Teaching His Ward: A Regency Romance

by Noël Cades

  From her window stretched parkland veiled by a thin, white mist. The aspect was easterly, and on the distant horizon, a gold light was forcing its way through the haze over the downs. It would be a fine morning, but for now it was a fairyland of silver and pale gold.

  A pathway directly below her window was bordered by a lawn, at the far end of which was an orchard, continuing to a wood of higher trees. Between the orchard and the wood were dim shapes: broken walls and arches, which Jemima guessed were the haunted ruins. They were certainly ghostly at this hour.

  Looking towards the south, she could glimpse the edge of a vast lake. Perhaps there were boats and an island. She could not see any stables, so they must be on the other side of the house where the land was less wooded and more open.

  Jemima made her way along the corridor with soft tread, not knowing where her guardian’s or anyone else’s room might be and not wishing to disturb other members of the household. She descended the great staircase, taking in the aroma of ancient stone and wood and dust. There was beeswax too, from furniture polish and candles, but it was a softer and more settled fragrance than the harsh smell of lye in Aunt Harlington’s abode.

  As she entered the hall, she realised she had no idea where to go. All the doors around her were closed, and she did not know whether they were salons or dining rooms or libraries. The only door she recognised was the great front door, but it was bolted with heavy iron rods.

  Jemima went up to these to try and move them, but was startled by a voice behind her.

  “Escaping already?”

  She turned quickly, to see her guardian standing there. His expression was amused rather than angry.

  “No, my lord. No one was up and I merely thought to take a walk.”

  Marcus had already noted that Jemima carried nothing with her. Had she chosen to flee, she would surely have carried some parcel or bundle.

  “You have risen early. You did not sleep well?” She looked radiant to him, but he asked the question anyway.

  “I slept well, my lord. But then I woke, and could not sleep further.”

  He regarded her: the slim figure in a dark green gown, her face fresh with a rose glow from the cold water she had applied to it. “They would not have lit your fire yet. If you habitually rise at this hour, I will instruct it to be lit earlier.”

  “That is very kind, my lord, but I do not wish to indispose anyone. I am used to not having a fire of any kind in my room,” Jemima told him.

  Marcus could well imagine it, having some idea of Hortensia Harlington’s parsimony regarding her household expenses.

  The more he became acquainted with Jemima, the more reluctantly impressed he was with her. Before he had met her, he had come to imagine a spoilt, indolent girl, given Hortensia’s description of her. But while she was spirited to the point of impertinence, she was intelligent and had grace. What he had witnessed in London had not entirely been an act. A wild thing from Ireland she may be, but she had breeding.

  “You have not breakfasted, I suppose?” he inquired.

  Jemima owned that she had not. She was also hungry, but did not admit this. There had been ample provisions brought to her on a tray the previous evening, but such had been her fatigue that she had barely managed any of it. When she had awoken, the tray had long been cleared away.

  “Then you shall breakfast with me, in the library.” It was Marcus’s custom to be served rolls and preserves here when he was without guests at Southwell, which he usually was. Even when George Gresham was staying the two men tended to break their fast by the library fireplace. Albeit Gresham was typically a later riser than Southwell, keeping the more fashionable hours of town.

  Jemima was disconcerted by how courteous her guardian was being to her, treating her more like a guest than an unruly child. She had expected him to remain stern and order her to sit quietly in a corner, improving herself with a book of sermons, as Aunt Harlington had been wont to command.

  They sat in the library, on two comfortable chairs at either side of the fire. The air was chill this morning and Jemima appreciated its warmth. She thought how delightful this was, being in this glorious house, opposite the one man she had longed to be with. At least before she had realised his identity.

  Marcus spoke to her of the books in the Southwell collection, finding out how extensive her own reading was. He was gratified to discover that her knowledge of the classics was considerable, she had been well tutored. Of world events she knew far less, which he sought to rectify.

  “I will have The Times delivered here each morning. You will read it and acquaint yourself with the proceedings of parliament and other news of note. A husband will not wish his wife to be ignorant of world affairs,” he told her.

  Jemima could not imagine conversing with Sir Hubert about the grain laws. The mere thought of breakfasting with him made her shudder, dispelling her current happiness.

  Marcus noted her change of mood. “Something troubles you?”

  “I only wondered at the subjects Sir Hubert Frobisher may expect me to be conversant in,” Jemima said. She had absolutely no intention of ever conversing with him about anything. She would throw herself from a turret if all else failed.

  Perhaps, if her guardian did commit her to an asylum, he might later relent and come to her aid himself as the wronged Louisa’s swain had done. She looked up at him through her lashes, wondering if there might be some way to beguile him and persuade him against his course. But there was something about his resolve and the set of his strong jaw that reminded her of granite.

  “There are many subjects that a husband would wish his wife to be conversant in,” Marcus said. “After all, you will have to entertain his guests, and they would not wish to be bored by trivial tales and nonsense.”

  He rose, for they had finished their repast. “At this hour it is my custom to attend to estate business. If you wish to explore the grounds you may do so. Return here by eleven, and I will show you the house.

  “And the stables?” Jemima could not resist asking.

  Her guardian smiled, and for a moment he was like the charming, mysterious man she had first met. “If you prefer to visit the stables, we will do so. If the weather stays fine we may ride this afternoon.”

  Jemima had no riding habit, having borrowed one of Kitty’s on previous occasions, but she would make do somehow.

  “Thank you, my lord.”

  The prospect of riding with her guardian was as thrilling as the prospect of riding itself. For now, she would venture out and investigate the ruins. It would be something to tell Kitty of, at least, were she to discover traces of the Southwell spectre.

  Chapter 16

  Late that day the Earl of Southwell escorted his ward to the stables. Not being closely acquainted with female attire, he did not remark upon her lack of riding dress. He noticed only the eager shine in her eyes as they approached the area where his horses were kept.

  He took her first to show her the horse that he had selected for her to ride. This was a beautiful dappled grey mare named Dowsabel.

  Jemima liked the mare instantly, but could not suppress a twinge of disappointment. Dowsabel was exactly the kind of horse that most ladies would be delighted to ride. She would manage a graceful canter and be easy to control. She reminded Jemima of the horses that she usually rode with Kitty, who would have been very pleased with a mare as fine as Dowsabel. But Jemima yearned for the wild, challenging mounts she had ridden freely in Ireland. Even at a young age, she had been fearless on horseback.

  She had also ridden astride, but had decided not to reveal this to her guardian. Doubtless he would expect her to ride side-saddle, as Lord Elstone had done. But the moment he was out of sight, Jemima resolved to ride her own way.

  In the paddock she espied a vast, black stallion being led across the field by a young boy with a limp. Jemima caught her breath. Now this was a mount worth her attention! From his wild, rolling eyes to the arrogant snort of his flared nostrils, and his incr
edible height, she knew at once that she longed to ride him.

  “What horse is that?” she asked her guardian, trying to conceal her interest.

  Marcus looked at the horse and boy. “That uncontrollable beast is Satan. I advise you to stay well clear of him. He was un-broke when I purchased him, and I am increasingly uncertain as to whether he ever will be broken. He tolerates Juan, but that is about the extent of it.”

  He introduced Jemima to the boy, a dark haired, olive skinned lad. Jemima was surprised to hear Marcus speak to him in a foreign tongue, which she quickly guessed was Spanish. Marcus was asking him a question but the boy shook his head. “No further progress, then?” Marcus commented in English.

  “Sin progresso,” the boy replied.

  Another groom appeared, leading a handsome chestnut horse which was saddled for Marcus to ride. Marcus first helped Jemima onto Dowsabel, and she shifted herself onto the despised side-saddle. It might be an elegant way for a lady to ride but it was not practical if one wanted to gallop like the wind over the hilltops.

  Marcus mounted the chestnut horse, Valiant, and they rode out into the park. “We will take a turn around the grounds, and then venture onto the downs if you are not too tired,” he told her.

  Tired by a gentle trot around the park! Jemima might have laughed, except she was trying to avoid angering him. “Juan is from Spain?” she asked.

  “Yes. As you may have seen, he is lame. His leg was crippled in an accident. I came across him at a tavern where he was working as an ostler’s boy. He has an uncanny way with animals, and I had need of a groom. So I hired him and brought him back to England with me,” Marcus told her.

  “I imagine on horseback the leg is no issue,” Jemima said. “It must give him a freedom that he is denied on foot.”

  Marcus glanced at her, appreciating her insight. “That is so. When riding he is whole. I still have hopes he may conquer Satan, for I have long feared that it is a task beyond any other groom or stable hand.”

  He led them around the lake, which was even more vast than Jemima had imagined. The front of it was bordered by lawns that reached to the southern facade of Southwell. The back was surrounded by woodlands of beech, interspersed with ash and sycamore.

  “There is an island?” Jemima asked.

  Marcus was amused by the excitement in her eyes. “There are two. You see there the central one. There is also a larger one on the eastern side, accessible by a bridge, where one of my ancestors built a stone folly. Though I fear the bridge has fallen into disrepair in recent years and may no longer be safe to cross. It is wisest for you to avoid doing so.”

  Jemima could swim, so a rotting bridge did not deter her. She dutifully agreed not to try the bridge though she had every intention of doing so and exploring the folly.

  “And the island that we see from here?”

  “That is accessible only by boat,” Marcus told her. “There is little to be found there, however. It is mainly a nesting place for wildfowl and is marshy and reedy.” He was again gratified by her interest. “I will have them repair the boat, and when I return, I will row you there,” he promised.

  Marcus had more matters to attend to in the afternoon. He arranged for the Reverend Norwood to school his ward in Greek and Latin and provide whatever religious instruction he deemed fit.

  There was no time to advertise for a companion for Jemima, so Marcus approached his steward. His steward referred the matter to the housekeeper. By fortunate chance, Mrs Marland knew of a respectable widow, in reduced circumstances, who might be suitable for the position. This woman, a Mrs Owen, currently resided with her married sister in Southwell Dene, the village some three miles from Southwell.

  It was settled. The maid Elsie would remain until this lady was installed at Southwell. Marcus was satisfied that his ward would be adequately supervised.

  He dined with her that night. Early the next morning he would need to set off for London, before journeying to Spain. The business there had been delayed long enough, and the political situation grew more sensitive every day.

  Looking at his ward across the candlelight Marcus privately regretted that he could not stay longer. Separation was wisest, he considered.

  Jemima was animated in her conversation, telling him tales of her childhood in Ireland. Her arrival at Southwell was the first time in years that she had felt at home somewhere, even though she was a stranger to the place.

  "You are satisfied with Southwell, then?" Marcus asked her.

  Jemima thought it was an absurd question. How could anyone be dissatisfied with such a beautiful house? And even if she were not, it was hardly her place to say it. "Of course, my lord."

  "Mrs Owen, who will be a companion to you, should arrive next week. Until then Mrs Marland will attend to any needs you may have."

  Her guardian clearly knew little of these female matters, Jemima thought. He had also not mentioned any of the kinds of duties that Aunt Harlington had endlessly burdened her with. Mending, hemming, embroidery, all of which Jemima was quite useless at. She supposed that with such a large staff, there might be no need for her to assist with household tasks.

  She was free from Aunt Harlington’s dreary improving literature as well. Other than The Times, her guardian had not prescribed any reading material for her, due to which she presumed she was free to read what she liked. She doubted that the library at Southwell would contain many novels, but there must be something of interest among its extensive shelves.

  Marcus took port in the library afterwards, and found himself inviting his ward to accompany him.

  Jemima stood there by the fireplace, warming her hands. There had been a draught in the Great Hall where they had dined and she had deliberately worn her lowest cut gown. Not that it was in any way daring by general standards, but compared to the rest of her wardrobe it was at least acceptable.

  The firelight illuminated her skin, reflecting in her eyes. Her arms were slim and white as she held them out before her.

  The sight of her was too much for any man to take, Marcus thought. To distract himself from gazing at her he fetched a book of verse and suggested that she take it to her room to read, if she found herself unable to sleep.

  "Thank you, my lord." She paused, looking up at him, then lowering her eyelashes. "I would that we had met in different circumstances."

  Coming from a more sophisticated woman this line might have been a form of coquetry. From Jemima, it was simply sincere.

  "Alas, we did not." Marcus was conflicted at the present time as to whether he honestly regretted this or not. Had he met her earlier, or even brought her to Southwell to live, the relations between them might have developed in quite a different way. She would have regarded him more as a parent, perhaps, or at least an elder brother.

  As it was, he did not know quite where he stood with her. She was forced to accept his authority, but whether she now saw him as a man or merely as her guardian, he could not say.

  He felt an impulse to have her call him by his Christian name, for her deference to him was making him feel uncustomarily old. There was something in the way that she said "my lord" that put more distance between them than he might have wished. He knew this situation was of his own making, but could not quite bring himself to confess the truth just yet.

  "You may also feel at liberty to read anything else you wish within the library. Your husband might well desire to converse with you on a particular author or work. It is commendable for a woman to be well versed in literature," Marcus said.

  The prospect of discussing these works with Sir Hubert Frobisher once again dimmed Jemima’s happiness, reminding her as it did of her purpose in being at Southwell. "I will study as best I can," she said, her voice grown listless.

  Gazing upon her, the same devilry that had inspired Marcus to deceive her as to his matrimonial intentions once again overtook him. Aware that his behaviour made him worse than any rakehell, he took a step towards his ward.

  "Knowledge of li
terature is, of course, but one of the areas your future husband might wish you to be proficient in. He will also expect you to be receptive to his attentions in other ways," Marcus said.

  Jemima looked up at him, confused but keenly aware of his proximity. He seemed taller than ever before as he loomed over her, an inscrutable expression in his eyes.

  "You will need to know how to accept and respond to his physical advances," her guardian told her.

  Before Jemima could recoil at the thought of such a thing with Sir Hubert, she was startled by Marcus placing his hands on her shoulders. He drew her towards him, and the next moment he had brought his mouth down on hers.

  It was as she remembered. His lips on hers. Warm, firm, growing more persistent. Forcing her to yield to him so he could taste her. His hands now moving to her waist which he clasped, drawing her towards him.

  Jemima was lost. Heat and desire coursed through her body. Involuntarily she reciprocated. She had dreamt of this - longed for it - ever since that moment on the balcony at the last ball.

  Then he broke off the embrace, and an enigmatic smile played on his lips. "That was a commendable first performance," he told her. "With a little more practice, I trust that you will not wholly disappoint your future spouse."

  In the solitude of her bedchamber, Jemima felt herself flushed with heat as she recalled her guardian’s embrace. What could it mean? It was not usual, she was certain, for young women to receive such instruction. Music and dancing lessons, certainly, were part of the education a young woman might expect in preparation for society and eventual marriage. But being taught how to embrace a man?

  There was no one she could consult about this. She felt the lack of a mother or an elder sister quite keenly. For a moment she imagined confiding such a thing to Aunt Harlington, and the thought of that woman’s reaction turned her consternation into laughter. Only imagine Hortensia Harlington learning that her nephew had twice kissed his ward! She would either disbelieve it, or she would be apoplectic with shock.