The Earl and the Governess

by Sarah Elliott

  She frowned. ‘I don’t understand—for good measure?’

  ‘Yes, and also I imagine so he’d be blamed rather than his daughter. There wasn’t much time for him to consider his actions.’

  ‘But you didn’t tell anyone what happened.’

  ‘No, which was wrong, I suppose, at least in a legal sense. Instead I stayed up late with Rawlings, devising a plausible story.’

  ‘He was defending his daughter.’

  ‘And he would have been all right, I think. Usually the law deals harshly with members of the lower classes who harm their superiors, but I would have testified for him. Who can say how it would have turned out, though? My testimony might only have hurt him. It was well known that I detested Richard, and I also benefited directly from his death. My motives would have been questioned.’

  ‘That would have been—’

  ‘It would have been a huge scandal, and Rawlings would have been tainted, too, along with his silly daughter. I’ve never regretted lying.’

  ‘And you really never told anyone?’

  The cottage appeared around the bend, looking welcoming and homely. He wished he could stay with her another day. His own austere house was far too big for him alone. ‘Just you. Can’t tell anyone now because it would seem I’d been concealing something. I’ve wondered sometimes if I should tell James, but bringing it up would only resurrect bad memories. Much better for him to think that Richard’s death was some act of God, mysterious, unexplainable and right.’

  ‘Where is Rawlings now?’

  ‘It was time for him to retire anyway, so I found him a comfortable home in the country. As far as I know, he spends his time tending his roses. His daughter married soon after the incident.’

  ‘Then that’s a happy ending of sorts.’

  ‘Of sorts. At any rate, I dare say my secret is worse than yours.’ He put his arm around her waist, drawing her near. ‘Shall we go inside?’

  She nodded. They walked without speaking until they reached the garden gate. She tilted her head up and kissed his cheek. ‘Thank you for telling me. I’m sorry it happened to you.’

  He felt better for having told her. It was an enviable position, having somebody to confide in. ‘The worst happened to other people, not me.’

  ‘Must you really leave tomorrow?’

  ‘In the morning. I’ve quite a lot to do in London.’

  ‘My cottage will feel positively massive without you. I don’t think I shall be able to sleep for fear of the dark.’

  ‘In my experience, all noises one hears in the middle of the night can be attributed to foxes and mice. You’ve nothing to worry about.’

  ‘You’ll come back soon?’

  ‘As soon as possible.’

  He didn’t return as soon as she would have liked. She counted the days. On the first day, she nearly set the kitchen alight while making toast. On the third, strange noises kept her awake all night, a candlestick poised at the ready beside her bed—nothing more than a nest of squirrels in the loft, she’d discovered in the morning. On the fifth, she tackled the garden, tying up unruly vegetables and uprooting dandelions. Her efforts had blackened her nails and scratched the fair skin on her hands, but without Will around she didn’t care how she looked. After ten days, she’d begun tidying the cottage in anticipation of his return, putting flowers in vases and plumping pillows.

  On the fourteenth day, though, bad news arrived by post. Something awful had happened.

  On the sixteenth day, Will joined the bad news. It was sitting silently on the kitchen table, waiting for his arrival next to a loaf of bread. Isabelle was in the garden when she heard his carriage roll down the drive, but she didn’t stop what she was doing. Just continued clipping long sprigs of lavender from a well-tended bed.

  They would look nice on the kitchen table as well, she thought.

  She heard the front door close; one had to yank quite hard to manage it. She imagined him walking through the house wondering why she hadn’t leapt to greet him. He’d be in the kitchen now, and it—a marble head of a classical maiden, about one foot high—would be watching him with silent accusation.

  The kitchen door opened. Footsteps on the gravel path.

  ‘Hello.’

  She snipped one more sprig and added it to her basket. Then she rose and returned to the house. She placed her basket on the table.

  ‘You’re ignoring me.’

  She hadn’t looked at Will until then, but now she turned. Despite her anger, he still remained the most handsome man she’d ever seen. He looked tired, his eyes slightly drawn and his hair tousled, but still he made her breath catch in her throat.

  She suppressed any tender emotions. ‘No, I was ignoring you.’

  ‘Pleased to hear you’ve changed your mind.’

  ‘I shouldn’t be pleased too quickly if I were you. What is this?’ She indicated the marble head. She knew the answer. Her father had sold it. It was an out-and-out forgery, almost identical to one that Sebastian Cowes had showed her. What she really wanted to know was why it had been delivered to her cottage in a wooden box two days earlier.

  He didn’t answer her question. His eyes wandered slowly over her face. ‘I’ve missed you, Isabelle.’

  She could have stamped her foot in fury, but she coutned to five and tried to remain calm. ‘You said you wouldn’t tell anyone.’

  ‘And I didn’t.’

  ‘Then why—how—is this here?’

  He followed her gaze, finally looking at the object in question. ‘You don’t like it.’

  ‘No, I don’t like it.’

  ‘A pity, since I bought it. There’s no giving it back now.’

  ‘But why did you?’

  He was getting annoyed. ‘There’s no rule that says I can’t buy anything I please.’

  ‘Not written down, but yes, there is!’

  ‘I bought it because you would have, if you could have. But you can’t, so you should stop being so stubborn and accept it graciously.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Yes.’ He said the word with finality, hoping to end the debate. His expression, though, a few seconds later, said that he hadn’t yet revealed the worst. His words confirmed it. ‘The rest should arrive in the next few days. Thought it might raise eyebrows if I had them all sent to my London address.’

  The rest…? She covered her ears. ‘Oh, you shouldn’t have.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because you did it for me.’

  ‘Not just for you,’ he said quietly.

  She sat, putting her head in her hands, feeling utterly bemused. She looked up. ‘You bought them all? Did you even buy the right ones?’

  ‘God, I hope so. Dashed expensive if I got them wrong. But the invoices in your ledger were quite specific. I transcribed them while I was here.’

  Her hand grazed cool marble. The statue really was rather pretty. Why did it have to be so wrong? ‘None of this changes the fact that you promised not to tell.’

  He sat on the chair next to hers. ‘I didn’t have to tell anyone. You’d provided me with the names—I merely used that list to locate everything. I even knew how much everything had cost, so I knew what sums to offer.’

  ‘You just…arrived on those men’s doorsteps?’

  ‘Well…yes, pretty much. Wasn’t that difficult, since I know many of them, and the others would have known me by repute.’

  It couldn’t have been that easy. ‘But how did you explain yourself?’

  ‘Simple. I professed a sudden interest in antiquities.’

  ‘People will wonder, surely.’

  ‘It’s a well-known fact that madness runs in my family.’ He glanced at the statue again. ‘I think I could grow to like most of them. The gallery at Wentwich is rather bare, and I imagine it could accommodate the lot.’

  She didn’t say anything right away. Sunlight streamed in through the window, warming the room. She idly traced the grain of the oak table with her index finger. He’d done this. Fo
r her. He’d lifted a great burden from her shoulders, but she didn’t know if she felt buoyed by its absence. She’d never wanted to shift the load on to him. ‘This was your important business in London?’ she asked hesitantly.

  He took her hand. ‘I wouldn’t have left you for anything less.’

  ‘How much?’ She couldn’t quite meet his gaze.

  ‘Well, I didn’t have to pay much more than the original price for most. Ned Tilman had grown attached, though, and took some persuading.’

  ‘A fortune, you mean.’ Now she looked at him. She wished she hadn’t, though. Eyes like emeralds. Like the devil’s, she’d thought so many weeks ago. She’d been quite wrong.

  ‘You’re worth a hundred fortunes,’ he said, not looking away.

  She stood unsteadily and walked to the window. She stared out over her garden. ‘How will I repay you?’

  ‘Perhaps some handsome aristocrat will ask you to marry him.’

  ‘Don’t tease me.’

  He rose to stand by her and put his arm around her tense shoulders. ‘Darling, I’ve never been more serious.’

  ‘You can’t protect everyone all the time.’

  ‘Yes, I can.’

  ‘You can’t. Not everyone. Not if it means sacrificing yourself.’

  ‘I hate to disillusion you, darling, but I’m not that good. Marrying you would be no sacrifice.’

  She kissed him then, on the chin. A spontaneous action brought on by the sudden swell of happiness his words caused.

  ‘What was that for?’ he asked.

  One more time, on the lips. She didn’t have it in her to fight anymore. ‘You’re terribly good. I won’t hear differently.’

  ‘I had an entirely selfish motive. You refused to marry me because someone might have discovered your secret. Now no one can discover a thing because we own all the evidence.’

  And so they did.

  He leaned back against the table, looking terribly pleased with himself. ‘You’ve no more excuses, Miss Thomas. Admit defeat.’

  ‘You really want to marry me?’

  ‘That’s what I keep telling you. I love you, Isabelle.’

  Those three short words had the power to knock the wind out of her. She took a deep breath. ‘You said you wouldn’t marry for love.’

  ‘I said it was unwise to marry for love. I’m asking you to marry me because I can’t spend the rest of my life driving back and forth to London. Because I’ll go to Wentwich soon and I don’t think I can go without you. It is a matter of purest practicality.’ He went quiet, then asked, ‘Do you love me? Because if you don’t we’ll have to end it here. I’ve survived more than three decades without having my heart broken and I don’t fancy changing that now.’

  ‘I couldn’t break your heart.’

  ‘Yes, I’m afraid you could.’

  Could she? What a thrilling thought that she—a slight, red-headed no one—could in any way affect him. She certainly did love him, and had known it for nearly as long as she’d known him. At the moment, her wit had dried up, and she’d nothing to say but the truth. ‘I love you. Of course I love you. You must know that.’

  ‘Then marry me.’

  Could she really do it? She’d spent so much time telling herself that it wasn’t possible, but he’d defeated all her arguments. Or nearly all…

  She grinned. ‘But about this madness—’

  ‘Skips a generation. My grandfather was the last to be truly mad.’

  ‘You’ll start howling at the moon any day now, will you?’

  ‘Perhaps. I can offer you no guarantees.’

  ‘But our children should be all right?’

  ‘More than all right.’

  ‘Then I suppose I must say yes.’

  ‘You suppose?’ He took a step forwards, his eyes dark and teasing. It was a look she’d seen many times before and which never failed to excite her.

  She continued to grin, holding her ground. ‘Well, yes. You’ve presented a logical case, and I’ve always been sensible. It’s a good offer, even if I was holding out for a duke—’

  She didn’t finish. She didn’t have time. He’d closed the gap. And his lips found hers. Soon she didn’t even remember what she’d been saying, just knew that it didn’t matter. Not with his mouth working its way down her neck, not with his warm, strong hands cupping her head. She closed her eyes and bid goodbye to being sensible.

  She bid goodbye to her shoes as he carried her upstairs.

  Epilogue

  Happily ever after? The tiny but realistic voice in Isabelle’s head insisted that happily ever afters didn’t exist. Cinderella might have married her prince, but did anyone forget she’d once worn rags?

  Even though no one would learn Isabelle’s darkest secret, everyone knew she’d been a governess. She feared that, like Will’s stepmother, she’d struggle to make friends in society. Her transgression was great; not only had she had an affair with her employer, but she’d then had the nerve to marry him, too. What gently bred lady would forgive such audacity?

  And yet strangely everything was all right. Just three weeks after her wedding she found herself besieged with invitations. For morning rides, for afternoon teas, for dinner. Thankfully, she could decline most since they were leaving for Wentwich Castle in three days’ time.

  She lifted her gaze slightly to regard her husband. They were in the drawing room; sun filtered in, making his hair and skin golden. Since she’d long ago resigned herself to spinsterhood, it seemed nothing short of miraculous that she should end up with a husband like him. But less than a month had passed; perhaps she’d eventually grow used to the idea.

  She smiled at the thought. Grow used to it? It seemed unlikely that marriage to him would ever be less than novel and exciting. Not when looking at him now, doing nothing more than frowning at his newspaper, made her heart expand.

  ‘Bad news?’ she asked.

  He looked up from the paper, and his frown melted away. ‘No, good. Vanessa Lytton is to be married.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘To a Mr John Brookshaw. The heir to a vast hinge fortune.’

  Now Isabelle frowned. ‘Hinge? As in hinges on a door?’

  ‘Hmm.’ He nodded. ‘Apparently a lot of money to be made in hinges.’

  ‘Would it be unkind to say I hope he’ll take her far away from London?’

  ‘Not at all. And as luck would have it, she’ll be moving to Birmingham by the end of the month.’

  ‘Marriage might be good for her. Perhaps children will keep her occupied enough to stay out of trouble.’

  He closed his paper. ‘Well, Mr Brookshaw could be her grandfather.’

  ‘Then perhaps she will not have children.’

  ‘A great favour to the world.’

  A knock on the door announced the arrival of Martha, the downstairs maid. She struggled with a large tea tray while their new footman held the door. He’d been hired to fill the gap created when Rogers left; Mrs Graham, too, had been dismissed. Household chitchat, delivered to Will by a blushing Bartholomew, revealed that they’d provided the Lyttons’ footman with ample gossip to fuel a scandal. Uncharitable though it might have been, Isabelle was pleased to see them out on their ears without references.

  Martha left their post on a table and discreetly eased from the room. Isabelle rose to examine it. One letter for Will, from his steward at Wentwich. The remaining five were for her. Thick white paper and curlicue script. Without opening them, she knew they were invitations. She’d had so many recently that she recognised the signs.

  Feeling a little bewildered, she crossed the room, stopping in front of the sofa. Will pulled her into his lap; she kicked off her shoes and pulled up her legs.

  ‘What have we got?’

  She handed him his letter. ‘This is for you.’

  He groaned. ‘Mortimer knows we’re leaving in three days. Don’t know why this can’t wait till we get there. What about those?’

  ‘Some invitations.’

 
‘’You’ve become very popular.’

  ‘I suppose. I don’t quite know how it happened and I’m not sure it will last. I must thank your cousin.’

  ‘Why? Don’t thank her for anything if you can avoid it. That’s my advice.’

  ‘But I wouldn’t have been invited anywhere if not for her.’

  ‘If not for you, darling. Everyone’s heard how you charmed Lady Trim.’

  Isabelle wasn’t convinced that her charm had anything to do with it. It was just that for once perverse Fate had done her a good turn.

  The cousin in question was Venetia, Henrietta’s better half. She’d returned from the country a week before the wedding. Isabelle had been staying with James and Eleanor again, an arrangement deemed more appropriate for a soon-to-be countess. She’d dreaded meeting her, and indeed Venetia was every bit as meddlesome as her sister. But in extremis—and Isabelle certainly had been facing social death—Venetia’s brash confidence proved just the thing.

  Venetia had merely regarded Isabelle critically before announcing that the next day they’d visit her dear friend, Lady Trim.

  Eleanor, in the sitting room to help Isabelle examine her wedding gown, looked up nervously. ‘But Lady Trim is rather—’

  ‘Darling,’ Venetia cut in, ‘we cannot pretend it didn’t happen. We can only pretend we don’t care.’

  It, Isabelle understood, meant her, and so the next day, the trio visited the Marchioness of Trim, London’s unofficial arbiter of taste and manners. The good lady was obviously curious about her scandalous guest, but otherwise seemed displeased to see them. As they entered the tense drawing room, Isabelle felt as if they’d entered a civil war. Lady Trim’s husband, a small man with a prominent brow, had obviously annoyed her. She kept shooting him malevolent looks as he wandered benignly around the back of the room, talking to himself softly whilst tenderly passing a dust cloth over his collection of ancient Greek vases.

  ‘I despise him.’ That was Lady Trim, speaking quietly, but as if she really meant it.