by M. C. Beaton
“At least he must be very rich,” thought Patricia, “unless he has already started spending my money on himself.”
Then she crossed to the bed and flung back the blankets and sheets. She carefully placed the stuffed hedgehog where she estimated his feet would be when he lay down, covered up the bed again, and retreated to the nursery to have a long and delicious gossip with Miss Simpkin, who declared herself to be dizzy with relief that she was not to leave her beloved Miss Patricia after all. Nanny had woken up and demanded to hear all about Lord Charles.
Meanwhile, Lord Charles had decided to go to bed. He would travel to London in the morning and ask his married friends if they knew of a suitable governess.
Firkin and one of the first footmen lighted his way to bed.
The butler made a clucking sound of disapproval. He walked forward and straightened the bedclothes and then turned down the blankets and sheet at one corner in the way they were supposed to be. He privately resolved to give the chambermaid, Mary, a stern lecture as soon as he got back downstairs.
Lord Charles watched him thoughtfully. He picked up one of the candles from the toilet table and looked at the bed.
“I am sorry everything was not just so, my lord,” said Firkin. “I cannot understand it. My girls are very well trained.”
“Never mind, Firkin,” said Lord Charles. “That will be all. Oh, by the way, where does Miss Patricia sleep?”
“Miss Patricia has the Rose Room in the west wing, my lord.”
“And is it rose? This is called the Blue Room and yet there isn’t any blue in it. The walls are Nile green.”
“Ah, that is because everything was repainted the year before the master and mistress died. But you will find the names of each room on a card in the cardholder on each door. When guests are staying, we put their names on the cards as well, so that it is easy for everyone to know where everyone else is lodged.”
“Very sensible. Thank you, Firkin. I shall be leaving for London in the morning and I hope to return in a week’s time.”
“Very good, my lord. I shall send your manservant up to you.”
“No, leave him. We had a long journey and I am quite capable of looking after myself. Do not touch my boots. I prefer to clean them myself. But you may take my coat away for brushing.”
The butler hesitated. “Does Miss Patricia know you are leaving so soon, my lord?”
“No, I only decided to go a short time ago. Do not trouble her with the news until after I have left. Tell the steward, Jackson, to have the estate books ready for me to look at when I come back. Now, that is definitely all.”
Firkin and the footman bowed their way out. Lord Charles again looked thoughtfully at the bed. Then he went over and ripped the bedclothes back. He picked up the stuffed hedgehog and ran a finger slowly over its prickles.
He walked out of the room and along the landing. Patricia’s clear laugh sounded from the nursery above.
He continued on his way to the west wing.
Fifteen minutes later, Patricia bid a fond good night to Nanny Evans and Miss Simpkin. She had not told them of putting the hedgehog in Lord Charles’s bed. She knew that even those two indulgent ladies would be shocked. She undressed, grinning to herself as she thought of Lord Charles thrusting his bare feet down on the hedgehog.
She brushed her hair, looking ruefully at the shorn mess. It had been quite long only a week ago, but Patricia had seen one of the new styles in La Belle Assemblée and had been convinced she could achieve the same result by cutting her hair herself.
She climbed into bed, blew out the candles, and snuggled down under the blankets.
And then she let out a piercing scream. With a shaking hand she lit the bed candle and groped beneath the bedclothes.
She pulled out the hedgehog and her fear changed to fury.
“Nothing!” she called to the anxious servants outside her door, who were demanding to know why she had screamed. “I had a nightmare, that is all.”
It was quite a while before her heart stopped thumping against her ribs. She had had a bad fright.
That she might have given Lord Charles an equally bad fright did not occur to her.
“You have not won,” vowed Miss Patricia Patterson. “I shall get even with you yet, Lord Charles Gaunt!”
Chapter 2
The fact that Lord Charles had gone to London to find her a governess did not cross Patricia’s mind when she found out the next morning that he had already left. Although Firkin told her that Lord Charles would return after a week to inspect the estate ledgers, she quickly convinced herself that he had already tired of her and the whole situation, and would only come back for brief visits. After all, yesterday had been his first visit in nine years.
The weather had turned cold and steel-gray, and the farmers spoke of smelling snow on the wind.
Lord Charles’s remarks about her appearance still rankled in Patricia’s bosom. She was a good needlewoman. She studied all the fashion plates in a great pile of magazines she had amassed and decided to make herself a stately gown in scarlet merino, and to engage the services of a hairdresser.
This involved a five-mile journey to the nearest town, Barminster, which claimed to boast the finest shops outside London, and where, it was said, a French emigré had set up a hairdressing business. Miss Simpkin enjoyed the outing as much as Patricia. A bolt of red merino was bought and the hairdresser found and requested to present himself on the morrow at Burnham House. Then Patricia and Miss Simpkin went to a pastry cook’s to drink tea and eat cakes.
“That is a fine figure of a man,” said Patricia, waving her teaspoon in the direction of a young army captain who was strutting past. The young man looked across at the window at that moment and saw Patricia sitting in the bay. She threw him a roguish look and then demurely lowered her eyes.
“You are naughty,” giggled Miss Simpkin. “Only look! He seems quite épris.”
But Patricia abruptly lost interest in the captain.
“Would you say Lord Charles is very old?” she asked.
“No, my dear. A very fine figure of a man. About thirty, I should think.”
“Firkin says he visited us when I was very young.”
“I cannot remember. Such a lot of titled young men came to stay. Your father dearly loved entertaining, as you know.”
“Is Lord Charles rich?”
“I believe him to be very rich, yes.”
“But I remember you were saying only the other week that he was a younger son. Younger sons don’t have money.”
“Let me see,” said Miss Simpkin. “Oh, do but look! That delicious army captain is still outside, looking at you.”
“No, I don’t want to look. Go on.”
“About Lord Charles? Yes, well, his elder brother is the heir when their father, the Earl of Dunster, dies. The countess is dead. Lord Charles fought in the wars against that monster Bonaparte, but he got the fever and had to be sent home. He turned his mind to investments and funds and Consoles, and business things like that—only gentlemen understand that sort of thing. It was said he prospered and became very rich in his own right. He has estates in the North.”
“You are so well-informed, Simpers. How do you do it?”
“It is all those county balls and things, my love. Us old chaperones have nothing else to do but gossip while you young things dance. Will you be going to the assembly here next week? Lord Charles was quite shocked that you had been to so many balls when you are not even ‘out.’”
“Even children go to this assembly,” said Patricia. “Even he cannot object. Simpers, stop looking at that captain. Lord Charles would be quite outraged if he could see you.”
Miss Simpkin giggled and drank her tea. Watching her Patricia began to worry for the first time about whether Miss Simpkin was not too loose and silly in her ways to be in charge of a young girl. She had never really thought of it before. Her mother had not found fault with the governess, but then her mother had hardly ever v
isited the nursery or the schoolroom. Miss Simpkin was only expected to have Patricia dressed and brushed and presented in the drawing room for half an hour before dinner, before taking her back to the nursery.
Patricia frowned. Her parents had always seemed very fond and loving when she saw them at these specially arranged times. But they had never, even when she was ill, gone out of their way to seek her out and ask after her well-being.
The servants were instructed to wait on her hand and foot, Miss Simpkin was instructed to see that she had all the novels and magazines, dresses and ribbons her heart desired.
Patricia frowned even more, searching for the memory of perhaps one caress.
“Mama must have held me in her arms and rocked me when I was a baby,” she said suddenly.
Miss Simpkin looked startled. “Mrs. Patterson would not need to do anything like that. You had a wet-nurse, and then of course there was always nanny.”
“I have been brought up by two eccentric aged spinsters,” thought Patricia, and then immediately felt disloyal. Nanny Evans and Miss Simpkin were both diamonds of the first water, and yet…
“Where did you come from, Simpers? I never thought to ask. I mean, before you came to Burnham House?”
Miss Simpkin neatly turned the dregs of her tea into her saucer and tried to read the leaves left in the cup. Then she sighed.
“I was very grateful to get the post. I had had my own seminary in Bath, you know. But… but something happened that gave me an uneasy conscience and… and… I was glad to leave. Please do not ask me any more about it. It was not the happiest of times.”
“Miss Patterson and Miss Simpkin!” The Misses Grant, two dashing local beauties, had just come into the pastry cook’s. Emily and Agnes Grant were twins and a few years older than Patricia. Patricia was rather jealous of them, but did not realize it. The girls joined Patricia and her governess and started to ply them with questions about Lord Charles. Patricia was not surprised that they had heard of his visit. Servants’ gossip traveled like lightning in the country.
Patricia said he was a bullying ogre, and the sisters laughed and said that a rich, unmarried lord must be all that was delightful. Gossip then turned to the fascinating subject of gowns and bonnets.
As Patricia finally rose to leave, she suddenly asked Emily and Agnes, “Did your mother hug and kiss you much when you were small?”
Both sisters looked startled. “Of course not,” said Agnes. “Ladies never do that, dear Miss Patterson. Only very common people do that. A lady sends for her children from time to time the way she sends for her servants. All the care is left to wet-nurses and nannies. What a very odd question!”
Patricia felt reassured. Her own upbringing appeared to have been perfectly normal. Miss Simpkin was just an ordinary governess. The sisters, for example, seemed to find nothing amiss with her.
But as soon as she left the pastry cook’s, Patricia thought, “When I have children, I will sing lullabies to them and hold them when they are frightened.” The dashing captain swept off his hat as she passed, but Patricia did not even notice him. “Perhaps I am vulgar after all,” she thought. “It appears that only very common people have a fondness for their children.”
The following day was pleasantly taken up with the hairdresser’s visit. He had to stay the whole day because Patricia’s hair was put into hot roulers—clay sausage shapes—and he had to wait to take them out and complete the coiffure.
He left the roulers with Patricia, advising her to grow her hair and wear it in looser curls. Since her hair had a natural wave, he said, he thought that once it had grown a certain length, he could cut it in such a way that it would curl naturally.
Patricia was delighted with the effect of the soft hairstyle and only wished the horrible Lord Charles could see how mondaine she looked.
Unfortunately for Patricia, Lord Charles had found a governess very quickly. Married friends, the Lucases, had employed a certain Miss Deborah Sinclair to teach their two boys when the children were very small. The boys were now six and seven respectively and Mr. and Mrs. Lucas wished to replace her with a male tutor. They praised Miss Sinclair highly. Lord Charles was impressed with the governess’s appearance. She was only about a year younger than himself, and had a calm, well-bred air.
She further pleased him by saying she was prepared to leave and take up her duties immediately.
He explained the situation as they drove back to Burnham House. Patricia, he said, had been sadly spoiled. She must have lessons and more lessons. She must stop her hoydenish ways so that he could put her on the Marriage Market as soon as was decently possible. Girls like Patricia quieted down when they were respectably married.
Miss Sinclair sat listening quietly, admiring his lordship’s deep voice and handsome profile.
“You will also find,” said Lord Charles, “that her doting nanny and present governess will try to continue to spoil her. Try not to offend them. Report any interference to me and let me deal with it. Patricia must be disciplined. If she is allowed to go on the way she has been going on, she will probably run off with the first half-pay rattle in a scarlet coat who takes her fancy.
“Furthermore, her clothes are not suitable for her age and her hair is a mess. She will need much schooling in order to present a modest appearance.
“At first sight, she may appear silly and vain, and yet she plays the pianoforte like an angel. No one can play like that unless they have a great deal of sensitivity and intelligence.”
“I shall do my best,” said Miss Sinclair. “Miss Patterson will be expecting me?”
“No, I left without telling her I was going or why I was going. I left word with the butler that I would be gone for a week, but I have been away only four days. As I told you, Burnham House is only a day’s drive. We shall be there a little after nightfall. You will take your meals in the family dining room, Miss Sinclair. Patricia needs to be schooled as much at table as in the schoolroom.”
Miss Sinclair turned pink with pleasure. The salary he had offered her was very generous and now she was to be treated like a lady instead of like an upper servant. Miss Sinclair sent up a silent prayer to God to aid her in the breaking of Patricia Patterson’s rebellious spirit, to aid her in pleasing this wonderful aristocrat who was treating her with such courtesy and kindness.
Miss Sinclair was not, however, prepared to discover that Miss Patricia Patterson was a raving beauty.
Nor, for that matter, was Lord Charles.
The scarlet merino gown, with its simple classic lines and modest neckline was a miracle of dressmaking. Instead of clashing with the color of her hair, it appeared to enhance it. The softer hairstyle of loose curls prettily framed her face, making her look like a Botticelli angel.
There was also a subtle air of hauteur about her which disconcerted Miss Sinclair. It did not disconcert Lord Charles, who was shrewder than Miss Sinclair and knew that the new grande dame manner was adopted.
Things went smoothly at dinner. Lord Charles and Miss Sinclair discoursed on the political topics of the day, while Patricia maintained her stately manner but privately thought she would die of boredom.
Trouble did not start until the following morning when Miss Sinclair roused Patricia from a deep sleep and told her to present herself in the schoolroom. Patricia yawned and went back to sleep.
Miss Sinclair shook Patricia awake again, and Patricia threw a pillow at the governess’s head.
Miss Sinclair returned with two chambermaids. Patricia haughtily told them to leave her bedchamber immediately. But Lord Charles had informed the staff in no uncertain terms that Miss Sinclair was to have absolute control of Patricia and that the governess’s word was law. At a nod from Miss Sinclair, the chambermaids tipped the amazed and shocked Patricia out of bed, and then showed every sign of dressing her by force.
Pushing them out of the room in a fury and slamming the door, Patricia scrambled into her clothes after a token wash and presented herself in the schoolroom.
Miss Sinclair looked thoughtfully at the clay roulers in Patricia’s hair and told her to go and remove them. Miss Patterson must present herself in the schoolroom looking neat and fully dressed, not in her undress.
Patricia ranted and screamed that she was mistress in her own house and would do as she pleased. Miss Sinclair simply went out of the schoolroom and locked Patricia in, saying she might stay there until she had come to her senses.
Patricia just could not believe all this was happening. Miss Simpkin came to the door and stood outside, crying helplessly, but hiccupping there was nothing she could do. The hours passed into afternoon. Patricia was hungry and bored.
At last, she forced open the window, which had jammed with the damp, and climbed down the ivy.
Snow was beginning to fall, delicate, glittering, feathery flakes. Patricia shivered and walked along the terrace to let herself in through the french windows of the drawing room.
But there they were, Miss Sinclair and Lord Charles, sitting on either side of a blazing fire, making as pretty and cozy a picture as anyone—other than Miss Patricia Patterson—could wish to see. Lord Charles was reading a newspaper and Miss Sinclair was knitting, her long white fingers holding the steel pins. Her heavy brown hair was wound into a neat coil at the nape of the neck. Her gown was dove gray. She looked the epitome of domestic femininity.
Lord Charles lowered his paper and said something and Miss Sinclair smiled. Lord Charles put down his newspaper, stood up, and threw another log on the fire. Firkin entered with the tea tray and set the silver pot and the pretty blue and gold cups down in front of Miss Sinclair. She smiled on him graciously.
The rising wind tugged at Patricia’s gown, but so incandescent with rage was she that she did not feel the cold. From the terrace she picked up a plant in its heavy stone pot and hurled it through the window.
There was a tremendous shattering of glass. Splinters flew all over the room.
Lord Charles leaped through the giant gaping hole in the french window, seized Patricia, and shook her till her teeth rattled.
