. She looked bored, and Will experienced another twinge of conscience. She was so unhappy, and he hadn’t done much to help beyond hiring a governess with his own entertainment in mind. He simply didn’t know what to say to her, though. He knew nothing about children, and although he managed well enough with those he was related to, they were mostly quite young and all it took to please them was presents every time he visited. He’d assured Mary, when she’d first arrived, that he’d send her to another school soon, but if anything his words had made her more sullen. What could he do?

  ‘Are you interested in this sort of thing?’ Isabelle asked rather suddenly.

  Will looked around the room, feeling no flicker of excitement at the endless rows of vases. ‘Not particularly. They all look the same to me.’

  ‘You’ve never bought any, then?’