by M C Beaton
Mrs. Grimshaw twisted Amanda’s arm up her back and marched her from the room. Clarissa cast Mrs. Davey a terrified look and hurried after her sister.
Mrs. Davey poured more gin into what was left of the mixture in her cup and sank back with a satisfied sigh. Nothing like decent, honest work to bring her young ladies up to the mark and to make a good profit. Her cheeses were already selling well, there was a steady demand for the chairs and tables produced by the carpentry shop, the weaving shed was doing fine business, and the school farm was prosperous. Only the most hardened of the girls were put to farm labor, and Mrs. Davey did not consider Amanda and Clarissa anything particularly bad, just tiresome and naughty.
A few days later Jean Morrison found she had the delicate task of entertaining Lord and Lady Pemberton and their daughters, Letitia and Ann, delicate because although she was running the household, her position was still that of governess.
Letitia had persuaded her parents to make the call. She said it was ridiculous that such an eligible bachelor should be left unchallenged.
But when they arrived, Dredwort told them that Lord Hunterdon was not at home. Lady Pemberton said crossly that they would like some refreshment before their return journey, and Dredwort ushered them into the Green Saloon and then went to inform Jean of their arrival.
As soon as she entered and began to supervise the serving of tea and cakes, Jean realized her mistake. She should not have joined them. Lady Pemberton was glaring at Jean’s pretty gown and uncapped hair and demanding to know where the Misses Courtney were. Jean had no intention of telling them about the seminary. She merely said quietly that they were visiting relatives of the viscount.
“Shouldn’t you be in the schoolroom?” Letitia demanded waspishly.
“Not when I have no one to teach. What is it, Dredwort?”
“The agent, Mr. Peterman, has called, miss, and wishes to consult you about the work in the gardens, and Mr. Connan has ridden over to thank you for sending the physician to his wife. She is improving rapidly.”
“Thank you, Dredwort. Good day, my lord, my lady, ladies. If there is anything further you require, please ring the bell.”
The Pembertons looked at each other in consternation when she had left. “She is behaving like the mistress of this house,” Lady Pemberton cried. “Has Hunterdon lost his wits?”
As if on cue, the gentleman in question entered the room. The viscount had returned.
“You must excuse my clothes,” he said after the initial courtesies were over. “I am just returned from Bath.”
“And I must inform you of something,” Lady Pemberton said. “That Scotch governess is going on here as if she is mistress of this house and estates, and the servants appear to treat her as such.”
“I left her in charge.”
“How odd!” Lady Pemberton bridled.
Lord Pemberton shot her a warning look as if to say that she would not further her daughters’ chances with the viscount if she questioned his domestic arrangements, however odd they might seem. He began to talk of mutual acquaintances and of the prospects of good hunting weather to come.
The viscount half listened, wishing they would all go away. There was so much to do. Besides, he wanted to tell Miss Morrison about the seminary. He wanted to look at Miss Morrison again. He had thought of her a great deal on the road back. His comfortable feeling that he had secured her future for her was waning fast as he approached Trelawney. He tried to imagine Jean at her social debut, at Almack’s, say, dancing the waltz and trying discreetly to attract the attentions of some suitable man. Then he had a sudden vision of going up to that suitable man and punching him on the nose for daring to put his arm around Jean Morrison’s slender waist.
And it was a slender waist, he thought dreamily. And her eyes were fascinating, green and clever, like a cat’s.
He suddenly realized all the Pembertons were staring at him. “My husband was asking you for the second time whether you plan to be in London for the next Season?” Lady Pemberton said.
He looked at her rather stupidly. Next Season. He could dance with Miss Morrison himself. That would be fun. But dammit, he had her here, under his nose. Could she be his? He felt a great feeling of relief wash over him and half closed his eyes. The horrible girls were gone. Trelawney was all peace and serenity. And he could have Jean Morrison to himself.
“Go away,” he said loudly.
Lady Pemberton rose with a rustle of taffeta. “You will never hear from us again, my lord,” she said. “I think you are quite mad.”
“Yes, yes,” he snapped. He beat them to the door, opened it, and darted up the stairs.
She wasn’t in her room. She wasn’t in the drawing room. Where!
He ran downstairs again as the Pembertons were making their stately exit. “Where is she?” he shouted to Dredwort.
“At the back of the house with Mr. Peterman, my lord.”
The viscount shot out of the door. The Pembertons stared after him. Lady Pemberton saw Dredwort standing with a smile on his face. She curled an imperative finger. “Come here, my man, I have a few questions I wish to ask you about your master.”
But Dredwort listened at doors and Dredwort had heard what Lady Pemberton had said in the Green Saloon about his master being mad. He carefully placed one thumb on his nose and wriggled the rest of his fingers in her direction. Then, patting his new glass wig with a complacent hand, he stalked down the stairs to tell Mrs. Moody that the champagne should be put on ice in preparation for the announcement of my lord’s forthcoming marriage.
He found her standing with Mr. Peterman. Men were cutting down and hauling away briars and bushes. “I think the summerhouse should be left standing,” he heard Jean say. “Perhaps Mr. Stewart, the landscape gardener, might want it to remain. My lord! You are returned.”
“Walk with me a little, Miss Morrison,” he said. “Mr. Peterman, I shall see you presently.”
He held out his arm, and Jean hesitatingly laid her fingertips on it as he led her down the now-cleared walk toward the beach.
Her light dress fluttered against her body. The wind from the sea was cold. She shivered slightly. “I unfortunately acted as hostess to the Pembertons,” she said, glancing up at him and thinking miserably that he looked handsomer than ever. He had endured a tiring journey and yet he was impeccably dressed in blue coat, doeskin breeches, and top boots.
“Why unfortunately?”
“They considered it an impertinence.”
“Boring family. Any family who can suffer Basil for any length of time must be boring.” They reached the beach. “Are you cold?” he asked.
“A little. When Dredwort told me that Mr. Peterman wanted to see me, I was so glad to escape that I ran straight out of the house.”
He stopped and took off his coat and put it around her shoulders. “Better?”
“Thank you, my lord, but I can quite easily return and find a shawl.”
“Never mind. Let me tell you about the seminary.” Jean listened as he described Mrs. Davey.
“Are you sure she can cope?” Jean asked anxiously.
“Strangely enough, I feel sure she can.” The air was full of the sound of the restless sea. Waves crashed on the beach and the wind whipped through Jean’s red hair, scattering bone pins onto the sand.
“I cannot help feeling sorry for them.” Jean stared out to sea. “Life would have been better for them if their mother had not died. Their father, with his greed and his cruelty, was no example. A little love in their upbringing would have done wonders.”
“You are too softhearted, my governess.”
“Perhaps. Never having really known any love myself, I am perhaps oversympathetic.”
“I would give you love.”
Jean clutched his coat tighter around her shoulders. The wind whipped a strand of red hair across her lips, and he gently pulled it away. She looked up at him, her eyes filled with a mixture of misery and disgust.
He wanted her as his
mistress.
She half turned away. “I do not want your love, my lord. I assume now your offer of allowance and dowry was a sham.”
“No, by God, it wasn’t,” he said, suddenly furious with disappointment and longing. “The offer still stands. If you wish to be wife to some other man, you may do so gladly and with my blessing.”
He walked away from her, back toward the castle, his shirtsleeves flapping against his arms.
She ran after him. His coat dropped from her shoulders to the beach, but she ran on.
“Stop!” she shouted, catching his arm and hanging on for grim death. “Do you want to marry me?”
“I’ve changed my mind anyway,” he said pettishly. “Let go of my arm.”
“You fool!” Jean screamed. “I thought you wanted me as your mistress.”
He stopped abruptly. He looked at her intently, and then his eyes began to dance. “You have a smutty mind, Miss Morrison, not at all suitable in a governess. You shock me.”
“Is this some game? Are you mocking me?”
“No, Miss Morrison, I can think of nothing I would like better. I shall get a special license and we will be married in, let me see, two weeks’ time. It will need to be the little church in St. Giles, or the vicar can come to the house and marry us. Yes, perhaps that would be better. We shall have such splendid fun. How many children shall we have, do you think?”
She looked up at him pleadingly, her hands on his shoulders. “Do you really love me?”
He wrapped his arms around her and bent and kissed her full on the mouth. Her lips were cold and salty but gradually warmed under the insistent pressure of his own. He decided vaguely that kissing Jean Morrison was the most wonderful thing he had ever experienced, and so he continued to kiss her with increasing passion and force. Cold, stinging rain blew in from the sea, but neither of them felt it. He had all the single-mindedness of the aristocrat, and he had forgotten everything else about him. He drew her down onto the wet sand and held her tightly against him while his hands caressed her face and body with increasing urgency. He unfastened the little buttons at the front of her dress and kissed her breasts while her moans were whipped away by the salt wind.
And then a great, curling wave, racing ahead of its fellows on the fast incoming tide curled right over the passionate couple writhing in the sand. Jean gasped and choked and struggled upright, fumbling at the buttons on her wet dress, her face scarlet. Laughing, he stood up and pulled her to her feet. “I nearly forgot to wait until my wedding night,” he said.
He put his arm around her waist and led her back to the castle, leaving his coat forgotten on the beach. “I know the servants will be pleased,” he said. “We must make our announcement as soon as we are dry and changed.”
But when they entered the great hall, wet and disheveled, they stopped at the sight of all the staff lined up in front of a trestle table that bore bottles of champagne, glasses, and ice from the icehouse.
“How did you know?” the viscount asked.
Dredwort grinned and slowly held up a small brass telescope. Jean blushed furiously and buried her hot face in the viscount’s wet shirt.
“Then wait until we have changed, you reprobate,” the viscount said with a grin.
The party went on for the rest of the day as tenants and farmers, estate workers and grooms, heard the news and came to drink the couple’s health.
But Jean longed for them all to go away until she could be alone with him again.
The viscount, it turned out, had other plans.
“I have arranged for you to stay with Farmer Tulley until the wedding.”
Jean looked at him in dismay. “But why?”
“Because if you stay here, I do not think I could stop myself from visiting your bedroom this night. I have told Tulley. I should write to my parents and invite my friends to this wedding, but I have decided to let it be just for us and the people of Trelawney. We can be married again in London later.”
So Jean went reluctantly off with Mr. and Mrs. Tulley to sleep in a tiny room in the farm and wait for her wedding day.
She thought the days would drag past, but there was her dress to be made and all the preparations for the celebrations. Then Mrs. Tulley wanted to make use of this governess while she had her under her roof and had begged Jean to instruct her daughters in the social arts. Jean saw very little of the viscount, and when she did, she was strictly chaperoned by Mrs. Tulley. He was so light and cool and formal that Jean began to wonder whether he might be regretting his proposal.
And then she received a visit from Letitia and Ann Pemberton. The Pembertons had heard of the wedding plans, for all the shops in St. Giles were abuzz with the news as orders poured in from the castle. Letitia and Ann felt it was a direct snub. The viscount was the only eligible bachelor in the neighborhood, and he had shunned their beauty to marry a common Scotch governess. After some debate among themselves, they decided he was being forced to marry her to allay scandal. They wondered if Miss Morrison knew that and decided it would be better to tell her. They had called at the castle and learned where she was staying. Mrs. Tulley led them into the parlor and left them alone with Jean.
“We are come to felicitate you on your forthcoming marriage,” Ann said haughtily.
“Thank you,” Jean replied quietly.
“But we were also concerned for you. It must be sad to feel the groom is being constrained to marry you.”
Jean forced a laugh. “Why should he feel that?”
“Well, all the gossip, you know. And Lady Conham and Eliza did see you leaving his … er … bedchamber.” The viscount had remembered to write to Lady Conham explaining what Jean Morrison had been doing sleeping in his bed, and Lady Conham had dutifully spread the reason about, but neither Ann nor Letitia were going to let Jean know that.
Jean stood up, went to the door, and held it open. “Be off with you,” she said furiously. “Jealous, spiteful cats.”
Letitia and Ann left well satisfied. For they knew by the mixture of fury and distress on Jean’s face that some of the poison had sunk in.
Jean hardly knew what to do. She knew now that the viscount, for all his apparently frivolous ways, was a man with a strong sense of duty. The sensible and forthright thing would be to ask him outright. But then he might feel obliged to lie. He had kissed her with such passion, but he had not said he loved her or uttered one word of love in all that disgraceful writhing on the beach.
Her doubts tormented her right up to the wedding day, right up to the temporary altar that had been erected in the hall, and right up until he turned and looked down at her. His face was altered with love. She went through the responses, wondering whether she might faint from sheer happiness.
And then at last they were man and wife. The weather had turned dark and threatening, and scarlet and brown leaves whipped about the lawns in a crazy spiraling dance between the marquees that had been erected to shelter all the people of Trelawney estates. Everyone sang and danced. Dredwort made a speech, amazing for its pompous tone and salacious content. Mr. Tulley made a speech, forgot halfway through what he meant to say, and sat down abruptly. The viscount made a speech, thanking them all, and then, with Jean on his arm, left the festivities.
He led her up the great staircase. “Where are we going?” Jean asked, suddenly shy.
“To bed.”
“In the middle of the afternoon! I am not tired.”
“You will be, my sweeting. You will be.”
In his bedchamber she stood before him, plucking at the stiff white folds of her gown with nervous fingers. “Why so downcast?” he teased. “Am I such an ogre?”
“I was thinking of the girls,” she babbled. “I cannot help feeling they should have been here.”
“Oh, no,” he said. “At such a time and such a place. I refuse to think of those hellions. Come here. It’s time you started thinking of me.”
“Do … do you l-love me?”
“I am rampaging with love, I am dy
ing with love. Kiss me! I will love you till the end of time, my Jean.”
And she did kiss him, at first shyly, and then warmly, and then passionately until somehow she found herself in bed and under him without the least recollection of how her clothes had been removed.
Clarissa stood in the dairy beside the butter churn. She had been put in the charge of one of the older girls, a tall, sleepy blonde with a slow smile called Tabitha. “Finished?” Tabitha examined Clarissa’s work. “Good,” she said. “Very good.”
Clarissa felt a glow of achievement. She had been told if she worked hard, then she might have gooseberry pie for dinner.
Over in the carpentry shop a young carpenter’s apprentice, John Buxtable, was showing Amanda how to use a plane. He had an easygoing nature and laughed hard at all Amanda’s tantrums. Amanda had tried to run away twice, but on both occasions she had been caught by staff, who wereused to catching runaways. Initially she had been taught in the carpentry shop by a tall, morose girl who had complained bitterly to Mrs. Davey when Amanda had tried to stab her with a chisel.
Mrs. Davey had pondered over Amanda’s character and had hired John Buxtable, a good-looking country boy. He had instructions to flirt a little with Amanda but not to go any further. And so as he showed her how to use the plane, he let his strong, brown, muscled arm brush against her own.
Amanda blushed and giggled.
Mrs. Davey, watching from the door with Mrs. Grimshaw, turned away. “I knew it would work,” she said. “Nothing like a handsome, lusty man to bring a slut to heel!”