Teaching His Ward: A Regency Romance

by Noël Cades

  He noticed a goaty looking elderly gentleman across the aisle, and recognised him as Sir Hubert Frobisher. He had a leering expression, and Marcus observed that his eye fell not infrequently upon Jemima.

  Sir Hubert was more odious than Marcus had remembered. He was gripped with a desire to drag the man out of the church to get his lecherous gaze off his ward. As if he could ever countenance Jemima, or any other young woman, being affianced to that old coot! No wonder she had reacted with such horror and pleading.

  Marcus recalled as a small boy being told of a terrible monster that lurked beneath the waters of the lake at Southwell. It had been enough to keep him from playing too near the edge, at least until he was old enough to have learned to swim and to realise that monsters did not exist. It had been a clever stratagem, he considered, to prevent his possible drowning.

  If the monstrous prospect of having Sir Hubert for a bridegroom served to keep Jemima’s conduct in check, it might be equally justified.

  Chapter 14

  Faced with the news that she was to be conducted to Southwell, Jemima experienced both relief and fury. She was relieved to escape Aunt Harlington as well as to receive a stay of execution regarding her matrimony with Sir Hubert Frobisher. But she was angry to be ordered about like a child.

  Her guardian had informed her of his plans on Sunday evening.

  "I have decided that you will come to reside at Southwell for a time, where a closer eye can be kept on you. We shall leave at first light tomorrow."

  Jemima clutched at a faint hope. "Does this mean I am no longer to marry Sir Hubert?"

  The Earl of Southwell regarded his ward. There was a glint in his eye that she could not interpret. "It means that you are sorely in need of preparation before embarking upon marriage. I am sure that your future husband can be patient. A capable and dutiful wife is the preference of any man, over a wilful and disobedient girl."

  "You prefer subservience to spirit, then?"

  In truth Marcus did not. It took all his self-control to maintain the attitude of the strict and authoritarian guardian. But he wanted her safely at Southwell, away from Hortensia and the gloating eye of Sir Hubert and any other men in the neighbourhood. Southwell’s remote setting should provide ample quarantine from mischief.

  "In a ward, I merely require obedience," he informed her.

  A rebellious fury flashed in Jemima’s eyes. The sparkle it gave them nearly made Marcus waver in his resolution to keep his distance, at least for now. "Then since I have no choice, my lord, I will see to my effects. I may seek your permission to return to my room?"

  "Such permission is willingly granted," he told her. He watched the slim figure depart, the girl’s head held high. She would take some breaking in, he thought. If he didn’t lose his head, as he so nearly had at the Rexfords’. Or rather he had lost it, he considered, given his embracing of her.

  Thank heavens for Spain and his business there. He did not trust himself to be around her at this present time. A thousand miles separation should help restore his balance.

  Hortensia Harlington was not displeased to be relieved of her duties regarding Jemima. Her gratitude towards her nephew for removing the girl, however, did not extend to agreeing to accompany them on the journey to Hampshire. "The disorder of my nerves, due in no small part to the conduct of your ward, indisposes me to travel at this present time. Nor am I able to spare my own maid."

  Jemima knew this to be a falsehood for Aunt Harlington had never once before suffered from nerves, at least in the years of her residence at Harlington House. She did not dispute it, however, feeling similar relief to be rid of Hortensia Harlington as soon as possible.

  Though having Jemima alone in his carriage was not an unwelcome prospect, Marcus knew that any further risk to her reputation must be avoided. Since he had established that she had no governess, no companion nor lady’s maid, the parlourmaid Elsie was bidden to accompany them.

  Elsie had never travelled in a closed carriage before and was nervous when given her instructions. Jemima anticipated that she would be the one attending to the maid’s needs rather than vice versa. With this in mind she armed herself with hartshorn and a sleeping draught taken from the still room. She herself travelled well, but was aware that others suffered no inconsiderable discomfort from the motion of a vehicle and its confined atmosphere.

  Even the prospect of highwaymen did not trouble Jemima that day. Were they to be assailed, it might provide an opportunity for flight. Where she might flee to she had not decided. But plotting her escape was some comfort.

  Her boxes packed, Jemima was clad in her travelling dress, once again lamenting the dull colours selected for her by Aunt Harlington. Her travelling clothes were an even less becoming shade of brown than her Sunday gown.

  Jemima bade Aunt Harlington farewell in as courteous a manner as possible. Hortensia Harlington begrudgingly wished her former charge a comfortable journey, and they parted for what Jemima hoped might be the last time.

  Elsie began suffering as soon as the carriage moved off. Her face took on a sickly pallor and she closed her eyes and moaned slightly.

  "You are unwell?" Jemima asked, for it was evident that the maid was in some distress.

  "O, Miss Carlow…" was the only response that poor Elsie was able to give.

  Jemima felt Marcus’s eyes upon her as she fetched the tonic, having had the foresight to also bring a small glass with her. "Drink this, and the nausea will pass," she told Elsie.

  The maid sipped the sleeping draught, which was bitter, and after a few more moans she settled down and fell into a deep slumber.

  "What exactly did you administer to her?" Marcus asked.

  Jemima told him.

  "Good heavens! The girl will be out for hours."

  "Better that than she is sick all over your carriage," Jemima said.

  Their eyes met and the spark that had been present from their first encounter was again there. It was something conspiratorial. But Marcus immediately made an effort to quench it, and resume his facade of the stern, serious guardian.

  Jemima, more freely able to speak now Elsie was lightly snoring, felt no such desire to play the part of the subdued and demure ward-in-disgrace. "If you insist on marrying me to Sir Hubert, I will simply refuse to say my vows at the altar,” she told him. “And what then?"

  Marcus met the challenge. "To refuse such a suitable, even desirable match for one in your circumstances, would represent such derangement of mind that I would be forced to have you committed to an asylum."

  His ward’s mouth fell open at this, though she attempted to recover herself. "You would not do such a thing!"

  "I hope I will not be obliged to." He kept his features grave, suppressing a desire to laugh at the horror the threat had aroused in her.

  Unbeknownst to Marcus, Jemima and Kitty had surreptitiously read a novel wherein the heroine was forced into an asylum by her cruel, fortune-usurping stepmother. The heroine had languished for years in a dungeon, described in lurid and terrifying detail, before her erstwhile lover uncovered the wickedness of the stepmother and managed to free the girl.

  Jemima and Kitty had been very greatly impressed by this story, not having sufficient worldly knowledge to know whether such a thing were actually possible. They could not ask anyone, for they were not supposed to be reading such sensational material. The result was that both were now terrified by the spectre of an asylum, lest they may one day face the same fate as the long-suffering Louisa.

  Jemima, seated across from Marcus who had offered to sit reverse, considered that there would be no such paramour to release her from imprisonment.

  “Why, then, did you not simply marry me to him immediately?” she demanded.

  Marcus, reassuring himself that the maid still slept soundly, regarded his ward. Her eyes were glittering with a mixture of fear and rebellion, her cheeks flushed rose. She looked at once very young to him, but showing a resilience beyond her years.

  “You a
re fortunate to travel so well, unlike your unfortunate maid,” he remarked.

  “You did not answer my question.”

  Marcus smiled in a relaxed way, calculated to enrage Jemima further. “Your future husband desires that you learn to comport yourself with more grace and discretion,” he told her.

  It had the intended effect. Her chin tilted in defiance. “And should I fail to do so?” she asked.

  “Then I imagine he will feel obliged to whip you until you do behave,” Marcus said.

  Jemima’s eyes opened wide in horror and she gasped. “He could not be allowed to do such a thing!”

  Her guardian gave his infuriating smile again. “Once you are his property, I imagine he will do with you as he likes.”

  Conversation ceased after this. Jemima was absorbing the horror of the future that awaited her, while calculating every possible way of escaping it. She might flee under a false name - another false name - and take a post as a governess. Except such positions usually required impeccable references. Could Kitty devise such a thing? Or she might stow away on a ship and sail for some exotic land. The thought of Spain came into her mind and she quickly suppressed it. If her guardian found her there, he would only capture her again.

  Marcus was conflicted between amusement, a sense of guilt, and a desire to sweep aside the whole facade and take her in his arms then and there. Had the maid’s presence, albeit slumbering, not provided a check to this he might well have done so.

  Jemima looked out of the window. She felt that this journey, at least, was distancing her from the horror of Sir Hubert. It would doubtless be awful at Southwell, but nowhere could be as dreary as Harlington House. She had a sudden thought, and forgetting her resentment towards her guardian, turned to him. “Do you keep many horses at Southwell? I think you said that you did.”

  Her reference to their conversation on the balcony brought certain images back into Marcus’s mind. “The stables are large, yes.”

  “Will I be able to ride?”

  “If you wish. I will ensure that a suitable mount is provided for you.” Seeing the relief and excitement in her eyes, he softened his tone. “I do not intend Southwell to be a punishment for you, Jemima. It did not seem tenable for you to remain at my aunt’s house. But I am bound for Spain, and until my return I thought it convenient for you to reside at Southwell. You may continue your lessons, and of course you may ride.”

  “How long will you be away for?” Jemima asked.

  “Some months. I am uncertain as to the exact duration.”

  Some months! Months of freedom, of riding, without the ordeal of Aunt Harlington’s endless scolding. Far from the awful marriage prospect that Jemima was determined to avoid. To continue her lessons, though, like a little schoolchild, was a frustration. Particularly since her guardian had previously implied that her schooling was now over. She did not dare refer to the "marriage lessons" he had threatened.

  “Am I to have a governess, then?” she asked.

  Marcus was mildly surprised at the question, having not really considered it. It was only since the carriage ride, and the business with the maid, that he had even begun to consider that Jemima would probably need some kind of chaperone while she resided at his house. He had first thought that the presence of the housekeeper would suffice, but this was probably not a satisfactory arrangement. He should have consulted Hortensia on the matter, he supposed.

  The matter of a tutor was easier. “The Reverend Norwood is a very fine classical scholar. I will arrange for him to provide instruction to you.”

  Since her guardian had not mentioned music, French or needlework, Jemima thought it opportune not to remind him. After all, a reverend would have his own duties to attend to. A few hours of Latin and Greek to endure each week, and perhaps she might spend the rest of the time riding and enjoying her freedom.

  “You are most kind, my lord,” she said, lowering her head demurely.

  Her tone did not deceive Marcus for an instant. He had discovered an almost uncanny ability to gauge Jemima’s emotions, and even if he could not tell what she was plotting, he knew that she was doing so.

  Fortunately she had not yet apparently discerned his own, true plans for her. He wondered what her reaction would be when she did. Would she be willing to marry him? At the end of the day he could not force her to, but from the way she had trembled in his arms he did not think he would find her completely opposed to the prospect.

  Chapter 15

  As they approached Southwell, Jemima felt a surge of excitement within her breast. After all, this was an adventure. It was not in her nature to remain subdued for long.

  The countryside was beautiful: the rolling green downs would be wonderful for riding. She burned to ride again. There had been so little opportunity in the years since her parents had died and Jemima had been forced to leave Ireland. Aunt Harlington had not kept horses, nor had she considered riding a suitable or necessary pursuit for her charge. Lord Elstone owned stables but Kitty was not the born horsewoman that Jemima was. The horses they occasionally rode were dear animals, but slow and old.

  Dusk was falling as the carriage reached the long driveway that led to Southwell. Jemima was enraptured by the sight of the house, and ill-concealed her emotion. It was built of pale grey stone set with mullioned panes, an unusual oriel window over the entrance. Round turrets at either end softened the starkness of its facade.

  Marcus, observing Jemima’s reaction, found himself unusually pleased and relieved by her approval. After all, should his plans proceed, this would be her future home. He had not thought that her opinion of Southwell would matter to him, but he found to his surprise that it did.

  Now he looked at it through her eyes. It was an impressive and interesting building, set in exceptionally beautiful grounds. He would take her around them tomorrow. "The house was converted from a former Cistercian abbey that dates back to the thirteenth century," he told her. "Some of the ruined outbuildings still remain, kept as a historic curiosity by former earls."

  "Can one visit them?" Jemima asked.

  "During the day they are safe enough. Not at night, perhaps," Marcus said.

  "Not at night?"

  "According to legend they are haunted, by the ghost of a former abbot. Though I regret to say that I have never had the pleasure of making his acquaintance," Marcus said.

  Ghosts had formerly been a huge fascination for Jemima and Kitty. Unfortunately Lord Elstone’s house had only been built in the previous century, leaving little time for a spectral being to take up residence. They had scoured Lord Elstone’s family tree for possible tragedies or mysterious deaths in the hope of finding a possible phantom. But disappointingly, all of Kitty’s ancestors had died peacefully in their beds at an advanced age.

  As for Harlington House, no spectre would have dared to haunt the household of Hortensia Harlington. As Jemima had observed to Kitty, "she would have been the one sending the ghost shrieking in terror."

  But now, a real ghost! Jemima was not entirely sure that she believed in such beings any more, but if one did exist, she was resolved to sight it.

  She wondered where the stables were, and if her guardian would take her there tomorrow.

  The carriage drew up, and Marcus alighted first. He helped Jemima step down, and she once again felt the burning rush as his hand lightly held her arm.

  Marcus found it hard to keep his contact light, wishing strongly to grasp his ward and press her to him. But he controlled himself. He once again kicked himself for his idiotic ruse. Had he quickly married the girl, he would be taking her as his bride this very night. Ripping that odious brown garment off her and running his hands over the silken flesh beneath it.

  Jemima saw a muscle clench in his jaw and wondered if she had yet again displeased him. "What should be done with Elsie?" she asked. The maid was still asleep.

  "I will have her carried to her room. One of the other maids can attend to her."

  The various servants lined up to
greet the Earl of Southwell as they entered went past in something of a blur to Jemima. Despite having been seated the entire day, the fatigue of the journey was now descending upon her. She barely took in the impressive entrance hall, with its wide staircase and high, vaulted ceiling.

  Her guardian introduced her to a capable looking woman called Mrs Marland, the housekeeper at Southwell. Jemima greeted her as graciously as possible.

  Mrs Marland thought that the girl was very pretty with pleasant manners, though clearly extremely tired. The Earl had sent notice ahead of his departure from Harlington House that he required rooms to be prepared for his ward and her maid, and the household had naturally been abuzz with interest. "Will Miss Carlow be dining in the hall tonight, or would she prefer a tray to be sent to her room, given the long journey?" Mrs Marland asked the Earl, deferring to his authority rather than asking his ward directly.

  "An early night, I think," Marcus said.

  Jemima did not protest for she found that she longed for sleep. She was overwhelmed by more than the journey. Hours spent in close proximity with her guardian had been another source of strain. It was exhilarating yet confusing to be in his presence. Before she had realised who he was, the prospect of spending such time with him had been thrilling. Now, it was all ruined.

  There were times when he looked at her that she imagined she saw some of the same regard he had once shown her. But his disciplinarian attitude towards her and his determination to marry her off to Sir Hubert could only mean that she had lost that regard. The Earl of Southwell was repelled by her.

  Sleep would at least be a respite from her perturbed emotions. She took her leave of her guardian, and followed the housekeeper up the great staircase.

  Jemima slept soundly but woke early. A fire had been lit in her room the night before, a luxury inconceivable at Harlington House. The grate now lay cold and she shivered as she washed and dressed, having only cold water with which to do so.