She might have hopped off the horse and stomped away rather than conclude the discussion, but money was always a consideration, and with a bad hip, one didn’t hop off eighteen-hand behemoths or stomp very far.
“How much?”
He named an astonishing figure, one that would allow Alice to add considerably to her savings. But no… These were boys, and two of them, and that was bad enough, but then there was Mr. Grey…
“I can’t. They are active little fellows, Mr. Grey, and I cannot be responsible for getting them into the fresh air and sunshine each day as I should.”
“I’ll manage that part, if you’ll handle the schoolroom and the rest of it.”
“What is the rest of it?” She should hop off, bad hip or not.
“They’ll have a nursemaid, of course, for tending them at the start and end of each day. The grooms will supervise them in the stables, and I’ve enough footmen to toss cricket balls at them, and so forth.”
Here was purchase in a negotiation she intended to win. “Not footmen. You.”
“I beg your pardon?” He frowned again, but then made a little fuss over steering the horse, who no doubt could have found the barn blindfolded in a high wind.
Was he trying to scare her?
“You did not have your sons’ trust, Mr. Grey,” Alice said. “You can’t simply command them to trust you. They have to see and experience you as trustworthy. You can’t do that if you’re shut away with your ledgers and they’re off with a groom on their ponies.”
This would nicely scotch his schemes, and without them having to argue about it. Alice congratulated herself on her brilliance as she relaxed against his chest. She was out from under his offer, and nobody need be offended. For the first time in years, she almost enjoyed being on a horse.
“Three days a week,” he said, “I will spend at least an hour in recreation with both boys.”
Drat. Her brothers had taught her some rudimentary gambling as she’d recovered from her injuries; being a governess had taught her strategy. She raised the stakes. “And you’ll take a walk with each child once a week, weather permitting, or play cards, or somehow spend an hour with each child individually.”
“I can do that.”
“And you will join them for breakfast,” Alice plunged on, concluding Mr. Grey must not be thinking sensibly. “And one evening meal a week.”
Behind her, Alice felt Mr. Grey draw in a breath and go silent.
“Fridays would suit,” he said at length, “and you must agree to join me at that meal too.”
“Of… of course.” Alice felt her world slipping, and she inadvertently held more tightly to Mr. Grey, whose arm tucked around her closely in response.
“You’ll have pin money and a clothing allowance besides,” he went on, while Alice grappled with the import of their discussion. “And a half day every Saturday. Nobody is expected to work on Sunday at Tydings, including the kitchen. You will have two weeks paid in the summer to see friends, such as Miss Priscilla, and the use of a horse or pony trap, should you need it. We are agreed?”
Alice was quiet, stunned at how her world could change in the space of a half mile. She had not lined up another position because she preferred to deal with agencies to screen potential employers. Any place in London itself would not do, there being a surfeit of titles around the place, and Collins—may he rot slowly in a malodorous corner of hell—was liable to visit other titles from time to time.
Any household that had too many grown sons or uncles or male cousins was out of the question as well. Any place that expected her to ride with the children or march them about the estate every day of the week, any place that would not pay a decent wage or give her even a half day a week to catch her breath…
Mr. Grey was offering her more than she usually demanded, in every regard. He had no title; his children were dear and very much in need of someone who would care for them.
“This is temporary,” Alice said as the horse shuffled into the stable yard. “You said this was temporary.”
He nudged the beast to a halt. “I said I’d hire you even if you were only willing to take us on temporarily. I suggest we give the matter a three-month trial. If you are not content, we can agree to part at that point, but you must allow me at least that long again to search for a successor.”
The condition was practical and would ensure the children did not suffer a lapse in studies. It also ensured that for six months Mr. Grey would not be left with the dilemma of finding another tutor.
“So it’s a six-month position, at least.”
“At least,” he agreed, then swung off the horse, leaving Alice perched on the pommel, mind reeling. “Miss Portman?”
Alice glanced down to see Mr. Grey regarding her patiently from the ground. She put her hands on his shoulders and felt herself lifted easily from the saddle. Though Mr. Grey was careful to settle her onto her feet slowly, her left leg buckled when she tried to put weight on it.
“Steady.” He held her still, letting her lean against him once more. “Give it a minute.”
She bit her lip and blinked. “It’s shot,” she muttered miserably as the horse was led away. “The only thing that helps now is bed rest.”
“Can you lean on me?” Mr. Grey asked, wrapping an arm around her waist. But he was too tall to be properly leaned on, and Alice hadn’t the strength or the balance to hop up three flights of stairs on one foot.
She shook her head, feeling tears threaten, not exclusively as a result of the ache in her hip.
He muttered something that sounded suspiciously like “bugger this,” and Alice felt herself being swept up against his chest.
“We’ll have you surrounded by hot-water bottles in no time.” He headed across the gardens to one of the house’s back entrances.
“The servants’ stairs are closer,” Alice said, looping her arms around his neck. She hadn’t been carried like this since she’d fallen off that horse, and though she was full grown and well fed, Mr. Grey carried her as if she weighed no more than little Priscilla. It was disconcerting, sweet, comforting, and awful, all at once.
He bent his knees a little at her door, so Alice could lift the latch, then he kicked the door shut behind them. Alice found herself gently deposited on the edge of the bed, facing a stern-faced Mr. Grey, who was glaring down at her, his hands on his hips. Without warning, he dropped to hunker before her and took one of her boots in his hands.
She stared down at him. “What are you doing?”
“Removing your shoes,” he replied, unlacing her half boot as he spoke. “Bending at the waist is likely uncomfortable for you.”
Protests dammed up behind the truth—bending at the waist hurt abysmally, though Alice nearly died of mortification and shock when she felt Mr. Grey’s hands slip under her skirts and tug down her stockings.
“Mr. Grey!” She tried to scoot back on the bed, but that hurt like blue blazes, so she had to settle for glaring at him as he rolled her stockings like a practiced lady’s maid.
“Oh, simmer down.” His tone disgruntled, he looked around and put the stockings on her vanity. “I was married for several years, you know, and it isn’t as if I’ll be ravishing you over the sight of your dainty feet.”
Alice went still on the bed, all other indignities and imprecations forgotten. “What do you mean, you were married?”
“My sons are legitimate.” He frowned at her, his hands back on his hips. “I would not wish bastardy on any child, much less my own.”
“But you said you were married,” Alice pressed. “You aren’t married now?”
“I am not,” he replied, cocking his head. “And were I not in polite company, and did it not sound insufferably callous, I would add, ‘thank God.’ My wife expired of typhoid fever a little more than three years into our union. I would not have wished her dead, but she is, and I quite honestly do not miss her.”
“Mr. Grey! Surely you haven’t voiced those sentiments before your children?”
�
��And if I have?”
“You would have much to apologize for,” Alice shot back. “Much to be forgiven for. She might have been the worst mother in the world, but those little boys need to believe she was in some way lovable, much as they would need to believe the same about you, lest they see themselves as unlovable.”
His gaze narrowed. “You presume to know a great deal about my sons.”
“I knew well before you did that one of them had been birched too severely,” Alice retorted. “And I know they need to regard their parents in some reasonably positive fashion.”
“Well, then, fine.” He ran a hand through his hair in a gesture Alice had seen his younger brother make often. “Your expertise confirms my choice of you as the boys’ next governess.”
Alice opened her mouth to say something, then shut it abruptly.
“I will take my leave of you.” He stepped back from the bed. “A maid will be along posthaste. Will you want some laudanum?”
“No. Thank you, that is. No, thank you.”
“Good day, then. I’ll have our terms drawn up into a contract and provide a copy for your review.”
She nodded, not even watching as he took his leave. Her hip hurt, and it was going to hurt worse in the next few hours, and she’d just made a devil’s bargain with a man who smelled divine and handled her like she was a sack of feathers. Alice was tucked up in her night rail, a glass of cold lemonade by the bed, before she realized she was just as disgruntled with Mr. Grey for being widowed as she was for his handling her like she was a sack of feathers—and not even a female sack of feathers at that.
Three
Argus churned along ahead of the dust and racket of the coach, no doubt sensing the approach of home even though Tydings was still at least an hour distant. With luck, they’d beat the inevitable thunderstorm building up to the north.
Ethan had not slept well the previous night, his mind a welter of thoughts and feelings left over from his visit to Belle Maison. When he was a boy exiled from his home, he’d missed Nick so badly he’d cried at first, and a six-foot-plus fourteen-year-old male did not cry easily. Now that the old earl was dead, and he and Nick were free to be family to each other again, Ethan hadn’t been able to get away fast enough.
And Nick had been hurt.
For all of Nick’s glee over his new wife, all of his excitement at the prospect of having a family with his Leah, Nick had still known Ethan was dodging, and had let him go without a word. He’d merely hugged his brother tightly, then patted Argus and told the horse to take good care of his precious cargo.
Well, life wasn’t a fairy tale, Ethan reasoned when more of the same kind of musings finally brought him to the foot of the long driveway leading to Tydings.
“Papa!” Joshua was standing on the box, the groom’s hands anchored around his waist. “We’re home! I can see the house, and there goes Mrs. Buxton to fetch the footmen.”
Ethan’s housekeeper, Mrs. Buxton—Mrs. Buxom, among the footmen—was indeed bustling down the long terrace at the side of the house.
“Sit down, Joshua,” Ethan called back. “Standing up there is dangerous, and Andrews will need to hold the horses. He can’t be holding you as well.”
Joshua dropped like a rock but bounced on the seat like any small boy would upon sighting his home. When the coach pulled into the circular drive in front of the house, footmen trotted up to lower the steps and begin moving the luggage. The groom scrambled down to grab the leaders’ bridles, and a stable boy come bouncing out of the carriage house to take Argus.
“Welcome home, Mr. Grey,” the senior groom called cheerily, “and welcome, young masters. Did you have a grand time with your uncle in Kent?”
Joshua was jumping around on the box again. “Miller, we had the best time, and Uncle Nick is even taller than Papa, and he has a huge horse named Buttercup, and a huge house, and his cook makes huge muffins. Enorm…” Joshua paused and looked to his brother.
“Enormous,” Jeremiah supplied. “And he let us ride his mare once, because we were very good, and we picked raspberries with Uncle Nick, and Aunt Leah is very nice, and there were other boys there, and they were all littler than us, but very nice, and we played Indians in the trees, and everything.”
“Gentlemen.” Alice Portman’s pleasant tones glided into the ensuing silence. “I’m sure your papa will help you down now that we’re safely home. Please don’t run until you’re away from the horses, and then I will expect you to give me a tour of your rooms once you’re settled. What do you say to John?”
“Thank you, John Coachman!” both boys chorused. Ethan had swung off Argus, intending to get to his library with some cold, spiked lemonade and a small mountain of correspondence. Footmen were capable of getting the boys down from the high seat. Hearing both boys extol Uncle Nick’s huge, tall, enormous virtues grated, though, so Ethan plastered a pleasant expression on his face and turned back to the coach.
“Here you go, Joshua.” He held up his arms and hoisted the first child to the ground. “Up to the house, as Miss Portman said. Time to pester the grooms later. Jeremiah, down you go.”
“Yes, Papa.” Jeremiah stepped back as soon as his feet hit the ground. “Joshua, let’s go. Miss Portman wants a tour.”
“But I want to go see Lightning and Thunder,” Joshua retorted, his chin jutting.
“Later, Joshua,” Jeremiah said through clenched teeth. “We have to go to the house now.”
Joshua’s lips compressed into mutinous lines, but before Ethan could assert paternal rank, Miss Portman extended a hand in Joshua’s direction.
“Come along, Joshua, or I shall get lost in a house as grand as this.” She wrapped her hand around his. “And if I get lost, well then, I might not be found in time to read a couple of perfect gentlemen, and very fine singers, their bedtime story.”
Joshua brightened. “We sang really loudly. I bet the horses’ ears flippered around.”
“I’m sure horses all over the shire were flippering their ears.” Miss Portman slipped her other hand into Jeremiah’s and led them off, chattering about horses in China and flippering ears.
“Prettier than old Harold,” the groom remarked with the familiarity of long service. “Bet she reads a mean bedtime story.”
“See to the horse,” Ethan replied, watching as Miss Portman sauntered along with the boys toward the house. She should have waited for Ethan to escort her, but the view of her retreat was most pleasant, so Ethan kept his disgruntlement to himself. Joshua stopped, dropped her hand, and crouched to study the dirt—an insect, most likely, since Joshua was apparently going through a bug-studying phase—and Miss Portman crouched down to peer at the dirt right beside him, her skirts pooling on the dusty ground.
Argus, after balking for form’s sake, let himself be led to the stables. The coach clattered away toward the carriage bays while the small parade of footmen hefted the luggage off to the house.
Still Ethan stood in the drive, wondering if he’d ever seen Mr. Harold once pause to study a bug? Seen him take either boy by the hand? Heard the man sing?
Had Ethan ever done those things with the boys himself? Even once?
The questions were vexing him several hours later as he made his way to the family parlor where Miss Portman would join him prior to the evening meal. Perhaps it was the effect of several hours at his desk, but Ethan realized he was looking forward to the next hour. Food was always a pleasure, but Miss Portman’s presence was the added spice that had him glancing at the clock and wondering what she’d wear to the table.
She wore a frown and the same dusty traveling dress she’d had on all day.
While Ethan had bathed and changed into clean clothes.
“I see you did not change for dinner,” Ethan remarked as the footman closed the door behind her.
Miss Portman eyed him up and down. “I was told you keep country hours and you do not change, when you bother with sitting at the table at all.”
Ethan gave her the sa
me up and down perusal she’d given him, though compared to a governess’s virtuosic ability to communicate disapproval at a glance, he was a mere tyro. “I gather you would prefer to be spared this ordeal?”
She peered around the room. “Honestly, the chance to sit down and eat something appeals greatly.”
“You’ve been standing the livelong day? I should offer you a drink, at least some wine.”
She shook her head. “No wine. It does not agree with me, but thank you. And yes, I have been on my feet.”
“If you’re to forgo your gustatory glass,” Ethan said, “why don’t we go in to dinner, and you can regale me with the details of your day while we dine?”
“Because that would be unappetizing,” Miss Portman informed him, her tone so wistful, Ethan felt his lips trying to quirk up. He offered his arm, keeping his eyes on the door instead of Miss Portman’s face.
“As bad as all that?” he asked, leading her toward the folding doors to the informal dining room.
“As tiring. What have you done with yourself since abandoning your children in the driveway this afternoon?” A small silence followed, while Ethan observed the courtesy of seating a woman who delivered scolds as casually as others might offer pleasantries.
“Forgive me.” Miss Portman closed her eyes and blew out a breath. “I am fatigued, and therefore cranky.”
“And here I go, demanding you put up with me when all you want is to climb into bed. Are your rooms acceptable?” He poured her a glass of wine as he spoke, and passed it to her.
“They are lovely.” She offered a tired smile, and Ethan noticed she had smudges of shadow under each eye and a slight droop to her shoulders. “The view of the back gardens is wonderful, and the balcony is a luxury this time of year.”
“All the bedrooms at the back of the house have balconies.” He gestured to the footman, who served the soup, then waved the man away. The remaining courses were put in the center of the table so the diners might serve themselves. When the footman had retreated and closed the door behind him, Ethan found a familiar frown on Miss Portman’s face.
Ethan: Lord of Scandals ll-3 Page 4
