She was quiet for several long seconds. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to imply that he was unkind.’
Will shrugged. ‘You needn’t apologise. The kettle’s boiled.’
She grabbed it quickly and set it on the pine table before he could offer to help again. She turned around more slowly, her brow furrowed thoughtfully. ‘I don’t think she knows how ill he was, either. She thinks he didn’t want her—I mean, she didn’t say so explicitly, but I’m sure that’s how she feels. I rather suspect that’s why she was always trying to get sent home from school. She simply wanted to be with him.’
‘Perhaps.’ He paused. ‘Except she continued to misbehave even after he’d died. That’s how she ended up here, remember?’
‘Maybe she wanted to be with you, then. I imagine she just wants a family.’
‘I’d never have pegged you for such a sentimentalist, Miss Thomas. If she wanted a family, then she’d hardly have chosen me.’
Isabelle blushed with a mixture of anger and embarrassment at his mild mockery. ‘It seems odd to me, too, but I suppose she had no other options…’
‘Ah, I’m the last resort of the desperate.’
‘That’s not what I meant,’ she said defensively, rummaging through the cupboard doors in search of nothing to avoid his curious gaze. He wondered if she really did regard him as a last resort.
He also realised he’d hurt her. ‘I’m being difficult. It’s a bad habit. I don’t think you’re sentimental.’
After a moment, her posture relaxed slightly; apology grudgingly accepted.
He continued. ‘Her father was one of my best friends, as I’ve told you. He was a bit unruly himself, so perhaps she just takes after him.’
She looked at him again. ‘What do you mean?’
‘I was at school with him, and he was constantly trying to get sent down. Only difference is, he never actually succeeded. So perhaps young Mary’s merely surpassed him.’
She considered this information. ‘You should tell her.’
‘What, that her father nearly got expelled from Eton half a dozen times? Is that the good example she’s been waiting for?’
Her eyes flashed with a hint of impatience. ‘Obviously not, but if I didn’t know my parents very well I think I’d like to know if I shared something in particular with one of them.’
He considered her words. They made sense. Will often wondered what his real mother had been like. He’d seen her portrait; he looked like her. And although he remembered his father, it was a child’s memory—a big, handsome man who seemed brave and wise and capable of anything. He wished he could remember him as more than a father, though. As a man who made mistakes from time to time.
He didn’t actually have too many happy memories, come to think of it. And neither would Mary.
‘We’ll need more than tea,’ he said, changing the subject. ‘Where will I find comestibles?’
‘Mrs Graham keeps most of the food in the larder.’
He looked around the room. Three doors opened into God only knew where. ‘The larder?’
She sighed. ‘And to think you came along to help me. Have you even been in the kitchen before?’
‘Are you teasing me, Miss Thomas?’
She suppressed her smile, but the slight tug at her lips made him rejoice quietly. ‘Through that door and down the corridor,’ she said, pointing. ‘It’s the first right.’
Chapter Twelve
Isabelle watched him until he vanished down the corridor. She could hear him moving things around and wondered what he’d eventually find and whether it would be edible.
She smiled to herself, but when she realised what she was doing, she stopped. Or tried to, anyway, for a few seconds later her smile broke through again. She’d never known anyone like him before. Most of the men she’d previously spoken to had been her father’s friends—grey men with stooped shoulders and bad eyesight. She’d certainly never spent so much time with someone so charming and handsome, so completely winning that just being around him tended to make her lightheaded and buoyant. She hadn’t had a friend since her father died.
That thought caused her smile to vanish. William Stanton wasn’t her friend, and she mustn’t forget it.
She needed to occupy her hands to make her mind stop wandering. She located a porcelain teapot that matched the tea service, and then the brass-inlaid rosewood tea caddy, perched high on a shelf. It was locked, but Mrs Wright had told her where to find the key, hanging on a nail behind the largest earthenware bowl.
Key in hand, she opened the caddy and inhaled deeply, enjoying the aroma before adding a heaped spoonful of tea leaves to the pot.
‘What are you doing?’
Isabelle spun around at the sharp voice, sprinkling tea on to the table as she did so. Mrs Graham, the cook, stood in the doorway, glaring at her, her face red and her ample bosom heaving with anger. ‘There you go, spilling it. You have to ask to use the tea, you know. You have to ask me or Mrs Wright. You’ve no business helping yourself like you own the place.’
‘I’m sorry,’ Isabelle said, sweeping the leaves into her hand.
‘Just because his lordship’s taken a liking—’
She stopped abruptly, blanching like an onion. Isabelle spun around to see what had ended her tirade. Will stood in the doorway behind her, a loaf of bread in one hand. He placed it on the counter. ‘What did you say, Mrs Graham?’ His expression said he knew exactly what she’d said and what she’d been about to say.
The cook began wringing her hands. ‘I didn’t know you were here, my lord. Is something the matter?’
‘Miss Weston-Burke, Miss Thomas and I will be having lunch in the garden. You weren’t here to prepare it, so Miss Thomas and I have been making do. I told her to make tea. Last I heard, I don’t ask for permission in my own house.’
‘No, my lord.’
Isabelle couldn’t take her gaze off his face. He wasn’t looking at her, but was looking unblinkingly at Mrs Graham. No anger showed in his expression, but he was definitely angry. The cook looked ready to cry.
It was very bad. She appreciated him defending her, but Mrs Graham would only seek revenge when he wasn’t there to protect her. She took a deep breath. ‘I’ll carry the cups and saucers. If you could perhaps help with the food, Mrs Graham?’
‘Yes, Miss Thomas, I’ll prepare something.’ The words were polite enough, but there was a hint of mockery in her tone. Not enough to be easily detectable, but Isabelle heard it.
She reached for the tray, but Will picked it up first. His eyes challenged her to argue. She didn’t. She walked up the narrow stairs, with him following behind.
Mary had moved to the shade of a tree, her nose once more deep in her book. She glanced up as they approached.
Will deposited the tray on a wrought iron table and sat on the grass next to her. Isabelle stood awkwardly for a second, then she sat, too, although several feet away.
He leaned back, supporting his weight with his hands. ‘What are you reading?’ he asked Mary.
She regarded him suspiciously, considered not answering, and then replied, ‘It’s called Orlando’s Reprisal.’
He snorted. ‘What tosh. Little wonder you can’t put it down. Shall we have a game of bowls?’
Mary put the book facedown on the grass. She said nothing, but a competitive sparkle appeared in her eyes.
‘There should be everything we need in the summerhouse,’ he continued. ‘I think, anyway. Haven’t been in there for years. Come along?’
He rose, and after a second’s indecision, Mary rose, too. Isabelle just watched, feeling too dazed to follow them as they headed towards the back of the garden. The peaked roof of the summerhouse was just visible through a leafy rhododendron. They disappeared.
She leaned back against the tree, feeling shaken. Some of the servants disapproved of her, that much was apparent. Mrs Graham and Rogers the footman, anyway, and presumably a few others. Just because his lordship’s taken a liking…What
had she intended to say? That Will had taken a liking to her? He certainly hadn’t. He probably thought her an eccentric oddity, amusing to tease and unpredictable enough to offer some entertainment. But that was surely the only reason he bothered speaking to her at all.
Will and Mary reappeared a few minutes later. He carried a battered wicker basket full of colourful balls; a wreath of cobwebs attested to the fact that these items had hibernated for years. He placed the basket at her feet, and she noticed dust marring his blue woollen jacket.
She rose nervously. Sport of any description made her uneasy. ‘Perhaps we’ll be a team?’ she asked, not having the faintest idea how to play the game.
‘It’s not played like that,’ Will protested.
‘Yes—I’ve played with teams before,’ Mary argued.
‘You can’t have teams with just three players. It’d have to be two against one.’
‘You could play with Miss Thomas,’ Mary suggested. ‘I’m quite good, actually.’
Before Isabelle had a chance to protest, he snorted. ‘Are you suggesting I’m not? I may not be good at much, but I can definitely beat a pair of girls at bowls.’
Mary shrugged, unconvinced.
‘How…how is it played?’ Isabelle asked hesitantly, following after them quickly. She was starting to feel inadequate again. She found walking in a straight line to be difficult enough, never mind doing anything with a ball.
‘You take the little ball,’ Will explained, rummaging through the basket. ‘And you bowl it.’ He demonstrated, leaning forward to send the ball in a smooth arc across the lawn. It stopped squarely in the middle. ‘It’s called the jack, and the goal is to get these bigger coloured balls as close to it as possible. That’s the essence of it, anyway. Pick a colour.’
She peered into the basket and retrieved a yellow ball.
‘You have four, actually’ He removed three more and put them on the ground in front of her.
She held her breath, concentrated, and rolled her ball straight at a rosebush.
Mary grinned. Will frowned at Isabelle.
‘I don’t think you’re trying, Miss Thomas. Here, watch me.’ He bowled. His ball stopped about a foot from the jack before rolling back another three inches.
‘It’s the slope,’ he explained to his female audience. ‘Ideally the lawn should be completely flat.’
‘I don’t see any slope,’ Mary said, removing three balls from the basket. She frowned, looking for the fourth. ‘I’m missing one.’
‘Which colour?’ Will asked.
‘Green.’ She took a step, bowled her first ball carefully, and knocked his out of the way. Her ball halted about five inches from the jack.
She smiled cheekily. ‘Have you seen another green ball?’
‘I saw some blue ones in the summerhouse,’ Will offered. ‘You could pretend one of them is green.’
She ran towards the back of the garden.
‘I’m letting her win, you know,’ he said.
‘You are, are you?’
‘Of course.’
Isabelle prepared herself to bowl again, but she was distracted. She glanced at Will, wishing she didn’t find him so appealing.
He was watching her. ‘Miss Thomas?’
‘Yes?’
‘I can see you’re concentrating very hard, but perhaps a hint?’
She straightened warily. ‘What am I doing wrong?’
‘If you…’ he stood beside her and took her hand in his ‘…try straightening your wrist.’
Straighten her wrist? When every bone in her body had gone limp? All she could do was stare at his hand holding hers, noting every tendon. She was so mesmerised that she didn’t hear the door open until it was too late.
Mrs Graham again, along with one of the downstairs maids, each carrying a tray. Wide-open, scandalised mouths that they closed immediately when Will looked in their direction. With eyes averted, they put the trays on the table.
Isabelle jerked her hand away. She became aware that her hair had come loose; she could feel wispy strands tickling her face. She knew she looked suspiciously dishevelled.
He behaved as if nothing were amiss. ‘Thank you, Mrs Graham. That will be all.’
The cook nodded without looking up. The maid, a girl of about seventeen, was blushing profusely. They walked quickly back to the house, but before they’d even reached the door their heads were bent in gossip.
‘Are you not hungry?’ Will called over his shoulder. He’d already walked over to the table and was inspecting the trays.
She didn’t answer him. Her heart had sunk to her ankles. Simple gossip was the best she could hope for. At worst, the other servants might become truly spiteful. Why did he not understand how difficult he’d just made her life?
She answered her question easily enough. Because he had no interest in her. Because as far as he was concerned, he was merely helping her learn to play the game—any other interpretation was simply wishful thinking on her part. Nothing compromising had occurred, even if appearances suggested otherwise.
She stared at the jack, bit her lip and bowled. Her yellow ball halted about two feet from its goal this time. Mary, walking briskly back from the summerhouse with a ball in her hand, smiled shyly at the improvement.
‘Well, at least it went straight that time,’ Will said. Isabelle glared at him, in no mood for his sarcasm.
He took his turn, knocking her ball well into the sidelines. Mary tried to come to her rescue by knocking his ball out of the way, but her ball lost momentum one inch too soon.
‘Drat.’
He just smiled with male satisfaction.
In the end, he won, but only narrowly. Mary came a close second and Isabelle trailed embarrassingly, her stroke of good luck utterly undone by her nerves.
‘I think you cheated,’ she heard Mary tell Will over a bite of cake.
‘I did not,’ he replied.
Isabelle said very little as she finished her own lunch. The scene made her heart ache and speech rather difficult. She wished she hadn’t seen this side of Will’s character—the side that was perfectly content playing silly lawn games with a scrawny girl and teasing her out of her sulk.
So what if he was wicked? He was also…good. Good enough to fall in love with if she weren’t very careful.
Just not good enough to love her back.
Chapter Thirteen
Isabelle heard raised voices as she descended the stairs the next morning.
‘Do be quiet.’ It was Will, shouting irritably down at someone in the hall below.
She stopped mid-step, catching herself just in time to avoid the creaky eighth stair. Carefully, she retracted her foot. She didn’t want to see him. In the first place, she was walking down the wrong staircase again, and although he didn’t seem to care, he could choose to care if he wanted. In the second place…well, avoiding him whenever possible was simply a good policy to follow. As quietly as she could, she turned around and started to shrink back upstairs.
‘Miss Thomas?’
Drat. Not quiet enough. She turned around slowly. He was looking at her, waiting for some response. To make matters worse, he wasn’t yet dressed. Not completely, anyway. He’d put on trousers and a white linen shirt, but his shirt was open at the neck and his hair was tousled. He wasn’t wearing shoes. Why couldn’t she remember to use the servants’ stairs? Then this sort of thing would never happen.
‘Yes?’ Her voice was small.
‘Where are you going?’ he asked, leaning back against the wall. He didn’t look pleased to see her.
‘To locate a book,’ she managed. ‘That is, unless you—’
‘Then why are you going back upstairs?’
She quickly invented a feeble excuse. ‘I didn’t want to bother you.’
‘Must I keep reminding you that you don’t?’
She frowned at his lordly tone. ‘I might be convinced if you didn’t seem so annoyed.’
He still looked annoyed, but he denied
it. ‘Well, I’m not. Did you sleep well?’
She would have said no, but a deep, impatient male voice called up from downstairs at just that moment.
‘Would you please hurry?’
‘My brother,’ Will explained. ‘He doesn’t like mornings.’
Interesting. He’d mentioned his brother before. But it wasn’t a time to ask personal questions, not when he wasn’t wearing a jacket. ‘I mustn’t keep you.’ She started down the stairs again, hoping to dart past him. But he stepped to the side, effectively blocking her path.
‘How’s your foot?’
‘Entirely better, I think.’ He continued to stand in her way, and she felt forced to respond to his solicitous question with one of her own. ‘You are going somewhere?’
He nodded. ‘For a ride in the park, followed by a visit to my brother’s house. I shan’t be back until late.’ He fell quiet, and she had the impression that he was trying to think of something to say in order to prolong their conversation. His expression, at first so intimidating, softened slightly. ‘I was wondering if you needed anything.’
She cocked her head. ‘What do you mean?’
Explaining seemed to make him impatient again. ‘I mean, do you have everything you need here? If not, inform Mrs Wright or go shopping yourself. She can tell you where we have household accounts, so you can put whatever you like on credit. Is your room lacking?’
She shook her head, bemused. She needed so much, but she certainly wasn’t going to ask for anything. Although he was offering to help her, he seemed so grumpy about it. ‘My room is perfect. Thank you.’ She paused, however, thinking about Mary.
Her clothes were nearly as outdated as Isabelle’s, and even though she didn’t seem to care Isabelle wondered if new clothes might improve her confidence. And then there was that matter of her friend, Celia…
‘Is there something else?’
The Earl and the Governess Page 13