“How old are you?” Meg asked.
“Seventeen.”
This disclosure wrenched at Meg’s heart. She would have guessed Veronica to be her elder by several years.
“It’s not difficult,” Meg said, although she doubted a moment’s conversation would be of much help. “You must move with grace, as if you might fly at any moment, but delicately, like a swan.”
Oh, how members of the beau monde would laugh to hear her speak so, she reflected. But in truth, with her spectacles upon her nose, Meg could step out with as much confidence as anyone.
“Like this?” Veronica arose and glided across the floor in an exaggerated fashion.
“That’s the idea,” Meg said encouragingly. “But you must keep your shoulders straight and not thrust your neck forward. The point is less to imitate a swan than to capture the spirit of one.”
Veronica turned and, following instructions, performed a creditable sweep across the room.
“Yes!” said Meg. “You have a natural talent for it.”
The younger girl beamed. “Do you really think so?” Her expression sobered. “But it’s entirely different when I try to speak to Jeffrey. I don’t know what to say.”
Meg had never given much consideration to such matters, having been more concerned with avoiding crashes into servants and stumbles over the furniture. Now she tried to recall the natural way she responded to the marquis, for he was the only gentleman whom she recalled truly liking.
“You must gaze directly into his eyes without fidgeting,” she instructed. “Smile, but not too broadly, and pay attention to what he says.”
“That’s all very well, but sometimes I must speak also!” protested Veronica, crossing her arms in front of her chest.
“There!” Meg pointed. “That is not swanlike.”
Veronica uncrossed the arms and clasped her hands in a more becoming fashion.
“Much better,” said Meg, instinctively assuming her governess voice. “Now, when you speak to him, you should answer his questions honestly but briefly, and in return ask him whatever you wish to know. So long as it isn’t improper, of course.”
Veronica sighed. “Perhaps if I were to watch you talk with someone you liked, I would understand better.”
Meg had no intention of flirting with the marquis under the noses of his neighbours. What a bit of tittle-tattle that would make! But the kindly squire might be flattered by her attentions, as men of advancing years often were with young women.
“Very well,” she said. “I will demonstrate upon the father, and you shall follow suit with the son.”
“Oh, Miss Linley!” Veronica clapped her hands together. “You are a great sport.”
Happily, the two women returned to the company. Meg was pleased to think that she might assist another young woman as Helen had so often helped her.
Her task was made easier by the sudden appearance of Squire Roberts at her side. “Are you a horsewoman, Miss Linley?”
Conscious of Veronica’s gaze upon her, Meg turned slightly toward him and stared directly up into his watery eyes. “I fear not. My poor vision has prevented it.”
“Demmed shame.” The fellow glowed under her rapt attention. “Got a new hunter to try out this fall. Should have a rousing season. Countryside’s teeming with foxes.”
Meg recalled the small red creature that had nearly caused Vanessa’s downfall in the carriage. “So I’ve observed,” she agreed, placing one hand lightly on the squire’s arm. “Another time, perhaps I may see your new horse. He must be splendid.”
A glance to the side revealed a touching tableau. Veronica Ludden had fluttered a short distance away and, to the apparent amazement of her mother, alit at the elbow of Jeffrey Roberts. The young man was at that moment engaged in conversation with the Misses Alton’s grandniece, a fetching girl with russet hair and grey eyes.
“I hope you are enjoying your stay in these parts,” Jeffrey was saying to Miss Conley when Veronica slipped her arm through his. He turned, an expression of surprise on his pleasant face.
“Yes, I do most sincerely hope so,” agreed Veronica, as if it were the most natural thing in the world for her to stand there at Jeffrey’s side. “How long will you be staying?”
As the grandniece replied, Meg saw Jeffrey shift uneasily, and hoped she hadn’t encouraged Veronica to make a cake of herself. Then she saw her new friend peer hopefully in her direction, and realised the girl was looking to her for a further example.
Rising to the occasion, Meg dimpled coquettishly at the squire and pretended a fascination in his account of his most recent fox hunt. This took considerable pretense, as she disliked the notion of tormenting the poor creatures for sport.
Then, over the squire’s shoulder, she noticed something she would never have seen without the aid of the glasses. The marquis was regarding her with a deepening frown. Surely the simplicity of her dress could not provoke him to that extent. Did he regret his impulse in bringing her this evening? Meg wondered. He might think a governess out of place among these gentlefolk. Well, he could scarcely blame her for accepting his invitation.
Across the room, Mrs. Ludden resumed her seat at the piano and began to play. Meg observed Jeffrey slipping his arm from Veronica’s. He appeared to be asking Miss Conley to dance and then, at her nod, escorted her to the area cleared for dancing.
Humiliation reddened Veronica’s face. In their wake, she called, “How kind of you to make Miss Conley feel welcome, Jeffrey.” Her shoulders drooping, she hastened toward Meg.
Mercifully, the squire was distracted by a greeting from an old friend, giving the young women a chance to speak in private. Meg felt a pang of distress as she saw the misery writ large in her new friend’s expression.
“Now what am I to do?” Veronica asked, her voice thick. “He’s much taken with that Conley girl, and I’m not half so pretty as she.”
Meg considered what strategy might help her friend to prevail. “A young man’s fancy is often drawn to novelty, but surely his interest is not yet fixed. Remember that he cannot properly dance with her twice in succession. When they’re finished, walk up to them and make some friendly remark that will obligate him to ask you next.”
The girl seemed uncertain. The squire returned then, and Meg seized the opportunity to provide a useful example. “How fortunate that we are treated to music. I noted before what an excellent dancer you are.”
“Did you?” A broad grin revealed a set of teeth as square-shaped as the squire himself. “Would you honour me with this dance, Miss Linley?”
“It would be my pleasure,” Meg said brightly, and hoped her new student was learning.
As she laid her hand on the squire’s arm, she observed the marquis once again scowling in her direction. He really ought not to act so proud. She might be only a governess in his eyes, but she intended to enjoy this dance. For Veronica’s sake, if not her own.
Veronica steeled her nerve as they walked away. How fortune that she had Miss Linley’s example to follow. Now, as the music ended, she approached Jeffrey. “Isn’t he a superb dancer?” she said to Miss Conley, slipping her arm once again through his.
“Indeed,” replied the girl in some confusion.
Mrs. Ludden struck up a new dance, and Jeffrey, as courtesy required, invited Veronica to be his partner. Only after she accepted did she realize the music was a waltz. Oh dear. Veronica was well aware that she had rendered more than one gentleman temporarily crippled upon the dance floor, and Jeffrey was regarding her with apprehension.
She must surprise him with her grace. Casting an eye on the elegant Miss Linley as she glided across the floor with the squire, Veronica followed her example.
As Jeffrey partnered her, she smiled warmly up at him and made cheerful conversation. How different she felt from her usual clumsy self.
“You are much changed, Miss Ludden,” Jeffrey observed. “Have you been taking lessons?’’
“Lessons?” That question struck uncomfor
tably close to the truth.
“In dancing.”
“Yes. No. Well, not precisely.” Veronica glanced nervously at her father glowering by the pianoforte, but forged ahead bravely. “I’m determined to transform myself into a young lady.” Then came a stroke of inspiration. She added in a conspiratorial tone, “May I be so bold as to request your assistance?”
“In what way?” he asked, whirling her past his father and Miss Linley.
“I’m only just learning to conduct myself as a young lady. I’ve been terribly awkward, haven’t I?” Veronica could feel the change in Jeffrey. A surge of sympathy showed on his dear familiar face. “Miss Conley is beautiful, but then she’s had opportunities that I have not, to go about in society and meet gentlemen. I fear I make a poor showing by comparison.”
“You’re not so inelegant as all that.” It was the strongest compliment he had ever tendered.
“If you could spare me a bit of your time, at such events as these, to help me improve my manner, I should be ever so grateful.”
What gentleman could resist so complimentary a request? “Of course, I shall do my utmost,” he said.
From that moment on, Veronica became Jeffrey’s protégée, and for the rest of the evening she felt him regarding her afresh. He complimented her on every small improvement and paid her the bulk of his attention, to the evident mystification of Miss Conley.
While Veronica did not imagine the war to be won in a single skirmish, she felt grateful that she had made a good showing on the battlefield.
“Will you come and see my rose garden?” the squire asked when the waltz finished.
“At night?” countered Meg, restraining the urge to rub her foot where he had stepped on it.
“Ah, indeed, ‘tis dark.” Squire Roberts stared at the window accusingly, as if the sky had darkened purposely to thwart him. “The orangerie, then? I have a lemon tree all in bloom.”
The image of the heavy, phlegmatic squire framed by the delicate blossoms of a lemon tree struck Meg as humorous, and she began to laugh.
“I say!” The man clearly wasn’t sure how to respond.
“Pray forgive me.” She controlled her mirth. “It’s only that one thinks of lemons as sour, and I cannot imagine one in bloom!” It was the only excuse that came to mind, and a weak one at that. In truth, she had seen such trees in London and loved the rich fragrance.
“I see.” Despite his words, the squire sounded puzzled.
The marquis approached and said coldly, “I believe we should be going, Miss Linley, if we are to arise in time for church in the morning.”
“Of course.” Meg excused herself from the squire’s company with barely disguised relief. That he appeared saddened by her departure gave her a twinge of guilt, as she did not deserve his good opinion. Yet in her observation, ladies in society never refined upon the hurt they might inflict on members of the opposite sex. Nor did gentlemen, for that matter.
After a ripple of farewells, Meg found herself being handed up into the curricle by his lordship. Taking his place beside her, he lifted the reins and slapped them against the horses’ backs. She wished some other members of his household had accompanied them, but none had done so.
The night was warm and they rode for a time without speaking. Meg gazed up through the lenses, marvelling at the beauty of the heretofore invisible stars.
The silence weighed on her, however, and she wondered if she should speak. She hesitated to invite trouble by asking the marquis what had overset him, and yet she disliked to go on wondering.
“Have I given offence, my lord?” she asked.
“Offence?” The indifference in his tone was feigned, she felt certain.
“Perhaps it is my gown,” Meg ventured. “It is the best I possess, but I fear not so fine as those of some of the ladies.”
“I have no complaint about your gown. If I had, I should blame myself for not paying you a better wage,” said the marquis. The curricle rolled on through the night amid the soft, familiar noises of hooves thumping against dirt, and leather harnesses creaking.
The man was impossible! Meg studied his frozen profile. A very handsome profile, she conceded, with high cheekbones and a sharp nose. It bespoke character, Lady Mary would have said.
At the thought of her mother, Meg felt a pang of homesickness. What were they doing tonight? Which gown would Angela wear to the garden party? How would the ton respond to her?
If only she could be there, Meg wished heartily. But how was she to take her leave? After that kiss in the countryside, how could she confess the truth to Lord Bryn?
“Am I correct in assuming that you do not wish to remain a governess for long?” enquired the marquis icily.
Fear flashed over Meg. “I beg your pardon?”
“From your conduct with Squire Roberts, I take it that you have some interest in that regard,” he said.
“Interest?” She stared at Lord Bryn in amazement. Did he believe that she had set her cap for Squire Roberts?
“Or is it your custom to flirt boldly with whatever gentleman seeks you out?” he pursued relentlessly.
“I—” Meg stopped. She had been about to protest that she didn’t mean to flirt, but that was not true. She could hardly admit that her conduct had been a demonstration for Veronica; that would require violating the girl’s confidence.
“How you conduct yourself with men of your own acquaintance is none of my affair,” his lordship continued, “but when you behave with such ... such shameless abandon under my very nose, I cannot but remark upon it.”
“Shameless abandon!” Meg sat up angrily. “My lord, I realize that as my employer you may say what you wish—”
“I don’t stand upon such privilege,” he snapped, his eyes fixed on the moonlit path before them. “You may reply however you wish without fear of retaliation, Miss Linley.”
“What have I done to merit such an accusation?” she demanded. “Danced with the squire once—”
“A waltz,” he pointed out tersely.
“Spoke with him privately for brief spell—”
“Placed your hand on his arm,” the marquis added.
“And refused his invitation to stroll in his rose garden,” she finished. “Or smell his lemon tree.” At the memory, she began to laugh again.
“I fail to see the humour.” Lord Bryn guided the team around a pothole.
“Pardon me.” She chuckled. “It was only that I imagined Squire Roberts standing solidly beneath one of those airy little trees, doing his best to look poetic, and succeeding only in looking entirely absurd.”
At this outburst, the marquis’s visage softened. “You don’t take him seriously?”
“Not in the least,’’ Meg affirmed.
His lordship clucked to the horses. “Then I have spoken out of turn, haven’t I?”
“No, you haven’t.” Meg wished she understood his conduct. Had she not known of his lordship’s feelings for Germaine Geraint, she might almost have supposed him to be jealous. “If I offended propriety, you were right to rebuke me. But I assure you, it’s only that I don’t know the customs in this region.”
“You did not offend propriety,” said the marquis. “I’m merely in a bad temper. It was hot today, and we’ve been short of rain this summer. I’m concerned about my tenants.”
“I see,” she said, but, like the squire a few minutes past, she did not.
As they rode the rest of the way home in silence, Bryn wondered why he had criticized the governess. It had been his object to find Miss Linley a husband. Why then should he be so irritated to see her dance in the arms of that aging Romeo?
Surely it was paternal concern for a valued member of his household, he told himself. The late Mrs. Roberts had been a timid woman, cowed by a bullying husband, and- despite his charming manners tonight, the squire was known to be a rough man when crossed.
That was reason enough for concern.
The marquis glanced at Meg, riding dreamily alongside h
im. What was she thinking? Emotions played across her face, soft and intriguing. One might almost guess that she was reliving the evening, waltzing again with the squire. Or was she recalling the first set of country dances which she had performed with Bryn himself?
The marquis wished he knew more of her. A careful review of Standish’s note had revealed little. Excellent references, but how long could she have been working when she was only nineteen?
Nevertheless, he had behaved very badly this evening. How worried she’d appeared when he chastised her, as if she feared dismissal. Would he never learn to think of anyone but himself? He dreaded someday causing injury to another as he had to Harry, through his own selfish disregard for their welfare.
As they passed from one shadow to the next beneath the three-quarter moon, the marquis reflected for the first time that perhaps he despised London society not so much because of the frailties of others, but because of his own. How easily he might slip into gaming, into attending the sales at Tattersall’s, visiting his tailor, dining at his club, and never sparing a thought for anyone else.
Here in the country, one lived close to one’s subordinates. The marquis kept a sharp eye on his tenants, making certain they were provided for, and discreetly aiding them when misfortune struck. He cherished his two little wards, and strove to deal fairly with his servants.
Why then did Miss Linley knock asunder his best intentions? He had been prepared to quarrel with her tonight, to cast her in the worst possible light, when she had only behaved as any young lady might in the presence of a marriageable gentleman.
A marriageable gentleman? That bounder Roberts! If the chap ever laid one hand on Miss Linley, the marquis would call him out!
Astounded at the ferocity of his sentiments, Lord Bryn spent the rest of the ride home staring moodily at the back ends of the horses.
Chapter Nine
“I cannot think why I let you talk me into coming,” said Lady Darnet, adjusting her chip straw bonnet as the landau carried her and her cousin Sir Manfred along Kensington Road.
A Lady's Point of View Page 8
