The Earl and the Governess

by Sarah Elliott

  And how very like him to ask to speak to her and then make her wait. Bartholomew had informed her of his request a quarter of an hour earlier, and she’d been biding her time in the draughty hall ever since. She rose nervously from her seat to examine her face in the gilt-wood pier glass. Her freckles had begun to colonise her cheeks as well as her nose, something that happened every summer. She started to smooth back her hair, but caught herself just in time. She frowned at her reflection before returning to the unyielding hall chair. She shouldn’t care that she looked pale and drawn; she despised him, and his opinion of her no longer mattered.

  She leaned back in the chair, trying to find a more comfortable position. Undoubtedly anger was a healthy emotion. Until today, every time he’d so much as looked at her, her heart rate had quickened alarmingly. But now things would be different. His coldness had given her a new perspective, and she saw him for who he really was: a shallow, self-centred snob who didn’t care about her. There was absolutely no point in wasting any more time over romantic daydreams about him.

  She took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. Good luck following your own good advice. No matter what she told herself, she couldn’t actually believe that he’d marry a toad like Vanessa Lytton, even if she was a beautiful toad. Nor could she accept that his apparent fondness for her was insincere—he’d always treated her, with the exception of that afternoon, as an equal. He’d provided her with a home, an income and a sense of safety, and although she had at times questioned his motives, she did believe that his kindness came with no ulterior motive.

  Bartholomew reappeared to usher her into the small drawing room. She followed behind unenthusiastically.

  He opened the door wide for her to enter and closed it promptly behind her. Will was standing, looking out the window, framed by the late afternoon sunlight that spilled in. He turned around when she entered, and she thought, for just a second, that she detected a note of apprehension in his face. But then, if it had been there at all, it vanished, and his expression became inscrutable. She found herself blushing, but refused to look down at the carpet. She would meet his gaze if it killed her.

  ‘You wanted something, my lord?’ She tried to sound indifferent.

  ‘Will you sit?’ He indicated an elegant armchair covered in red velvet. She shrugged and sat.

  He crossed the room to stand in front of her, retrieving a small parcel from a side table on his way. He held it out. ‘Mary bought you this while we were out this afternoon.’

  She stared at it for three awkward seconds. It was disguised by brown wrapping paper, but had the dimensions of a book. Gingerly, so as not to brush her fingers against his, she took it from him. ‘I will open it with her in the nursery.’

  ‘She’s not there. I’ve left her with my sister-in-law and niece for the rest of the day. She asked me to have you open it without her.’

  He held her gaze slightly longer than was comfortable, and she found herself looking down at her lap despite her best intentions. Hoping to hide her embarrassment, she fixed her attention on the parcel and carefully untied the ribbon. Her eyes widened at the gift inside.

  An atlas, bound in supple chestnut-coloured leather. She opened it and flipped through the pages. Lavish hand-coloured prints were interspersed throughout the text: detailed maps of places she’d never see, pictures of mountains, flora and fauna and exotic people in strange costumes. She closed the book slowly. Something didn’t seem right. It would have been so expensive…

  ‘It…This is from her?’

  He nodded. ‘Yes. She picked it. I think she inscribed it.’

  Isabelle’s heart was beating quickly, her palms sweating. She’d imagined for a moment that it was from him. But on the title page, in the girl’s hasty and careless hand, it said, ‘To Miss Thomas, from Mary’.

  She closed the book again. ‘That was very kind of her. I don’t know how she paid for it.’

  ‘Her father left her a robust allowance,’ Will replied, smiling a smile designed to weaken any female resolve. ‘And I helped a little.’

  She wasn’t ready to succumb. ‘You should not have allowed her to pick something so costly.’

  ‘Not that costly—not if you like it.’ He looked slightly worried. ‘Do you like it?’

  His question forced her to look at him. He seemed interested in her answer, and she couldn’t fathom why. So she answered honestly, ‘Yes, very much. It’s beautiful. I will thank her in the morning.’

  A moment of uncomfortable silence followed. Isabelle could tell that he didn’t want her to leave, but didn’t quite know what to say. Finally, he said, ‘She, uh, tells me you didn’t purchase anything during your shopping expedition.’

  ‘No, my lord.’ There was great power in answering with monosyllables.

  ‘Were you able, at least, to collect your belongings from your boarding house?’

  ‘Yes, my lord.’ She gathered the brown paper in her hands, but before she had the chance to rise he spoke again.

  ‘I also wanted to let you know that I’ll be leaving tomorrow.’

  Leaving? That made her pause. ‘Oh?’

  ‘Yes. Just for a week or so, to a friend’s house in Surrey. I meant to tell you this morning, but…’

  ‘But you were interrupted,’ she finished for him as the memory of his curtness returned.

  He detected her anger and frowned slightly. ‘Yes, I was interrupted.’

  ‘Well, consider me informed.’ She rose and started walking to the door. She didn’t turn to look at him. She could feel her lip threatening to tremble, but she would not cry.

  Unfortunately, he followed her, and his longer strides allowed him to reach the door first. ‘I didn’t dismiss you.’

  ‘I didn’t know you had anything else to impart.’

  He ran his hand through his hair in frustration. In a carefully controlled voice, he said, ‘I thought perhaps you’d been upset by Miss Lytton.’

  Yes. ‘Why would she upset me?’

  ‘I thought she treated you rather imperiously. I wanted to apologise.’

  She turned around, no longer caring if he saw her tears. ‘I thought you treated me rather imperiously.’

  He shook his head slowly, his gaze wandering over her eyes, her lips. ‘No. No, I just…I didn’t want them to mistake the situation.’

  ‘There was nothing to mistake, my lord.’

  She tried to step past him, but he put his hand on her arm, preventing her from leaving. ‘No, but I’ve realised that I’m perhaps…more familiar with you than one would normally be with one’s employees. I enjoy your company, Miss Thomas. I like you very much—you must know that. But my familiarity with you could be misinterpreted. I wanted to correct any false impressions, and if I hurt you, then I’m sorry.’

  ‘I see,’ she said uncertainly. Why was he telling her this? She wished that he hadn’t explained himself, that he hadn’t apologised—her relationship with him would be easier that way, if she mildly despised him. There would be no more eccentric late-night conversations to make her laugh and lose her temper, no more insights into his character to make her think she might even love him. No more weak knees.

  But she couldn’t love him, and she needed her traitorous knees to stay strong. She carefully extracted her arm from his hand. She couldn’t pretend that he was her friend; she’d already told herself as much. ‘Is Miss Lytton the young lady you danced with the other night? The one you told me about?’

  ‘She is,’ he answered warily.

  ‘Do you intend to marry her?’

  His expression hardened. ‘Did you intend to tell me about Dr Collins?’

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘I will not have him in my house attempting to purloin my staff. I made that clear.’

  She flushed furiously. ‘He cannot steal from you that which you do not own, sir, and you do not own me!’

  ‘Did you intend to tell me?’ he repeated coldly.

  ‘It is not your concern.’
/>   ‘And so Miss Lytton is not your concern.’

  She knew she should desist. She’d annoyed him, but she’d been angry to begin with and it only seemed just that he should be, too. ‘Perhaps you ought to marry her. She seems to have so much in common with you, and you did say that was important.’

  He didn’t like that suggestion. He narrowed his eyes and took a step closer. ‘What exactly do you think she’s got in common with me?’

  It was stupid, but she said it anyway. ‘She seems rather shallow.’

  ‘You think I’m shallow?’ He didn’t raise his voice, but she could tell she’d offended him.

  She wished she could take it back, because she didn’t think it. What he’d said about marrying without love was shallow, but he wasn’t the only person who thought that way. And why should she even care?

  The answer came too readily. She cared because she knew she wasn’t remotely suitable by his gauge, and it made her feel inadequate. Because if she’d come from an aristocratic or rich family, then he might even want to marry her. Because he liked her, but she wasn’t good enough. But that wasn’t his fault. That was just life.

  ‘I don’t think that,’ she said softly. ‘I’m sorry.’

  He was so close, just a few steps away. Her whispered apology had diffused his anger, and his gaze warmed, drawn to her lips. Isabelle found herself looking at his mouth, too, wondering if he would taste as good today as he had last night. His anger didn’t frighten her, but this…

  ‘Miss Lytton isn’t clever, or amusing, or kind.’

  ‘She’s pretty.’

  ‘And you’re much prettier.’

  Her body swayed with the pleasure of his compliment, almost dizzy, and he cupped the back of her head to steady her. He tipped her head up, forcing her to look at him. ‘I’m not interested in her, Isabelle.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because I’m interested in someone else.’

  He meant her. Maybe he didn’t really mean it, but at that moment he seemed to believe it. Just by looking at him, she could imagine his lips on her neck, his rough, warm fingers tracing a path up her arms. She knew what it felt like. The memory of last night was so potent she could close her eyes and pretend it was happening all over again.

  So she took a deep breath and she closed her eyes briefly, savouring the moment. Then she turned and walked away, taking the memory with her.

  Chapter Sixteen

  He left just after dawn the next morning. She watched from her bedroom window as his trunks were loaded into his carriage, enough possessions to last well over the week he said he’d be gone. Maybe good fortune had finally smiled on her and he’d stay away for a fortnight. She needed at least that much time; she had a lot to accomplish that would benefit from the absence of his curious eyes.

  It would also be strange, though, not having him in the house. She was always so aware of his presence, even when she didn’t know where exactly he was. The anxiety caused by the possibility of running into him had dictated her movements since she’d been living here. The house would seem empty and big.

  She stayed at the window for many minutes after the carriage left, absentmindedly watching the street below as it began to rouse itself for the day to come. A delivery cart moved slowly along, the sway-backed grey that pulled it lifting its heavy feet with weary resolution. Soberly dressed maids appeared in window after window across the square, parting curtains to brighten drawing rooms and breakfast rooms, ballrooms and bedrooms. A slim boy with holes at his knees and bare, dirty feet limped along the pavement, no doubt looking for a handout from a kindly butler or cook. He wouldn’t find such benevolence from Will’s servants, Isabelle was dismayed to observe. Mrs Graham, stepping on to the street for an early trip to market, shouted at the boy to move on, swinging her shopping basket in his direction. Rogers, still lingering on the pavement after having loaded the carriage, laughed coarsely. Isabelle watched the cook and the footman banter; how confidently lazy they were now that Will had gone. Soon they were joined by a man Isabelle had never seen before, but who wore the livery of a footman—not Will’s green livery, but that, perhaps, of a neighbouring house. They spoke closely for several minutes, and she wondered what they talked about.

  Their conversation ended when Bartholomew came out to scold them for their indolence. Chastened, the cook hurried on her way and Rogers returned inside, nodding goodbye to his companion as he went.

  Isabelle realised that she, too, had business to attend to. A lot of it, and she shouldn’t be wasting time, either. She rose, crossed the room to her writing table, and read the advertisement she’d drafted during the night:

  A young Lady experienced in tuition is desirous of a situation in a private home or school. She is qualified to instruct in French, Latin, Greek and German, together with History, Mathematics and all branches of the Natural Sciences. Music, Drawing and Dancing, etc. References upon request.

  It had taken a long time to write, largely because she’d stretched the truth to filament thinness in parts. Experienced? Well, she doubted the experiences she’d gleaned in Will’s employ would appeal to most potential employers. Mathematics was not her strong suit by any means, and although she could sing, she couldn’t play a single instrument. She had debated whether she should profess any proficiency in dancing, and in the end had tacked it on to the end without making any claims at all. Let the reader interpret it as she saw fit.

  She dressed quickly and folded the advertisement into her pocket, to be given to Bartholomew to be posted. It should arrive at the offices of Belle Anglaise by tomorrow and would appear in next week’s issue. Belle Anglaise had the greatest circulation of all the ladies’ journals; hundreds would read her plea. And for now…

  She opened up last week’s issue. She’d circled three advertisements already, posted by ladies seeking governesses. She’d spend the morning writing replies, and would hopefully be able to post them that afternoon. She could start Mary’s lesson late. Her own well-being, for the moment, took precedence.

  Four mornings later, she stood on the pavement in front of a large stucco house, only about a quarter of a mile away. Her first interview, and she’d be having another one tomorrow. It had been easy to get away from her duties at Will’s house; Mary was never averse to starting her lessons after lunch rather than immediately after breakfast, and she’d asked no questions.

  Nevertheless, Isabelle felt ambivalent rather than relieved by the swift progress she’d made. It appeared to be a nice house, almost as handsome as Will’s. But would she be treated as well there? Would—she paused to glance at the name she’d written down—would Lady Grayson be as kind? She knew she couldn’t work for Will any more, but she didn’t want to say goodbye to him, either. She certainly didn’t want to work for anyone else.

  She straightened her back and approached the door. A baldheaded butler opened it, with a rail-thin, middle-aged Lady Grayson right behind him. Isabelle managed a perfunctory smile and after introductions followed the woman into her sitting room. The meeting seemed to be going reasonably well so far.

  Then something odd happened. The woman, scanning her introductory letter, frowned. Isabelle watched her, feeling increasingly uncomfortable. Finally, she had to ask, ‘Is something amiss?’

  She looked up. ‘You work for the Earl of Lennox?’

  Isabelle had been worried she’d question her about her dancing and had dreaded being asked to demonstrate a pas de deux on the rose-coloured Aubusson. With relief, she replied, ‘Yes. I’ve only been with him for a short while, though.’

  ‘You’ve fallen out of favour already, have you?’

  Was her question laced with innuendo? ‘No, no. I think he’s been pleased with me—’ The woman raised an eyebrow, which put Isabelle off her stride. ‘He—it’s just that he hired me to look after his ward, and she will be returning to school soon.’

  Lady Grayson folded the letter and rose to hand it back to Isabelle. ‘I don’t think you’ll be suitable for this hous
e. I will show you out.’

  Isabelle recognised the flimsiness of her résumé, but she couldn’t believe the woman had rejected her so bluntly. ‘I…well, you haven’t asked about my other skills.’

  ‘My husband might be interested in your other skills, but not I. Goodbye.’

  Too rattled to understand what the woman implied, Isabelle followed her to the front door and left. She began to walk home, but decided on a detour through the park. It was still early and Mary wouldn’t expect her to return for an hour.

  She found an unoccupied bench and stared at the flat grey sky.

  My husband might be interested…? Was she suggesting what Isabelle’s naïve ears thought she was suggesting? She’d been treated badly at interviews before, but never as badly as that. Maybe she’d offended her somehow. It didn’t seem possible anyone could be that rude without provocation.

  She hoped her interview the following morning would be better, and from the start it seemed to satisfy her wishes. The lady of the house was polite, warm and generous, and unlike the hatchet-faced Lady Grayson, she was only a year or two older than Isabelle. She showed her around the house to make her comfortable, and as they settled into the woman’s personal sitting room she introduced Isabelle, by way of gilt-framed portraits, to her three children and her portly, older husband. Much older, Isabelle thought, but she wasn’t going to judge. She’d nothing but kind thoughts for this lady, and she felt, for the first time, that she had a good chance of walking out of the door having secured a place.

  Then, during tea and cakes, Isabelle handed over her letter of introduction.

  The lady read it carefully, a frown slowly marring her smooth forehead. ‘Oh.’

  Not again. ‘Is there a problem?’

  She glanced up. There was a look of pity, not disdain, on her face. ‘You work for the Earl of Lennox. I did not know that.’