Something about her voice warned him. And he looked at her properly, looked beyond the bright tawny eyes with their fringe of dark lashes, beyond the disturbing changes in her, and saw her gown.
Alex was no connoisseur of fashion, but even he knew an old, unfashionable, cheap gown when he saw one. And that look in her eyes, as if she were braced against something—as if she faced a firing squad—ripped at him.
‘Sit down, Miss Woodrowe,’ he said. Even if she didn’t need to sit, he did.
Those bright eyes narrowed slightly and her mouth, soft pink, tightened. He cursed himself mentally. What was wrong with him that he could not even couch an invitation politely? Nevertheless, she sat. He sat down facing her.
‘Miss Woodrowe...’ he began. And stopped. Dash it! This was impossible! How did you ask a young lady what had happened to her fortune?
She saved him the trouble.
‘Mr Bascombe, the son of my father’s oldest friend, got into debt gambling and used my fortune to try to repair his losses.’ She said this flatly, as though it had lost the power to upset her. ‘He lost everything. His own money as well as mine. Then he took what everyone considered the honourable way out.’
Alex’s jaw tensed. To his mind there was nothing honourable about committing suicide to avoid the consequences of your selfishness. ‘When was this?’ he asked quietly.
‘More than two years ago.’
That explained why he hadn’t heard. A little over two years ago he’d taken a sabbatical and gone to the Continent for a few months. It also explained the shabby gown and cloak, but— ‘And you only came to your uncle’s home two weeks ago?’
Her face froze. ‘I took a position as a governess.’
Pride. He could understand that, but nevertheless... ‘Do you not think it might have been better to come to your uncle immediately?’ he asked gently. ‘Is he your guardian now?’
Her face blanked. ‘I’m one and twenty, sir.’
Of age now, but she had gone out into the world alone at nineteen? His jaw clenched. ‘And do you not think it better to remain in his care anyway?’ The idea of her fending for herself as a governess! What on earth was Sir Nathan thinking to be permitting it?
‘No.’
He cleared his throat, hoping he wasn’t going to sound stuffy. ‘Miss Woodrowe, even if I thought it proper to remove you from the protection of your relatives, it would not answer.’
‘Why not?’ she demanded. ‘I have had experience teaching—two boys as well as a girl—and it was not for incompetence that I was dismissed—’ She broke off, biting her lip.
‘I need a schoolmaster,’ he said, tactfully ignoring her slip. ‘Not a schoolmistress.’ What on earth had she been dismissed for?
She scowled. ‘Why? I can teach reading, writing, arithmetic as well as any man would. And I can teach the girls sewing and other household skills, such as brewing simples, that would help fit them for service, and—’
‘You can’t live here!’ he said.
‘Here?’
‘In the rectory,’ he said. ‘The schoolmaster is to lodge here.’
‘But the cottage you are going to use has two rooms,’ she said. ‘I assumed that—’
‘No. He will live here,’ said Alex firmly. What use was a curate stuck away in the schoolhouse? And why make the poor fellow hire someone to cook and clean for him when the rectory was full of unused bedchambers and an unused chess set?
Miss Woodrowe’s brow knotted. ‘But, sir, will you not consider—?’
He cleared his throat. ‘Miss Woodrowe, the schoolmaster is also to be my curate, you see.’
‘Oh. I see.’ All the bright determination ebbed and her eyes fell. ‘I...I did not realise that.’
Her hands twisted in her lap and his own clenched to fists at what he had seen in her face. She had, he realised, wanted the position. Desperately. Shaken, he said, ‘My dear, surely you don’t really need such a position? You have a family to care for you, and—’
She rose swiftly, reached for her cloak and swung it around her shoulders, even as he scrambled to his feet. ‘I apologise for disturbing you, sir.’ Her gaze met his again, shuttered, the soft mouth set firmly. ‘Please do not concern yourself any further. Good day to you.’
Alex blinked. He rather thought he had just been dismissed in his own library. Pride goeth before a fall, of course, but this girl had already taken the fall... ‘Miss Woodrowe—’
She was halfway to the door and he leapt to reach it first and open it.
‘Thank you, sir,’ she said politely.
Dignity, he realised. Not pride. A scrap of memory floated to the surface; it had been known that Miss Woodrowe was intended for Sir Nathan and Lady Eliot’s eldest son, Tom, from the time they were children. Lady Eliot, he recalled, had mentioned it once. Or twice. She had viewed the match as a settled thing.
‘Miss Woodrowe—what about your cousin?’
She turned back, one small hand in its worn glove on the door frame. ‘My cousin? Which one?’
The coolness held a warning, but he ignored it. ‘Your cousin—Mr Tom Eliot. Was there not...’ he hesitated ‘...some understanding between you?’ Tom was a pleasant enough fellow, a little foolish, easily swayed by his mother, but surely a better choice for Miss Woodrowe than working as a governess?
Her eyes chilled. ‘Yes. There was an understanding. But it involved my fortune. Not me.’ She turned away, chin elevated a notch.
‘Miss Woodrowe!’ Surely she had not turned her back on her cousin out of pride! ‘If you have refused a good man out of wilful pride—’
She stared at him, something odd in her expression. ‘Refused my cousin, Mr Martindale?’ Bitterness rimed her voice and that mouth, which he remembered as made for smiles and laughter, curved into a travesty of a smile. ‘There would have to be something to refuse first. Tom never actually offered for me. Good day to you, sir. Thank you for your time.’
Alex drew a deep breath and realised that interrogating Miss Woodrowe on the clearly painful subject of her non-existent betrothal to Tom Eliot was not a good idea. Instead he saw her out politely, and went immediately in search of enlightenment.
Chapter Two
Mrs Judd put him right at once. ‘Miss Woodrowe, sir? Oh aye. It was well known that she was to marry Master Tom. Lady Eliot had it all worked out from the time they was little. When old Mr Woodrowe died, she was that determined little Miss Polly should come to them, but Mrs Woodrowe refused and Sir Nathan didn’t push on it.’
Alex waited. There was never any need to probe with Mrs Judd. Once she was away on village gossip, there was no stopping her. He usually took care not to start her, feeling that, as rector, it ought to be beneath him to listen to gossip. Unless, as in this case, he needed information. Then she was a godsend and he did his very best not to view it as entertainment. In this case, as her daughter was cook to the Eliots, she was the best source he could hope for.
‘Course it’s all different now.’ Mrs Judd rolled out the pastry with great vigour. ‘That guardian or whatever he was turned Miss Polly’s fortune into ducks and drakes as the saying is. Didn’t leave her a feather to fly with, they say.’
She looked up at Alex over the pastry. ‘My Nan says Lady Eliot was fit to tie when the news came. Nan expected to see poor Miss Polly any day, but she never arrived. Then word came she’d taken a position teaching.’ Mrs Judd snorted. ‘Lady Eliot said it was just as well.’
‘And Mr Eliot?’ Alex’s jaw had clenched so hard he could scarcely get the words out. Two years ago. Tom Eliot was twenty-five now. He had been well and truly of age. What had held him back from fulfilling his obligations to his cousin? A girl to whom he had been as good as betrothed, even if he had never actually offered for her.
Ellie Judd banged the rolling pin down on the tab
le and a tabby cat by the fire glanced up. ‘Reckon he did just as her ladyship told him. Like Sir Nathan. Less trouble that way.’ Mrs Judd sprinkled a little flour over the pastry and rolled it over the raised pie. ‘Nan reckons Miss Polly ain’t so very welcome at the Manor nowadays.’
* * *
Alex gazed unseeingly at the letter he had been writing to the bishop about the proposed schoolmaster. He supposed he could understand the Eliots’ outlook, even if he deplored the worldly attitude to marriage that it reflected. Tom Eliot and Miss Woodrowe had not been precisely betrothed, but it had been an understood thing that once she was old enough he would offer and she would accept. It kept her fortune safely in the family and provided a wealthy bride for Tom, easing the burden of finding dowries for Miss Eliot and Miss Mary Eliot.
But with no money the match was seen as unsuitable. He gritted his teeth. The Eliots would not have been alone in thinking that. And it might have been awkward housing Miss Woodrowe, but to let her go to be a governess—that was the bit that stuck in his throat. Two years ago? At just nineteen, dash it! Miss Hippolyta Woodrowe had been cast adrift to earn her keep.
He looked again at the letter.
‘...therefore I would be grateful if your lordship could recommend a man to take up these duties as soon as may be in the New Year...’
Miss Woodrowe’s determined face slid into his mind.
I can teach reading, writing, arithmetic as well as any man would...
He shoved the thought away. It was important to get a good man into the position. Many people disliked the idea of the parish schools the Church wished to set up, believing it dangerous to educate the poor above their station. The right man, one who could win respect, would go a long way towards breaking down those prejudices. The world was changing. No longer could children be assured of jobs on the estates they were born on. They needed schools to give them a chance.
Polly—Miss Woodrowe needs a chance.
He shoved the thought away. The school had to succeed. And if he put a woman in charge, a young lady...a lady’s place was in the home, not out earning her living...she was not made for independence...
And what if her home and fortune has been taken from her? What if she has no choice?
Then her family should take care of her!
That was how it had been for his own mother. Memories slid back. He’d been ten when his father died heavily in debt, old enough to realise his mother’s grief was edged with fear. Fear she had tried to hide from him as she wrote letter after letter to her own family. He had found some of the replies after her death. Offers to house her—in return for her otherwise unpaid services as governess, or companion. None had been prepared to take her child as well.
Only Dominic’s father had offered the widow a home along with her child. Offered to educate his brother’s son and provide for him. As a child Alex had taken it for granted. Now he knew how lucky they had been. Not all families could, or would, provide for an impoverished widow and child.
What would have become of his mother if Uncle David had not taken them in?
Miss Polly ain’t so very welcome at the Manor nowadays.
He could believe that if they’d allowed her to come asking about the position of village schoolmistress!
His kindly uncle had settled a small annuity on his widowed sister-in-law, providing a measure of independence along with a home.
Picking up the pen, he dipped it in the ink and continued, politely enquiring after the bishop’s health and that of his wife. A moment later he laid the pen down, glared at the letter and tore it in two. Mouth set hard, he took another piece of paper, picked up the pen and began, with considerably less care, another letter, this time to his cousin Dominic, Lord Alderley.
He had prayed for the right teacher for the school, and he believed that God always answered prayer. The trick was in recognising an unexpected answer.
* * *
Polly pushed open the door of the village shop, glad to be out of the wind again. It sliced through her old cloak straight to the bone. Mr Filbert popped up from behind the gleaming counter. He stared for a moment, then his gnome’s smile broke.
‘Why, it’s you, Miss Polly!’
She managed a smile. Mr Filbert was someone whose manner towards her hadn’t changed at all. ‘Good day, Mr Filbert. My aunt sent me in for some embroidery silks.’
He blinked. ‘Miss Eliot and Miss Mary were here just a few moments ago buying silks for Lady Eliot,’ he told her. ‘They didn’t say anything about your being with them.’
Probably because she wasn’t. She’d had no idea her cousins had been planning to visit the village. She could only pray they’d seen her neither entering nor leaving the rectory.
‘A misunderstanding,’ she said carefully. ‘Thank you.’
‘They went back to the inn,’ he said helpfully.
The already gloomy morning dimmed a little further. Her cousins had heard their mother set her the errand of walking into the village for new embroidery threads and had said nothing. What would have happened if Mrs Filbert had served her and she’d bought the threads again? She forced the bitter, uncharitable thoughts back. Perhaps they hadn’t decided to come in until after she’d left. They hadn’t passed her on the road, so it wasn’t as if they’d had a chance to offer to take her up.
‘Thank you, Mr Filbert,’ she said. ‘I’m sure I’ll find them.’
She hurried out of the shop and down the street towards the inn, just in time to see the Eliot coach turning out of the inn yard towards the manor.
‘Susan! Mary!’ Probably they hadn’t seen her...ah, John Coachman had. He was slowing the horses. She picked up her pace, hurrying towards the carriage. Susan frowned, leaning forwards, clearly giving an order. John responded, pointing his whip at Polly hurrying to the coach. Susan’s chin lifted, she spoke again, the words indistinct, but her tone sharp... John hesitated, cast Polly an apologetic look and urged the horses on.
Polly slowed to a stunned halt, staring after the departing carriage. Hurt fury welled up, scalding her throat, as she set out for home. The frost had thawed that morning, leaving the lane muddy. By the time she was halfway there, her skirts six inches deep in mud she would have to brush off, she had a new plan. Very well. Her aunt had refused to give her a reference. Mr Martindale had failed her. She braced her shoulders against the biting wind. She would ask Pippa, Lady Alderley, for a reference.
* * *
Polly had reached the manor gates before she heard the rumble of wheels slowing behind her. She didn’t bother looking around even as the gig slowed beside her.
‘Miss Woodrowe. What on earth are you doing?’
The familiar voice sounded furious.
She turned and met Alex Martindale’s scowl. ‘Sir?’
‘What are you doing?’ he repeated.
‘Returning ho—to my uncle’s house,’ she amended. A home was where you felt welcome, where you belonged.
His frown deepened. ‘But...you’re walking!’
‘I can’t fly,’ she pointed out reasonably. ‘An oversight, but there it is.’
For a moment he stared and she cursed her unruly tongue. Would she never learn to curb it? That was something that other Miss Woodrowe, the rich Miss Woodrowe, might have said. In her it would have been amusing, witty. In plain Polly Woodrowe it was impertinence.
Then he laughed and it lit the grey eyes which crinkled at the corners in a way that drew her own smile. ‘Touché. Stupid thing to say. May I at least give you a lift down the drive?’ He held his hand out, still with that lilt to his mouth. She hesitated, even as her heart kicked to a canter, remembering that his smile had always been just that little bit crooked. There was nothing remotely improper in accepting. Mr Martindale was the rector, and it was an open carriage. For the length of the carriage drive. Except
...Aunt Eliot would think her designing, and there would be another row, when she still had not found a position—she quelled a shudder. ‘It’s out of your way, sir,’ she excused herself, ignoring the little ache of regret.
He shook his head. ‘Actually, no, it isn’t. After you left, I realised that I needed to speak to your uncle about something.’
‘Oh.’ Oh, dear God. Surely he wasn’t going to complain about her? ‘I’m...I’m sorry if you were offended that I asked for the teaching position.’ Somehow she choked the words out, fought to look suitably chastened. ‘There’s no need to mention it to my uncle. I won’t ask again.’
‘What?’ He stared at her, puzzlement in those grey eyes. She’d always been fascinated by the utterly black rims, and those dark, dark lashes... ‘You thought I was going to complain about you? No, Miss Woodrowe, I was not!’ Now he did sound offended.
She opened her mouth to apologise, but he forestalled her.
‘Don’t,’ he said. ‘Not one word. Do you hear me?’
She nodded, fuming at the autocratic tone.
‘Right. Up you come, then.’ That was an outright command.
Seething, she placed her hand in his, felt the powerful clasp of long fingers as he steadied her and helped her up. The horse stood patiently while he flipped the driving rug off his own legs and over hers.
‘Sir—’
‘Not a word!’
That the Reverend Alex Martindale could sound so angry was a revelation. She sat in silence the length of the carriage drive.
* * *
Polly stood quietly while Aunt Eliot railed at her. Once she had been considered an intimate of the family, permitted to use the more familiar Aunt Aurelia. Once she had been a welcome guest. Not any more. There was quite a difference between the wealthy heiress of a mill owner and the impoverished daughter of trade.
‘The presumption! Calling out in that vulgar fashion, in the middle of the street!’
‘I thought they had not seen me, Aunt.’ She swallowed. Had she given it the least thought, she would have known that any not seeing had been deliberate. Susan and Mary took their tone from their mother.
A Magical Regency Christmas Page 2
