“I only meant,” she said at last, “that my mother’s relations are tiresome, and I have no desire to live with them. They were by no means abusive. But thank you,” she added, “for worrying on my behalf.”
“Yes, well,” he muttered, and it was his turn to look away, “anyone would, I daresay.”
“No,” she correctly softly, shaking her head. “Most people wouldn’t, I’m afraid.”
She regretted the words at once, afraid they smacked of self-pity, but thankfully, he didn’t make a show of sympathy that would have embarrassed them both. “Either way,” he said, sounding a bit nettled, “I still don’t see what you were smiling about.”
“Oh, that.” She paused, struggling for a way to explain that wouldn’t give her away.
Think like a man, she told herself, reaching for another bite of cheese to give herself time.
“It’s good to know my employer’s in my corner, that’s all,” she said after a moment, striving to sound offhand. “I like to think it means I’ve passed muster.”
That sounded manly enough, she decided, but she made the mistake of looking at him and all her hard-won efforts to think like a man went straight out the window.
He was watching her, smiling a little, his head tilted to one side, the tawny lights in his tobacco-brown hair glinting in the candlelight, shredding any notions she had of forgetting she was a woman. “Is my approval important to you all of a sudden?”
It was. Dear God, it was. And why? Because tonight she’d begun to appreciate how handsome he was and how charming he could be. Her throat went dry at that rather galling realization, and she looked away. “Not a bit,” she lied.
“Good,” he said, grinning, his eyes teasing. “You’re cocky enough already, and I wouldn’t wish to make you more conceited.”
“No fear.” She grinned back at him as she picked up her glass of port. “The moment I start to think how amazing I am, those boys of yours knock me right off my trolley.”
He laughed, making Amanda appreciate again just why women wanted to console the grieving widower. He thought it was solely because of his newfound position as Rolleston’s heir, but she knew it was much more than that. Despite his casual parenting, it was clear that he loved his sons, and nothing appealed to women more than a man who loved his children. Oddly enough, the fact that he was rather inept at raising them had the curious effect of making him even more appealing. And now that she’d seen beneath his cool inscrutability, she knew there was humor in him, and intelligence.
Her gaze slid to his mouth. There was passion, too. The passion of a man who had loved his wife so much that he’d become a monk after her death, avoiding feminine company like the plague. No wonder the women of his set found him wildly attractive. Amanda suddenly wanted to kick herself for her own obtuseness.
“It must be hard,” he murmured, breaking the silence, “to be forced to manage completely on your own at your age. Is there no one who can look out for you?”
Amanda stiffened, those words like a splash of cold water, reminding her that his attractiveness to women had nothing to do with her, and it never would. And she didn’t want it to. “I look out for myself,” she said stiffly and set down her glass. “I prefer it that way.”
“Of course,” he agreed at once. “I didn’t mean to imply otherwise. Every young man wants to make his own way, and I appreciate that you’re proud, Seton, but as you go on in life, you’ll find that things are much easier if one has family, or at least a few friends, standing by.”
She’d had both, once upon a time. Her eyes burned, and she looked away, feeling weak, stupid, and terribly fragile, all the emotions she most despised. She was not like this, she thought, frustration flaring inside her, her father’s reminders to her in the wake of her mother’s death coming back to her. She was not fragile. She was not weak. She didn’t need to be looked after.
Thankfully, the mantel clock chimed just then, saving her from having to reply.
“Half past ten already?” she said and shoved back her chair. “Forgive me, my lord, but I really must bid you good night. I’m by way of being a . . . um . . . an early to bed man, especially nowadays. Those boys of yours run me ragged, I must confess, and I need my rest.”
“Of course,” he said as they both stood up. “We’ll talk further when I return from York. We’ll have dinner again, and you can give me a report on my sons’ progress.”
Her dismay at the idea of spending another evening with him was blunted somewhat by the news of his departure. “You still intend to go north then?”
“I must. I’ll take the Monday train, I think.”
“So soon?”
“If I don’t visit my constituents now, while Parliament is still in recess, I won’t have another chance until the Christmas holiday, which is a horrible time for political meetings. And now that I’m satisfied you don’t intend to kidnap my sons, I see no reason to delay.”
She made a face. “Given what happened this morning, it’s far more likely they’ll try to kidnap me and have me shipped off on a boat to Shanghai.”
“I’m not sure that’s the sort of thing you ought to be telling me. It’s not very reassuring.”
“I said they’d probably try. Not that they’d succeed. No, by the time you return, I will have those boys shipshape and Bristol fashion, I promise you. After this morning’s humiliation,” she added as he gave her a dubious look, “my pride demands it.”
“Very well. When I return, you can tell me all about how you’ve managed things, and you can crow about your success to your heart’s content. But,” he added at once, “I will also expect to hear more about you. I shan’t let you evade the subject of yourself so much the next time we talk.”
She pasted on a smile. “I shall look forward to telling you all about me.”
With that, she gave a bow, just as a gentleman should, and left the dining room, glad dinner was over. Granted, it hadn’t been quite the interrogation she’d been dreading, but nonetheless, being in his sights all evening, acting a part, striving to say only enough and not too much, had been exhausting. And despite her vigilance, she knew she had made mistakes.
In her own room, she closed the door behind her with heartfelt relief, vowing that the next time they dined together, she would be fully accustomed to her new role. To be convincing, she had to not only talk and act like a man, but also to think like one.
Suddenly, the notion left her feeling a bit bleak. Damn it all, she thought, aggravated with herself, being a woman had always been more of a hindrance to her ambitions than a help. It would be far, far better to just forget altogether that she was a woman.
An image of Lord Kenyon flashed across her mind, and just the memory of his brilliant smile and the unexpected sound of his laughter were enough to bring back a faint, womanly thrill, and Amanda leaned back against the closed door of her room with a groan. Forgetting she was a woman, she realized in chagrin, was going to be harder than she’d ever imagined.
Chapter 9
Lord Kenyon left for Yorkshire on the early train Monday morning as he had planned. The boys were disappointed, of course, but though Amanda felt badly on their behalf, she couldn’t help being relieved for herself. Dinner with him had underscored just how difficult it was going to be maintaining her lie under his watchful eyes. Worse, their evening together had reminded her of her own femininity, something that had no place in her new life.
She had no intention of crying off, however, not only because she had no money and no other job prospects, but also because she already loved being a tutor, and despite their talent for trouble—or perhaps even because of it—she was becoming quite fond of her charges.
In the wake of Lord Kenyon’s departure, things did get a bit easier for Amanda. During the three weeks that followed, she established a set schedule for the twins, and though they balked at every opportunity, Amanda stuck to her guns. Flexibility could come later; for the present, a set routine was crucial to establishing order, a
nd whether it was bath time, playtime, bedtime, or lessons, Amanda kept them up to snuff and made short shrift of any excuses.
She found a laundry only a block away from the house, and when her monthly came, she was able to sneak the soiled rags in and out of the house in a burlap sack she hid in folds of her mackintosh, using the pretext of dashing out with letters for the post.
She avoided the other two servants as much as possible, keeping to herself in the nursery even after the twins were in bed. Reasons were easy to find—assignments to grade, lesson plans to make, a little quiet time alone, the feeling she shouldn’t leave the boys, even when they were supposed to be asleep. Mrs. Richmond and Samuel didn’t seem to take offense at her desire to remain upstairs in the evenings, though Amanda suspected that was borne of relief that the twins were no longer in their care as much as it was a respect for Amanda’s privacy.
Even on a set schedule, the boys remained a handful, challenging her authority at every turn, but her plan to exhaust them into submission with constant activities and outings did prove somewhat effective. Unfortunately, that strategy also had its drawbacks.
“Amanda?”
At the sound of her name, she gave a start, jerking upright in her chair. “Hmm?” she mumbled, blinking as she tried to clear her sleep-dazed senses. “What?”
Across from her, Mrs. Finch was shaking her head. “Poor child,” she murmured. “You’re dead on your feet. What have those aristocrats in the West End been doing to you?”
“I’m perfectly well, Mrs. Finch,” she assured the woman opposite, but the huge yawn that immediately followed this assurance told a different story.
“No, you’re not. You’re exhausted. I can see it in your face. Three weeks you’ve been in this new post, and each week when I see you, you seem more tired than the week before.”
“Two energetic boys rather wear one out.”
“You don’t need to come here on every day out, you know.”
“But I do,” she reminded. “I’m tutoring you, just as I promised. And,” she added when her former landlady waved aside that consideration with a dismissive gesture, “I’m also tutoring Mr. Mackenzie. Would you have me go back on my word to him, too?”
“Hugh Mackenzie’s quite able to take care of himself without any lessons from you, my dear. Why he felt he needed to learn mathematics escapes me.”
“He wants to be sure his pub is making a profit.”
She sniffed. “I’ve not met a Scot yet who didn’t know down to the penny where his money was.”
Amanda pressed a smile from her lips and refrained from pointing out that Mr. Mackenzie’s Scottish heritage hadn’t yet deterred the landlady from walking out with him on a fine night for ice cream or a music hall revue. “Mr. Mackenzie aside,” she said instead, “even if I wanted to rest on my days out, my charges would never allow it. Those boys would be storming into my room every fifteen minutes with some new scheme or idea. And I haven’t the blunt to shop or attend entertainments. No, Mrs. Finch, if I want any rest, I’m afraid you’re stuck with me on Tuesday afternoons for a bit longer.”
The older woman smiled, leaned over the polished Jacobean dining table where they had been doing lessons in French, and patted Amanda’s hand. “Then at least let me offer you tea.”
It was just on four o’clock, a bit early for tea, but Amanda didn’t argue. A cuppa was her former landlady’s cure for everything from colds to cholera, and since her eyes were heavy and her head a bit groggy from her lack of sleep and her all-too-brief nap of a few moments ago, a cup of Mrs. Finch’s strong India tea would be just the thing. “That sounds lovely, thank you.”
Mrs. Finch turned in her chair to give the bellpull in the wall a tug, and moments later, Ellen, the lodging house’s parlor maid, came at a run, brushing self-consciously at her black dress and white apron. “Yes, Mrs. Finch?”
“Tea, Ellen, if you please, for Miss Leighton and myself. And bring some of those nice digestive biscuits, too.”
The maid cast a dubious eye over Amanda’s brown wool trousers and waistcoat before returning her attention to her employer. “Yes, ma’am,” she murmured.
She departed for the kitchens, returning a few minutes later with a tray of tea things and sweet biscuits. Depositing the tray in front of her employer, she gave Amanda’s clothes another puzzled glance, then left again.
“Ellen doesn’t seem to know what to make of my new wardrobe,” Amanda commented, laughing a little as Mrs. Finch poured tea.
“Can’t say as I blame her, dear. I hardly recognize you myself. Gives me a turn, it does, every time you come to visit.” She added sugar and milk to Amanda’s teacup, shaking her head. “Such a waste, if you ask me.”
Amanda frowned in bewilderment as her former landlady slid her teacup across the table. “What’s a waste?”
“You in men’s clothes. You’re such a pretty girl. If you took a little trouble, you could be a beauty.”
“I doubt that,” Amanda said. “And this shameless flattery,” she added with mock severity before the other woman could protest, “shall not impel me to go easier on you over French verbs.” She held out her hand, and the other woman handed her the sheet of paper that contained the work of her latest lesson.
“I still don’t know why such a disguise was necessary,” Mrs. Finch said as Amanda took a gulp of tea, picked up a pencil, and began scanning the other woman’s essay for errors.
Amanda paused, her fingers tightening around her pencil. “For me to obtain any post, some sort of subterfuge was always going to be necessary, I’m afraid.” She forced herself to look up and meet the other woman’s gaze. “Given my past.”
Mrs. Finch sighed. “I supposed you’re right. And I admit when you first came here, I had my doubts about letting rooms to a woman like you.” She wagged a finger at Amanda in somewhat maternal fashion. “And if I’d seen you with any gentlemen followers hanging about, I’d have tossed you out straightaway, my girl.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Amanda agreed, well aware of the fact. Like most people, Mrs. Finch had known everything there was to know about her the moment she’d first given her name, but thankfully, the landlady had taken pity on her and decided, albeit reluctantly, to let her a room. Thinking of that, Amanda’s conscience pricked her. “I know I put you in a difficult position asking for that letter,” she mumbled. “I’m sorry. It’s just that I couldn’t see any other way.”
Mrs. Finch merely seemed amused. “Don’t be sorry, child. If I didn’t want to do it, I’d have refused. Simple as that. Besides, I’ve done a few things in my time that would make my late mother turn in her grave, God rest her soul.”
“Really?” Amanda was intrigued. “Like what?”
The older woman’s amusement faded a fraction. “I’ll not be saying, but I know as well as anyone that life is hard for a woman alone in the world. We’re entitled to take a few liberties with the truth now and then, if you ask me.”
So that was why she’d let Amanda a room here. Some dark secret in her own past. Amanda’s curiosity deepened, but it wasn’t her business, so she didn’t pry. “Still,” she said instead, “let me thank you again. And you needn’t fear that you’ll get into trouble over this. As I told you when I applied for the post, if I’m caught, I’ll take all the blame. I’ll tell his lordship I’ve been posing as a man all along and you and Mackenzie were duped by me just as he was.”
Mrs. Finch made a derisive sound, waving a hand. “Oh, I’m not worried about that. I can hold my own with any man, even a lord. And don’t worry about Mackenzie either. He’s always happy to play a trick on a Brit. Enjoying himself hugely, I’m sure, that his lordship’s been fooled into thinking a slip of a girl like you is a man.” She paused for a chuckle, then sobered and shook her head, becoming earnest again. “No, that character letter isn’t what I’m concerned about.”
“Then what is worrying you?”
“You, my dear.”
Amanda stared, astonished. “You’re worried
about me? But why?”
“Because I’m fond of you, you silly goose!”
“Oh.” Amanda colored up, feeling a rush of warm affection. “It’s very good of you, ma’am,” she replied, “but honestly, you needn’t worry.”
“Well, someone has to,” the other woman countered incisively. “Because I’m still not sure you know what you’re doing. Cutting off your hair, posing as a man, of all the harebrained schemes. Those boys need someone to watch them, all well and good. You want to change your name, no harm in that, and perfectly understandable, I say. But what I don’t see is why you couldn’t have just applied to be a nanny.”
“Because a nanny wasn’t what Lord Kenyon was looking for,” she reminded, and returned her attention to the paper in front of her, marking an error in the French text with her pencil. “He required a tutor.”
“There are other jobs.” Mrs. Finch gave a sniff and picked up her teacup. “And more fish in the sea than ever came out of it. On the other hand . . .”
She paused, and Amanda looked up again to find her former landlady grinning at her like a mischievous child. “Most of the available fish aren’t nearly so good-looking.”
Amanda stirred on the hard kitchen chair, remembering just how and when she’d come to that exact realization about his lordship, and the blush in her cheeks deepened, much to her aggravation. “Oh, stop,” she muttered.
“I’m twice your age, and he made even my heart go pitter-pat. Why you’d want to dress like a man in front of him, I can’t think.”
“As I said, I didn’t have a choice. And it hardly matters how I dress, since he is my employer.”
“He’s a widower, isn’t he?” Mrs. Finch gave her a knowing smile. “I’ll wager he’s lonely.”
Amanda thought of him, of how he’d looked, staring down at his apple, melancholy in his face.
I met my wife.
She forced the image away. “My former employer, Mr. Bartlett, tried to show me just how lonely widowers are,” Amanda countered dryly. “I was—and I remain—unimpressed. And in any case, I doubt Lord Kenyon would appreciate a pretty woman even if she were right under his nose. He wants nothing to do with any of us.”
Governess Gone Rogue Page 14
