“I did, and when I called at the new offices, Clara told me you’d come here, insisting I must speak with you at once. I’m dying to know what could be so urgent, so I came straightaway.” Despite this declaration, his drawling, well-bred voice displayed no curiosity.
“It’s about the boys.”
Something flickered in that weary, stone-hard countenance, a hint of life. He started toward the other man, his body moving with a sudden, disciplined energy that contrasted sharply with his former ennui.
“What about the boys?” he asked, his voice carrying a new urgency. “I’m almost afraid to ask,” he added as he halted across the desk, “but what do you know that I don’t?”
“They wrote a letter to the paper. I got it this morning.”
“My sons are writing to newspapers?” The man called Jamie relaxed, giving a laugh. “Is that all?”
“All?” Galbraith echoed. “You don’t even know what they were writing about.”
“Does it matter?” Jamie’s wide shoulders gave a dismissive shrug. “It’s one of their pranks, obviously. One of their more harmless ones, thank God.”
“You may not retain that opinion once you know what it’s about. And I don’t think it was a prank.”
“My sons are seldom serious about anything, Rex. They adore practical jokes. Why do you think they chew up and spit out their nannies with such exhausting frequency?”
“They wrote to Lady Truelove, asking for her advice on how to find a new mother.”
“What?” He stiffened, and even in profile, Amanda could see the amusement vanish from his face, replaced by dismay. “But they know I’ll never marry again. We’ve discussed it.”
“They seem to harbor hope your mind can be changed on the subject.” Galbraith reached into the breast pocket of his jacket and pulled out a folded sheet of paper. “Read for yourself.”
“How can you be sure this is from my sons?” Jamie asked as he took the letter and unfolded it. “Did they sign it?”
“Only with the moniker Motherless in Mayfair,” Galbraith answered. “But they included a return address so that Lady Truelove could reply, and unless you’ve moved out of the duke’s town house in the last day or two, or someone else’s motherless children have moved in, this letter was definitely written by your boys.”
“Of all the ridiculous, harebrained schemes they’ve hatched—” He broke off with a sigh, bent his head, and read the letter, then looked up again. “That tears it,” he said, tossing down the sheet in obvious exasperation. “I’ve had enough. I’m sending them to school.”
“Isn’t that a bit drastic? Writing to an advice columnist isn’t the most egregious thing they’ve ever done.”
“If by that you mean it’s not as bad as the time they set off firecrackers in the drawing room and caught the curtains on fire,” their father said dryly, “or when they put itching powder in my valet’s linen, I suppose I must concede the point.”
Amanda pressed her lips together to stifle a laugh. An enterprising pair of young men, she thought. Though also a bit naughty, it seemed.
“Still,” their father went on, “I suppose it’s a good thing they chose Lady Truelove as their confidante. Had they written to some other newspaper’s advice columnist, you wouldn’t have seen it and it would have been published.” He doffed his hat, tossed it on the desk, and raked a hand through his tobacco-brown hair. “I shudder to think what society’s reaction to that would have been. Motherless in Mayfair, twin boys who need a mum because they’re tired of all the nannies . . . everyone would know at once it’s my sons.”
“The boys do have something of a reputation with nannies.”
“A letter like that printed in the paper doesn’t bear thinking about. I’m the target of enough debutantes as it is.”
“A fate worse than death,” intoned Galbraith.
Jamie paid little heed to his friend’s amused rejoinder. “Few bothered with me when I was only the second son. As a mere MP with a modest income, I impressed no one, but now—” He broke off with a humorless laugh. “It’s amazing how much more appealing I am now that I’m next in line to be the Marquess of Rolleston. Poor Geoff hadn’t been gone a month before young ladies were commenting on my lonely widower’s life. The last thing I need is their pretenses of concern for my poor motherless boys, who are so desperate for maternal affection that they’re writing to newspapers.”
“No harm was done. Surely you’re not serious about sending them to school because of this?”
“Why shouldn’t I send them?” Jamie countered, a defensive note in his voice. “God knows, they’ve done enough to deserve it. And the timing’s ideal now that their latest nanny’s gone.”
“Another nanny already? What happened this time?”
“The same thing that always happens. They made the poor woman’s life a torment, and she decided she’d had enough.”
Amanda raised an eyebrow. Heavens, what did these boys do to their nannies? Given the firecrackers and the itching powder, she supposed anything was possible, but she had no opportunity to speculate on the topic, for Galbraith spoke again.
“The autumn term at Harrow has already begun.”
“They could still be admitted, if Torquil puts in a word.”
“Given that our brother-in-law is a duke, I’m sure you’re right, but sending the boys in the middle of term would be terribly hard on them. Why not just engage another nanny?”
“After seeing a dozen nannies come and go during the past three years, I am forced to concede that no woman I could hire is capable of managing my sons.”
Amanda’s amusement deepened, and she wondered what this man would do if she piped up, declared his contention totally wrong, and demanded the chance to prove it as the boys’ next nanny. A tempting idea, but after a moment of consideration, she discarded it.
Though she was in desperate need of a job, it sounded as if this man’s misbehaving sons would soon be off to school, and no nanny would be required. And, as she had so recently discovered, working in a widower’s house put a woman in a very vulnerable position. Amanda slid a glance over the powerful frame of the man by the desk, concluded that he wouldn’t be as easy to incapacitate as the stout, middle-aged Mr. Bartlett, and decided she wasn’t quite desperate enough to put herself at risk of a man’s unwelcome advances again.
She forced her attention to her own task, and the voices of the two men faded as she stared at the blank sheet of paper before her. “Post wanted,” she scribbled. “Girton-educated woman seeks position as governess. Sober and respectable.”
She paused over the last word, biting her lip. Respectable? Such a lie, that, but what else could she say?
As she grasped for an additional word or two that would put her in the best light to potential employers, the viscount spoke, his insistent tone breaking into Amanda’s thoughts.
“Be honest, Jamie. Is school really the best solution? Or is it simply the most expedient?”
“Careful, Rex,” Jamie answered, and though his voice was light, there was unmistakable warning beneath the words.
Galbraith, however, did not take heed. “I realize being in the Commons takes most of your time. And it’s understandable that you want to keep occupied. Losing Patricia must have been a devastating blow, but it was devastating for the boys, too.”
“Do you think I don’t know that?” Jamie countered, his voice suddenly fierce. “Damn it, Rex, I know you adore giving out advice to all and sundry these days—”
Galbraith suddenly coughed, interrupting his friend’s irritation, and it was a moment before Jamie continued, and when he did, it wasn’t to chide his friend for offering advice. “At this point, I see no reason not to send them to school. They’re old enough to go.”
“Barely. And are you sure they’re ready for Harrow?”
Jamie gave a short, unamused laugh. “Better to ask if Harrow is ready for them. I shall be lucky if they last a term without being expelled.”
�
�You miss my point. Are they ready from an academic standpoint?”
Those words struck a chord, Amanda could tell, for Jamie muttered an oath and looked away.
“It would be difficult,” he admitted after a moment. “Nannies have managed to teach them the rudimentary subjects, of course—spelling, arithmetic, penmanship, a bit of French . . .” He paused, grimacing. “It’s not much, I know.”
“Not enough to prepare them for Harrow and Cambridge, certainly.”
“One can’t really expect much more from a nanny. And no woman can prepare a boy for Harrow and Cambridge anyway.”
Amanda barely managed to suppress a derisive snort. Heavens, if she’d believed such claptrap, she’d never have applied to Girton, much less graduated with honors. And Girton, she longed to inform his lordship, was a Cambridge school.
Before Amanda could give in to the impulse to say any of that, however, Jamie spoke again.
“What they need, I suppose,” he said slowly, “is a tutor.”
With those words, Amanda’s indignation vanished, and her chest tightened with longing. If only she could be a tutor.
Unlike governesses, tutors were men, and therefore, they were allowed—even expected—to teach subjects of substance, like mathematics, science, and history, not just French and how to waltz and curtsy.
But there was no point in wishing for such a post, so Amanda forced her attention back to her task. She read over her advertisement, added the address of her lodgings and a request that any interested parties write to her there, then she put down her pencil, satisfied. All that remained now was to pay for the ad, but when she looked across the room, the two men were still deep in their own conversation.
“Yes, but Jamie, it’s clear they wrote to Lady Truelove because they want a mother. Need one, too, if their behavior is anything to go by.”
“They had a mother, one mother. And she died. Any stepmother would never be anything but a second-rate substitute. They don’t need that.”
“But what about you? Do you ever stop to consider that a wife might be what you need?”
“That’s rich, coming from you, last season’s most notorious bachelor.”
“But I’m this season’s most happily married man.”
Jamie made a dismissive sound between his teeth. “You’ve been married a week. I hardly think it counts.”
“But it does, Jamie, because I know how lucky I am. My friend,” he added, his voice turning unmistakably grave, “Patricia’s been gone over three years, and you’ve been living like a monk ever since she died. And now that you’re in the Commons, you’re also working like a dog. Wouldn’t coming home to a wife be an agreeable thing after your long, hard days at Westminster? And it would be good for the boys, too.”
“Enough.” Jamie’s voice had not risen, but nonetheless, the word was like the crack of a whip in the nearly empty room. “I am not remarrying. Ever. I neither want nor need a wife, and the boys will have to accept that.”
Galbraith merely grinned in the wake of this unequivocal declaration. “You’re so out of temper these days. You may not need a wife, my friend, but you clearly need a woman. Badly.”
“Unless said woman is willing to offer herself up for an hour or so at some pleasure palace, I’m not a bit interested.”
With those words, Amanda’s cheeks began to burn, making her appreciate that though she might be a woman of the world, with both her innocence and her reputation lost to history, she was still capable of being embarrassed.
She gave a prim little cough, and the two men glanced in her direction. They looked away at once, but it was clear from their fleeting expressions of surprise that they’d completely forgotten she was in the room.
There was a moment of awkward silence, and then Jamie reached for his hat. “The only thing I need is a tutor who can prepare my sons for Harrow. I’d best get on with finding one.”
“I’m sure Merrick’s Employment Agency can provide you with some applicants. And I’ll ask Clara’s staff to place an ad for the post in our papers, to watch for tutor positions wanted, and to inform you at once if they see anything pertinent. Would Tuesday suit for conducting interviews?”
“Yes, though how the servants will manage the boys in the interim, I can’t imagine. Now that the rest of the family has decamped to the country, my valet, a footman, and the assistant cook are the only ones in the house. By the time Tuesday arrives, the twins will have run them all ragged, poor devils.”
“You could watch the boys yourself, for a change. Parliament’s in recess now.”
“Which doesn’t mean I’ve any free time.” Jamie picked up the letter his sons had written and shoved it into his breast pocket. “I’m off tomorrow for Windermere’s Friday-to-Monday. We’ve got to hammer out the details of my education bill. Colonel Forrester is insisting we make changes or we won’t have his support. And then, I have to spend a few weeks in York—”
“You’re always off somewhere when Parliament’s not in session. That’s half the reason those boys of yours are always in trouble.”
“I’ve had enough lectures from you, Rex, so do something useful before you and Clara go off on honeymoon, and help me find a tutor, will you?”
With that, Jamie donned his hat, gave a nod of farewell to his friend, and turned to depart.
Amanda quickly lowered her gaze to her advertisement, pretending vast interest in reading it as he walked past her toward the exit. I could apply for that post, she thought in vexation as the door closed behind him, if only I were a man.
Women, alas, could not be tutors, not to boys. It wasn’t done. And social conventions aside, she wasn’t willing to subject herself to the risk of unwelcome advances from a widower, even a grieving one who seemed uninterested in making any. And the widower in question didn’t believe a mere woman could manage his sons, so he’d never hire her anyway.
Galbraith’s steps sounded on the floorboards, approaching her, and Amanda came out of her reverie with a start.
“My apologies for ignoring you, miss,” he said, halting beside her chair as she stood up.
“No need to apologize, my lord.” Amanda handed him her ad and the borrowed pencil, then reached for her handbag. “One ha’penny per word, I believe you said? For three days?”
When he nodded, she opened her bag and extracted the nine pence required for her advertisement. “Will it be possible to insert this in the next three issues of the London Daily Standard?” she asked, placing the coins in his palm.
“Of course.” He glanced at the sheet of paper in his hand, then back at her. “Given your university education, I’d already have a post for you if you were a man,” he said, smiling as he looked up. “How unfortunate that a woman can’t be a tutor.”
“Yes,” she agreed with feeling, and turned away. “Very unfortunate.”
It was nearly dark by the time Amanda reached her lodgings in Bloomsbury. Her street was well lit, her building respectable, and her landlady very kind, but if she didn’t find employment soon, she’d be forced to cheaper accommodations, which would mean a darker street and a seedier neighborhood.
Trying not to think about that, she entered the lodging house and paused beside the parlor doorway to bid her landlady, Mrs. Finch, good evening, then she mounted the five flights of stairs to her garret flat. A bit of the remaining daylight came through the flat’s only window, providing enough illumination for her to find the lamp and matches. But as light flooded her tiny room, the sight of the sparse furnishings and worn carpets made her feel even more dispirited than before.
Years of study and hard work to obtain her baccalaureate, she thought as she removed her hat and cloak, and what had she done with it? Tossed it aside for the ardor of a poetic aristocrat who had demonstrated in the end that his poetry was more worthy than his character.
Papa would be so ashamed of her.
Pain squeezed her chest, and Amanda shoved aside thoughts of her father, for knowing she’d thrown away all he’d don
e for her hurt too much to contemplate. She hung her hat and cloak on the pegs in the wall by the door and removed her jacket, realizing as she did so that the middle button was loose.
Deciding to mend it at once, she crossed to the washstand, pushed aside the creamware pitcher and basin, and laid the jacket on the washstand’s green marble surface. She bent down and retrieved her sewing basket from the floor beneath, but as she straightened, her attention was caught by her reflection, and she stilled. Studying the countenance that stared back at her, she wondered in bafflement what it was about her that had inspired the illicit passions of both a dashing, poetic gentlemen and a respectable, middle-aged banker when she’d never sought the attentions of either.
Well, if she was some sort of temptress, it surely couldn’t be because of her hair, she decided, making a wry face. Her mass of rebellious black tendrils had been tamed into temporary submission this morning by hairpins and combs, but given the humid weather, the pile of curls atop her head now had a texture that to her critical eyes made her look like an unkempt poodle.
Amanda sighed and moved on, studying her face.
It wasn’t a homely countenance, by any means, but there seemed nothing particularly lust inspiring about it. Blunt lashes, a straight nose, a pointed chin, and a square jaw—nothing out of the common way, in other words. Certainly nothing that seemed remotely wanton. Beneath black brows that were too straight for delicacy, a pair of hazel green eyes stared back at her, and though they did have gold flecks in them, she couldn’t see that they were reminiscent of sunlight embraced by a dark forest. She certainly didn’t see the face of a seductress whose best romantic offer had included a house in a discreet neighborhood, money, and jewels, but no wedding ring.
She set aside her sewing basket and glanced down, though she knew her figure wouldn’t provide any solution to the mystery. For one thing, she was taller than many men, including both her former lover and her former employer. Her waist—what there was of it anyway—stubbornly refused to mold into the coveted wasp shape, no matter how tightly she laced her corset. And her clothes could hardly inspire masculine attention, for they were plain, severe, and almost prudishly modest. Black skirt, high-necked white blouse, ruffled jabot, cameo pin—all the usual trappings of an ordinary middle-class woman.
Governess Gone Rogue Page 2
