The Earl and the Governess

by Sarah Elliott

  She blushed and looked away. ‘Good afternoon.’

  She stepped into her room and closed the door behind her.

  Chapter Eleven

  Isabelle’s foot felt much better in the morning, despite the violent bruise that had started to develop. It was still tender to the touch, but as long as she was careful she could put weight on it without causing herself too much pain. Contrary to Dr Collins’s supposition, it appeared not even to be sprained.

  Unseasonable weather had again turned the nursery into a furnace, and at eleven o’clock they moved outside to the garden. It had been Mary’s suggestion, of course. There was no way Isabelle would voluntarily increase her chances of seeing Will any time soon, and setting foot downstairs was sure to do so. But she didn’t have any real argument against Mary’s reasonable suggestion—she couldn’t exactly explain that she’d nearly kissed the girl’s godfather the night before and therefore was trying to avoid him.

  So there they were, sitting on the lawn with several books spread out around them. They’d worked for a while, but now, as the lunch hour approached, they’d given up in favour of quiet contemplation. Mary, cross-legged, was held rapt by the rather sensational-looking novel she’d brought with her. Isabelle, lying on her back, just watched the clouds above. To her pessimistic gaze they looked alarmingly like wolves.

  After some minutes, she turned her head to the side and regarded Mary. There was something she’d been meaning to say. ‘Thank you for telling Lord Lennox that it had been your idea to go to the park yesterday, Mary. You needn’t have done that. You shouldn’t have. But thank you anyway.’

  Mary looked up reluctantly from her novel. It appeared, for a moment, that she might acknowledge this thanks. But perhaps doing so was too sentimental. She just shrugged instead.

  Isabelle went on. ‘And also for saying that I’d been paying attention, when clearly I’d practically lost you.’

  Mary put her book down. ‘You didn’t lose me.’

  ‘Well, misplaced, then. I was daydreaming, at any rate.’

  ‘Miss Pringle, my geography teacher, struck me with her ruler when I daydreamed. Which I guess I did a lot.’

  Isabelle sat up, frowning. ‘She sounds appalling.’ She paused. ‘What did you daydream about?’

  It was Mary’s turn to lie back on the grass. ‘Home. Wishing I looked like Celia Bligh. She was the prettiest girl in school, and my best friend.’

  ‘Is she the one you correspond with?’

  She turned her head to regard Isabelle thoughtfully, as if weighing the wisdom of answering any more personal questions. But after a moment she nodded.

  ‘Then perhaps she could come for a visit. Shall I ask Lord Lennox if you’d be allowed to invite her?’

  ‘Do you think he’d let me?’

  Isabelle almost wished she hadn’t offered, since she didn’t want to initiate any more conversations with the man. But Mary had spoken eagerly, and that alone made it worthwhile.

  ‘Well, I don’t know…there’s no harm in asking. But I cannot promise anything.’

  After a minute of companionable silence, Mary asked, ‘What were you daydreaming about yesterday?’

  Things she certainly wouldn’t divulge: about her debts, her father, and the many suitable young ladies who’d been dancing with Will the night before. ‘I can’t remember. It must not have been important.’

  ‘No?’

  ‘No.’

  Mary picked a long blade of grass and twirled it in her fingers. ‘Dr Collins was nice. Handsome, too.’

  ‘He was.’

  She turned her head to the side, her face screwed up with curiosity. ‘Why didn’t you get married?’

  Isabelle frowned. The girl had gone from taciturn to brazenly inquisitive in just a day. ‘That’s a rather intimate question.’

  She sighed. ‘I know. But Miss Hume told us the sole purpose of the female education was to prepare us to be wives, and since you’re educated and…quite pretty, even with red hair, then why aren’t you married?’

  ‘I suppose I never found anyone I wanted to marry.’

  ‘Yes, but why?’

  Isabelle knew she was blushing. She should tell Mary to stop asking questions, yet she didn’t want to discourage her too much. Saying anything was an improvement on sullen silence. ‘Has it occurred to you that maybe no one wanted to marry me? I suppose I’ve never met anyone who I considered to be…’ she paused, realising she was about to use Will’s favorite word ‘…suitable.’

  ‘No?’

  ‘No. I…I told you that my mother died when I was young, and I imagine my father never quite realised that he ought to introduce me to society. I didn’t even know many girls my age, for that matter.’

  ‘Celia’s sisters—she has three—are all married. Well, no, one’s just engaged. But they all went to scores of balls.’

  ‘Yes, well, I didn’t.’

  ‘Not at all? Never?’

  ‘Never.’

  ‘Have you even danced before?’

  Since she’d been forced to cover this subject just last night, she answered with undue grumpiness. ‘No. Not with a gentleman, anyway.’

  That was completely the wrong thing to say. Mary was undeterred and highly intrigued. ‘With someone who wasn’t a gentleman?’

  Isabelle sighed. ‘With my housekeeper. I wish we’d never got on to this subject. You should be doing your work.’

  Mary was giggling already. ‘What sort of dance?’

  Isabelle frowned at her. ‘A waltz. Our cook hummed. It’s very rude to laugh at others’ misfortune, you know.’

  ‘I had a dancing master at school.’

  ‘Bully for you.’

  ‘Good afternoon.’

  They both turned their heads at Will’s voice. They hadn’t seen him approaching.

  Will had first seen Isabelle from his bedroom window. She was lying on the grass, looking radiant and lovely in the sun. He’d slept uncharacteristically late, having gone to his club after he’d parted from her yesterday afternoon. He’d stayed into the small hours of the morning, hoping to drown her from his mind with brandy and long-winded conversations with the dour old men who took refuge there from their wives. It hadn’t worked, and that morning as he’d lain in bed his mind had wandered back to far too pleasurable thoughts about her. Damned inconvenient that she’d chosen to plant herself right beneath his bedroom window. The warm, pleasant sound of her voice carried up, too far away to be distinct, but distracting none the less.

  So, since the lunch hour neared, he stopped pretending she wasn’t there and headed outside. He paused by the garden door, however, when he heard them speaking; he knew he shouldn’t eavesdrop, but their conversation was just too interesting to miss. He listened, undetected, for several minutes. What he learned was rather illuminating.

  Isabelle had led a truly sheltered life. It sounded as if she’d had very few male acquaintances, and she’d never even had danced with anyone. That probably explained why she was so uncomfortable when he broached the topic last night. If she’d never danced, then she’d almost certainly never been kissed. Until that moment, he hadn’t fully appreciated how inexperienced she was, and he wasn’t quite sure how the discovery made him feel.

  On the one hand, he liked the idea. Her lack of experience explained her lack of coyness, something he found so refreshing. But on the other hand, her innocence rather made him feel as if he were taking advantage of her in the most churlish way—or at least as if he were contemplating doing so. She was penniless, powerless and alone, and he didn’t want to hurt her. She didn’t deserve it. He liked her. Rather a lot, he realised.

  He felt strangely content as he watched them. He’d never seen Mary smile before, and here she was, laughing merrily at something Isabelle had said. It had a transformative effect: the girl appeared prettier, healthier and livelier. Isabelle must have that effect on people, he thought. She tended to improve his mood, anyway—at least when she didn’t turn him into an uncharact
eristically possessive lout. He’d hired her for his own selfish ends, but perhaps she really was just the thing Mary needed. He realised, quite suddenly, that he made a pretty useless godfather. He was good at paying for things, and when the time came he’d readily volunteer whatever funds were necessary for her school and wardrobe, but he hadn’t yet given more consideration to Mary than that.

  Finally he stepped outside. ‘Good afternoon.’

  They stopped talking instantly, and Isabelle went very still, suggesting she feared he’d overheard something embarrassing.

  He pretended he hadn’t, though. He wanted her to relax again, as she had been before he’d made his presence known, and as she had been yesterday, before he’d stupidly carried her upstairs. He shouldn’t have done that, although he’d certainly enjoyed it.

  He put his hands in his pockets and tried to look nonchalant. ‘You look industrious.’

  She blushed guiltily. ‘We’ve stopped working for the moment. We were very busy…’

  ‘You needn’t explain. I can’t imagine working out here on an afternoon like this. Thought I’d come out and enjoy the sunshine m’self.’

  Isabelle’s expression grew suddenly worried, and she rose, self-consciously dusting imagined bits of grass from her dress. ‘Oh, I…I should have asked before we came out here. Would you prefer us to be inside? Did you wish to use the garden?’

  He thought she sounded eager to escape. ‘Not at all, except to have lunch with you. Shall we have a picnic?’ He directed the question at Mary, suspecting she’d be more amenable to the idea. Asking Isabelle to have lunch with him outright would have sent her into an even greater panic.

  Mary sat up slowly, and if Will wasn’t mistaken her gaze passed between Isabelle and him for just a moment, as if she’d noted the undercurrent of tension. There was a quiet deliberateness to her manner, a thoughtfulness and perceptiveness that reminded him of her father. ‘I am hungry,’ she said.

  ‘But we should really be working,’ Isabelle protested. ‘Your French. And it’s a bit early for lunch.’

  ‘You weren’t working when I came out here,’ Will pointed out. ‘Am I to understand you simply don’t want to eat with me?’

  The brightening spots of colour that burned her cheeks confirmed it. ‘Of course not. My opinion doesn’t matter.’

  ‘Well, then it’s decided. Mary won’t do any more work—pretend or otherwise—for the rest of the afternoon. I’ll have Mrs Graham prepare a tray.’

  He turned to go, but Isabelle started walking after him. ‘No, you mustn’t. I’ll go.’

  He stopped and examined her face, wondering if she had some plan. It wasn’t so odd that she would protest. She worked for him, after all, and she should really be the one to do these dull tasks. But he rather suspected that if she went inside, she’d devise some reason not to return. ‘But your foot, Miss Thomas. You should rest it.’

  She stuck out her foot and rotated it to prove its soundness. ‘I’ve recovered fully. I insist.’

  ‘Then I’ll go with you.’

  That obviously wasn’t the response she wanted. She looked flustered and not a little bit annoyed. He didn’t care. If underhandedness were the only way he could be alone with her, then he’d be underhanded. He opened the door and waited for her to enter.

  Isabelle hesitated and he wondered what debates were running through her mind. However, after that flicker of indecision, she set her lips and walked determinedly ahead.

  He allowed her to lead the way through the silent, dim corridor that led to the kitchen. His gaze roved over her slender neck, tickled by a few wisps of red hair that had come loose from her otherwise neat chignon. His gaze travelled lower, admiring her narrow back and the gentle sway of her hips. They descended the stairs to the kitchen without speaking, and she didn’t pause even once to check that he followed behind.

  But then, just before entering the kitchen at the base of the stairs, she did stop, holding on to the doorframe with one hand and leaning in slightly. She let her head rotate subtly left and then right.

  ‘Does something appear to be the matter?’

  She turned around quickly, but then took two nervous steps back when she realised only a few inches separated them. ‘Nothing. The kitchen is empty.’

  ‘No Mrs Graham?’ He’d dealt with many problems of graver importance, but preparing a tray of food himself would be a novel and not unintimidating task. He hadn’t planned on going all the way to the kitchen in the first place—he’d intended to ring the bell just inside the garden door and wait for Mrs Graham come to him. Only that apparently hadn’t occurred to Isabelle and she’d been leading the way.

  Unlike him, she actually looked relieved by the cook’s absence. ‘She’ll be in the servants’ dining room along with the rest of the kitchen staff. They like to eat before you’ve had your meal. I told you it was too early. My lord’.

  He frowned at the way she uttered the title, tacked on to the end of her admonition like an impudent afterthought. ‘Right, then. What shall we do?’

  ‘We’ll manage, I’m sure. I mean, not we—me. I don’t need any help. I’ll make tea.’ She walked purposefully into the kitchen and appeared determined to get rid of him.

  And he was determined not to leave, despite the fact that he didn’t even know where to find a spoon or a plate, let alone anything to eat. He wandered in behind her, looking around the vast room rather as he had the great hall of the British Museum. Copper saucepans gleamed in the sunlight, and two brightly plumed pheasants awaited Mrs Graham’s ministrations on the scrubbed pine table. Presumably they’d reach his dining table that night or the next. When had he last been there?

  ‘No, no. I’d like to help. Just tell me what to do.’

  She stared at him for two seconds, but wasn’t forthcoming with orders. She’d already located a kettle and was filling it with water.

  He watched her for a few seconds before it occurred to him that he shouldn’t just stand there enjoying the way her dress tautened when she lifted the heavy kettle. ‘Here, let me do that.’ He grabbed it from her, but then realised he didn’t know where to put it. ‘What do I do with it now?’

  With a patient smile, she reclaimed it and placed it on its stand. A few seconds later, she’d lit a small fire beneath it, and it was on its way to boiling.

  He watched her, wondering if she were enjoying her moment of superiority over him. ‘You seem quite competent in here,’ he remarked.

  ‘Oh? We had a cook growing up, and I couldn’t tell you what to do with those birds, but I can boil water.’

  ‘Do I detect sarcasm, Miss Thomas?’

  ‘Of course not, my lord.’

  The room grew quiet. Still smiling, she walked away from the kettle and opened a cupboard, removing the necessary number of plates, cups and saucers from a brightly enamelled tea service. She began arranging them, as well as a small arsenal of utensils, on a tray. The clatter of china and the clink of silver filled the silence.

  Stubbornly he waited for the kettle to boil, but like any other watched pot, it wouldn’t.

  She removed linen napkins from a drawer and began folding them. The lack of conversation seemed to be making her nervous.

  ‘Is something the matter, Miss Thomas?’

  ‘Why do you ask?’

  ‘You’ve folded that napkin three times.’

  She let it rest on the tray and turned around. ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘Don’t apologise. I wanted to congratulate you, you know.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘That was the first time I’ve seen Mary smile. Out there in the garden. I don’t know how you managed it.’

  She looked back at the tray and began shifting things around. Compliments seemed to make her uncomfortable. ‘I’m afraid she’s terribly unhappy.’

  ‘That’s childhood, I suppose,’ he offered.

  She frowned. ‘I wouldn’t have thought yours was unhappy.’

  It had been, actually, at least after his parents’
death had left eighteen-year-old Richard in charge. Luckily, Will was eleven and already boarding at school, but James, two years younger, was not. Will had sensed that things weren’t right when he’d come home during his breaks. Richard, never pleasant, was usually drunk, and James had retreated into mysterious silence. He only understood the abuse his brother had suffered years later, when he’d accidentally seen the legion of scars crisscrossing James’s back. Ever since, he couldn’t forgive himself for not having prevented it, even though he’d been just a child himself.

  ‘No, I don’t suppose it was too bad.’

  She frowned thoughtfully. ‘Do you know she rarely saw her father?’

  ‘Rarely saw him?’

  She nodded. ‘Yes, only three times during the past four years. He apparently wrote to her, but he didn’t visit or send for her over the holidays.’

  Will didn’t say anything right away. He knew why Arthur hadn’t sent for the girl, although he supposed Mary might not. Arthur’s death hadn’t been sudden and unexpected; he’d been wasting away for years, weakening until he could no longer sit up. Will hadn’t been aware of the seriousness of his illness until Arthur had invited him to stay just a few months before he died. They hadn’t seen each other in years, since Arthur had grown reclusive after his wife’s death. After such a long absence, Will had been shocked by the hollow face and sunken shoulders that had greeted him. He could only imagine what a child would have felt. ‘I didn’t know it had been that long. I suppose I’m not surprised.’

  ‘Not surprised? Did he not care for her at all?’

  He could see she was outraged by his apparent lack of concern, and he was impressed again by how unafraid she was of taking him to task when she thought he was in the wrong. He explained, ‘He cared a great deal. He’d been ill for a long time, and I imagine he didn’t want to frighten her. I didn’t even know how ill he was until he contacted me, with only a few months left to live. I was…horrified by his appearance. That’s when he asked me to look after her. Perhaps he should have let her see him like that. Probably. But I imagine he wanted her to have happy memories of her time with him.’