Lady of Spirit

by Edith Layton

  “Likely,” his mama said shrewdly, remembering that part of the country, “there’d be a great many families who’d wish to get themselves into the new earl’s good graces. And a great many more with marriageable daughters who might need to add governesses or companions to their households almost as much as they’d need a noble husband to add to the family.”

  “And you certainly need a new diversion,” her son said crossly. “Since you’ve got my sister popped off and my brothers have evaded your clutches, you’ve become a fiend for matchmaking.”

  As his mama then promptly proposed any number of improbable matches for him, to coax him out of the sullens she’d seemed to cast him in, he laughed along with her. All the while he ruefully admitted to himself that it had been his own actions which spurred both the gossip and her own expectations. He had goggled at the girl. All the while she’d lain ill he’d visited every day, and paced, fretted, and then sat keeping a vigil at her bedside through the worst of it. But he’d only felt guilt for her state, and a natural male’s interest in such a lovely face, for he had no more matrimonial ambition for her than he had for Miss Comfort, whom his mama next proposed as a possible bride for him.

  As he’d said, he wasn’t in the market for a wife, and class aside, and birth and fortune aside, he certainly wasn’t about to tender such an offer to any female he scarcely knew. The fact that he’d offered Miss Dawkins a position as mistress upon even shorter acquaintance didn’t signify. A mistress was one matter, a wife entirely another. This was so much the case that many men, he knew, kept both at hand. For the one was a pleasant diversion, like a rich dessert to be taken at the end of each day. The other was a source of constant nourishment if one were lucky in one’s choice, but a steady diet nevertheless, partial to the menu or not, if one were less fortunate. He didn’t know if he himself would care to dine out frequently once he was wed, but then, he seldom seriously thought of marriage at all.

  It wasn’t that he disapproved of the state in theory. It certainly wasn’t that he had no interest in the pleasures to be found with that other delightful sex. It was just that the matter had never come up. He’d been too busy trying to repair his fortunes when he’d been younger and more susceptible to transitory passions of the heart and lower regions, and so at the time had expended them all on lightskirts and passing fancy women. The sort of titled females he was supposed to keep company with now, he supposed, likely wouldn’t have countenanced being in the same room, much less marital bed, with him had his noble relatives not met with misfortune. The sort he might have taken up with before those unhappy events were now often too awed, if not by him, then by the name which had been appended to him. It was a problem, he often thought—but a problem that he could sort out later, as much later as was possible. He was not, just as he’d claimed, in the market for a wife.

  The earl and his mama were still chortling together companionably when they emerged from the lady’s sitting room, and their great humor had its contagious effects upon the others at Miss Dawkins’ bedside. Miss Comfort stopped arguing with the physician and he in turn did not actually ever call her the name he had on the tip of his learned tongue. Theo and the children had amused Miss Dawkins admirably, and when they all left the sickroom to give her some rest, she looked relaxed, if wan. This time the earl had taken great care not to stare at her, but she scarcely noticed, for never once did she look directly at him. Until he said, as he took her hand in farewell, that it would be some weeks until they met again, since he was off to the country to do, as he said with a glance to his mama, some prospecting.

  *

  “…And ’ow,” Alfie continued, shaking his fair head in puzzlement, “you could ’ave taken ’er for Old Mother Carey, I do not know. ’Cause Mother Carey used to be in the business ’erself, and so still looks a treat for an old besom, that is, while Miss Comfort frightens ’orses in the street on ’er bad days, she does.”

  “You could say it right, you could say ‘her’ and ‘horses,’ and all the rest of it, and you could be kinder, for she’s been very kind to you, you know,” Victoria said repressively, putting down the book she’d been reading to him.

  “’Course I could.” He grinned. “I always could, you know. But then she’d have nothing to aim for, nothing to gloat over when I finally do get it right. Anything comes too easy to hand, Miss Victoria, ain’t valued. And how good it really is don’t count, else you’d have to pay a fortune for potatoes in the market, and you’d get a heap of nightingale tongues thrown in for nothing. And it isn’t being unkind to say she’s got a face would freeze bow bells at forever noon, ’cause it wouldn’t be anything but a lie to say else. Anyhow, how she looks has nothing to do with how she is, ain’t that ’zactly what she’s always trying to teach us with those Bible lessons?”

  Then he turned such a bland and innocent face to her that Victoria grinned at him, and shaking her own head, said on a sigh, “Alfie, my lad, you terrify me, you do.”

  They were sitting in her room, reminiscing about the early days, the days when they’d first come to live at the Earl of Clune’s London town house. A month had passed since then, and though they both knew their fates weren’t settled as yet and their present state was exceedingly tenuous, a month, after all, had passed. A month held four weeks of time, time enough for the children to have put on color and weight and begin to walk upon the earth as though they belonged upon it. A month contained thirty days, days in which a young woman might regain her poise and her self-respect, and with thirty nights to pass in easy sleep, begin to grow in confidence as she grew in health. Now, whatever was yet to come, still they could look back and chat about those early days as though they’d happened to someone else, as though they’d been amusing.

  They knew that the Earl of Clune had returned to town last evening, and though they didn’t know what his visit to his mama today portended for either of them, they could sit in Victoria’s room and discuss it together. Indeed, perhaps they had to sit in her room and discuss it together, so that they could retain, at least with each other, all that they had gained in the past thirty days.

  Sally was with Miss Comfort, learning French, of all the amazing things, Bobby was being fitted for a new pair of boots, and Baby was asleep in his cot, upon clean linen sheets, in an earl’s nursery, just as though he were a valuable child. Alfie lounged in an elegant lady’s chamber, and the lady in attendance upon him chatted and joked with him as they both tried to believe that when they were summoned at last to audience with the earl, whatever transpired they might keep some shred of what they had right now, in these last moments that were fast fleeting from them.

  The boy had just launched into a scandalous tale of how he’d first won both the earl’s groom’s respect and his pocket watch, when there was a scratching at the door. He was still such a naturally milky-white-complexioned boy that only Victoria saw how minutely paler he became when the maidservant at the door told them the earl wished to see Miss Dawkins and then, after he’d done with her, he’d be pleased to see Master Alfie and the other children.

  And so for Alfie’s sake if nothing else, reflecting privately on how brave and proud a person might be if there were always someone else to be that for, Victoria casually shook out her skits and smiled and calmly said she’d send to Alfie the moment she was done talking with the earl. Then she went, head high and stepping as smoothly as a swan moves upon still waters, down the stair to the study where the earl awaited her.

  He had not changed in thirty days, she thought at once when she rose from her curtsy. He still caused her to stare and then drop her gaze in confusion at how splendid, how powerful and magnetic a man he was. He wore the usual sort of gentleman’s daytime attire, dove-colored buckskin breeches, shining black hessians, a white cravat over a gleaming white shirt and striped waistcoat, and a tightfitting blue jacket over that, but he wore it all as he wore the look of appraisal he turned upon her, with complete assurance, with natural certitude.

  “You look ver
y well,” he said at once, his dark gaze never wavering. “Mother tells me you’re completely recovered. I can believe it.”

  She wore one of the new frocks his mother had insisted on acquiring for her. One like all the rest that she’d begged to be fashioned in not too forthcoming a style for a governess to presume to wear, but one, like the others his mother had insisted the seamstress make not too frumpy for a young lady to wear as well. It was a high-waisted deep-rose-colored day dress, sashed with an old-rose-hued riband, which alone had cost more than a governess would earn for a day’s wages. But Mrs. Haverford had claimed, and even Miss Comfort had agreed, that a young woman who looked as though she did not necessarily need her salary to live would eventually live much better in any position she undertook.

  The earl did not see any of this discussion in the product of it, he only saw that Miss Dawkins looked more lovely than even he’d remembered. The sight of her was like a blow to his stomach and took both his voice and his thoughts momentarily away. Her hair was parted in the middle and was pulled back, but allowed to form soft wings to either side of her face. For all that it was a modest style, he thought it suited her to perfection, emphasizing the sheer delicate beauty of her face as no more elaborate fashion could have done. Her form was similarly enhanced by the gown she wore, and when he found himself gazing at her high breasts and then down at the outline of her rounded hips and then further downward at the folds that hinted at the shapely limbs beneath, he looked away at once to the papers he’d spread upon the desk.

  Since he’d not attempted polite chatter, she thought him brusque, impatient with the trivialities of dealing with the governess he’d been saddled with, and anxious to see to the disposal of her future. So for all she’d wished to make some small talk, and for all she’d wanted to thank him for the kind treatment she’d received at his hands, she held her tongue and waited to hear of what would be her future.

  “It’s summer, we’re very fortunate,” the earl said at last, “since most of the ton are repairing to their country estates now. My principal seat, High Wyvern Hall, is in the south. It is your great good fortune, I believe, that one of my near neighbors, Squire Ludlow, has two unwed daughters. And their governess has seen fit to retire.”

  He didn’t mention that he didn’t doubt that the poor creature had been retired as soon as he’d mentioned that he knew of a young woman of good family he’d be pleased to see secure such a post. In fact, he wondered if the woman hadn’t been given her marching orders the very night he’d taken dinner with the squire, and it hadn’t helped his digestion of his host’s mutton to wonder if some old indigent female hadn’t been let go even as he poured cream over his apple cake. For he’d been told of the possibility of such a vacancy as the butler had handed him his hat and cloak as he’d left, and it had been confirmed by messenger the very next morning. But he didn’t tell that to the young woman standing before him now.

  She hadn’t taken a seat—he hadn’t remembered to invite her to do so, being too involved with what her reaction would be to what he was about to tell her. She never noted the omission, being too anxious herself to know whether she was standing or seated.

  First he told her how close Squire Ludlow’s estate was to his own. Then he told her of the generous salary they offered, the lovely home they had, and the two charming young ladies she’d instruct. Then he told her that his own factor, Mr. Stanley, and his good wife, Mary, being childless, had agreed to take in and foster the Johnson children, so that they’d continue to be sheltered beneath his own roof. He then mentioned again how near she’d be to High Wyvern Hall when she was with the squire, how often she’d be able to see the children, how lucky the children were to find such a good couple to watch over them, and how delightful the Ludlows were, until even to himself it sounded as though he were trying to sell her the position, rather than present it to her as what it was, a generous gift.

  When she didn’t reply at once, he began thinking how absurd it was actually, that he, an earl, should feel uncomfortable and regretful when he was doing something so benevolent as offering some friendless, homeless young creature a cloudless future. It was the only way that he could keep from focusing upon how her lovely mouth was trembling; it was a sure way to remind himself how she’d thrown his money in his face that day after she’d refused his kiss, after he’d touched those soft pink lips with his own.

  And she, even knowing that she was very fortunate, still couldn’t bring herself to answer him as yet. For with all her good fortune, she could feel only a terrible emptiness. Because, she realized, by finding her a post, he’d denied her her fondest secret daydream: that she’d be offered a post taking care of the Johnson children for him, thus being paid to do what she wanted most in the world. By handing her such a proper offer instead, he’d also forced her to see at last that her other, most private night-fancy, that he’d again offer her a chance to be his mistress, but this time by some unknown chicanery force her to it, was only that—a foolish, conceited, and wicked fancy. They’d been absurd dreams, but even so, it was hard to relinquish them, for both had sustained her for thirty beautiful days and thirty oddly comforting nights.

  “Well?” he asked impatiently, when she didn’t answer him at once. “Is there something amiss?”

  “Oh no,” she felt constrained to say at once, but speaking too soon, so said at once again, without properly thinking, “But it’s only, I had thought, I know it isn’t wise, but I had hoped that perhaps…perhaps your factor might want a governess to look after the children, and so I might stay on with them.”

  “You cannot stay on with them. It is quite impossible for you to stay on in my home,” he said abruptly.

  “Oh,” she said, shrinking back, not looking at him now, hurt and humiliated and wishing only to leave at once, “I see.”

  “No, you don’t,” he replied angrily, and coming out from behind the desk, he took her in his arms and after looking down into her disbelieving eyes, he stared at her quivering mouth and then lowered his head and kissed her, very hard, and for a very long time.

  And then he raised his head and released her lips, and said gruffly, for his benefit as well as hers, before he let her go entirely, “Now. Now I think you see.”

  8

  There were a great many good things to be said for living and working at the Old Manor. And Miss Dawkins made sure to include each and every one in each of her letters to her mama. She never failed to cite the fact that the Old Manor was a historic and noble home, for all that its owners were merely country gentry. For, just as she copied out in her neat hand, quoting directly from the book the seventeenth-century parson, one of the Ludlows’ ancestors, had written, it had been erected in the fourteenth century upon the burnt ruins of the house built in the twelfth century, and all manner of wings and ells and chimneys, walls and gateways and gables had been added onto its original E-shape ever since.

  It might well have been true that no one more important than the bailiff of High Wyvern Hall had resided there centuries before, and that royal feet had never trod its passages as they’d done at High Wyvern Hall, but for all that it never achieved the fame or prominence of its lofty neighbor, the Old Manor was now so unique that touring gentry often requested leave to sketch it to better preserve its memory in their diaries and notebooks. Miss Dawkins might have privately thought it was because no one could quite believe that any edifice could be such a hodgepodge of styles and fashions, for she believed the Manor was a one-building museum of architectural fads and conceits. But she never wrote of that, for she always tried to pen cheerful letters, full of hope, brimming with content.

  So she wrote about how Squire Ludlow was such a merry fellow, never mentioning that half his merriment was poured from bottles each night, and she told her mama how charming Mrs. Ludlow was, omitting the fact that the lady of the house never felt it necessary to exhibit such charm to an employee. The young ladies, her charges, Miss Charlotte and Miss Sophrina, she wrote, were bright and beauti
ful and clever. But of course, she did not put a word to paper that hinted at how that brightness was all surface glitter, the beauty was what they considered foremost, and the cleverness was cutting and spiteful, not only to each other but to their governess as well.

  But the air in the shire was more potent than Squire Ludlow’s wine to Victoria, and being London born and bred, the quiet and the beauty of the countryside was a revelation and a joy to her. And so that, and only that, was the sum and the substance of all the truth in all her letters. Almost all those letters went only to her mama, her brother being, just as he so ruefully admitted in his infrequent responses, a very poor correspondent. It might have been comforting, Victoria often thought as she bit on the end of her pen, seeking inspiration for another artificially optimistic bit of news, to be able to write of her loneliness, her longings, and her frequent concealed sieges of desolation. But since the many letters she received from her parent were so determinedly pleasant, so scant of actual incidents, and yet so full of things unsaid, she thought it only fair that she write only fair news to solace her mama, who might even, she felt, be half as unhappy as she herself was.

  She’d come to the Old Manor on the twenty-fifth of May. Mrs. Haverford had taken her there in the same carriage that was bringing the Johnson children to High Wyvern Hall with her. There had been a great deal of weeping and hugging and snuffling when they’d finally parted; even Miss Comfort had looked regretful and had presented a lean, powdery, lavender-scented cheek for Victoria to kiss in a gesture of farewell. The Ludlows had been impressed to silence by the way the new earl’s mama had embraced their new governess at the last, and that good impression had made life endurable for Victoria for a good three weeks. But now it was the second week in July, and Mrs. Haverford had not visited with Miss Dawkins again, and so their new governess was being treated just as all their old governesses had been. And Victoria didn’t know how much longer she could bear it, although there was nothing else for her to do but bear it.