She laughed merrily again as he took a biscuit from the plate. “There is a jug of milk in the hamper.”
It was a cozy scene, and he was content. Almost.
Chapter 2
Hannah was going to murder Jane! She had never been so mortified in her life. It was the first time she had ever been alone with a gentleman, and to be forced into a small carriage, at that, was beyond anything! Thankfully, they had been introduced before or Hannah would have had to refuse altogether, and if she had had enough sense, she would have done. Instead, she found herself behaving like an utter peagoose in his presence, mothering him as she would have one of her students and offering him biscuits!
Hannah knew her dearest and oldest friend was trying to matchmake, but surely she must know how impossible it was! Lord Wolford was one of the most handsome and eligible men in all of England, even if he was a bit of a recluse. Of course, each Season the girls chattered incessantly about who was available and studied Debrett’s Peerage as they ought to study their Bibles. It was Hannah’s duty to know and teach the girls who was eligible.
Of course, she knew more about Lord Wolford than she should. As the brother of her best friend, she had met him the very first year her school had been open. Jane had made one of the grandest matches of the Season and Hannah had stood up with her at her wedding. Lord Wolford had been just down from Oxford and much too young to even think of marriage, but Hannah’s young heart had still been captivated by him. He was tall—even for her—and his cobalt blue eyes, so like Jane’s, had been as fathomless as the sea they resembled. His blond waves were thick and his jaw was strong…he was from the pages of a novel. Every word Jane had ever mentioned about him had been devoured, like tiny choice morsels to a starving cat. Not that Jane had ever said much, except to bemoan the fact that he was a recluse and ignored her attempts to draw him into Society. Then he had married another duke’s daughter and she had died within the year.
Lord Wolford had scarcely spoken to her during their dance, beyond what was polite, but now he was being quite friendly and good-humoured over what, Hannah was certain, was as much a shock to him as her.
“Shall I read aloud? I assure you this authoress is most proper,” Hannah asked, as she offered him a biscuit, interrupting her unwelcome thoughts.
“And here I was preparing to be scandalized,” he rejoined.
Hannah, somewhat taken aback by his sally, could only think to say, “There is a jug of milk in the hamper.”
She closed her eyes. Had she actually said that? Abruptly, she realized that for all she taught other young ladies about deportment, she was behaving like a veritable gauche girl herself. She was an old maid; she had a dreadful cap on, for goodness’ sake!
“I would love for you to read to me,” he replied as he poured some milk into a cup and handed one to her before pouring one for himself. He then dipped his biscuit in his cup of milk. Hannah caught herself staring at the most boyishly, enduring sight she had ever beheld. Indeed, she was a dried-up old spinster if such a thing was causing her heart palpitations.
She opened the book, which made the delicious creaking sound of new leather bending upon fresh bindings. Forgetting her audience for a moment, she inhaled the new scent. New books for herself were such a luxury. This would go into the library as an expense of the school, but it was her duty to read anything before her young charges did.
“You really do love books,” he said as he wiped away his little milk mustache with his hand.
She had to stop herself from telling him there were napkins in the hamper, because really she was mesmerized by the action, and he was most definitely not one of her students.
“I do,” she remembered to reply.
“What novel are you reading?
“This one is entitled Mansfield Park,” by the new authoress who has taken London by storm with her other works, Sense and Sensibility and Pride and Prejudice.”
“I seem to recall hearing something of the sort from Jane. She insists on repeating every bit of news from Town in her correspondence.”
“The authoress used to live in Bath; a most lovely and witty person,” Hannah said. “I was sorry when she moved away.” Hannah and Miss Austen had had much in common. Both were spinsters, forced to make their own way in the world. Miss Austen lived with family, Hannah supposed, but they had shared a sense of mutual understanding.
“About thirty years ago, Miss Maria Ward, of Huntington, with only 7000 pounds had the good luck to captivate Sir Thomas Bertram, of Mansfield Park, in the county of Northampton and to be thereby raised to the rank of a baronet’s lady with all the comforts and consequences of a handsome house and a large income.”
Lord Wolford groaned.
“Shall I stop?”
“Not yet. I have just recalled the first lines of her other novel. Why must everything be about fortune and marriage?”
Hannah felt the need to come to her sex’s defense. “Most young ladies are wholly dependent on a good marriage. One can hardly fault them for trying to make certain their future is comfortable. Many of them have no say in the matter at all, but surely you would want your own daughter to be comfortable?”
“Forgive me. Yes, of course I would. It is merely that, from my point of view, no one seems to care about anything else.”
Hannah inclined her head. “I think you will find this authoress quite sympathetic, if you give her a chance.”
“Do go on. I hardly think my conversation could compete.”
She detected a hint of sarcasm and felt a fluttering in her stomach that she wished to quell. There was no room in her life for fanciful ideas. Lord Wolford was the heir to a powerful duchy and was obligated to make a powerful alliance whenever he felt the need to do such a thing. Though he was a few years her senior, men had no such restrictions on when they married. As his father was still alive, he was probably in no great hurry after what had happened with his first marriage.
“How did Jane convince you to attend her Christmas gathering?” Hannah asked, not quite ready to delve into the story just yet. Now she was afraid he would not care for it, and she did not know if she could bear that. Besides, he seemed to need his mind disabusing of his last statement.
“As my sister pointed out, I have neglected her since her marriage. Truth be told, I would not consider it neglect so much as we like different things. She enjoys the gaiety of London and I enjoy communing with sheep.”
Hannah’s eyes darted to his at that statement to see if he were serious. They were twinkling with merriment and she laughed.
“I am mostly serious,” he insisted.
“I would love to know what the sheep have to recommend them over human companionship,” she replied gravely.
“A great deal,” he assured her. “They agree with everything I say, they provide warm wool for cold winter days, and they keep the garden cut.” He ticked the points off on his fingers.
“I see you have considered this a great deal.”
“There is much time for consideration when your companion’s vocabulary is limited to one word.”
“So, if I baa at you, it will be a welcome sound?” Her lips twitched, although she tried to remain grave.
“At least it will be familiar.”
“I will keep that in mind.”
They shared a smile that warmed Hannah from the inside out. It was going to be dangerous to her senses to be shut inside the carriage with him all day. She was grateful none of the students had been there to see him arrive. There would have been a lapse in decorum and a barrage of giggles.
Another groan came from the gentleman in question as he looked out of the window.
“What is the matter?” Hannah asked.
“Take a look.” She slid across the seat and saw a few large snowflakes drifting down from the sky.
“Snow!” she exclaimed with all the giddiness of one of her charges.
“I would perhaps share your enthusiasm if we did not have so far yet to travel. By the lo
ok of the clouds, there will be a storm before long.”
“Then I shall pray it holds off until we are safely at Dunsmore.”
“We might have to take a different route, depending on the direction of the storm and the roads.” He seemed to be warning her.
“I trust your judgment, my lord.”
He gave her a half-hearted smile. “I think you should call me Oliver, at least while we are informal like this. We are going to be spending a great deal of time together, after all. If you still trust me, after all of this is said and done, it will be a miracle.”
“Well, I do hope you are wrong about the storm,” she said doubtfully as the snowfall began to grow heavier outside the window.
“I do not think even Jane could have foreseen this in her machinations,” he muttered, almost to himself.
Hannah almost laughed. So he did realize what his sister was about. Was he as embarrassed as she?
“We will make the best of things, my lord.”
“Then you had better distract me with that wretched story.”
“I will do my best, and though I have not read it before, I promise it will be better than dwelling on the snowstorm.”
“A promise? And if you are wrong?”
“Then I will help you throw Jane into a snowdrift,” she retorted, favouring him with a sardonic glance.
The snow was falling at an alarming pace, but so far the roads were not muddy and it was warm enough to keep going. All Oliver needed was to be saddled with a gently bred lady and have her reputation on his conscience. Nevertheless, she was more pleasant and conversational than most ladies of his acquaintance, he would grant her that. He longed to pull the mob cap from her head and reveal her brunette hair—he recalled the colour, at least, from their previous association. What if she had become grey prematurely? What a ridiculous thought! It must be the lack of air in the small compartment playing tricks with his mind. He was enjoying the sound of Miss Bell’s voice as she read the novel with great animation. Maria Bertram was a silly fool and he hoped she got her comeuppance. Anyone could see how this would end, but the authoress was witty and clever, and so he paid attention as he continued to ponder the curiosity of the lady across from him.
All of a sudden, the carriage slid and turned sharply. Miss Bell gasped and Oliver immediately looked out of the window. It looked as though a white fog was billowing in the blustery wind, and there was very little visibility. He could just make out the leaders, straining at an angle, and there was a shout from the box.
Then the horses seemed to straighten out and the carriage moved forward again, but Oliver knew they would not make it much further in this storm. With a sinking heart, he opened the panel and spoke to the driver.
“We need to stop at the next inn,” he told the coachman, who was covered in white flakes, his head down as he leaned forward, trying to squint through the storm.
“Very good, my lord,” he called back in a cheerful voice. “I think the next town is about a mile ahead.”
Oliver sat back down on the squab and looked at Miss Bell. He wondered if she understood the implications or possible implications.
“Is it bad?” she asked calmly.
“I do not know how he can see his hands in front of his face.”
“Oh, dear, the poor man.”
“I am afraid we will not reach Dunsmore this night.” He did not voice his concerns of not being able to do so for several days.
Miss Bell nodded her head and refrained from hysterics, thankfully. He would do his best to protect her reputation, but it was uncanny how many people he seemed to meet coming and going when he travelled.
Neither of them spoke and there was no reading—the atmosphere was thick with tension over their safety. The horses kept losing their footing, whereupon the carriage would slide and cause both of them inside to hang on for dear life.
When they pulled into a posting inn sometime later, Oliver was surprised to discover they had only been travelling for four hours and had made more distance than he had expected. “If only the snow would stop,” he muttered, then they might be able to press on.
Oliver helped Miss Bell to alight while Tom Coachman took the carriage around to the yard.
He could sense his companion’s concern as her eyes darted about and she pulled her cap, then hood, down low over her face. They were old enough to dispense with chaperones, but would they be old enough to avoid censure if they were seen together? Oliver knew the answer to that and tried not to dream of strangling his sister when they finally arrived at her estate.
Oliver escorted Miss Bell inside and was astonished at the crowd to be found there. Miss Bell kept her head down while, with a sinking feeling, he searched for the innkeeper.
“Good day, landlord,” he said when he found the man, a burly individual with a thick mustache. “Is there any possibility you have two rooms left?”
“I am afraid not, sir. As you can see, there is no room to swing a cat!”
“A small parlour, by any chance?” Oliver asked, almost in jest.
“No, but there is a small table in the corner by the fire for you and your missus, and I can provide a warm meal.”
“I am much obliged,” Oliver said and led Miss Bell to where they were directed.
He seated her where she was facing away from the crowd, taking for himself the bench opposite and waiting for some display of female vapours.
Instead, she let out a little laugh that he could have mistaken for a snort. “There is no room at the inn,” she said, laughing aloud.
“You are not going to tell me next that you are the virgin with child, are you?”
She blushed a little at his blunt speech, but responded with the sally, “Are you going to tell me we must sleep in the stable?”
He laughed. “I do not know where we will sleep. We had better pray for a miracle,” he replied as a barmaid brought them some mulled cider and bowls of stew.
They both ate in silence. The stew was surprisingly good, though he had not gone hungry with all the food Miss Bell had continually offered him thus far. She was actually a comfortable companion.
“Is something wrong?” she asked, prompting him to look up from his bowl. “Your expression changed.”
“You do not wish to know my thoughts.” In fact, they were a little bit horrifying, if he were truthful.
She sat back and an eyebrow shot upward.
“Now I can see you as a schoolmistress.” He smirked deliberately and crossed his arms.
“You had better tell me what you were thinking or I will pull out my ruler and rap your knuckles.”
His lips twitched with an amusement he tried to suppress. “Very well. I was thinking you were as comfortable a companion as my sheep.”
Oliver could not believe he had said that. Perhaps he had been rusticating in the country too long. He watched her to see her reaction.
At first, she kept a straight face. Jane would have been throwing things at him by now. Then one tiny twitch of her lips and crease of skin near her eyes gave hint to her amusement.
“That was a compliment,” he added for good measure.
“I am deeply honoured, my lord. Deeply honoured,” she repeated as she put her head down and her shoulders started to shake.
When she had finished laughing, she took a deep breath and dabbed at her eyes, which were visibly watering.
“What are you thinking?” Oliver felt compelled to ask the same question.
“I was just wondering how I should tell one of my girls to respond in such a situation. We practice these things, you know.”
“That is horrifying.”
She gave him an assessing glance. “Yes, I could see how it would be to a gentleman, but these girls have little experience of speaking with sophisticated men, yet they are supposed to endeavour to catch one years their senior.”
“I have always wondered at the practice. I cannot fathom marrying a child.”
“It is very common and often the way,�
� Miss Bell said, as though she had long ago resigned herself to it. “I find my own self at a loss on how to respond cleverly to being compared to an ovine, however.”
Oliver wanted to tell her that she was doing splendidly. He could not remember feeling more relaxed around another unattached female bar his sister. The artifice of most of Society was abominable and, frankly, why he stayed away. Somehow, he could not imagine this woman teaching her charges cunning ways or practiced replies.
“How does one teach young ladies to woo an older man?”
“It is the worst part of the position, I will admit. Some are naturally gifted conversationalists; others are painfully shy…and some are already schooled by their mothers in what they believe men want in a wife.”
“Ah. The ones that send all the younger men to their clubs.”
“Just so. And I, having never been married, cannot convince them otherwise.”
The coachman came into the taproom and looked around. Oliver raised his hand to show him where he was. Tom pulled off his hat and stamped his boots, then made his way through the crowded room towards them.
“My lord, my lady.”
“How is it, Tom?”
Oliver lifted his hand to indicate to the barmaid that another bowl of stew was needed. Hopefully, Miss Bell would not be offended by a servant joining them, but she did not seem the type to mind.
Tom warmed his hands by the fire. “You may not believe this, my lord, but the snow has stopped. If you are amenable, we may continue. I’ve found four prime goers in the stables.”
That was the last thing Oliver had expected to hear. He glanced over to Miss Bell, who gave him a nod.
“Perhaps we will not have to sleep in the stable tonight after all,” she retorted.
Tom finished his stew and ale, and they made their way back out to the carriage. It was not sunny, but the snow had ceased. Oliver reflected he would give half his sheep to make it to Dunsmore this day.
Thankfully, it appeared Miss Bell had not been recognized by anyone. Her hood was pulled so low over her face; it was a wonder she could see where she was going. In fact, it was rather slippery underfoot. He took her arm, intending to guide her, but instead of being helpful, he slipped and pulled both of them straight down into the icy, wet snow.
The Headmistress (Ladies of Miss Bell's Finishing School Book 6) Page 2