by Susana Ellis
“Governessing must be quite a profitable enterprise across the pond, then,” he commented, waving his hand in her direction, indicating her modish appearance.
She licked her lips and he stifled an urge to kiss them. She was his daughter’s governess, for heaven’s sake!
“Not at all,” she said, stiffening slightly in her seat. “I'm sure the Newsomes have explained to you that I am a temporary replacement only. Mrs. Pendleton is an old school friend of my mother's. It was her idea—Lady Pendleton's, that is—that I be launched into society. But when she heard about Miss Dray… well, she thought I could be of use to her grandchildren."
She crossed her arms across her chest, inadvertently exposing a bit of cleavage, he noticed with interest.
"Why did your mother not accompany you? After all, it was she who was acquainted with Lady Pendleton."
"She intended to, of course, but then she came down with the measles."
James's eyes narrowed. "And she sent you all alone on a cross-Atlantic journey?"
"Of course not. I had a proper companion, of course."
“Weren’t you going to talk to me about Annabelle?” she asked sharply. "I really must get back to the children soon."
“Yes, of course.”
It was interesting to note how frequently she blushed in his presence. He suspected the connection he'd felt upon their first meeting was reciprocated.
But she was hiding something—he was certain of it. And he would get to the bottom of the mystery of Helena Lloyd if it was the last thing he did.
* * *
What was it about James Walker that made her so nervous? It wasn't as though she hadn't had practice responding to those questions before, from Lady P's callers and people they had met shopping or at social events. They had the story down pat, and she'd had no trouble fabricating a French companion who'd dropped her off in London and moved on to return to her home in Poitiers. There was no sign thus far that anyone had found it implausible. Lady Pendleton's cachet and reputation for candor had worked in their favor.
Lying to strangers was one thing. But James Walker didn't seem like a stranger. There was a connection between them. She'd felt it from the first moment of their meeting, when she'd taken him for the man in the portrait. Why, she didn't know, but it made her feel uncomfortable to lie to him.
"Tell me about Annabelle," she said, looking directly into his eyes. Warm and brown, but as a governess, she shouldn't be noticing such things.
Mr. Walker took a deep breath and gave a brief rundown on Annabelle's history—most of which Helena had heard before.
Annabelle had gone through a series of governesses in the past eighteen months. She was bright, but easily bored with schoolwork, which she often refused to do, resulting in punishments that were increasingly severe and governesses stamping their feet in his study at the end of the day when he was exhausted from a hard day's work on the estate.
A gentleman who does physical labor. Interesting.
Suddenly aware that she was picturing him tanned and shirtless and slightly grubby like the cover of a cowboy romance she'd read recently, she swallowed and tried to rein in her thoughts.
"Not all children thrive in a classroom, especially children as young as she is. Children that age should be encouraged to explore their interests and be active participants in their learning rather than passive listeners. And to run and play as much as possible."
Mr. Walker tilted his head to one side. "That is a most singular attitude for a governess, Miss Lloyd. Most would argue that teaching a child to be disciplined and obedient from an early age is essential."
Which is precisely why some of the smartest and most innovative people fail miserably in organized schools.
She shrugged. "Nevertheless, Annabelle seems to be doing well thus far. We haven't been in the classroom that much, not so soon after Miss Dray's unfortunate passing. But this estate is in itself a wonderful classroom, Mr. Walker. And so much more palatable than a dark schoolroom."
He nodded his head toward the girls. "They do seem to be recovering from the shock," he admitted. "I have been considering removing her back to Melbourne Manor, but the Newsomes insist she is not a burden to them, and I have not yet managed to find a governess for her." He sighed. "She has her nursemaid, of course, but I know what will happen if I take her home—she'll be forever begging to come with me when I work on the estate."
She gave him a reassuring smile. “It’s difficult to be an only child, especially with only one parent. You’re always afraid the one anchor you have left in life will disappear and leave you alone in the world.”
Because it does happen, even in the future. And you never get over it, not even when you're grown.
"Perhaps you should take her along with you on occasion. So she knows what you do and can picture you during the day when you're apart."
He turned his gaze toward the house. "I did that once when she was a toddler," he said softly. "She was such a delightful little tot. Charmed us all with her pretty smiles and adorable giggles, but then…"
He returned his gaze to her and shook his head, as though trying to shake away a bad memory. "My late wife didn't approve. Said she wouldn't have a daughter of hers turned into a hoyden."
But the sympathy she'd started to feel for his plight went right out the window at his next statement.
"Nor do I wish that for her. She shall have a proper upbringing for a genteel young lady. Music, drawing, languages, dancing, embroidery—the lot. She shall have the London come-out her mother never had."
"Well, of course, but at the same time, it wouldn't be a bad thing for her to understand the workings of a farm, especially if she's to inherit it one day."
He narrowed his eyes. "But surely that will be the prerogative of her husband, Miss Lloyd."
Helena wanted to throw something at him. This was why she could never marry in this time period. If she did, she'd probably murder her husband during the honeymoon. But she wasn't here to argue women's rights. She was simply governess and he was the father of her pupil.
"Yes. Well, the issue is loneliness. What she needs more than anything else is an involved father. The social interaction she's getting here is important, of course, but even so, she needs to feel secure in her father's love. It's important for the two of you to spend time together."
He bit his lip, listening intently.
"Are there any other family members she could bond with?"
"My parents are dead, but yes, she has maternal grandparents. In Derbyshire."
“Are they close to her?”
He shook his head “Not at all. They visit annually at Christmas.”
"That's it?" At his puzzled look, she changed it to, "Are there no more?"
She'd had the impression that people had large families and were all connected to each other, even marrying first cousins.
"Not close relations. Her mother's aunts both offered to take her when my wife died, but I wouldn't give her up."
He averted his gaze, which gave Helena the impression that he felt guilty about keeping Annabelle from her aunts. But it wasn't her place to pry, she reminded herself.
"In that case, Mr. Walker, you are Annabelle's rock. You and you alone."
She felt a lump in her throat. "I was an only child myself, you know. With a single mother too. It wasn't the easiest thing for her to convince me that I could depend on her and she wasn't going to go away."
And then she did go away.
He looked at her strangely. “Your father died?”
Helena gasped, startled, as she realized that she’d been close to revealing details of her origins that did not fit the cover story she and Lady P had concocted.
“Papa! Come and watch me do hot peppers!”
Helena was never so glad to be interrupted. She rose to her feet. “Recess is nearly over,” she said, clearing her throat. “Let us rejoin the girls, shall we?”
* * *
Four days later
The little chestnut nickered with excitement when she caught sight of her young mistress.
“Pierre!” Annabelle shrieked. “Oh Pierre, I’ve missed you so much!”
The horse playfully nibbled on Annabelle’s shoulder while the young girl nuzzled her face in the horse’s thick mane.
“He missed you too,” James observed. “Farris told me he didn’t care for the young stable lad exercising him, so I thought I’d bring him here and make you both happy.”
Annabelle looked at him through shining eyes. “Oh Papa, Is he going to stay here? That would be awesome!”
Awesome?
His puzzlement must have shown on his face because Annabelle grinned and said, “Wonderful, Papa. It means wonderful. It’s one of the new words we’ve learned from Miss Lloyd. She’s American, you know.”
“Yes, I know.” James’s brow furrowed. He’d met Americans before, and somehow Miss Lloyd’s eccentric manner of speaking didn’t strike him the same way.
She had secrets. And he was determined to find them out.
He helped Annabelle mount her horse, and followed suit on his own black stallion. “I thought we’d ride out to the Castle and see if Wykeham’s in residence. Think you can manage that far?”
Annabelle rolled her eyes. “It’s only a couple of miles, Papa. I can do that distance in my sleep.”
James raised an eyebrow. More of Miss Lloyd’s witticisms?
“Well, dear child, I suggest you keep your eyes open or you might end up on your backside when we take that stream over there.”
He spurred his horse into action and he and Brutus leapt gracefully over the narrow stream and waited for Annabelle to follow. Her tawny eyes sparkled with excitement and strands of hair escaping from her hat looked cinnamon in the sunlight. How glad she’d been to see him! A wave of emotion poured over him as he realized that he’d been unknowingly keeping her at arm’s length, pushing her off on nannies and governesses because… Damnation! That infernal Miss Lloyd was right! His daughter was insecure because he’d been trying to avoid being her father!
But why? She was his daughter, damn it! She was smart and had the prettiest little cherubic face and loved him as no one else ever had. Certainly not her mother.
And that was the rub: she had the look of her mother, and whenever he looked at her he saw Anne, red-faced with rage, alcohol clouding her judgment, rushing out the front door screaming that she was going to London and he couldn’t stop her. Three-year-old Annabelle at the top of the stairs, wailing with fright at the angry scene, no nanny in sight. By the time James had rushed up the stairs and seized the child, his wife had already mounted her horse, and he could see by the horse’s skittish behavior that she was in danger of being thrown.
He’d replayed that scene in his mind so many times. Anne’s white face where she landed on the cobblestone drive. The blood streaming from the back of her head where it had hit the stone. The knowledge that he could have stopped her if he hadn’t chosen to rescue his daughter first. The guilt that he’d driven her to it because he hadn’t made her happy.
He took a sidelong glance at his daughter as they cantered side-by-side. She was deliriously happy, her eyes glowing with love for him. His heart melted for the little girl he’d fathered. He’d adored her from birth, but somehow, things changed after Anne’s death. Looking into her face reminded him of the guilt he carried about his ill-fated marriage and the horrific end of it. And, he realized, the thought that he could have saved her if he had not stopped to attend to Annabelle.
By George, he’d been blaming Annabelle all this time!
A sudden coldness struck him from his core. This darling, adorable little girl loved him and needed him and he’d pushed her aside because she reminded him of his failed marriage. What a beast he’d been! She’d lost her mother and must have feared losing him as well.
His daughter needed needed him first and foremost. The nannies, governesses—yes, even the mother that everyone seemed to think he needed to give her—mattered little next to the all-encompassing love of her father.
Mrs. Fenwick had tried to tell him. And Miss Ledbetter too. And now the intriguing Miss Lloyd. And they were all right. Why hadn't he seen it before? Could it have something to do with his attraction to the pretty governess? He fidgeted in the saddle. Somehow he had to find a way to fight his interest in her. She wasn't at all the sort of woman for him. He needed a quiet, gentle, biddable lady who would be content being the wife of a gentleman farmer.
But he was not in the market for a wife, he reminded himself. For now it was enough to work on being a father to his adorable daughter.
“There’s the castle!” he said, pointing out the turrets in the distance. “Shall we race to the gate?”
The joy in his daughter’s face almost brought tears to eyes. “Give me at least six lengths,” she called as she raced past him. “Your horse is bigger than mine.”
He let her win, of course, but they both pretended otherwise.
The Wykehams were not there to greet them, but, upon encountering the steward on the way out, they were given permission to explore the grounds to their hearts' content. And when the Wykehams did return, later in the day, she sent out an invitation to tea for Annabelle and the Newsome girls.
And their governess, of course. He wasn't exactly required to accompany them, but he thought it would be the neighborly thing to do. The opportunity to spend time with Miss Lloyd had nothing to do with his decision. Or so he convinced himself.
* * *
Leeds Castle
Maidstone
Kent
Two days later
“There it is! Leeds Castle!” Annabelle exclaimed, pointing out the turrets as they towered over the trees in the distance. “Papa and I had tea with Mr. and Mrs. Wykeham when we were here on Thursday.”
“I’m afraid the primary structure is still in construction,” James said apologetically. “The Wykehams live in the gloriette when in residence here, but they are willing to escort us through some of the rooms in the older, Tudor-style buildings.”
James had explained that the current owner, Fiennes Wykeham, had inherited the rundown castle from a distant relative and was determined to renovate it in all its Tudor splendor, the wherewithal obtained by selling the Fairfax family estates in Virginia.
“Leeds Castle is not the first of our historic buildings to be saved by American dollars,” James had said with a nod in Helena’s direction. “American heiresses are often quite sought after by those whose legacies turn out to be little more than a heavily mortgaged estate with a pile of stones on it.”
“Are you an American heiress, Miss Lloyd?” asked Theo, her eyes wide.
“I’m afraid not,” said Helena, stealing a sideways glance at James. If he had any ideas of enriching himself at her expense, she wanted them dashed now.
Emily smirked at her sister. “Of course she’s not, silly. Heiresses do not become governesses.”
Theo scowled. “Miss Lloyd does not dress like other governesses.” She turned toward Helena. “You’re a friend of Grandmama’s, are you not, Miss Lloyd?”
Helena scrambled for an answer. “I am. I did not come here to be a governess, you know. But I have had the care of children before, and it seemed a good opportunity to visit the English countryside while I'm here.”
She was hesitant to mention the sudden need for a governess. Miss Dray's death was still an open wound in their tender hearts.
Mr. Walker's eyes narrowed, and Helena knew he suspected there was something more to the story. But he didn’t pursue it.
“Fiennes Wyckham is a political associate of my mother’s family, the Melbournes. She was a distant cousin of the current Viscount Melbourne, and Melbourne Manor, my estate, came to my family through inheritance.”
Helena’s brow furrowed. “Wasn’t Lord Melbourne a Prime Minister at one time?” Immediately after saying it, she bit her lip, realizing that she’d gotten her dates wrong. Open mouth, insert foot. She tried
not to blurt things out like that, but sometimes they just came out.
James looked at her with narrowed eyes. But before he could comment, Emily broke in. “Goodness no, Miss Lloyd. Everyone knows Lord Liverpool is our Prime Minister.”
“And before that it was Spencer Perceval, but he got shot,” Theo chimed in.
“We’re here!” Annabelle shouted as the carriage crossed over the bridge to the largest of the three islands spanned by the castle and drew up to the main entrance.
Aside from the scaffolding and the renovations in evidence, Leeds Castle looked much the same as it had when she had visited it a few months ago on a weekend bus tour—in the future. It was a true castle, built for defensive purposes, not just to be some wealthy aristocrat’s fancy home. The two-story building had a crenellated roof and turrets, the largest of which framed the modest door at the entrance. No elaborate portico like many of the stylish homes she’d seen, no doubt because its original builders were more concerned with defense than welcoming guests.
The Wykehams came out to greet them, and guided them through the habitable parts of the castle, showing them Henry VIII’s banqueting room, which was being renovated as a ballroom, a fabulous library, a cozy sitting room that reminded Helena of a hunting lodge, and many other rooms with historical significance. On the way to the gloriette, which was an elaborate summerhouse on the center island with causeways connecting it to islands on either side, they passed a Tudor courtyard still being renovated.
“Queen Catherine of Aragon occupied primarily these rooms,” Mrs. Wykeham explained. “When we first arrived here, this structure was in ruins, but Mr. Baskett and his crew have done quite a creditable job with it, I think you will agree.”
The Queen’s bedroom had the same bottle green-draped walls and tomato-colored bed coverings as Helena recalled from her previous visit two hundred years into the future, but the colors were fresher and brighter.
“We've renovated the fireplace to its original design, a display of the royal arms entwined with lovers’ knots and the initials C and H,” Mrs. Wykeham pointed out. “There is a lovely drawing room here that looks out over the lake and the forest beyond. Do come and be seated. I’ve arranged for tea to be served here, and then perhaps you’d like to see the gardens.”