The Earl and the Governess

by Sarah Elliott

  Henrietta was waiting impatiently for his response.

  ‘Henny. Aren’t you pleased to see me here?’

  ‘I’d be more pleased if you could manage to look like you wanted to be here.’

  ‘You did insist. I recall telling you I didn’t want to come.’

  ‘Well, never mind. Here you are, so you might as well accept it. Look over there.’

  He glanced in the direction she indicated. The Richard-sons’ ballroom was vast and contained a small army of débutantes. ‘What am I supposed to be looking at?’

  ‘Who, not what, and the answer is Vanessa Lytton. I introduced you to her two weeks ago at Constance Reckitt’s ball. Do you not remember?’

  He frowned as the memory came back. That ball marked the commencement of her blackmail. There, at Henrietta’s heavy-handed insistence, he’d asked Vanessa to dance. She was, as had been promised, very pretty, but that was about the only compliment he could pay her. Of the string of young ladies Henrietta and Venetia had put forward over the last several years, she was the silliest, the vainest and the most vacuous.

  He finally located her in the pastel-coloured throng. Her golden-blonde hair was pulled back neatly, except where it fell artfully around her temples. There was something very practised about her appearance, as well as about the way she demurely cast down her dewy gaze when she noticed he was looking at her.

  ‘Yes. Yes, of course. Very memorable. She looks well.’

  ‘Of course she does—never seen her have a bad day. Why don’t you ask her to dance again?’

  ‘Her dance card will be full, no doubt.’

  ‘I suggested she keep several dances free for your arrival. You made quite an impression on her at your last meeting.’

  He sighed. ‘Henny, I have to warn you, it’s a lost cause. I’d sooner marry a goat. Or a horse,’ he added, thinking of his bizarre conversation of an hour ago. He still couldn’t entirely believe Isabelle had been bold enough to insinuate he was an ass, but he rather wished more girls were like her.

  ‘William—’

  ‘You can’t manufacture these things. You can’t simply decide I should take an interest in a girl and expect it to happen. She’s awfully dull.’

  She crossed her arms. ‘Very well. And I suggest you seek advice elsewhere when Miss Weston-Burke sets fire to your house. I offer you no help.’

  He’d been waiting to launch his counter-attack. ‘Ah, but I’ve already found a governess, thank you, without your help. I won’t be needing your advice. So after tonight, you’ve nothing to hold over my head.’

  She opened her mouth wide to retort, but apparently could think of nothing to trump him with just yet. ‘All right. But I’ve already promised Miss Lytton that you’d be eager to dance with her. She’s been waiting for you all night.’ She turned and walked off in the Lyttons’ direction, confident that he would follow.

  He almost didn’t, and in the end his decision to join the Lyttons had nothing to do with Henrietta. The fact was, although he didn’t like Vanessa, he’d no desire to embarrass her publicly. Since his cousin had promised he would dance with her, any failure to do so would be interpreted as an insult. It would be best to get it over with quickly and then leave—Henrietta’s machinations be damned. He had Isabelle now to help him. And what delightful help she was turning out to be.

  ‘Mrs Lytton, Miss Lytton, what a pleasure to see you again,’ he said as he approached them. He bowed and kissed Vanessa’s gloved and scented hand. Henrietta watched him warily.

  Vanessa was unaware of the tension. She giggled into a curtsy. ‘Lord Lennox, I didn’t know you were here!’

  That was a lie. He knew she’d seen him, and he couldn’t stand her coyness. He smiled tightly, noting that the musicians were conveniently just about to begin. ‘But I could not have missed you. Shall we dance?’

  ‘Oh, do, dear,’ urged Mrs Lytton. ‘I need a word with Mrs Sandon-Drabbe.’

  Will gave Henrietta a dark look as he led Vanessa on to the dance floor, daring her to make any more promises on his behalf. He wouldn’t be so polite next time.

  Vanessa glided gracefully beside him, and when she turned around to take his hand he realised for the first time how small she was. At eighteen, she was hardly more than a child, and the top of her head didn’t even reach his shoulders. Her high-waisted, pale pink silk gown fell to the floor in a gentle bell shape, making her look as delicate and empty as an inverted teacup.

  And after spending the day with Isabelle, Vanessa seemed far less beautiful, even though he could admit she was more conventionally pretty. He’d meant what he told Isabelle—the fact that her lips were only a few inches lower than his made him want to kiss her all the more. Whenever he looked at her, as a matter of fact. When she’d so conveniently stumbled upon him in the hall, he’d been wondering if he could think up an excuse to seek her out again that night. And in that brief moment when he’d thought she’d come there seeking his footman—who might be considered, now that it occurred to him, a handsome enough chap from the feminine point of view—he’d felt…was it jealousy? He liked her very much, he realised; his feelings for her constituted more than simple lust.

  ‘Are you enjoying yourself, Lord Lennox?’ Vanessa asked.

  Not at all. ‘Yes, tremendously.’

  The dance required that they separate for several seconds to dance with the person across from them, but all too soon Vanessa was in front of him once more, regarding him with her bovine gaze. Her small, pearl earrings dangled prettily as she cocked her head to the side in solicitous fashion.

  ‘Your cousin tells us you’ve taken in an orphan.’

  ‘Uh, yes. My goddaughter, Mary Weston-Burke.’

  ‘How charitable you are.’

  He didn’t like that. Of course he would take in his own goddaughter. It wasn’t charity, it was duty. ‘I suppose.’

  ‘You glow with happiness,’ Vanessa said.

  Will realised she was addressing him again. ‘Glow? Do I?’

  She smiled patronisingly. ‘Yes. Having a child about must suit you.’

  He thought about Mary. He didn’t mind her much, but she’d yet to make him radiate with pleasure. She’d barely moved beyond monosyllables. She certainly didn’t make him want to settle down, as Vanessa seemed to be implying. ‘Well, I don’t know…’

  ‘You needn’t disassemble, Lord Lennox,’ she said, lowering her lashes coyly. ‘I can tell. Ladies know these things.’

  ‘Dissa…?’ She was weaving some sort of spell of bafflement around him, and he’d no idea what she was talking about. ‘You mean dissemble?’

  She swatted his arm playfully with her ivory fan. ‘Yes, that’s what I said. You were not attending! Anyone watching would think I hadn’t a single intelligent thing to say.’

  ‘Not anyone who knew you, my dear Miss Lytton.’

  ‘You’re too kind, Lord Lennox.’ She paused, and then leaned in conspiratorially. ‘Everyone knows me, you know.’

  He didn’t know what to say to that, so he said nothing. The dance couldn’t last much longer. He savoured fifteen seconds of silence.

  ‘You are quiet.’ She’d lowered her voice an octave, hinting at depths of kindness and generosity he doubted she possessed.

  ‘My apologies, Miss Lytton.’

  ‘What are you thinking about?’

  ‘Greek sculpture.’ That should shut her up. Her knowledge extended only as far as the final fashion plate in the latest Paris journal. ‘Fascinating stuff, no?’

  ‘Oh?’ She looked worried.

  ‘Yes. Uh, Actidias the Cretan. The great sculptor. You’re aware of his importance, I trust.’

  She bit her lip. ‘Actidias. Yes, certainly.’

  He doubted it, since he’d made the chap up on the spot. This was unfamiliar territory, but he nodded keenly. ‘I’ve a particular interest in funerary sculpture. Sarcophagi and that sort of thing. Yes, yes, all very interesting. Ah—here’s your mother.’

  He released her and
bowed, fervently hoping he’d convinced her that he was too mad for matrimony. ‘Alas, I must be going, Miss Lytton.’

  Vanessa, flushed from mental exertion, curtsied limply. ‘Lord Lennox.’

  But before he could make a clean escape, Henrietta laid a silken hand on his arm.

  ‘I told Mrs Lytton that you’d suggested to me that you might take Miss Lytton and her for a drive on Friday, William. You didn’t forget, did you?’

  ‘No,’ he said tightly. ‘I did not.’ He meant he’d suggested nothing of the sort; Mrs Lytton interpreted his words another way.

  ‘Well, I’m so very pleased you haven’t forgotten. We’re delighted to come, of course.’

  Henrietta’s clear blue eyes sparkled victoriously. Vanessa looked more nervous than delighted, but she nodded weakly nonetheless.

  Apparently a mad earl was better than no earl at all.

  Chapter Nine

  Isabelle gave the window a determined yank, but still it wouldn’t open. The nursery baked with August heat, even though it was only June. Outside, a gentle breeze rustled the leaves of the elm trees that surrounded the square. Brooding grey clouds promised rain above the white-painted stucco houses, but for now it looked comparatively cool and inviting.

  ‘Have you tried opening these before?’ she asked Mary while giving a final, frustrated attempt. She’d have kicked something if she’d been alone.

  The girl looked up from the leaf of paper on which, in her loose and careless way, she was prasticing her handwriting. ‘Yes. I think they’ve been painted shut.’

  ‘Are you not hot?’ Isabelle turned around, wiping itchy strands of hair from her damp brow.

  Mary shrugged and didn’t look as if she would bother to reply. ‘Why don’t we go downstairs?’ she finally offered lazily.

  Isabelle frowned at the sensible suggestion. Obviously, the ground floor would be cooler, but she wanted to avoid Will at all costs. She hadn’t seen him since last night, when she’d been so impertinent, and she thought that the longer she could put off facing him, the better. She couldn’t believe some of the things she’d said to him—and nor, for that matter, could she believe what he’d said to her. A nice height for kissing? He couldn’t have meant that. He was simply punishing her insolence with his outrageous words, and she considered herself thoroughly chastened since she’d nearly turned into vapour on the spot. It couldn’t happen again. He was her employer, and she needed this position desperately.

  The problem was, his words had upset her. They shouldn’t have, since all he’d done was speak the truth, but they did. Naturally he’d want to marry someone suitable, and for him that of course meant someone pretty and aristocratic. By those stark terms, she wasn’t remotely suitable. Not that she’d ever deluded herself into thinking that someone like him might be interested in someone like her, nor did she desire such a state of affairs. He was an arrogant cad, and sometimes she didn’t even like him.

  Oh, but most of the time she did; she really did. And it might be irrational, but hearing him say that she wasn’t good enough—even implicitly—had hurt.

  Her mood wasn’t helped by the fact that she’d spent most of the night thinking about what he was doing at the ball. She could imagine him dancing with beautiful young ladies with small feet and hands and expensive gowns. Ladies who could sail over any obstacle on a horse with every hair in place. Who knew the right things to say and who didn’t make strange, awkward comments. Who’d never dream of insulting him.

  ‘If we go downstairs, we might bother Lord Lennox. Why don’t we go to the park instead?’ she suggested.

  ‘It looks like it might rain.’

  ‘You haven’t even looked outside.’

  Mary lifted her languid gaze. ‘I have now. It looks like it will rain.’

  ‘Not immediately. We should have at least an hour.’

  Mary narrowed her eyes suspiciously. ‘What about my lesson?’

  Isabelle glanced at the line of desultory letters scrawled across her paper. She hadn’t exactly been working hard. ‘You need exercise more than another lesson. The fresh air will be good for you.’

  ‘I’ll be returning to school soon.’

  ‘Possibly,’ she answered, wondering what that had to do with going to the park. Had Will even begun to think about finding a school to take her? It would obviously be the easiest option, at least for him.

  ‘So you needn’t worry about what’s good for me.’

  Isabelle had reached breaking point. ‘Who said I was worried? Personally, I enjoy the fresh air. I merely asked you to come along because I’m not supposed to leave you to your own devices.’

  That seemed to satisfy Mary in a way. She didn’t complain further as Isabelle collected their hats and opened the door. She rose quietly and followed her out of the room.

  Although she’d lost her temper, Isabelle felt quite good about the exchange. At least they’d had something like a conversation. She decided that at this point she’d nothing left to lose, so she tried again.

  ‘Despite your appalling handwriting, you’re actually quite advanced in your studies. When did you start school?’

  Mary didn’t answer immediately, but then she decided, no doubt following Isabelle’s logic, that if they had to spend every day together they might as well speak. ‘When I was eight.’

  ‘So…’ Isabelle paused to glance at Mary sideways as they started down the wide staircase; she’d have to speak carefully. ‘Then that would make four years at Miss Hume’s. How awful.’

  The slight against Miss Hume’s revered institution went down well—well enough, at least, for Mary to nod her assent. Well enough for her to ask a tentative question.

  ‘Were you sent to school, Miss Thomas?’

  That was progress, Isabelle thought. Perhaps she might be good at this governess business after all. Maybe children weren’t such a strange and distant species. ‘No. My father taught me at home, when he could be bothered. I wish I’d been sent away, though. I would have met children my age.’

  ‘I didn’t want to go.’ There was a hint of defiance to her voice.

  ‘No?’ Isabelle looked at her curiously.

  ‘No. Except for me and a few others, all the girls’ parents lived in the colonies. Their parents had to send them away if they were to have an English education.’

  ‘Did you tell your father you preferred to stay at home?’

  Mary didn’t respond. Isabelle sensed she was trespassing into unhappy territory, but she couldn’t help asking, ‘When did you last see your father?’

  She didn’t know if she actually expected an answer, but after a few pregnant seconds Mary replied, ‘I saw him three times after he sent me away. The last time was almost two years ago.’

  ‘Two years?’ At first she couldn’t quite believe it. That meant she’d never had a chance to say goodbye to him. She probably hardly knew him. ‘But did you not go home in the holidays?’

  ‘No. Sometimes I went to a friend’s house. Most of the time I stayed at school.’

  ‘He wrote to you, surely?’

  Mary didn’t look as if she would answer, but eventually she nodded.

  Isabelle opened her mouth to ask another question, but then held back. There was anger in the girl’s expression, and sadness, too, as if pressed on the subject she might even cry. But why on earth hadn’t she gone home? It occurred to her suddenly that perhaps Mary had misbehaved at school because she wanted to be sent away.

  But obviously she couldn’t ask her if that had been the reason. She’d never answer such a question, at least not yet. Isabelle just hoped that, in time, she would feel comfortable enough to open up.

  They soon reached the hall, where Rogers wordlessly opened the door. As they walked down the street, she asked, ‘Did you really cut off that girl’s hair?’

  Mary paused. ‘Yes. I…’

  It was still hard to imagine her doing something so wicked. ‘But why?’

  She looked away guiltily. ‘I hadn’t much
choice.’

  ‘What on earth do you mean?’

  She took a deep breath before launching into her story. ‘It was an accident. Amelia was trying to curl her hair, and all the papers and ribbons she was using got tangled up. Miss Hume would have written to her father if she’d known what she was doing. We weren’t allowed to curl our hair.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘No, because she thought it was precocious, and Amelia had already been caught with face paint her cousin had sent from Paris.’

  ‘So she asked you to cut her hair free?’

  ‘Not just me. All the girls took a turn, but since I’d been in trouble so many times before, Miss Hume chose to blame me.’

  The story seemed convoluted and sounded rehearsed. Isabelle didn’t quite believe her. ‘Were you trying to get sent away?’ she enquired gently.

  Mary didn’t answer. She’d asked one question too many.

  They walked the rest of the way in silence. The girl’s long strides easily kept pace with Isabelle’s, and they reached the park in a few minutes. By then the sky had darkened and a strong breeze had picked up, moody weather to suit their tempers. Dust swirled around the iron gates, causing minor tornados of detritus. Once inside, Mary walked off on her own, heading briskly towards an avenue of trees. Isabelle didn’t try to stop her, just walked fast enough to keep up. The girl had said more that morning than she had all week and probably needed to recuperate from the experience in solitude.

  Isabelle slowed her pace slightly, regarding the haphazard row of bluebells that lined the path and waved happily in the breeze. She sighed, missing her old life and her old home, even if Will’s house was one hundred times more beautiful than the one she’d shared with her father. If only things hadn’t changed.

  She blamed Mr Cowes entirely for her misfortune, although deep down she knew her father was ultimately at fault. Could Mr Cowes know that she’d changed addresses? With a bit of determination, it wouldn’t be so difficult to discover her whereabouts. She’d foolishly told her former landlady, the dreadful Miss Standish, where she was going. For all her apparent probity, Isabelle had little doubt the grasping woman would tell Mr Cowes whatever he wanted for a fee. She shuddered, remembering his hateful innuendos. She’d never been kissed before—not even chastely on the cheek—and she’d not so much as danced with anyone. But even without firsthand experience, she knew what happened between men and women.