This revelation so disturbed the young man that he steered his horses perilously near an apple cart, and nearly overturned the phaeton.
“Edward!” cried his sister. “Do you want to kill us both?”
He clamped his mouth shut grimly, and drove the rest of the way home without speaking.
The correct course of action became clear to Edward that night. He had balanced the many factors: Miss Angela’s merits against her demerits, his responsibility as her sponsor, and his sister’s affection for her.
The logical solution was that he should marry the girl. With a firm hand, she would shape up to be an excellent wife. He would coach her on what subjects to avoid in conversation, and on how to restrain her natural enthusiasms. She was young, and therefore biddable. It was a wise and dispassionate decision, and Edward congratulated himself.
In view of the rival courtship of Sir Manfred, it also struck Edward as perfectly natural that he should drive to the Linleys’ house the following morning at ten o’clock, so early that Angela was still at breakfast when he arrived.
He asked to speak to Lady Mary alone. When she came, he told her briefly of his intentions. If she was surprised, she gave no sign of it, saying simply, “You have my permission, if my daughter wishes to marry you.”
Lady Mary returned to the breakfast room and sent Angela to see him.
“Mr. Cockerell!” She had dashed to the parlour, but now hesitated on the threshold. “Perhaps we could walk in the garden?”
He agreed at once. This suited his purpose, and, furthermore, he was pleased that she refrained from joining him in a private room unchaperoned, which would have been improper under ordinary circumstances. Of course she didn’t yet know his purpose.
As they strolled through the garden, Angela kept her face averted, and pointed out various flowers.
Edward cleared his throat. “You may wonder what brings me here at this hour of the morning, without my sister.”
“Oh, you are always welcome, Mr. Cockerell,” she said politely.
“Thank you.” He gestured to a stone bench, and she obediently sat upon it.
The next motion required of him affronted Edward’s dignity, and he hesitated. To get down upon one’s knees on a walkway composed of small sharp stones! It was enough to ruin one’s temper, not to mention one’s trousers.
Nevertheless, it was customary, and Edward had no intention of flouting tradition. He adjusted his dark blue pantaloons and lowered himself onto the pathway. “Miss Angela, will you do me the honour of becoming my wife?”
She stared at him in astonishment. “Do you mean...? That was why my mother... But you never even hinted... Can you really mean it, Edward?”
This curious speech might have given him pause, but for the pleasure of hearing his given name upon her lips. Considering his duty performed, Edward removed himself from his uncomfortable position, dusted off his trousers, and sat on the bench. “You may indeed consider my proposal surprising, in view of our different temperaments,” he said.
“Well, yes, I suppose so,” the girl murmured. Her face showed a warm radiance and she leaned toward him ever so slightly.
Edward’s arguments came back to him now. “We must consider the purpose of matrimony,” he explained. “It is, naturally, to produce heirs.”
“It is?” said Angela.
“Indeed, and of course to maintain one’s position in society,” he continued. “We are well suited. Your bloodlines are impeccable, you have been a success in society, you are young and pure, our families have become close friends, and I am nearly thirty and have an obligation to settle down.”
“I see.” Inexplicably, the girl looked crestfallen. “What about the finer emotions, Mr. Cockerell?”
“Love?” he said. “An overrated sensation, I should think. Oh, it’s well enough for poets to write about, but it hasn’t much place in everyday life. Can you imagine what a state the world would be in, if everyone married for love?”
“In this we disagree.” Angela stared at her hands.
“You need not tender your answer immediately,” Edward said, wishing he could read her mind. But what possible objection could she make? “I do hope you won’t keep me waiting long.”
The girl took a deep breath. “I shan’t keep you waiting at all. The answer is yes, Mr. Cockerell. I should be pleased to marry you.”
The exultation which shot through Edward was entirely inappropriate, and he subdued it ruthlessly. “I believe you have made a wise decision,” he remarked, before rising and escorting Angela back to her parent.
Well done, old chap, he told himself on the drive home. That should pluck Sir Manfred’s goose!
“You needn’t marry him if you will be unhappy,” Lady Mary was telling her daughter in the parlour at that very moment. “Although it is an excellent match.”
“Oh, Mother, I love him!” Angela cried. “If only he felt the same for me!”
“Why are you so certain he does not?” the elder woman asked as she mended a torn blouse.
“He prattled on and on about duty and heirs and breeding.” Angela jumped up and paced. “As if I were some sort of cattle!”
“Perhaps that is merely his way,” suggested Lady Mary. “Gentlemen aren’t as expressive as we ladies, you know.”
“Expressive?” Angela shook her head. “Stiff as a log! I must be out of my head to love him, but I do, and I plan to marry him even if he does not care a fig for me.”
“Well spoken,” said her mother.
Angela picked up her embroidery, and sat pondering the matter a while longer before asking, “Mother, did he discuss my dowry?”
“Why, no,” said Lady Mary. “Of course that is untouched. I would have sold my jewels before I used that money.”
“I know that.” Her daughter jabbed a needle into her embroidery. “But it’s so unlike Edward Cockerell not to discuss something of that nature.”
“Never mind,” said her mother. “Meg will be coming home on Tuesday.”
Angela uttered a silent prayer. Please don’t let Edward find out that my sister has been masquerading as a governess. If he does, he’ll surely throw me over, or require that I renounce her.
She would stick by Meg no matter what. Angela fervently hoped the problem would not arise.
Chapter Twelve
Before the awkward moment could lengthen unbearably, Lord Bryn dismounted. Leaving one of the grooms to aid Meg, he strode toward his visitors.
“Mr. and Mrs. Geraint, Miss Geraint,” he acknowledged. “Forgive this strange appearance, but my niece and nephew disappeared for a time. Their governess was out seeking them, and after they were found safe, I rode out to fetch her.”
Mrs. Geraint, a wispy, pale sort of woman, sniffed. “A carriage would have been more proper.”
“Oh, piffle, Mother!” declared her daughter, who looked entirely too large to have emerged from such a small parent. Tall and rawboned, Miss Geraint closely resembled her father in appearance but not in speech, for he remained silent while she discoursed freely. “One can hardly be expected to drive a carriage where there is no road!”
“Well, she might have stayed upon the road, then,” Mrs. Geraint said stubbornly.
“Stuff and nonsense!” bellowed Germaine. “The object was to find the children, not to take a carriage ride with Lord Bryn.”
She strode over to where Meg stood brushing off her skirts. “Hope he didn’t give you too bruising a ride, miss. Or perhaps you’re a horsewoman?”
“I’m afraid not.” Meg smiled apologetically, unable to resist liking this forthright person. She tapped her spectacles. “My vision is too poor.”
“Ah. Quite right.” The tall woman nodded and then, in a manner that would have astounded the assembly at Almack’s, seized Meg’s hand and pumped it as if they were men. “Glad to meet you. My name’s Germaine Geraint. Funny sort of name, ain’t it? Sounds like a Frenchie.”
Meg laughed. “I’m Meg Linley, and I’m delighted to m
eet you. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’d best change my clothes.”
“Indeed you shall.” To everyone’s amazement, Germaine linked her arm through Meg’s and strolled inside with her, as if it were the most usual thing in the world for the future lady of the manor to befriend the governess.
What did one say to such an Original? Meg couldn’t think of anything clever, so she inquired politely, “Did you have a nice journey?”
“Well enough, well enough,” boomed Germaine as they ascended the stairs. Rustling noises informed Meg that the servants were peering out from every crack and cranny. “As nice as one can have when Mother’s in one of her moods.”
“I beg your pardon?” Meg wasn’t certain a lowly governess should encourage such talk.
“As you heard,” the woman replied, “she wants everything in its place, and if no place can be found, she would shove it into one that doesn’t suit. Why, only this morning she took umbrage at seeing a bird flying north. ‘Tis the wrong season,’ she told me. That bird has no propriety.’ “
Meg could well imagine those words issuing from Mrs. Geraint’s dry lips, and chuckled as they reached the bedrooms.
Meg’s chamber was in the guest wing, a singular honour since most of the servants slept in the attic. “Surely you would like to supervise your unpacking and freshen up,” Meg said as they paused on the threshold of her room.
“Not at all,” declared Miss Geraint. “Been cooped up in a carriage with my parents for the better part of two days, and that’s more than one can properly bear. I need to be out and about.”
Meg felt awkward, changing her clothes in front of a veritable stranger, but the other woman’s friendly chatter soon put her at ease. “Difficult children, are they?” Germaine asked as Meg splashed herself with water from the ewer. “Good thing we’ve got you with us, then.”
Meg seized the moment to inform Miss Geraint of her forthcoming departure to aid her mother. The woman clucked sympathetically. “Ill, is she? We’ve got an old woman in our village can cure most anything, or so people say. Wouldn’t know myself—I’ve never been sick a day.”
Meg could well imagine. What illness would dare assault this woman?
As soon as the governess was restored, Germaine insisted on going up to visit the children. “Little spitfires, eh?” she asked as they mounted toward the nursery. “Chip off the old block, I’ll wager.”
“They’re really very dear,” Meg admitted. “I’ve grown quite attached to them during my few weeks here.”
“What? You’ve only just come? What a pity you must leave so soon!” Germaine spoke almost entirely in exclamations. “A few weeks—that’s hardly a proper visit, let alone employment. Are you certain you can’t bring your mother here?”
Such a possibility had never been broached before, and Meg was caught off guard. “There’s my younger sister, also—”
“Oh, bring her, too, by all means.” Fortunately Germaine was distracted when they entered the nursery and witnessed two rebellious small faces peering out from their beds.
“Put to sleep early, are you?” said Miss Geraint. “Given everyone a difficult day, and you deserve it.”
“We didn’t do anything bad,” said Vanessa, pouting. “We were only playing dress-up with Miss Linley’s clothes.”
“And frightened Bertha half to death by pretending to be ghosts,” Meg scolded.
“Ghosts?” Germaine stared at the children with admiration. “That’s a new one. When I was a child, I got rid of nurses by putting a mouse down their skirts.”
“Terror lives over there.” Meg pointed at the box and, comprehension dawning, Germaine reached in and lifted out the squeaking rodent.
“He’s a lively pup,” she declared, holding the mouse in one hand and stroking his back with a finger. “This Bertha sounds like a weak dish of tea.”
“She is!” Tom bounced up and down on his bed. “We were left with her all day. I think it was wrong of Miss Linley to go into town with Mrs. Franklin, when she’s going to be leaving us so soon.”
“The world doesn’t revolve around you, young man.” Germaine fixed him with a stern eye.
“Are you to be our mother?” asked Vanessa. “I don’t like your clothes.”
Meg suppressed an urge to rebuke the child. In fact, Miss Geraint’s gown was a skillfully cut fine grey muslin, though it hung awkwardly on her large-boned frame.
“Clothes ain’t all that important,” the future Lady Bryn replied amiably. “You’ve a lot to learn about life, young miss. Were you put to bed without supper?”
“Yes!” cried Vanessa.
“No,” Tom corrected in a small voice. “Jenny gave us bread and milk.”
“More than you deserve!” Chuckling, Germaine swept out of the room with the governess in her wake. She likes them, and they’re going to adore her, Meg thought, wishing she didn’t feel a pang of envy.
To the servants’ amazement, Miss Geraint insisted that Meg join them at dinner that night. “I’ve taken a liking to her,” she said.
Lord Bryn acquiesced. “As you wish.” His eyes swept past Meg without appearing to see her. She felt as though she’d become invisible.
Would they ever have that conversation they’d planned? She wished she knew what he had intended to say, and how he would have responded to the truth about her. Perhaps it was just as well that they part on neutral terms.
Or was it? Meg wondered as they sat down to simple country fare of roast mutton and duck, green beans, and salad. She loved him so much that her heart felt near cracking at the prospect of her departure.
She could not imagine ever responding to another man this way, her skin tingling in his presence, her soul filling with strange yearnings, her lips longing to touch his. If it were true that only one man in the world had been created for her, then this must be he.
But it was too late now. His intended—albeit no engagement had yet been formally announced—was here with them, and Meg liked her very much. Further, she could see that with such an unorthodox temperament, Germaine might never find another husband. It would be the height of villainy to supplant her.
At dinner, Miss Geraint kept them royally entertained. With her colourful way of speaking, she could hold an audience transfixed, describing a rabbit that nearly dashed out its life under the wheels of their carriage, or telling of a fox hunt in which two horses barely avoided tumbling down one atop the other through the clumsiness of their riders.
Meg wished she had known her under other circumstances, so that they might have become friends. She sneaked a glance at Lord Bryn. Surely he must admire her, as well.
He wore a pleasant expression and attended Miss Geraint with interest. Yet, in spite of herself, Meg was relieved to see no sign of anything more than a mild affection.
She knew so little of marriage. Perhaps those quiverings in her body when Lord Bryn embraced her had been the sensations of a lost soul, a secret wanton. Perhaps such response was unsuitable in a wife.
After dinner, when the women retired to the drawing room, Meg excused herself and went upstairs. She would have enjoyed more of Germaine’s company, but Mrs. Geraint appeared fiercely put out at having to hobnob with a mere servant.
Meg’s mind was troubled. Would her presence sully Angela? Was she unfit for polite society? Did Lord Bryn sense how she felt, and was he offended by it? And how would she get through the days and nights of her life without him?
It was useless to refine on matters she could not resolve. Instead, Meg had to confront a more immediate issue, the need to advise Helen Cockerell of her return without admitting the circumstances under which she had been living.
Or perhaps she did not have to keep up a pretence with her closest friend. Surely Helen would guess something was amiss. It might be courting disaster to reveal to others that she had paraded as a governess, but Helen could be trusted. She would tell no one; she might even think it a lark.
London. Meg closed her eyes and it came back to her: the he
avy perfumes of the ton, the sneers upon their lips, the crushes as one entered a ball, the sound of laughter behind one’s back. Oh, Lord, was she really going back?
Gowns! She had not even a dress suitable to wear in society, now that hers had been redone for Angela.
Meg hesitated to appeal to Helen. True, her friend possessed an enormous wardrobe and disliked wearing the same gown more than two or three times, and the girls were close to the same size. Helen would likely not mind at all providing some gowns to be made over for Meg, but to make such a request, Meg must reveal the truly difficult state of their finances.
Well, Helen would scarcely be surprised. She was likely perceptive enough to have guessed the facts already.
With a frown, Meg picked up her pen and set to the difficult task of outlining her escapades and her poverty to the only person outside her family whom she dared trust.
On Friday morning, Lord Bryn and Miss Geraint went riding together. Standing in the schoolroom window, Meg watched them go.
However gawky the impression she made when on the ground, Germaine’s horsemanship more than compensated. She rode as if born to the saddle, Meg noted as the figures galloped across a rise side by side.
Her own poor vision would never permit such activity. Until now, Meg had believed the marquis and his future wife singularly ill-suited, but she was beginning to realise her error. Lord Bryn had chosen the life of a country gentlemen, and Germaine clearly was in accord with him. It mattered not that Meg liked country life also, despite the fact she missed her mother and sister. Feeling wretched, she returned to supervising the children.
Meg managed to keep her restless thoughts in check for the next few hours, but the sense of unease returned during her free hour, while the children and the houseguests napped. She had heard Lord Bryn go into his study some time ago, and felt she could safely walk about the grounds without risking an encounter.
There was nothing approaching a formal garden here. Rolling fields, thick with buttercups, surrounded the great house. Farther away, cattle moved across the grassy slopes. Meg paused to drink in the warm summer air and the rich earthy smell, and to wonder where she belonged. She would never have imagined, having taken such unwanted leave of her family in London, that she would feel pain at having to go back again.
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