She thought she sounded convincing. At least, convincing enough for him to allow her to stay and try with the child.
He rubbed the side of his head, and Mercy wondered if his facial damage was the result of battle. She supposed the injury could be what made him so irritable.
Sympathy for the trouble the earl must have endured was out of place here and now. He had not yet indicated his approval of her as his niece’s governess and could send her away just as easily as keep her.
Mercy slid her lower lip through her teeth and forced her nerves to settle as she took a surreptitious glance around the purely masculine room. A large desk occupied one corner, and the heavy, crimson draperies framed the filmy windows behind them. She had already noted that they were dusty with age and neglect—obviously, none of Lord Ashby’s men had taken note of their disreputable state. She hoped the nursery was kept in a more acceptable condition.
“You’ll do, Miss Franklin.”
“Thank you, my lord.”
Mercy’s heart pattered with relief.
She had a home, at least for the time being, and a means to earn a living. She wondered if she ought to speak of her salary now, for Mr. Lowell had not mentioned it in his letter. Never having sought employment before, she was unsure of the proper protocol.
Nor did she know how to broach the subject. She should not be embarrassed to ask about the wages she intended to earn, but being in need stung deeply. “D-does your niece have a nurse, my lord?”
Lord Ashby made a low sound, and Mr. Lowell quickly answered the question. “No, Miss Franklin. Emmaline is an independent child.”
She’d forgotten Mr. Lowell was in the room. “I beg your pardon?” she asked, turning to him.
“Private Blue looks after Lady Emmaline for the most part,” Lowell explained. “And Corporal Roarke spells him when necessary.”
Mercy frowned. “Mr. Lowell, you said in your letter that Lord Ashby’s niece is eight years old.”
“Correct.”
“It does not seem altogether proper that two . . . young men are responsible for such a young child. She should have a nurse to care for her.”
“I sacked the damned harpy on sight,” Ashby snapped. “Which is why Lowell has summoned you, Miss Franklin.” He turned to Mr. Lowell. “Have one of the men bring Emmaline to us here.”
Nash was likely making a gross mistake in allowing Miss Franklin to stay at Ashby Hall. He’d ordered his men to stay clear of the young women in Keswick, and they were starved for female attention. He did not know how they would react to having Miss Franklin in their midst day in and day out.
His own reaction was less than stellar, and for that reason alone, he should have sent her back to Underdale. But then they would be back to having only Blue and Roarke to keep track of Emmaline, dash it all. He knew it was an unsuitable situation.
But his options were limited.
He hoped Miss Franklin’s audaciousness would appeal to Emmaline, perhaps even draw the child out of herself. As much as the new governess attempted to appear the proper, straitlaced vicar’s daughter, Nash thought the young lady might actually be too softhearted to be effective with his niece. In spite of what he’d said about her stiff manner, Mercy Franklin was the very opposite of the peevish nurse he’d dismissed on the day he’d arrived at Ashby Hall.
Which had led to his present predicament. He was in desperate need of a female to deal with Emmaline. Nash feared something was wrong with Hoyt’s daughter, for she was far too quiet for a child her age—not that he knew a great deal about children, but he’d seen plenty of them during his campaigns abroad. Not to mention that he’d once been one.
But that was a long time ago. Before his brothers had died. Before John Trent had put himself in the way of a bloody Frenchman’s saber on the field at Waterloo.
“My niece is quite shy,” he said to Miss Franklin. “She barely speaks.”
“Even to you, my lord?”
“Especially to me.” She was as fragile as his mother’s bone china, and Nash hardly knew what to say to her, or how to deal with her. Not that he particularly wanted to. That was why he now had Mercy Franklin.
Now that her bonnet was gone, he saw that the young woman’s hair was as black as her brows, as glossy as a raven’s wing. Nash could not help but wonder how it would look if she allowed its waves to fall loosely about her face. She would be stunning, and a man would have all he could do to keep from sliding his fingers through it and pressing his face to its lustrous bounty.
He curbed his reaction to her and gestured to the chair across from him. Surely she would confine Emmaline and herself to the nursery and classroom for the most part. He couldn’t imagine any reason why she might spend time in the drawing room or kitchens. Or in his presence.
Nor did he want her to. She was young, her skin perfect, the blush upon her cheeks a reminder of all that Nash would never have . . . never allow himself to have.
He could not bear yet another loss.
“Why especially to you, Lord Ashby?” she asked.
“Are you blind, Miss Franklin?” he said angrily.
“No, my lord. My vision is quite good.”
“Then you can see what my niece observes every time she looks at me.”
Her throat moved as she swallowed thickly at his harsh tone. Obviously, she’d seen his scars, even if she had not visibly recoiled from the sight of them. Perhaps a vicar’s daughter was accustomed to dealing with the sick or injured, and was inured to such ghastly sights.
He changed the subject. “Tell me what you know of governessing while we wait for my niece.”
She lowered herself onto a straight-backed chair near the fire and he caught a subtle whiff of flowers. Lilies, if he was not mistaken. “I know that a child of eight should be able to read and write. She should know something of England and the world, and have the ability to pursue her talents.”
“Her talents?”
Miss Franklin nodded. “We all have talents, do we not?”
“She is but a child, Miss Franklin.”
“Even children have certain aptitudes, my lord.”
Nash remembered having had a noteworthy talent for climbing. Trees, cottage roofs, the gabled roof and high turrets of Ashby Hall. He’d loved looking at the world from a perch far above where he could see for miles. He was lucky these days if he could see his own boots.
“What is your particular aptitude, Miss Franklin?”
She hesitated for a moment. “Plants, my lord.”
“Plants?”
“Yes, plants. And insects, of course. I have an interest in botany, therefore, I’ve made a point to learn all I can on the subject.”
“And insects?”
“They often have an intimate relationship with plants. And honey bees are quite essential.”
Nash felt heat rise on the back of his neck as he watched Miss Franklin’s lips form the words. Intimate relationship, indeed.
The door opened and Emmaline came into the library, followed by Mr. Lowell.
Nash had seen the child at least once daily since his return to Ashby Hall the previous month, out of guilt more than anything. He did not care to form a bond with the girl—or with anyone. The losses of the past few years had taught him the folly of trusting his heart to the whims of fate.
Fortunately, Emmaline was not particularly charmed by her unsightly uncle who knew more about swordplay and artillery fire than dolls and tea parties. Still, he had a responsibility to his orphaned niece. In the absence of a nurse, Miss Franklin would do.
Emmaline came into the room, looking slightly disheveled and more than a little uncertain, and Nash realized how dreadful the situation had gotten. It wasn’t that Roarke and Blue were bad fellows, but they were not nursemaids.
Emmaline’s light blond hair was loose and uncombed, but at least her face was clean today. Nash did not go to her, for she would just cringe away from his touch. And besides, she appeared so fragile, he was a bit afraid to lay h
is big hands upon her, for fear she might break.
“Emmaline, this is Miss Franklin, who is to be your governess.” He was certain Emmaline had not cared much for Butterfield, the nurse he’d dismissed. Lowell and the ancient butler, Grainger, had told him the woman had been engaged by Arthur’s wife. And Georgia had been far more interested in becoming a grande dame of society than a child’s guardian.
Georgia had kept a haughty housekeeper as well, and the woman had resigned the day after Nash sacked the nurse. She’d called his men “barbarians and plunderers,” and Nash had not been sorry to see the back of her, either.
To be sure, it was unconventional to staff a noble household with former military men, but the group of men Nash had brought to Ashby had nowhere else to go and were willing to work for their keep. They only needed some direction, not that Nash knew how to run a household, much less an estate.
Or a child. Emmaline stood still, her pale eyes turned to the direction of the fire. And Nash was reminded again of his unsightly injury. He couldn’t very well blame Emmaline for not wanting to look at him.
“How do you do, Lady Emmaline?” Miss Franklin said, coming to stand before the child. She suddenly dropped down to one knee and took the girl’s hand. “I am very pleased to meet you, finally.”
Emmaline’s eyes flickered away from the fire and came to rest upon the hand Miss Franklin held. “Hello,” she said in such a quiet tone Nash could barely hear her.
“Would you like to show me the nursery?”
Emmaline appeared uncertain, but her throat moved as she swallowed and gave a slow, tentative nod.
“Good,” said Miss Franklin, rising to her feet. She kept Emmaline’s hand in her own and flashed a quick look at Nash. “If that is all, my lord?”
He gave a brief nod and she started out of the library.
“Allow me to escort you, Miss Franklin,” Lowell said, leaving with her. “The nursery and governess’s quarters are in the north wing.”
Chapter 6
Mercy was finally able to breathe normally once she left Lord Ashby’s presence. It was clear that Emmaline was going to be a challenge, but at least Mercy would not need to have many more dealings with the girl’s uncle. She’d gleaned as much as she could about the occupation she was about to embark upon from Claire’s letters. What she knew was hardly enough, but Claire had mentioned that children and their nurses and governesses generally kept out of the way of the adults of the household. Holding Emmaline’s hand, they returned through the great hall, past a dreary drawing room, to a wide stone staircase that led to a gallery above.
“Shall we go up?” Mercy asked.
“This way,” said Mr. Lowell from behind. Mercy had nearly forgotten he had come along, for she had trained her complete attention on her young charge. The child was as thin as a waif, and abnormally subdued. Mercy could not help but wonder if this had always been her way or perhaps she still grieved the loss of her parents.
Mercy knew how that felt. Even though her feelings for the Franklins were mixed with confusion now, the sense of being entirely alone was daunting.
The upstairs gallery was wide, but encased in shadows, so Mercy could barely see the heavily framed paintings that hung at intervals on the cold, gray walls. There were groupings of tables and stiff-backed chairs, but Mercy had the distinct sense that they had been unused for quite some time. She hoped the nursery was not quite so cheerless.
“I apologize for the darkness up here. We should have lit the sconces.”
“I’m sure that would help,” Mercy said, but she doubted it. As she walked down the long, wide gallery, she could almost feel the weight of the dreary old house settling onto her shoulders. She did not know how she would be able to tolerate living within these medieval walls with a handful of rowdy soldiers to keep it running, and the smoldering perusal of Lord Ashby every time he looked at her. Of course, she’d seen his scars, but it was horribly rude of him to mention them to her the way he’d done. It wasn’t as if they detracted from the man’s appeal. If anything, they made him even more interesting than . . .
The thought of contacting Andrew Vale returned with a vengeance.
But Mercy wondered how awkward it would be if Mr. Vale had wed someone in the months since he’d visited St. Martin’s and proposed to her. If that were the case, she did not think a letter suggesting a renewal of their courtship would be quite welcome. Perhaps she could write without directly suggesting that he renew his suit. She did not know if he was aware of her parents’ deaths, so she could inform him of the drastic change in her life. And if he was still unwed, he could act upon that knowledge.
Or not.
Mercy did not want to think of that possibility, not when she could see no other option than remaining here in this run-down, isolated, uncivilized Hall.
“The original Hall was built in the fourteenth century by the first Earl of Ashby,” said Mr. Lowell. “But additions have been built over the centuries. And a few modernizations.”
“It’s a very old earldom, then,” Mercy replied. She wondered if Mr. Lowell was trying to impress her with the longevity of Ashby since it clearly had no other claim to distinguish itself.
They went around a corner and down another long corridor, finally reaching an open door halfway down. Inside was a wide bank of mullioned windows that provided light for the room, dreary as the day might be. At least the furniture was not as antique as what Mercy had seen in the rest of the mansion, but had been furnished fairly recently, perhaps by Emmaline’s mother.
Mercy wondered what had happened to her, but did not want to ask Mr. Lowell while Emmaline was present. She had very little knowledge of Emmaline’s parents—only that the girl had been orphaned and left in the care of her beguiling but oblivious uncle and his men. She needed more information.
Glancing about the classroom, Mercy found it clean, with everything neat and orderly. Far more neat and orderly than Emmaline herself. The child wore a pair of hose that might have been white at one time, but were gray and dingy, and stained. Her pale blue gown was soiled at the bodice and cuffs, as though no one in this house had ever heard of a laundry tub. Mercy was going to have to see about acquiring a nurse for Emmaline, for there was far more to do for the young girl than just academic instruction.
She turned to Mr. Lowell. “Thank you for escorting us here, sir. I believe we’ll manage just fine on our own now.”
“Are you sure, Miss Franklin?” he asked, seeming inclined to linger. “It seems so very . . . abrupt.”
“Yes, we’ll be fine. Thank you, Mr. Lowell.” She turned the tables and escorted him back to the door, shutting it after him. Then she returned her attention to her young charge.
“Well,” she said, silently vowing to do something about Emmaline’s appearance in spite of the absence of a nurse. The Franklins had not been wealthy people. Mercy had done plenty of sewing, and had helped with the daily housework. She’d assisted with the laundry hundreds of times, and knew what needed to be done to improve Emmaline’s wardrobe. “This is an excellent room for our lessons. Where do you sleep?”
Emmaline pointed to an adjoining door, and Mercy went to it. She pushed it open and saw that the room beyond was completely tidy, appearing almost as though no one occupied it, certainly not a little girl. There was an abandoned little dressing table, and Emmaline’s narrow bed had been made up tightly and had a plain brown blanket folded neatly across its foot. Opposite the bed was a low bookcase that stood against the wall. It contained a perfectly even row of books, meticulously arranged from tallest to shortest, including a number of volumes Mercy had not been allowed to read as a youngster. Several dolls were lined up on top of the shelf, evenly spaced and sitting at attention.
But for the beautiful framed watercolors hanging on the walls, the room seemed a far too sterile, too barren environment for a little girl. Even Mercy’s bedchamber in her parents’ austere home had displayed more embellishments than this room. Mercy could not imagine what Lord
Ashby had been thinking in assigning his men to the care of his niece.
Nor did she know quite where to begin with the little girl who stood so still and quiet. Surely such reserve was not natural.
“Does your uncle call you Emmaline?” Mercy asked.
The little girl looked up at Mercy as if she’d grown wings and was about to fly away.
“What about your parents? Did they always call you Emmaline?”
“My papa called me Emmy.”
“Would you mind very much if I called you Emmy?”
Her rigid stance seemed to melt a little and she nodded.
“You have a great number of books, Emmy,” Mercy said in an attempt to further engage her.
Emmaline nodded.
“Do you have a favorite?”
Emmaline knelt down and picked out a large book with sturdy covers that appeared to have been made by hand. She handed it carefully to Mercy, who knelt beside her to look at the book.
“This is beautiful,” she said as she turned the pages, admiring the delightfully detailed watercolors and the stories written in a clear but fanciful script on the pages opposite the pictures. She turned to the first leaf and saw an inscription that warmed her heart.
“For my darling Emmy ∼ May there always be magic in your life. From your most devoted Mother.”
Mercy guessed Emmaline’s mother had painted the pictures in the book as well as those on the walls. “ ’Tis lovely, Emmy. I can see why it’s your favorite.”
Emmaline nodded and took the book from Mercy’s hands. Very carefully, she closed it and put it back on the shelf. Mercy wondered how long Emmaline’s mother had been dead, and what had happened to her father. But it was clearly not appropriate to ask the child, who seemed so delicate she might break with the first untoward word.
The child was not exactly skittish, but withdrawn. There was no light of curiosity or delight in her beautiful blue eyes. She kept them downcast as much as possible.
“Have you ever had a governess?” Mercy asked.
Seducing the Governess Page 4