Teaching His Ward: A Regency Romance

by Noël Cades

Finally, wiping his eyes, George was able to speak. “You must forgive my amusement, Southwell. But it is a plot more diverting than anything found a theatrical comedy. Are you to tell me that you had no notion whatsoever of who she was?”

  The worst of George’s reaction over, Marcus eased a fraction. “No notion. I had not seen the girl, if you recall, having been so often abroad in the years since my father died.”

  “Did she have any notion of who you were?”

  “Apparently not.”

  George gave another guffaw of laughter. “By Jove, that would have been some shock. Who learnt of the other’s identity first?”

  “She did, hence her rapid flight from town,” Marcus told him, finally raising his brandy and taking a draft.

  George was deriving huge entertainment from the story. “What now, then? Spanked and sent back to the schoolroom? Or do you have other intentions? Intentions of the matrimonial kind, perhaps.”

  Marcus recalled his initial proposal to Jemima. It had been more of a command than a proposal, it must be admitted. Little wonder, perhaps, that it had been misunderstood. “My ward currently finds herself opposed to the prospect of matrimony.”

  “Opposed? I should have thought from the manner in which she… not to mention… I mean to say…” George trailed off, uncertain how to frame his observances with the necessary tact.

  Marcus shifted in his chair. “It may be that she labours under a misapprehension as to whom she will enter the state of matrimony with.”

  “A misapprehension?”

  Marcus had already been feeling growing misgivings at having his ward remain unenlightened as to his true intentions, and was not entirely able to conceal this. He was not one who, in the style discouraged by Iago, wore his heart upon his sleeve. But at that moment he wondered if his own conduct stood up to any greater scrutiny than that character’s deceit and manipulation. With this in mind, he resolved not to tell George Gresham the whole of it.

  “A misunderstanding, nothing more. I embark for Spain tomorrow. Meanwhile I have sent her to reside at Southwell.”

  George grinned. “Less prospect of another abscondment, eh? Or for the notorious Lord Dalyrmple to interfere. I take it that connection is now severed?”

  “Such that there was to sever,” Marcus said. “His existence was no less of a figment of a mischievous imagination than that of Lady Julia.”

  Lord Dalrymple was, however, to receive a brief resurrection. Marcus found himself the next day at a house in St James’s Square, following the receipt of a letter from Miss Beatrice Berystede.

  He had already considered making such a visit, to express his regrets over the conduct of his niece. He had thus far refrained however, not being cognisant of whether that household knew they had harboured an imposter. The arrival of the letter, however, suggested that they did.

  With her usual exquisite courtesy, Miss Berystede thanked him for granting her request for an interview. Marcus was reminded of his grandmother, and despite his own rank, briefly felt rather like a small boy in her presence.

  "It is very good of you to agree to see me, my lord. While we have not previously been acquainted, your great aunt was a dear childhood friend of mine. I even had the delight of staying at Southwell one summer, many years ago."

  Marcus told her that it would be his pleasure for her to revisit the estate. "Some structural changes to the east wing were required, following storm damage. But the grounds are maintained in much the same style as in my great grandfather’s day. If it would interest you to see the changes, you will be our welcome guest."

  "The gardens were designed by Mr Brown, were they not? I should indeed be glad to revisit them, though I travel infrequently these days. But I must come to the subject of my letter."

  Her tone was all gentility, but Marcus braced himself. "You have my attention, madam."

  "As you must be aware, we recently had the pleasure of your ward staying with us. Regardless of her little jest with Miss Elstone, I found her to be a very dear girl, blessed with both intelligence and spirit."

  "Little jest" indeed! "On that point, I feel obliged to offer my deepest apology…"

  Miss Berystede silenced the Earl of Southwell with a wave of her hand. "No need at all, my lord. Having discovered her jest, you of course kept a watchful eye upon her, rather than court scandal."

  Momentarily flummoxed, Marcus realised that Miss Berystede thought - or claimed to think - that his attentions to Jemima at the various assemblies were due to his having recognised her. He did not disabuse her of this notion, but neither did he confirm it. If it derived from a desire to be tactful rather than sincere belief, he would not reject her diplomacy.

  "I regret to think that my ward’s conduct" - Marcus could not bring himself to dismiss Jemima’s scheme as a "jest" - "may have caused you distress or inconvenience."

  Once again Miss Berystede dismissed this with a gracious gesture. "Not in the least. But this brings me to a rather delicate matter. Since Miss Carlow’s departure, there has been idle talk among those who would do better to read their Proverbs. Here I speak not for my own sake, but for the sake of your ward. The reputation of a young woman is fragile, unfairly so perhaps, but great damage may be done by foolish words and speculation."

  Awed as he was by Miss Berystede’s composure in the matter, Marcus was even more struck by that lady’s esteem for his ward. For it must be a high regard that underlay such consideration for Jemima’s reputation. A girl who had imposed herself on a household under a false name, and risked social ruin for them all.

  "Is there some course of action that you recommend?" he asked.

  A spark gleamed in Miss Berystede’s eye. "I wonder if a brief notice might be published in the Times, announcing the marriage in Ireland of Lady Julia Carlingford and Lord Dalrymple."

  “You think that would quell the wagging tongues of the ton?” Marcus asked.

  “It would go some way to doing so.” She nodded at the maid to pour the tea, then asked the Earl of Southwell if he would prefer a stronger beverage, but he declined.

  Miss Berystede asked for his thoughts on a couple of political matters that had recently made the news. Marcus was surprised at his hostess’s grasp of current events, and suspected she asked for his views out of politeness rather than her own edification. She was a woman who knew her own mind and would have her own opinions.

  Then she changed the subject. “As a girl, I knew cousins who were so alike they might have been twins, or certainly sisters. It led to some amusing confusions, I recall. Amelia was a year or two younger than Joanna, but both took very strongly after a paternal aunt.” She looked at Marcus with a very fixed eye.

  He was slow to grasp her point, initially uncertain as to why she suddenly spoke of these women of former years.

  Miss Berystede continued. “When Amelia made her debut, there was nearly a scandal when she was mistook for Joanna. Joanna was by that time betrothed to the Marquess of Hastings, so was not expected to be enjoying the attentions of a circle of admirers.”

  Finally Marcus began to understand. “You mean to suggest…”

  But Miss Berystede ignored his interruption. “In a few months’ time it would be quite natural for Miss Carlow, recently returned from her cousin’s wedding in Ireland, to make her own debut. With a different wardrobe and her hair arranged in a style befitting to a younger girl, I am sure that no one would mistake her for her cousin. Your former kind attentions to that cousin, a young woman with whose family you must also be well acquainted, must surely seem unremarkable.”

  She smiled, setting down her teacup for the maid to refill it. “I would of course be delighted to chaperone your ward, just as I recently chaperoned her cousin.”

  It was a plan as simple as it was brilliant. It would enable Jemima to reappear in society, untainted by scandal, with the tongue-waggers forced to swallow their tongues. Marcus could have applauded her.

  “I do not know how I can begin to repay your kindness,” said
.

  Miss Berystede dismissed this. There was a twinkle in her eye as she spoke. “I understand from a letter received by Miss Elstone that you may be planning your ward’s matrimony with a doubtless eligible suitor. If that is the case, she will wish to arrange her trousseau.”

  She knew, Marcus thought. He had no idea how she had guessed, but the subtle emphasis on “doubtless eligible” could not be missed. He thanked her again, privately wondering why this lady would be going out of her way to offer so much help.

  As if reading his mind, she answered for him. “If I can honour the memory of dear Lavinia by assisting her great-nephew, it would be a kindness on your part to allow me to do so. Your ward, I believe, will make a very fine wife for the right gentleman.”

  Once again the emphasis was on “right”. As he took his leave, Marcus felt once again like a very small boy whose tricks had been found out.

  Chapter 19

  Jemima’s stay at Southwell was not to be without incident. The house had initially felt very empty after her guardian had departed. She was alone, excepting the servants, at least until the widow Mrs Owen arrived.

  The first day Jemima took it upon herself to go riding and further her exploration of the grounds. She gave instructions to the grooms to saddle Dowsabel the conventional way, for she had no intention of riding side-saddle if there were no one there to observe her. Finally mounted and feeling a greater sense of freedom than she had done for many years, she set off for the downs.

  Before he left, her guardian had given her various instructions including whom to apply to in the household for various matters. He had told her to see Mr Briggs, the steward, if she were to need a letter franked and sent.

  "Am I to write to you?" Jemima had asked him.

  "There is no need, since my address is unlikely to be fixed. I am more likely to return here before receiving any letters in Spain," Marcus had said.

  "May I write to my friend Catherine?"

  Her guardian had given another of his enigmatic smiles. "So that you may lament your confinement here, and conspire as to your next escape? By all means write to your friend, if you wish."

  This had infuriated Jemima since this was exactly what she had been planning. "Do you mean to imply that my letters will be intercepted?"

  The Earl of Southwell had looked surprised at this and not a little insulted. "Your private correspondence is your own affair, Jemima. Jesting apart, I trust that you would not engage in any unseemly communication. As I have said, you are not a prisoner here. It is not my custom to pry into the personal letters of my household."

  "I beg your pardon, my lord. My aunt Harlington supervised all my correspondence, so I presumed you might wish to do likewise."

  Marcus had guessed as such. "I imagine she did not view that last letter you sent to me."

  Jemima had had the grace to blush. "She did not. I did not think that she would have approved of it."

  "It was certainly a diversion from your earlier letters, as misguided as it was," Marcus had said.

  He had not instructed her to correspond with Sir Hubert, which was some small relief. But although she was free to write to Kitty as she liked, Jemima somehow felt constrained from doing so. Her guardian trusted her, and although she bitterly resented his plans for her, she felt an odd reluctance to betray his trust.

  With the wind in her hair as Dowsabel galloped gracefully over the hilltop, Jemima thought back to this conversation. She had been left troubled by it, though she did not precisely know why.

  At any rate, she would make the best of these months to improve her learning. If she put her nose to the grindstone with Thucydides, Theocritus and Tacitus, perhaps she would be able to persuade her guardian that her true calling was to be a governess.

  Anything but marriage to a lecherous old man thrice her age.

  Looking down from the crest of the land, Jemima saw one of the maids in the field below, gathering mushrooms. Suddenly the girl dropped the basket she was carrying and doubled over.

  Jemima rode towards her and quickly dismounted. "What is wrong? Are you injured?" she asked, helping the maid up. As she did so, she quickly perceived what the matter was.

  Mary Ellis was in a condition far more advanced than might have been assumed given the date of her nuptials but two months ago. A careful draping of her skirts and apron had thus far concealed this state from the rest of the household.

  Jemima knew nothing of this. She only recognised that the young woman was in great distress, and like mares she had seen in her father’s stable back in Ireland, was about to foal.

  "Let me help you," she offered, but the girl looked terrified.

  "Oh no, miss. I must get home." Then she was seized with another grip of pain, and Jemima tried to support her.

  "We must get you back to the house. I think… your time is due," Jemima said.

  The maid was breathing rapidly, perspiration breaking out over her brow. She could barely stand and Jemima could not leave her. She looked around, hoping that she might hail some passer-by and send for help. But there was no one.

  So Jemima sat with her in the long, damp grass, wondering what on earth to do. "Could you get on horseback, if I help you up?" she suggested.

  But Mary merely groaned and cried out as her body underwent another convulsion.

  These things were not immediate, Jemima knew. With mares they took many hours. And Mrs Minchin, the wife of one of Aunt Hortensia’s neighbours, had been confined to her room for two days before her good news was proclaimed. Jemima was not supposed to have known what was going on, of course. Such things were not for the ears of young maidens. But she had been with her aunt in the draper’s shop and had overheard a conversation between two customers. "She was brought to bed late last night." "There is no further news as yet?" "Not yet, but Ma Bunting is gone there." Ma Bunting, Jemima knew, was the local midwife.

  It was not until the following day that glad tidings were brought to Harlington House of the arrival of a small son. So Jemima presumed that this maid had plenty of time to get back to Southwell, where the necessary preparations could be made. She could not know that poor Mary’s pains had begun a day ago, and were just now rapidly increasing.

  Mary, thus, would not be moved. She clutched at Jemima’s arm the next time the pain came, and Jemima could only sit there helpless, wondering what she was to do. Was it coming now, in this field?

  The maid had got herself into a crouched position, and was now panting heavily. Were she a horse, the foal would be imminent. Jemima stayed by her, murmuring much the same words of encouragement that she had done to Emerald Lass many years ago.

  What came to pass came to pass, and Jemima tore off her own petticoat so that they might have something to wrap the mite in. Never having seen such a young infant before, she felt a sense of wonder at something so small, yet so alive.

  Her own garments were by now a sorry sight, both she and Mary in some dishevelment from the exertions.

  "I must fetch help, dear. For if you cannot ride, then you must be carried back," Jemima said. "I will return very soon. Only wait here a short while."

  Mary, calmer now with exhaustion and relief though still fearful, acquiesced.

  Mrs Marland received the shock of her life to witness her employer’s ward galloping back at full speed, her clothes torn and bearing the stains of a battleground. "Miss Carlow! Whatever can have happened?"

  "It is the maid Mary. She is well… they are well. Mary and the baby. She cannot come down from the field, so I came to fetch help to transport her."

  The housekeeper was quite overwhelmed. Having had no notion of the maid’s condition, she little knew what to think. But she was a woman of sense and pragmatism, and she arranged for a conveyance to be sent.

  That a young lady of gentle birth should have assisted in such a situation was unprecedented. Miss Carlow could not have known of Mary’s disgrace, but to have gone so far as to rend her own clothes to help a mere kitchen maid! Mrs Marling shud
dered to think what the Earl’s reaction might have been, though for her own part, she greatly approved of Jemima.

  Thus Jemima inadvertently made a remarkable impression on the Earl of Southwell’s household. While those of her own echelon of society might have condemned her actions as rash and ill-becoming a lady, there was no such disapprobation from the staff. Her assistance to the kitchenmaid only elevated their regard for her.

  Mrs Marland had attempted to explain to Jemima why Mr Briggs had felt obliged to dismiss Thomas Ellis, who worked as an under gardener.

  "You must understand, Miss Carlow, it was less than two months ago that the pair of them were married at Southwell Dene. I am afraid that all this time… so you see…"

  Jemima did not see at all. "They are lawfully wed, then?"

  "Indeed. By the Reverend Norwood. But of course he did not realise…"

  Jemima interrupted the housekeeper. "Since it is now all lawful and regular, and the man has a wife and child to support, it would hardly be an act of Christian charity to dismiss him, would it?"

  Even though Jemima had no authority whatsoever to intervene in household affairs, she had a natural command that was as courteous as it was firm. This, combined with her own involvement in Mary Ellis’s case, sufficed for Mrs Marland to acquiesce to her wishes. Mr Briggs was informed that the man Ellis must stay, and so he did.

  This only increased the reverence among the lower orders for their master’s ward. The happy result was that Jemima encountered nothing but compliance in every scheme and stratagem. She rode whatever mount she desired, wherever she wished on the estate and surrounding downs. Some odd sense of consideration for her guardian kept her away from Southwell Dene. To ride astride and even bareback in the private domain of Southwell was one thing, but to do so in front of outsiders was crossing a dangerous line.

  Mrs Owen arrived on the first Friday. She was a very quiet woman, not out of shyness but simply because it was her custom to be so. Jemima liked her, and though she immediately realised that Mrs Owen would present no hindrance to any of her plans, something within her shrank from bamboozling this quiet and dignified person.