“Lady Oakland, Oliver Candel is a disgrace to his family and hardly one to be believed.”
Cold from the chill floor seeped through the thin soles of Josceline’s slippers. The cold in her feet echoed the cold of Lady Oakland’s manner, making the interview not at all comfortable.
Josceline shifted from one foot to the other, trying to warm them a little, focusing intently on Lady Oakland’s next words.
“He claims to have proof.” The woman’s gaze narrowed. “He spoke to the matron at St. Peter’s.”
Josceline drew herself up. “If I may remind you, I am the daughter of the Duke of Cranston. My word should mean more than that of a mere viscount. Philip is indeed Mr. Sharrington’s son.”
Lady Oakland tilted her head to one side. “I have heard stories of your father, the Duke,” she said slyly.
The blood drained from Josceline’s face and her features felt as if they had turned to stone. Stories of her disgraced father had spread even here. She must steer the conversation back to the matter of the supposed son.
She shrugged. “My father has nothing to do with this. I choose to work as governess for I wish to make my own way.”
“An admirable undertaking. Tell me, Lady Woodsby, do you subscribe to the musings of Mary Wollstonecroft?”
“Only in that I feel education is of benefit to everyone. Being a governess allows me to do that.”
“But why not embrace marriage? As you yourself pointed out, you are the daughter of a duke.” Lady Oakland crossed her arms before gazing again at Josceline.
“As I said, I choose to make my own way. The indiscretions of my father are no reflection on me.”
“Yet you so boldly claim to be his daughter.”
“I’m not here to talk about my choice in life,” she snapped. The woman needled her deliberately. “I am here to assure you Mr. Sharrington has a son.”
“So say you.”
“You yourself have seen Philip.” Josceline hoped desperation did not color her words.
“I have only seen a young boy who you declare to be Philip Sharrington.”
“If you don’t believe me, why not visit the orphanage yourself?” Josceline lifted her chin. “They should tell you the truth for they have nothing to gain and nothing to lose.”
Lady Oakland stared at her long and hard. “Very well,”
she replied at length. “For I admit we could banter on this endlessly and still find no resolution.”
“Thank you,” Josceline replied as graciously as she could. “I am certain a timely visit to St. Peter’s will give you the answers you need.”
Her feet were numb with cold, toes cramping in protest. It was time to end the conversation.
“I must take my leave.”
“As you wish.” Lady Oakland waved a dismissive hand.
Weak-kneed, Josceline returned to the waiting carriage, scarce noticing the fresh faced footman who helped her in. She collapsed onto the squabs, grateful for the coal brazier to warm her feet and the robe to pull over her lap.
The carriage jerked and rocked and they were off. The gentle sway and rhythmic clip clop soothed her nerves and she relaxed against the back cushions.
This meeting merely confirmed her changed impressions of Lady Oakland. The evening they had met here at Oakland Grange, the woman had exuded false sympathy. In reality she was merely a gossip monger, filled with self-importance, and in the face of Josceline’s insistence, harmless enough. Or so she hoped.
However, Lady Oakland’s comment about marriage disturbed Josceline. The only offer made for her so far that she would have seriously considered had been an admitted jest.
It stung.
In truth, Josceline would quite happily settle on marriage. But only to the right man. An image of Christopher slid through her thoughts before she hastily thrust it away.
* * *
Josceline went to her room and hung up her cloak before returning to the drawing room. Christopher must have heard her return for he waited for her there. He rang the bell and fussed over the cushions of her chair before allowing her to sit.
Almost as if he had been waiting for her. As if he cared about her.
Josceline threw him a curious glance and thought she caught a flash of affection in the otherwise unperturbed brown eyes. He turned away as if to hide his expression before seating himself.
It wasn’t until Mrs. Belton had deposited the tea tray on the little table between them before bustling off again that he spoke.
“Was Lady Oakland agreeable?” he asked. His words were mild but his tone was urgent. Clearly he had spent an anxious afternoon waiting for her.
“She has agreed to speak to the matron at St. Peter’s.” Josceline nodded. “As long as Mrs. Wilkinson keeps her part of the bargain, the sham will become reality.”
She pointed to the cups with an enquiring glance and at his nod, poured the tea. Its exotic fragrance swirled about her and she took an appreciative sniff. Her mama had always said there was nothing a good cup of tea couldn’t fix. Lately Josceline had tested that theory often, judging by how many times in the past few days she’d shared a cup in the cozy kitchen with Mrs. Belton in a futile effort to forget Christopher’s proposal.
“Splendid.” A smile crossed his lips. “Jolly good show, Josceline. You’ve done it. You’ve saved us from the sharp tongues.”
He leaned over to grab her hand, lifting it to his mouth to brush it with tender lips before dropping it. Reluctantly, she thought. Or perhaps that was wishful thinking on her part.
“We can only hope Oliver Candel hasn’t convinced the woman to change her mind.”
“Nay, he shall not.” Christopher shook his head. “I sincerely believe Mrs. Wilkinson has the best interests of the boys at heart. As should we, for they’ve served our purpose well. I suppose to maintain the charade, we must be sure Philip is seen out and about. How go the lessons with them?”
“Very well. They are both bright. Christopher?” She twisted her fingers, hesitant to broach the subject. “What do we do with them now?”
“Now that Lady Oakland has passed approval on us?”
“She hasn’t passed approval yet. Remember, Mrs. Wilkinson must corroborate our story,” Josceline cautioned.
“Which she will,” he rejoined heartily. “The boys must stay in Midland House for now, continuing with their lessons for undoubtedly any son of mine will be well-mannered and educated. I don’t see the harm in including Tom. It’s reasonable to assume an only son would find amenable companionship with the grandson of the housekeeper.”
“How kind of you. They are not of your blood.”
“Kind?” He snorted. “Not kind at all. I wager that the root of all kindness stems from an ulterior motive on the part of the giver. In our case,” he quirked an eyebrow at her, “I am ensuring our reputations remain intact.”
“But still kind,” she protested. “Other men would send them to the stables or the fields.”
“They are someone’s sons and have nothing, not even the love of a parent. I am an only child, Josceline. I know something of loneliness, be it for a parent or a sibling. I would think both would encompass the same feeling of loss.” A sorrowful air hung over him briefly before his manner became purposeful. “Now that Philip is safely ensconced as my son, we must tackle Lord Oliver Candel. I mean to claim my ship. I mean to get the “Bessie” and put her to the use for which she was intended.”
He drained his cup and replaced it on the saucer so firmly Josceline was sure it would crack. Sympathy welled up within her at the brief glimpse of the sorrow within him, a sorrow he took great pains to conceal.
A sorrow somehow entwined with his reprisal against Lord Oliver Candel.
A sorrow one day she would like to discover.
Chapter Fifteen
The envelope lay on the brass tray. Christopher stared at it for a moment, incredulous. It carried Lady Oakland’s handwriting. Nay, it could not be – it had only been three days since Joscel
ine’s visit to the woman. It must have been delivered to Midland House by mistake.
He grabbed it and turned it over to inspect the wax seal. It was indeed the “O” of Oakland. He ripped it open to read the brief message:
Lord and Lady Oakland request the presence of Mr. Christopher Sharrington and Lady Josceline Woodsby for an evening of dinner and dance at Oakland Grange on Friday, March 16, in the year of our lord 1798, at the hour of eight o’clock in the evening.
Respondez s’il vous plait
The invitation could only signify Josceline’s visit had been successful. Lady Oakland must have accepted Philip as his son, otherwise, they wouldn’t be invited to Oakland Grange.
He whooped as he read it again. Excitement coursed through him and his first thought was to tell Josceline. It was mid-morning and she would be in the nursery with Philip and Tom. By rights he shouldn’t interrupt the lessons but exhilaration propelled his feet – the invitation was too important not to share immediately.
He didn’t knock but pushed open the nursery door. Up until several days ago, the room had been bare but somehow Josceline had managed to find a chair and two stools. A primer lay open on her lap; a slate sat on a makeshift easel in front of her and she held a piece of chalk in her hand.
The spear of jealousy at the sight of her russet head bent over the blonde heads of Philip and Tom surprised him. You’re a grown man, he told himself firmly, and hardly one to be resentful over two young boys.
He stepped into the room and three heads swiveled as one.
“Mr. Sharrington!” Josceline exclaimed. Philip’s and Tom’s eyes grew round, so round it was as if he was being inspected by four blue saucers.
Obviously, his entrance had been an abrupt one.
“I must beg pardon for the rude interruption,” he hurried to explain, “but I have important news.”
Puzzled, her gaze raked his face before she turned to the boys. “Philip, Tom, we are finished for the day. You may be excused.”
The two scrambled to their feet and darted away. Their footsteps rattled down the hallway, accompanied by howls of joy. He shook his head at the sound; one corner of his mouth lifted. Evidently the two did not yet understand their good fortune at being taught to read and write.
The room fell silent before Josceline finally closed the primer with a soft “snap” to place it on one of the stools, balancing the chalk on top. She stood and turned to face him, dusting off her hands on her skirt. “Well? What’s so important it couldn’t wait? I just had them settled in and paying attention.” Her indignation was palpable.
“It’s about my dance lessons,” he began.
“What of your lessons?” she interrupted, eyes flashing. “You yourself canceled them. If I recall, the reason you gave was that you were otherwise engaged and did not have the inclination to continue.”
“We still have an agreement, Lady Woodsby. I mean to hold you to it. Besides, we have an invitation to an evening at Oakland Grange.” Triumphant, he held it up. “I shall need more practice.”
Josceline’s mouth dropped open. “Oakland Grange? Lady Oakland has invited us to Oakland Grange?”
“Read it yourself.” He thrust the paper in front of her nose.
She scanned it then raised incredulous eyes to his. “It is done. By virtue of Lady Oakland’s invitation, she has accepted Philip as your son.
“I’m anxious to continue the dance lessons and suggest we meet this evening.”
“This evening?”
“Yes, this evening,” he stated emphatically. “We’ve several dances still for me to learn, do we not?” He wasn’t certain that was actually the case but the prospect of attending the Oakland’s evening of dinner and dance gave urgency to his words.
She nodded.
“Then let’s not waste any more time. I shall be waiting for you in the library at seven o’clock. Until then.” He inclined his head and took his leave.
As he strode down the hallway, he counted to the rhythm of his footsteps: one two three four; one two three four. A grin stretched across his face. He couldn’t wait to start the dance lessons again - to feel Josceline’s soft hand in his, to smell the fragrance of violets and sandalwood so distinctively hers, to hear her breathless count as he whirled her about.
Satisfaction filled him. He had received another invitation to Oakland Grange and his acceptance into local gentry was all but guaranteed. Even better, he would share the event with Josceline.
Whistling jauntily, he headed to the stables. A brisk gallop on Vesuvius would help pass the time until seven o’clock.
Josceline stared at the door, imagining she could still see Christopher’s shadow. It was done. Her position here as governess, and hence her reputation, was secure.
Nonetheless, she wasn’t sure how she felt about continuing with Christopher’s lessons. True, part of her was ecstatic at the prospect of being alone with him but part of her dreaded it for she was certain her disobedient heart wouldn’t behave.
She sighed and shook her head. She had agreed to teach him how to dance so she must keep her part of the arrangement. If she lost her heart in the bargain, then so be it. Doubtless she would find it again when her time at Midland House came to an end.
The stately chimes of the grandfather clock echoed up the stairs. Two o’clock.
A joyous grin lifted the corners of her mouth and happiness propelled her towards her room. The intervening hours until Christopher’s lesson would be well spent scrutinizing the length of copper satin draped over her wardrobe door.
It would make a perfect dress for the evening at Oakland Grange.
* * *
An unfamiliar glow spilled from the library door, illuminating the hall as Josceline approached. The light was so bright she worried for a second or two that perhaps the room had erupted in flames. Nonsense, quiet ruled the house; it couldn’t possibly be on fire.
But when she entered the room she saw it was, in a manner of speaking, for an assortment of lit candles filled every available ledge. Several branched candelabra, a number of single tapers, wall sconces and even the fireplace flickered with life. An inviting sight and slowly she advanced into the room, eyes darting to and fro in an attempt to take it all in. She scarce heard the click clack of the door as it swung shut and caught the latch.
Christopher lounged against his desk, hands tucked into his pockets. As she came closer, he took a sip from the snifter of brandy beside him before he stood up.
“Mrs. Belton is appalled at the wastage but I reminded her that the room should be well lit if we don’t wish to harm ourselves.” He chuckled. “I daresay the last thing we want is to find ourselves in splints and plasters.”
“That is the hazard of doing things in the evening. It does tend to get dark.” Josceline could have kicked herself at her inane comment – it made her look foolish, which was the last thing she wanted Christopher to think of her.
“We could wish for moonlight,” he said, voice husky. He advanced on her, eyes shadowed, mouth curved in a welcoming smile. His hair was damp, the unruly lock for once neatly tucked into a leather thong, his shirt clean, and boots freshly polished.
Her heart jerked at the sight. He’d made an effort to clean himself up. Her eyes strayed down to her brown walking dress. Why hadn’t she bothered to change into at least the jade green frock?
Because she was here to do her duty, to instruct Christopher on the finer points of the Contredanse. And after that, the quadrille, the minuet and, if time permitted between now and their evening at Oakland Grange, the cotillion.
She gritted her teeth and ignored the fluttering in her stomach as she placed her hand in Christopher’s outstretched one. He grinned at her obvious discomfort and she felt her cheeks flush.
“Shall we begin?” She made her voice stern which merely served to draw another grin from him. “We were learning the Contredanse.”
“Spoken like a true governess,” he teased.
“Which I am,” she reto
rted. She compressed her lips, aware she must appear prudish but determined to keep her composure.
“You are.”
He agreed so pleasantly she wanted to smack him.
“But I am the pupil,” he continued, a devilish glint lurking in his eyes, “and your employer, which I think gives me the right to request the subject.”
“What subject would that be?” she asked primly.
“I request the waltz.”
“The waltz?” Her screech echoed off the ceiling and bounced off the floor, eliciting a hearty chuckle from him.
“By that response do I take it to mean you’re unfamiliar with it?”
“No. Yes. That is.” She stopped, trying to collect her thoughts. She had waltzed with Elizabeth in the privacy of her bedroom but even then they weren’t certain they had been doing it properly. It wasn’t yet common and all they really knew was that it required a three beat.
And a very close proximity to one’s partner.
She blanched at the thought. “No, I don’t know how to waltz,” she squeaked.
“Perhaps I could teach you.”
“You?” She gaped at him. “You don’t know how to dance. That is why you engaged my services, remember?”
“Yes, me,” he said smoothly, drawing her into his arms. “I spent a little time on the Continent. It’s very popular over there. So it’s true I don’t know any other dances but I do know that one.”
“It’s not considered appropriate.” She clenched her fists and held herself away from him stiffly.
“No?” He pulled her close, grabbing one balled fist in his left hand and placing her other balled fist on his right shoulder. “I disagree. I think it very appropriate. It is simply an Austrian folk dance therefore what is the harm?”
“Stop.” Josceline pulled free her fists and placed them on his shoulders to push. “It’s hardly likely the Oaklands shall present the waltz at a country ball.”
He curved his arms around her waist, not letting her go and she bent backwards away from him, her knuckles against his shirt white with the strain.
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