My Lady Governess (Zebra Regency Romance)

by Counts, Wilma

  With Trenville absent, the only other person who frequented the library with any regularity was Madame Giroux. Elinor had initially thought the companion might have much in common with the governess. After all, both were gentlewomen who found themselves in straitened circumstances. In any event, however, the companion kept to herself when not in the company of the marchioness, though Elinor had encountered the woman in the kitchen conversing with the chef in their native French. Elinor did not intend to eavesdrop, but her own knowledge of the language made her a silent party to these conversations which revealed the political views of the two natives of France. Both had suffered from the upheavals across the Channel and each deplored having now to make their way in a foreign culture.

  Late one afternoon, Elinor was ensconced in a wing chair in the library, half asleep over a tome on geography of the New World. Suddenly, she was aware that she was not alone, but she had not heard anyone enter. Huntington was seated at Adrian’s desk, which was not at all unusual, for he often sat there to work. What was unusual was the concentration with which he seemed to be trying to gain access to one of the drawers.

  She peeked around the back of the chair. “I did not hear you come in,” she said, thinking it prudent to let him know he had an audience.

  He looked up, startled. “Oh ... uh ... I just arrived. Did not see you there.” He paused, seemed momentarily disconcerted, then rushed on. “The ... post had a note from Trenville saying he wanted something sent him from this drawer, but he seems to have left it locked. Ah, well. I suppose it will wait.”

  “Did he have any messages for the children?” she asked. The marquis had been quite faithful in sending greetings to his son and daughter.

  “Uh ... not this time. Guess he was in a hurry.” Huntington pulled toward him a ledger in which he had been recording his inventory of the library and seemed ready to settle into that ever-present task.

  Now fully awake, Elinor regarded the secretary. “Tell me, Mr. Huntington, did you and his lordship grow up together? You both seem to have vast knowledge of this area and its people.”

  Huntington seemed more relaxed now than when she had first made her presence known.

  “Not precisely,” he replied. “Adrian is five years older than I. But I was of an age with one of the girls and I was usually here for holidays and celebrations. There were always several cousins here, too. We had many fine adventures, I can tell you.” He seemed lost in memory for a moment. “But Adrian and I ... Well, five years is a big gap when you are, say, ten years old.”

  “It is,” she agreed. “You seem to get on well now, though.”

  “Well enough, I suppose.”

  “How did you come to be Trenville’s secretary?”

  “The duke, his father, sent me to a good school in the north and assured me and my father that there would always be a position for me.”

  “I see. That was generous of him.”

  “Most would see it that way. It was understood I would assist my father as steward and then move into that position myself in due course.”

  “What happened?”

  “My father died while I was away at school. By the time I finished, the duke had lost his oldest son, too, and the new marquis brought his own steward from his other properties.”

  “But he made you his secretary.”

  “That he did. Not quite the same, though, is it?” He gave her an oblique look.

  “I suppose the position of secretary has less prestige locally, but it may well become very important indeed. Lord Trenville seems to be one of the bright new stars in the government, after all.”

  “Less prestige and less independence. Ah, well, I am lucky enough to have a position at all these days. At least I managed to escape the trap of many in my class.”

  “What sort of trap would that be?”

  “The army. I might have spent the last few years slogging through the mud in the Peninsula.” He gave a visible shudder of disgust.

  “The army is generally considered an honorable profession,” Elinor said, somewhat baffled at his attitude.

  “For some, perhaps. I just could never quite see myself answering to that sort of regimen, though. Now, Trenville would have accepted it with no qualms at all. He was right upset when his brother died.”

  “I should think he would be,” Elinor said, her voice sounding slightly shocked.

  “No. You do not understand.” Huntington laughed. “Oh, he was upset by his brother’s death. They were always close, even though Adrian always knew he was the ‘spare’ rather than the heir. He was upset at having to leave his navy career!”

  “I see.”

  “Now I, I would have been happy to leave the poor food and cramped quarters on shipboard for all this.” He gave a sweeping gesture. “But not Adrian. He loved the sea—still does—and he worshiped Nelson.”

  “He seems to have adjusted to his disappointment. From what others say, he is making an important contribution to the country.”

  “Oh, yes. Adrian is ever one to serve his country.”

  Elinor could not tell whether Huntington meant this as a compliment to their employer. Moreover, she was feeling twinges of conscience for discussing the absent Trenville in such a manner. She murmured something about the time and left the room.

  The subject of this discourse was himself considering his service to his country. Was he, through someone in his household or in his employ, the new conduit for sensitive information getting into the hands of the French? His meeting in London with the foreign secretary had not gone well. Canning was livid about the situation.

  The foreign secretary had called Lords Morton, Dennington, and Trenville to a meeting. The most reasonable conjecture indicated that information was coming from some source close to one of the four people seated at the table in the foreign office. The only other person in the realm privy to this material was the Prince Regent and, in this regard at least, the Regent’s judgment was thoroughly trustworthy.

  “So, gentlemen.” The foreign secretary’s voice was grave. “We have a very serious problem. Preliminary investigations have turned up nothing for the names supplied earlier. We each of us need to consider carefully all persons who have any access whatsoever to any place the information may be discussed or stored or in transit.”

  “Sir, should we not try to be more precise as to which one of the four of us is involved, however unknowingly?” Adrian looked around the table and received nods from Morton and Dennington.

  “I thought that was what we were doing,” Canning said with a trace of impatience.

  “Yes, sir, but there may be something else we can do.”

  “Changing the code seems to do little good,” Morton said.

  “True,” Adrian replied. “But we know from our own agents exactly what information is being passed on. We just do not know from where.”

  “So, what are you suggesting, Trenville?” Dennington displayed more than a trace of impatience.

  “What if we each had different information in our possession? Whatever got through would tell us the general source. Then we could concentrate on persons associated with whichever of us is actually involved.”

  “You mean false information, of course,” said Morton.

  “Perhaps not all of it,” Canning said slowly and thoughtfully.

  Adrian nodded. “Whatever the French obtain must have the ring of truth to it. They must be able to corroborate this information with their other sources.”

  “I say we try it.” Dennington slapped the table.

  Canning and Morton agreed and the four of them spent the next hour and more working out what information, in addition to valid communication, would be included in their individual dispatches.

  Six

  Returning to Devonshire, Adrian plunged into estate business. Not much occurred in diplomatic circles these days—at least not much in official sectors and channels. Rumor had it that much was being won, lost, and then won and lost again behind the scenes in
Vienna. But Vienna was many miles and a social millennium removed from life in England. And so far such wins and losses had not appeared in the palpable form of signed treaties.

  Meanwhile, autumn moved rapidly into the fury and desolation of winter. Storms reduced the trees to Shakespeare’s “bare ruined choirs where late the sweet birds sang.” The prevailing color of the landscape was gray. The harvested fields were brown tinged with gray. Such trees as were green all year now wore green tinged with gray mist. The sun seldom penetrated the gray sky, so even the air itself conveyed dull neutrality.

  Whitsun Abbey’s inhabitants, like generations of intrepid Britons, sought to mitigate the drabness by warm fires, good company, music, stories, and games. From the lowliest maid to the marquis himself, the denizens of that household tacitly agreed the best weapons against winter ennui were comfort, conviviality, and a variety of activities, the weather dictating that these be mostly of the indoor sort.

  Adrian was surprised, but pleased, to learn the children were very much a part of this agreement this year. In previous winters, what-to-do-with-the-children had been a nagging concern of the entire household. Just last year, for instance, a hard-pressed governess and a frustrated nursery maid had been unable to confine childish squabbles to the children’s wing.

  On the second morning of his return, Trenville was already at breakfast when Miss Palmer joined him. She bid him “good morning” and turned to the sideboard.

  “I say, Miss Palmer, what exactly have you been doing with my children?” His voice sounded extraordinarily stern.

  She turned swiftly. “I beg your pardon, my lord? Have I done ought to merit your disapproval?” Concern and apology sounded in her tone. Then she apparently perceived the belying twinkle in his eyes and confusion took over. “My lord?”

  “Two days of confinement are usually sufficient to turn these particular little people into unmanageable animals. Lovable, mind you, but unmanageable. I am informed wet weather has had you all house-bound for over a week—yet I find all three of them incredibly tamed.”

  “Oh.” She laughed. “Keeping them occupied is not difficult—once one finds agreeable pastimes. The trying part is to find pastimes and games that will augment their lessons.”

  “You seem to have managed well enough. Geoffrey was most eager in pointing out Madagascar and Brazil on the globe. I think he likes the sound of those names. And Bess and Anne assure me that making doll clothes is much more fun than sewing samplers.”

  “All three are doing well, my lord.”

  “So are you, Miss Palmer. I am pleased with their progress.” His tone was entirely sincere.

  “Thank you, my lord.” He noted with amusement that she blushed faintly at his praise. He thought the heightened color most becoming.

  They talked of other matters—the weather, politics, his visit to Derbyshire. He told her of his friend there, a former army officer who was seeking to alleviate conditions for workers and help provide jobs for returning soldiers.

  In response to her perceptive questions, he found himself in a far more detailed discussion than he might have anticipated. It occurred to him that the only other woman of his acquaintance who would have sustained such interest in this discussion was his mother. But his mother had not those marvelous eyes which changed in the space of a heartbeat from curiosity to sympathy to merriment.

  They were interrupted when Huntington made his appearance at the breakfast table. Adrian regretted the intrusion. Miss Palmer seemed surprised.

  “Oh, my goodness—the time!” She quickly excused herself.

  Later, Trenville sat staring, unseeing, at some papers on his desk. Once again, his mind was on his children’s governess. He had reported immediately to the schoolroom on his late afternoon arrival the previous day. For the first time, eagerness to see his children after an absence had not been his only consideration in his visit to the nursery.

  She would surely be there, too.

  Her back was toward the door and she was reading to the children as he entered.

  “Papa!” Bess screamed her delight and bowled herself into his arms as he squatted to catch her. Then his son was at his side as well. Anne held back slightly, but she greeted him with a kiss on his cheek. All were excitedly talking at once.

  “I apologize, Miss Palmer. I seem to have interrupted your lessons.”

  “Yes. You have,” she said, smiling, “but happily so. We have anticipated your return all day, as you must know. We can wait for Odysseus to trick the Cyclops.”

  He thought she, too, seemed glad of his return. In an instant, all his resolution to put distance and reserve between himself and the governess crumbled. The usually controlled Marquis of Trenville was simply unable to smother his joy and delight at seeing her again. Indeed, he had momentarily been aware of no one else in the room.

  Now, recalling his homecoming and this morning’s conversation, he was again engaged in the unhappy business of taking himself to task. The woman had been hired as a teacher for his children. He had no right to the fantasies that arose when he looked into her eyes, or caught a trace of the light woodsy scent she wore, or heard her irrepressible laughter.

  Perhaps his mother was right. He should remarry. At least a wife would keep him from mooning over a governess.

  The next few days were idyllic for Elinor. When the weather permitted, she rode in the mornings and, more often than not, her companion was not Huntington or a groom, but his lordship. The discussion she had found so enjoyable at breakfast the morning after his return had become a regular occurrence.

  She was not surprised at his understanding of political and military matters—he was, after all, a part of the government. So far as she could tell from casual references from him, his mother, and others, his position was one of key importance. What did surprise her was the scope of his interests. History, literature, the arts—even science and medicine—all seemed to fascinate this man.

  Elinor knew full well that the growing rapport between her and her employer was unconventional, to say the least. She had seen a raised eyebrow or two in the Abbey’s drawing room. Not many men of Trenville’s class would even bother with a governess beyond an occasional greeting. Unless they had ulterior designs on her person, she thought, and immediately an image of the horrible Baron Pennington sprang to mind. Given her circumstances and the very real need to avoid undue notice of herself, she knew she should ease out of this sense of familiarity with the marquis and try to establish a more formal basis for the employee-employer relationship. But she also knew she was powerless to do so.

  How could she give up something she found so pleasurable? Was there really any harm in casual conversations? It was not as though they were openly flirting with one another! Besides, she thought Trenville enjoyed their verbal sparring every bit as much as she did.

  One morning as they were walking the horses after a vigorous ride, the sky threatened yet another storm.

  “It would seem that we mortals must abandon hope—for good weather, at least,” Trenville said. “I intended to take the children out this afternoon.”

  “But unlike Dante’s prisoners in hell, we need not abandon hope altogether, my lord. There is always a tomorrow. That was an oblique reference to the Italian poet, was it not?”

  “Why, yes, it was.” He flashed her an appreciative grin. “Miss Palmer, you amaze me. I know few women who would have recognized that allusion—or have admitted to doing so.”

  She felt the familiar blush of pleasure at anything remotely like praise from him. My face must be beet red, she thought, knowing the cold and exercise had already heightened her color. She laughed nervously.

  “A governess need not scruple to admit to such, though,” she said. “We have more freedom in that respect than do ladies of the ton.”

  “Miss Palmer!” His voice held an exaggerated pretense of shock. “Never tell me that a lady might be duplicitous in hiding her wit.”

  “Many are,” she said firmly. “But
then they have to be, do they not? Gentlemen rarely respond positively to a female polite society labels a ‘bluestocking.’ ”

  “You have a decidedly low opinion of men, have you not?” His voice no longer held the teasing note it had earlier.

  “No. Not at all. I am merely practical. It has been my exp—that is, my observation, that men of the upper classes usually reserve their true wit for their own gender. They flirt and talk utter nonsense to women, but anything of substance is reserved for their male companions.”

  “Perhaps that is because their experience has taught them that women—most women—show little interest in things other than fashions, gossip, or their homes.” There was an undertone in this comment of something—regret? bitterness? —that she could not quite put her finger on.

  “Perhaps,” she said deliberately echoing his phrasing, “that is because the ladies——some ladies—seek to meet the expectations men have of them. A woman is, after all, utterly dependent on the whim of some man. It is in her best interest to flatter his ego and hide her own inclinations—if she has such—to participate in areas men usually view as their domain alone.”

  “You would have women involved directly in matters of politics and religion and economics?” The marquis clearly thought this idea rather amusing. “Do they not have a share of those powers now—however indirectly?”

  “But that is not the same as actually having the power, is it?” She thought bitterly of her own inability to control her fortune because a man had deemed it so, however well-meaning her father had been.

  “You would have a woman in Parliament? At the pulpit of the parish church? Transacting business on the ’Change?” His disbelief had taken on a more serious tone.

  “Why not? A woman’s mind functions as well as a man’s.” Elinor was aware that she was treading on precarious, if not dangerous, ground. She was, after all, the governess—little more than a servant in his employ. But he was being incredibly obtuse!