by M. C. Beaton
Jean looked at him uneasily. “I feel you are too harsh. I know they behaved disgracefully by pushing me in that tarn, but I cannot help feeling that a horsewhipping was the wrong sort of punishment.”
“They were not horsewhipped.”
“But the screams of anguish … the cries for help.”
“They were enduring a bath. Cleanliness is a form of refined torture to their minds. They have been unusually meek and biddable since, but that may be because of my threat to hand them over to the authorities if they stepped out of line again. Nonetheless, you should be on your guard at all times.”
“There is the matter of pin money for them,” Jean said. “Have you thought of that?”
“Yes, I will give you a sum each quarter for them, and you can give them money when the occasion demands it. I assume they have not had any since their father died.”
“And yet their room was full of boxes of chocolates and sugarplums,” Jean mused. “I took it upon myself to give all the sweetmeats to the staff. I wonder where they got the money to buy such a quantity?”
“Probably had a great deal left over from whatever allowance their father gave them. Do you plan to diet them—like Byron—on potatoes and vinegar?”
“I am sure with exercise and normal, healthful meals, they will soon be a more pleasing shape.”
“I see the piano has been moved down here,” he said, looking over his shoulder. “Play something for me, Miss Morrison.”
She obediently went to the piano and began to play. When she finally looked around, the viscount was fast asleep.
Jean went over to him and stood for a few moments, looking down. It was odd to think of a man as being beautiful, but the viscount had an extraordinary beauty. His golden hair was tumbled over his brow. She half put out a hand to smooth it back from his brow. His eyes opened, and he stared up at her sleepily.
Jean snatched her hand back and stammered out, “Good night” before fleeing from the room.
Chapter 3
DURING THE TWO WEEKS that followed, Jean Morrison was happier than she had ever been before. The days were cloudless and warm and full of activity. In the mornings she would start teaching her two charges at eight o’clock promptly and continue until noon, when a cold collation would be served in the schoolroom. In the afternoons she would supervise riding lessons for the girls, having learned, to her surprise, that they did not know how to ride.
There were a few nasty little battles in the early days because Amanda and Clarissa blamed their horses for every fall and would have thrashed the poor animals had they not been forcibly restrained by Jean and the grooms. Slowly they mastered the art and came to enjoy it. After the riding lessons, there were fittings for their new gowns and then some piano practice.
Jean looked forward to the highlight of the day, which was dinner, when she could sit across the table from the viscount and listen to his pleasant voice. And after dinner they would retire to the library and Jean would read to them all, the viscount finding it more pleasant to listen to her soft Scottish voice than to sit in solitary state in the dining room with the port decanter.
He did feel at times ludicrously like a settled family man, watching the glow of Jean’s bright hair in the lamplight and seeing the now-slimmer twins sitting, holding hands, listening intently to every word. Their reading skills had improved immensely, but, like the viscount, they enjoyed Jean’s readings although they could not for the world have admitted such, telling each other that it was as well to see the governess earned her keep.
The viscount was also beginning to bask in a rare feeling of achievement. The ins and outs of agriculture were daily becoming more interesting. He also found himself thinking more of cottagers as people and less as some rare breed of cattle who had to be kept in good coat. A school was going to be built on the estate and also a small church, the nearest church being in St. Giles. He had been surprised to find that Jean Morrison thought it his duty to hold a service on Sunday mornings in the hall of the castle for the servants and tenants, and he had amiably complied although looking forward to the day when the church would be completed and some vicar would take the burden of religious instruction off his hands.
To his surprise, the vicar of St. Anne’s in St. Giles refused point-blank to come to the castle and undertake the religious instruction of the girls. He said he was too busy, and even the offer of generous funds for his church would not sway him. The viscount could only assume that the girls’ bad reputation had spread into the town.
On one such evening, stretched out in a comfortable chair, he listened to Jean’s voice and wondered idly what his friends were doing in London. Now that the castle was being refurbished and most of the dust and gloom swept away, London seemed less of a desirable place.
And then he heard the sound of carriages outside followed by a great knocking at the door.
“Who can be calling so late?” he asked as Jean stopped her reading and looked up in surprise. The twins suddenly looked at each other and exchanged smiles—long, slow, secretive smiles.
Dredwort entered. “Some gentlemen have arrived and an … er … lady, my lord.” He presented the viscount with four cards.
“Show them in,” the viscount cried, reading only the first card, that of Lord Charnworth.
His three friends came sailing into the room, propelling Nancy Cruze, his mistress, in front of them. Nancy was in full fig—scarlet gown cut as low as the nipples, glossy brown hair, paint as thick as stage makeup on her pretty little face.
Jean Morrison rose to her feet. “Clarissa and Amanda,” she ordered in a cold voice, “come with me.”
“But we ain’t been introduced yet,” Amanda said, her little black eyes dancing with mischief.
“That will not be necessary. Do as you are bid!” And thrusting the girls before her, Jean left the room, her head held high.
“Who was that ladybird?” Mr. Trump asked.
“The governess of distinction,” the viscount replied with a rueful look. “But what brings you all here?”
“Your letter,” Lord Charnworth said with a laugh.
Nancy wound her white arms around the viscount, but he gently pushed her away and demanded, “What letter?”
“Paul’s got it,” Mr. Trump said, and Mr. Jolly produced a crumpled letter from his pocket and handed it over.
The viscount read it carefully. “I did not write this,” he said. He turned it over and examined the broken seal. “But it’s my seal and a fair approximation of my handwriting, too. Not that I am not glad to see you, although you are come at an awkward time. I have so much work to do.”
Nancy pouted prettily. “I thought you was pining for me.”
“But of course. But not here, not now. You must realize the circumstances. Demme, who wrote that letter?”
He rang the bell and ordered wine and cakes for the party and for bedchambers to be allotted to them, and then asked Dredwort to fetch Miss Morrison.
The butler was gone some time, and when he returned, he said with a wooden face, “Miss Morrison begs your pardon, my lord, and says she would prefer to speak to you in private. She awaits you in the drawing room.”
“Things have changed,” Mr. Trump drawled. “Getting your orders from a governess?”
“Wait here. I will not be long.” The viscount strode out and mounted the stairs to the drawing room. Jean was waiting there for him, a trifle pale, but composed.
“Miss Morrison,” he began, “I am deeply grateful to you for the change in Amanda and Clarissa, but it is not your place to summon me.”
She looked at him solemnly. “I have no objection to appearing before your friends, but I must do all I can to continue to improve the sadly debased morals of Amanda and Clarissa. Should I stoop to be on familiar terms with what is obviously a female of the demimonde, I should not be setting them a good example.”
He gave a harsh laugh. “You may find your little innocents were instrumental in bringing that ladybird here.” He t
hrust the letter at her. “Read this.”
She quickly scanned it and then raised puzzled green eyes to his. “I do not understand.”
“I did not write it. It is a forgery.”
Jean looked at the letter again. “Although the girls are much improved in literacy, they could never have achieved this, and how could they know whom to write to?”
“If you will remember, they asked me for the names of my friends and I mentioned the three downstairs. If they did not write it, then they must have asked someone to do it for them.”
“But that would require a degree of planning and villainy surely beyond two young girls. And they have hardly been out of my sight.”
“Except when you are asleep.”
“Give me the letter and I will tax them with it. But you must understand my position, my lord. While that lady is in the house, I cannot allow either myself or the girls to come near her. I did not think it customary to have such persons in one’s family home.”
He was suddenly very angry. “Don’t dare take that high moral line with me, Miss Morrison.”
She gazed at him stubbornly. “Oh, take your meals in the schoolroom in future,” he snapped. “Your long face would put a damper on any party.”
Jean stayed where she was for a long time after he had left. She felt she was looking down at pieces of clay strewn about her feet. Her idol had toppled off his pedestal. She was not in love with the viscount, but in the preceding days she had hero-worshipped him. It was not only his good looks that had seduced her aesthetic senses, but his goodness to his tenants. He had said that his openhandedness to the cottagers had been self-interest. Estates well run were profitable estates. She had put that down to manly modesty, that he was veiling his goodness. Now she had to believe him. A man of principle would have turned that painted harlot from his doors. As Jean thought of the “painted harlot,” tears rolled down her cheeks. She had had an illusion of a home during the past two weeks. Now it was shattered. She hoped for a moment that there would be nowhere for these unwelcome guests to sleep and then remembered that new beds had been delivered only two days before, modern beds without posts or hangings, although canopies of a sort were being made to be fitted over the heads of the bed later.
She carefully dried her eyes and went up to Amanda and Clarissa’s bedchamber. They were both sitting upright in the large bed that they shared, looking expectantly toward the door.
Jean held out the letter. “How did you get this written?” she demanded harshly.
Their little black eyes opened to their fullest in innocent surprise. “Us!” Clarissa exclaimed. And then realizing her error said quickly, “What letter?”
“I am sure you know very well what I am speaking about,” Jean said, suddenly weary. “But you have achieved your aim. I do have some standards. I am not going to stay under the same roof as that woman. Lord Hunterdon may find you another governess.”
Amanda’s mind worked quickly. If Miss Morrison went, there would be no more stories from this Scheherazade. But she could not think of anything to say.
“In any case, I am sure you are both very happy to have achieved your aim,” Jean said.
She went to her own room and slowly began to pack her trunks. She glanced at herself in the mirror. She was wearing one of her new gowns, thin India muslin ornamented with little green silk leaves. How she had hoped he would notice how well she looked in it only earlier that evening! Should she leave him a letter to say he could keep the new gowns? But she had worked for them, and deserved them because Amanda and Clarissa had damaged some of her old ones. It was highly unlikely she would ever have such pretty clothes again. She worked for a long time, trying not to think of the viscount lying in the arms of “that woman.”
When she had finally finished packing, she sat down and wrote the viscount a short letter saying that he would appreciate the fact that she could no longer, under the circumstances, remain in his employ.
In the morning she handed the letter to Dredwort as one of the footmen loaded her trunks into the castle gig. The normally uncommunicative Dredwort begged her to stay, but Jean was adamant.
Dredwort gloomily watched her go.
The viscount had not spent the night in the arms of his mistress, much to her surprise. But he had passed a pleasant evening with his friends, talking gossip and drinking deep.
He awoke the next day and looked in bleary surprise at the clock. Ten in the morning! He was not accustomed to sleeping so late. His head felt heavy and his stomach queasy. He realized ruefully that he had become used to feeling healthy in the mornings. There was still so much to be done and yet he must entertain his friends, and what was to be done with Nancy? His face hardened. Jean Morrison would just have to get used to her presence.
His guests were not awake when he went downstairs. He assumed they would keep London hours and rise about two in the afternoon. He climbed up to the schoolroom to give himself the pleasure of putting his governess firmly in her place, but found it empty.
Feeling strangely flat, he went downstairs and rode out to check the improvements to his estates. He became so absorbed in the repairs to buildings and the crops in fields that he quite forgot about the situation waiting for him at home. When he returned, he found his friends and Nancy eating hearty breakfasts.
“Have you seen Miss Morrison?”
“Your Scotch governess? Neither she nor the little girls have been about,” Lord Charnworth said, spearing a kidney. “What have you got planned for us today, hey?”
“In a minute.” The viscount strode out and went to the stairs to go up to the schoolroom. Dredwort waylaid him and handed him a letter. “Later,” the viscount said.
“It is from Miss Morrison.” Dredwort spoke in hushed tones, as if announcing the death of a relative.
The viscount broke the seal and read what Jean had written. “A pox on her,” he said savagely. “I’ll advertise for another one.”
“If I may make so bold, my lord,” Dredwort began.
“Oh, make away. This looks like being a filthy day anyway.”
“I cannot think that there is any female in the whole of Dorset as highly qualified as Miss Morrison. We have had many governesses here … weak, spineless creatures, if I may say so, my lord. To take charge of the Misses Courtney requires razor-sharp wits and a great deal of moral strength. If I may talk man-to-man on this one important occasion …?”
“Get on with it.”
“From what I have heard of London, my lord, there are more lightskirts than there are decent women. A good governess is irreplacable, a Cyprian is not.”
The viscount flushed angrily. “How dare you, Dredwort. Miss Cruze is a respectable lady.”
“Your lordship may not have remarked the dress Miss Cruze is wearing at the moment,” the butler went on. “It is of very fine India muslin, and Miss Cruze is not wearing a stitch under it. The footmen are impressionable lads, and I have had to confine them belowstairs and serve the company myself. I naturally gained the wrong impression of the lady.”
The viscount cursed Nancy under his breath. “I will speak to you later, Dredwort. Where are the girls?”
“They are in the schoolroom, my lord.”
“Here he comes!” Amanda said. She and Clarissa quickly scrubbed their eyes with raw onion. The viscount crashed open the door and surveyed the apparently weeping pair. “I do not know how you did it or who you got to write that scurrilous letter,” he raged. “Forgery is a crime, d’you here? Damn the pair of you.”
“We never wrote that l-letter,” Amanda sobbed. “It’s not fair to blame us. It’s not our fault that you l-like that sort of woman.”
“I am locking you in here,” the viscount said grimly, “until I get to the bottom of this. I am sure none of the servants would have written that forgery. You got someone, probably some villain in St. Giles who pens letters for the illiterate.”
He went out and locked the door. The twins eyed each other in consternation. “He will g
et to Gully, and if Gully is in his cups, he will confess all,” Amanda said. “We’d best pay him off. And our money is running low.”
“But we know how to earn more,” Clarissa pointed out.
Amanda prized a floorboard up in the corner of the schoolroom and took a bag of gold and another key to the schoolroom door. The twins let themselves quietly out of the schoolroom and then scurried along to the landing, where they moved a large cabinet away from the wall to reveal a secret door. They opened it and then pulled the cabinet back across it before hurrying down the dark stairs. The stairs led down and then along a damp tunnel that came out among the jumble of huge rocks on the beach. Then they set off for St. Giles at a run to find Gully, pay him the money, and send him away.
The viscount took Nancy and his friends around the estate that afternoon, after Nancy had been ordered to change her gown. But Nancy’s appearance, which would not have raised many eyebrows in London, where the ladies of the ton were apt to look like prostitutes, caused dismay among his cottagers and tenant farmers. The viscount could not help noticing that the man of the house shooed his women and children out of sight as soon as he set eyes on Nancy and entertained the viscount and his friends himself. And Nancy, resentful and bored, interlarded her conversation with broad swear words, demanded wine, and became increasingly drunk and noisy. Jean Morrison’s sorrowful face rose before the viscount’s eyes. He realized at last that he had actually enjoyed being a savior and hero to these people. Because of Nancy he was losing status, and as he watched Nancy reeling about and shouting and singing, he began to see why. There was no way he could impose the likes of this rowdy mistress on the gentle and respectable people of the countryside. He also saw the beginnings of fear and wariness in their eyes.
Mr. Peterman, the agent, who was accompanying him, explained the reason when the viscount demanded angrily what he had done to make everyone afraid of him.
