by Syrie James
Two years ago, when he first started painting portraits in town, he’d allowed himself to find release now and then with a dancer or a model. But such fleeting alliances had not proven satisfying, and there was always the risk of disease. Lately, while in London, he just applied himself to his work, by necessity keeping his head down and staying out of sight.
How long had it been now since he had been with a woman? He could not remember. There were times when abstinence made him as restless and surly as a bear. Even Mrs. Gill had commented once or twice upon his dark moods. But still, whether at home or in town, he had stuck inexorably to one resolve: Hands off the serving staff. Else what separated man from the beasts?
It was a resolve he had not questioned in many years.
Until Miss Watson stumbled in the road, and into his life.
He realized that he owed her an explanation of who he was, and what was to come. He had fully intended to fill her in when they boarded the train, but they had never been alone. He was not about to spill his guts with those two biddies or those top-hatted gentlemen to overhear it; he knew how far and how fast gossip could spread. Far better to wait for the privacy of his carriage.
Thomas took a deep breath. There was no time like the present. He might as well get it over with. “Miss Watson,” he began quietly, turning to face her.
Miss Watson’s eyes were closed and her head lay against the seat back, mere inches away. From the sound of her breathing, she was fast asleep.
He sighed. It would have to wait.
Or perhaps, he reasoned, it would be better to say nothing after all. At this late hour, what good would come of an admission? She would understand everything very soon.
Settling back against the seat himself, he stretched his legs out before him, thinking he might also try to nap. But when he closed his eyes, he remained all too aware of the woman beside him. All too aware of the body that lay beneath her high-collared, long-sleeved dress—the body he had seen naked in the bath. The breasts which he had been obliged to stare at for two hours a day, three days in succession, as they rose provocatively above the tight confines of that low-cut white gown.
The carriage lurched twice, interrupting his reverie. Thomas felt Miss Watson’s head drop softly onto his shoulder. His eyes snapped open, as all his nerves seemed to leap into high awareness. Turning his head ever so slightly to face her, he watched the rise and fall of her chest as she slept.
Dear God. How he longed to touch her.
His hand hungered to venture forth, to settle on her waist. To feel, beneath his fingers and palm, the slender curves of her body, even if it was through her clothing.
He gazed down at her closed eyelids. The long, feathered eyelashes. The rosy lips that were slightly parted. Lips that were just inches from his own. How he longed to taste those lips. Just one kiss. One kiss to slake the lust that was running rampant through him.
In his mind, he visualized what it might be like to press his lips against hers. Did he dare? He wondered how she would respond. Whether her tongue would meet and tangle with his, or if she would slap him in dismay and push him away.
She stirred slightly and let out a low moan in her sleep.
Thomas jerked away and leaned back against the seat again, taking a long, deep breath. To calm himself. To restore his sanity. Only a rapacious cad would take advantage of a woman who was asleep. He had no business touching her or kissing her at any time, much less at a time like this. He needed her to take care of his sisters. Did he want her to quit before she had even begun at her post?
Alexandra awoke to find the carriage filled with the amber light of the late-afternoon sun.
She stretched and glanced at Mr. Carlyle, who was staring moodily out the window. “Have I been asleep long?”
“Two hours.”
“Oh no, I’ve missed everything.”
His eyes remained on the view outside. For some reason he seemed tense, irritable, distracted. Which she knew from past experience meant the less conversation, the better.
She peered out her own window. A small sign read welcome to longford. She recalled him saying that he lived just outside Longford. They were nearly there.
The village consisted of a single main street bordered by narrow cottages of gray stone. Although picturesque, the place looked neglected. Many of the cottages had broken windowpanes, missing roof tiles, and fences in disrepair. It saddened Alexandra to see a place in such a state of dilapidation. But then, she hadn’t expected Mr. Carlyle to live in glamorous environs.
They continued up the road about half a mile, past green fields and rolling hills, and then turned onto a narrow tree-lined lane. After winding through the woods for some minutes, they emerged into an open space with vast meadows on one side. On the other, a tree-shaded granite wall seemed to extend endlessly before them, interrupted by a castle-like structure of gray granite that looked like it dated to the sixteenth century.
To her surprise, the carriage stopped before this very building. Three stories high, the edifice featured an arched entryway and mullioned windows, and was topped by battlements and turrets. The driver stepped down and opened a gigantic wrought-iron gate.
“What’s this?” Alexandra asked.
“The gatehouse.”
Thomas was acting so brusque and aloof, she didn’t want to ask any of the many questions rattling in her brain. They drove on, winding through an expanse of trees carpeted by bracken and the profuse yellow blooms of gorse and broom. After traveling up a slight incline, the carriage followed the curving avenue downward again, bringing into view a massive, three-story house of gray slate and granite.
Alexandra had visited plenty of large houses on both sides of the Atlantic, and the mansion her parents had recently built on Fifth Avenue was very imposing. But this was one of the most immense and magnificent houses she’d ever seen. Similar in style and age to the ancient gatehouse, it featured countless windows and a forest of chimneys. It was built in a U shape, with a central tower-like entry in the main building flanked by ivy-covered wings that surrounded a gravel courtyard.
What was this place? She wondered if Mr. Carlyle had been hired to come here, to paint someone’s portrait. As they drew nearer, Alexandra began to notice that the edifice wasn’t quite as impressive as it had appeared at first glance. The huge granite bricks were green at the edges with moss. Ivy that had not been clipped in ages had flung itself over the walls and rooftops. Some of the mullioned windows on the upper floors had been boarded over, and several chimneys and sections of battlements showed signs of decay and neglect.
She realized that Mr. Carlyle was looking at her, as if trying to gauge her reaction. She was about to ask him whose house this was, when he quietly said, “I would be grateful, Miss Watson, if you would say nothing to anyone—at the house, in the village, or anywhere else—about my activities in London.”
“Your activities? I don’t understand.”
“I prefer that it not be generally known that I paint when I am in town.”
“Why?”
“You are a perceptive woman, Miss Watson. The answer will very soon become clear to you.”
As the coach rattled into the courtyard, the great oaken door of the turreted entry tower was thrown open. Two people exited and stood at attention by the front steps: a white-haired man of regal posture in a black tailcoat, and a trim woman in a severe navy-blue dress. From another, lesser, door in the left wing appeared three more women: one was middle aged, in a faded dress, white cap, and apron; the other two were maids in uniform.
Servants, Alexandra realized, lined up to greet their master. A very small group of servants, considering the size of the house. All at once, a new idea began to form in Alexandra’s mind, an idea so unexpected, she could hardly credit it as real.
A young lady who looked to be about fourteen or fifteen years of age sullenly strolled out the front door and joined the lineup. Her burgundy-colored gown was well made and fashionable. Her expression made it o
bvious that she was there with reluctance.
Alexandra turned to the man beside her, who was staring straight ahead, his expression unreadable. “Is this place yours?”
He gave her a brief, unsmiling nod. “Welcome to Polperran House.”
Chapter Eight
The carriage stopped. The driver hopped off, opened the door, and pulled down the step. “Welcome home, my lord,” he said with a bow as he stepped aside.
My lord?
A confluence of emotions washed over Alexandra: amazement, awe, and at the same time, anger. The hollow feeling that she’d been tricked, lied to.
Mr. Carlyle was not an obscure, impoverished artist at all. He was not even a mister. He was a peer of the realm—of what rank she had yet to determine. Whatever his title, he was the master of Polperran House, which looked to be an ancient estate. He was the owner of this carriage, which she’d presumed to be hired. Owner of the village and all the woods they’d just driven through, and no doubt many thousands of acres more.
The man had totally misrepresented himself. The deception rankled.
She wondered if she should have guessed it—if she had missed some telltale clue. Looking back, she remembered thinking that his accent was more elegant than might be expected for a painter, but she’d just thought he was a quick learner, or maybe the younger son of a gentleman. A nobleman? It had never entered her mind. No, he’d played the part perfectly, all the way down to the shabby clothes. The question remained: Why?
Why didn’t he want anyone to know he was a portrait artist? She thought all country lords owned fancy townhouses in Belgravia and Mayfair. Yet he had led her and Mrs. Gill, and who knows how many others, to think he was a commoner, renting rooms in a modest boardinghouse in a lesser neighborhood in London.
Exiting the carriage, Mr. Carlyle—or Lord whatever his name was—turned and raised a hand to assist Alexandra to alight. As she stepped down onto the gravel, gazing into the unapologetic eyes of her new employer, she hissed at him under her breath, “You said you were a poor painter.”
“I am,” he answered quietly. “But to be fair, I never said anything of the kind.”
Alexandra opened her mouth to reply, then shut it again, realizing that she had formed her conclusions about him entirely on what she’d observed in London, and what she’d heard from Mrs. Gill. When he’d offered Alexandra the position, she should have asked more questions. A lot more questions.
Even so, she thought. He lied to you by omission.
The phrase was eerily familiar. Her anger began to dissipate, replaced by a dash of guilt. What right did she have to be angry with him, when she’d never been honest about who she was? She didn’t even have a right to complain. She’d expected to live in a modest cottage of some sort for three months. This place was clearly a palace. If anything, she ought to see this as an interesting development.
As the driver closed the coach door behind them, she glimpsed a coronet and coat of arms painted on the side, something she’d been too exhausted to notice when they’d boarded the vehicle at the train station.
“Is your name even Carlyle?” she whispered, trying to rein in her annoyance.
“It is.”
“What am I to call you?”
“Longford will do.” He gestured for her to accompany him toward the lineup of servants, presumably to be introduced.
Alexandra was unfamiliar with the protocol for such a meeting. All her years of training in the social graces had taught her how an American heiress ought to behave, not a governess. She strained to recall something from the novels she’d read, or from the behavior of her odious finishing governess, Madame Dubois, but came up short. She didn’t know if, when meeting other servants, a governess was supposed to curtsy, nod, or shake their hands. She decided to take her cue from them.
“Good afternoon.” Mr. Carlyle greeted the assembled group. No, no, she mentally corrected herself. Lord Longford. It was going to take some time to get used to that. He seemed to be a different person here, standing taller, head held higher, his very speech infused with a more commanding air. “Pray, allow me to introduce you to the new governess. This is Miss Watson, from America.”
Surprised expressions crossed every face at this pronouncement.
“America?” repeated the young girl dubiously. There was no doubt she was his sister. She had the same wheat-colored hair, the same long, thin nose, the same chocolate-brown eyes.
“Julia,” Longford said, “may I present your new governess, Miss Watson. Miss Watson: my sister, Lady Julia Carlyle.”
Julia eyed Alexandra with undisguised disdain. “How do you do.”
How could the girl hate me already? Alexandra gave her a smile nevertheless. “I am well, thank you, and very pleased to meet you, Lady Julia.”
An awkward silence fell. Lowering his voice, Longford told Alexandra, “Perhaps you are not familiar with the way it is done here. The servants call my sister Lady Julia, but as the governess, you may address her as the family does, as simply Julia.”
Alexandra blushed at her mistake. “I see. Thank you.”
“Where is Lillie?” Longford asked his sister.
“I have no idea,” was Julia’s curt reply.
Next up was the white-haired man in the black tailcoat, who Longford introduced as Mr. Hutchens, the butler.
“It is very good to have you back, my lord,” Hutchens declared with a bow, before giving Alexandra a grave and dubious nod beneath bushy white eyebrows. “Miss Watson.”
“Mr. Hutchens.” Alexandra gravely nodded back.
The woman in the navy-blue dress, who had a ring of keys hanging from a chain at her waist, neatly styled brown hair, and a sharp-eyed, appraising look, was the housekeeper, Mrs. Mitchell. She looked to be in her late forties, and stood with her hands clasped before her, as ramrod straight as Mr. Hutchens. “It is a pleasure to meet you, Miss Watson,” she stated formally.
“And you, Mrs. Mitchell,” Alexandra responded in kind.
She met the other servants in turn: the cook, Mrs. Nettle; the coachman, John, who also served as footman and groom; and the maids: a petite girl named Susan and a tall, gangly brunette, Martha.
“I beg your pardon, Your Lordship,” Mrs. Mitchell said, when these introductions were complete, “that Lillie isn’t here to greet you. I’ve looked high and low for her all afternoon, but she’s nowhere to be found.”
“Do not worry yourself, Mrs. Mitchell. I am certain she will present herself when dinner is on the table.”
“I’m afraid that won’t be the case, Your Lordship. The dinner hour for the young ladies has already come and gone. I’ve had quite a time of it this past week since Miss Larsen left, I can tell you.”
“Thank you for taking charge so admirably, as always, Mrs. Mitchell.”
“It was my pleasure, Your Lordship.”
Mr. Hutchens told John to bring the luggage upstairs. As John went to retrieve the single valise strapped to the carriage, Longford informed the butler: “Miss Watson has no luggage.”
“No luggage?” Mr. Hutchens and Mrs. Mitchell repeated in unified surprise.
“Some things are being sent from London, and should arrive in about a week,” Longford replied, giving no further explanation.
As the maids and cook curtsied and walked off toward what was, presumably, the servants’ entrance, Longford led the way in through the great front door. Julia followed. The butler, housekeeper, and footman waited, a silent signal to Alexandra that she was to go next.
Pausing a moment before entering, Alexandra turned to Mrs. Mitchell and asked in a low tone, “Pardon me, but what is Mr.—I mean, His Lordship’s title?”
“His title?” Mrs. Mitchell stared at her. “You mean he didn’t tell you?”
“He neglected to fill me in on that particular detail.”
“Why, he’s Thomas Carlyle, the seventh Earl of Longford.”
The entry hall of Polperran House opened into an enormous drawing room with a high o
pen-beamed ceiling. As Alexandra took in the room with its fine architectural details, her first impression was that, although equal in size to the gilded drawing room at her parents’ new house on Fifth Avenue, in other ways it was very different.
For one thing, it was hundreds of years old.
And there was nothing gilded about it.
A faded, decaying central rug covered the stone floor. Despite the fire burning in the huge marble-framed hearth, the room felt chilly. A sweeping oak staircase curved up to a gallery on the upper level. The oak-paneled walls, in the room and along the stairway, were hung with oil paintings, primarily ancestral portraits of men and women from centuries long past. From the faded markings on the walls, it appeared that other pictures which had once hung there were no longer on view. The furniture, although it looked to be of good quality, was threadbare and outdated.
“I do not know why you brought her,” Julia was saying to her brother irritably. “I keep telling you, I am too old for a governess.”
“You are not too old. You are only fifteen.”
“I was glad when Miss Larsen quit! I hated her. And this one will be no different!”
“Julia,” Longford responded sternly. “You will not speak to me that way.”
But Julia had already turned and fled up the stairs.
Longford turned to Alexandra with an apologetic shrug. “She can be rather willful.”
“That she can,” agreed Mrs. Mitchell. “I have two nieces who are Lady Julia’s age, and they are all the same: they think they know what’s best for them, when really they don’t have the slightest idea.”
Alexandra tried to smile. She could see that she had her work cut out for her here, and she’d only met one of the sisters so far. While Mr. Hutchens and Mrs. Mitchell engaged in conversation with Mr. Carlyle—Lord Longford, she corrected herself again—Alexandra made another survey of the room.