Mr. Gardiner and the Governess: A Regency Romance (Clairvoir Castle Romances Book 1)

by Sally Britton

  Rupert glanced at the disheveled flowerbed and chuckled. It was really too bad the governess would not be there. He had not even introduced himself.

  Not that it mattered. A governess would stay in her schoolroom, apart from the family and servants alike. Which meant he would likely see no more of her quick smile.

  What a shame.

  Chapter 4

  The schoolroom’s disorder would not endear Alice to her employers.

  When she stepped inside the door to survey the damage of her first day in her position, her heart sank. “Oh, dear. Perhaps we should have tidied up before dinner.”

  A book had been left open on the floor, pages spread like a bird had crashed mid-flight. Ink blots upon paper scattered across the round table reminded Alice of insects on flower petals.

  No one had told her how much they expected her to tidy up and what she could leave for a maid.

  The children ate their dinner with her in a small room near the kitchen, as would be the custom unless their father invited them to the formal dining table. Then they disappeared for their baths and beds.

  She alone stood in the schoolroom.

  Picking up the book, Alice saw from its title it had to belong to Lady Rosalind. At twelve, the girl should have known better than to leave it out like that.

  The children and Alice had spent the afternoon looking through the schoolbooks to find topics that interested the children. If Alice could build an educational schedule around things that made Lady Isabelle, Lady Rosalind, and Lord James curious, she would have a better time at keeping their attention.

  The idea had struck her when she thought about the gardener, and how interested he seemed in insects. If a gardener could study the creeping things of the earth as well as flowers, why shouldn’t children learn of things that mattered to them in addition to the work everyone expected them to do?

  She needed to put some books aside for her own study and make lists of what they had discussed to see if the duke’s library had more books they might use.

  “Miss Sharpe? Are you in here?” When a maid came into the room in a rush, Alice looked up from the table, over a stack of books nearly as tall as she was when sitting down.

  “Here I am!” She waved her hand in the air above the books. “Is anything wrong?”

  “Wrong?” The maid spluttered. “Miss Sharpe, Her Grace sent for you to join them at dinner this evening. One of her guests is ill, and now the table is all put-out and uneven.”

  Alice froze, mid-way out of her seat. “Dinner with His Grace and their guests? You must be mistaken. Even if the numbers are wrong, they cannot want a governess.”

  “They do, Miss Sharpe.” The maid gestured to the door. “Hurry. I’m to send you down straight away, but it took me too long to find you.”

  “But—but—” Alice’s hands went up to her hair, then she touched her skirt. “I am not dressed for dinner.”

  “Then get dressed. Hurry.” The maid came forward, took Alice by the arm, and pulled until Alice started walking. “You must hurry. There’s no time for frippery. You’re just an extra body at the table. Nearly everyone else is titled.”

  Alice knew well enough that the maid spoke the truth. Her presence would be ignored, most likely. They meant her to keep numbers even, the way some might put a block beneath a table leg to keep it from tilting too much to one side.

  With the maid’s help, Alice was out of her midnight blue dress and into one of the few evening gowns her great-aunt had told her to pack. There would be times when she must be present, if the children were invited to important events or performed in musical entertainment, and she had to dress properly for that.

  “But never can you compete with a guest in your finery,” her great-aunt had warned, casting all of Alice’s favorite gowns into a trunk bound for the attic. She had left Alice only two evening gowns. One was the color of a crushed and wilted lilac, a shade Alice found rather mournful, and the other was a pale pink that did nothing for her complexion.

  Alice wore the wilted-lilac that evening. It made her appear rather without color. They hardly touched her hair, except to loosen a few strands from the unfashionable bun. She kept on her spectacles and her father’s ring, sliding gloves on to wear down to the table.

  With no other adornments, Alice practically ran down the corridors to the main floor. She arrived in the corridor outside the dining room, where a footman waited for her.

  He bowed when she approached. “Miss Sharpe. The guests are about to leave the drawing room to enter the dining room. You must wait here until all the guests have walked by, then you join the last gentleman at the rear of the party.”

  “Thank you.” Alice gifted him what she hoped would appear as a confident smile. On the inside, her nerves started to twist, and her stomach clenched around the dinner she had already eaten with the children.

  Eating at a table full of ladies and lords did not exactly intimidate her. She had grown up a member of the gentry, taking her meals at the dining tables of her relatives. Her family had expected Alice to make herself interesting enough to entertain their guests, without being too forward as to draw attention to herself. But the idea of sitting at the table of an employer, someone not expected to keep her on if she made a mistake, struck her differently.

  Be personable, affable, but never so interesting as to attract comment on your behavior or person. The second wife of one of her uncles had given Alice that admonishment.

  She smoothed a small wrinkle on her gown, then let her eyes roam up to the tall ceiling of the main corridor. Though the castle had only completed construction ten years previous, it had the air of a medieval fortress. The duke and duchess were avid collectors of antiques and artwork. Along the particular passage, they had hung shields along the top of the wall. Tapestries depicting ancient forests hung on the walls beneath those shields, and between every tapestry was an oil painting of either a landscape or a scene from British history.

  The ducal couple had modeled the corridor, with its gray and white marble floors, in a style to impress upon the duke’s guests of the might of England.

  Liveried footmen opened a set of double doors on one side of the passage. Light and laughter spilled out just before the duchess and a male guest stepped out, followed by the duke and a female guest.

  Two new footmen appeared out of doors nearer to where Alice stood, hidden in shadow now that light streamed in from other directions. The party made their way toward Alice and turned into the dining hall.

  Alice waited with her eyes lowered, watching only the feet of each couple as they passed her. Fourteen couples went by before a lone pair of polished shoes appeared and then hesitated before her.

  Alice stepped forward with a footman prepared to make introductions.

  The footman sounded as formal as a majordomo or master of ceremonies, despite his quiet tone. “Mr. Gardiner, may I present Miss Sharpe, the family governess and your dinner companion for the evening.”

  Alice curtsied, then raised her gaze at last to the poor gentleman stuck with a governess for the evening. She knew well enough that he would not be enthusiastic about the idea.

  Except.

  Black hair swept somewhat untidily across his brow, and peeking through the tips of his hair, glittering green eyes took her in. The gardener from that afternoon, sans dirt smudges and in a forest green coat of superfine, was not a servant.

  He was a guest.

  “Miss Sharpe. A pleasure.” He bowed, then extended his hand to her.

  Gulping back a squeak of surprise, Alice allowed him to take her hand and place it upon his sleeve. “Mr. Gardiner.”

  Their exchange took only seconds, putting them barely behind the last couple to enter the dining room. Mr. Gardiner kept his head better than Alice did, thankfully, as he took her directly to a chair in the middle of the table, to the duchess’s right. He held her chair out for her. Alice sank into it most gratefully.

  Then Mr. Gardiner sat next to her, appearing pe
rfectly at ease by the surprise meeting. Of course, he could not be nearly so surprised as she. The man she had taken for some sort of servant, a groundskeeper, was a gentleman. An important enough gentleman to sit at a duke’s table, amid other members of nobility.

  Alice’s mortification grew, extending beyond previous bounds, as she admitted to herself that she had hoped to meet the man again.

  But not like this.

  She glanced at him from the corner of his eye. He smiled. She blinked and hastily turned away.

  The pale, silent woman eating at Rupert’s left might bear a physical resemblance to the governess he met earlier, but her manners had undergone a severe change. The Miss Sharpe he met in the garden had brimmed with energy, her countenance naturally bright and intelligent. But now she sat stiffly, her gaze unfocused behind the glass of her spectacles.

  The informality of their garden meeting verged on comical. When the butler informed him in apologetic tones that the governess would be his dinner companion, Rupert had perked up somewhat. He had been slated to keep company with the local vicar’s wife, a woman full of nervous laughter and incapable of speaking on subjects outside of her personal charity work. With the vicar’s wife fallen ill, and her husband still in attendance, he accepted the reprieve gladly.

  Perhaps the duke’s guests intimidated her. As her assigned escort and dinner companion, it fell to Rupert to set her at ease. “Miss Sharpe?”

  Her blue eyes widened a fraction before meeting his. “Yes, Mr. Gardiner?”

  Rupert leaned toward her to murmur. “I am glad to see you again. It gives me the opportunity to inform you that I released the little butterfly you caught. Back into the wilds of Clairvoir.”

  After a quick glance at others sitting around the table, Miss Sharpe spoke in a soft tone unlikely to carry farther than his ears. “I am pleased to learn it, sir. I imagine she is grateful she was only your captive for a short time.”

  Rupert tipped his head to the side. “You think butterflies have the capacity for gratitude?”

  She lifted one shoulder less than an inch, toying with the slice of candied beet on her plate. “I cannot be certain they do. Can you be certain they do not?”

  “Most of the world would say it is not possible for so tiny a creature to have thoughts or feelings.” Rupert tapped his fingers on the arm of his chair, then reached for his cup.

  “Most think creatures of insignificance, unworthy of notice by their betters, are therefore unworthy of everything.” She dropped her hand into her lap. “Simply because we do not know the inner-workings of an animal or insect, and cannot know, does not make them beneath our care.”

  Rupert lowered his cup without drinking, studying instead her profile. No hint of a smile or laughter took away from her words. “Do you care about butterflies in general, Miss Sharpe?”

  “Yes. I think most should. Do they not carry pollen from one flower to another, as bees do? For creatures performing such an important function, they merit some thought.” Miss Sharpe’s smile appeared, albeit briefly. “I might ask if you care about butterflies, sir, given your collection of them.”

  “I do. Of course.” Ah. Now her strange behavior grew understandable. He had thought that someone might have told her about him, given his position as a guest of the duke. But she had only taken up her position the day before. Perhaps it was arrogant of him to assume people spoke about his work when he was not present. Certainly, not everyone found the subject of his studies worth notice. “I am an amateur entomologist and botanist.”

  Miss Sharpe’s smile changed into a puzzled frown. “I am sorry. Entomologist?”

  “A relatively new term for my branch of study.” He took a turn glancing about, to be certain no one else listened. “Some call it insectology. I am a naturalist who studies insects.” The young ladies of his acquaintance did not consider the mention of insects appropriate dinner table conversation.

  “Oh.” Apparently, given the way Miss Sharpe’s blue eyes brightened, she was not like most people in that regard. “That was what you were doing. This whole afternoon, I thought you were in the gardens inspecting the flowers. Then I thought your enthusiasm over the butterfly was something of a hobby.”

  He injected his words with some humor rather than take offense. “I suppose some would call it that.”

  Most of his acquaintances in the world of science termed his interest in bugs a hobby. Some added the adjective disgusting to qualify their opinion on the fact. Except for his father, whose studies centered on birds. Ornithology commanded a great deal more respect than the newly renamed study of insects. But Rupert’s father had always encouraged him to follow his passion.

  “I have so many questions.” Miss Sharpe’s voice raised just slightly, to a normal conversation level. “Are you a member of the Linnean Society? I have a cousin who dabbles in botany. He subscribes to their journal, and I have read some of the articles. I confess to finding the most interest in things which pertained to flowers.” Ah, there was that spark in her eyes.

  Rupert sat back a little in his chair. “You? A lady, reading scientific journals?”

  The spark fizzled and turned dark and smoky instead. “Yes, as fantastic as it might seem, I—a woman—have a curiosity about the natural world.” She turned to give more attention to her plate, angling herself in such a way as to avoid looking at him.

  Her tone held enough of a chill in it to make him shiver. Apparently, he was the one now in danger of giving offense. “Miss Sharpe. I meant—”

  “Pardon me, Mr. Gardiner.” The baroness to his right, Lady Alterby, attempted to gain his attention.

  Rupert wanted to sink into his chair. First he insulted an intelligent woman, now he had been brought to realize he had neglected his other dinner companion. He fixed a smile in place and turned to speak to the elderly woman. “Yes, my lady?”

  “I have just learned that your uncle is a solicitor in Peterborough. I have a nephew there. Perhaps they are acquainted. But I had thought to ask you if you have been there of late. I have not gone in years...” Lady Alterby kept speaking, her cadence more like the drone of a common housefly than the spritely way Miss Sharpe had conversed with him.

  Though he attempted to enter an actual conversation with Lady Alterby, it became apparent that she had more of a desire to reminisce about her time in Peterborough than exchange thoughts or opinions on any subject.

  Finally, she turned to the dinner guest at her other side, the vicar, and nettled him about where he had taken orders.

  Rupert took the reprieve gratefully. “Miss Sharpe? Would you like some of the”—he peered at the platter in confusion a moment—“braised carrots and rabbit?”

  She had remained quiet since their exchange, no one else engaging her. But she nodded tightly in response to his question.

  Rupert did his duty, serving her from the new platter a footman placed upon the table, but she seemed as inclined to push that portion of the meal as she had the last.

  “Miss Sharpe?”

  “Yes, Mr. Gardiner?” She did not turn to look at him. The lavender gown she wore made her appear quite pale. Or perhaps his company displeased her.

  “Are you unwell?” he asked, lowering his voice and leaning closer to her.

  He did not miss the way her hand tightened around her fork the instant before she looked at him. “I am perfectly well. Thank you.”

  Rupert stumbled over his thoughts. “I am sorry. I only thought—since you are not eating—” He cut himself off and took a drink to stave off any more of his own foolishness.

  She sent him a perplexed glance, stabbed at a slice of purple potato, and put the whole thing in her mouth at once. Then she raised her eyebrows, daring him to make another comment. Instead he laughed, but as he was still sipping at his drink, he gulped the wine, so it went entirely the wrong direction down his throat.

  Rupert choked, put a napkin over his mouth and coughed, but a burning sensation remained. His eyes started to water, and everyone at
the table fell silent.

  Someone pressed a cup into his hand, and he drank, but that proved a mistake, too.

  When he finally had control of his lungs and throat, eyes streaming, he looked up. Everyone stared at him. Except for Miss Sharpe, who had somehow managed to shrink despite sitting with proper posture.

  With heat running up the back of his neck and into his ears, he placed a hand over his heart and gave the semblance of a bow from his seat. “I beg your pardon, Your Graces. Do forgive me.”

  “Are you quite all right, Gardiner?” the duke asked from his end of the table.

  “Yes, Your Grace.” Rupert stood and bowed properly. “Merely a difficult swallow, sir.” His humiliation mounted.

  “Very well. Do eat more carefully, sir.” The duke’s light tone gave others the leave to laugh and go back to their conversations.

  Rupert lowered himself back into his chair, took one small sip of his wine, then turned his full attention to the woman on his left. “Miss Sharpe.”

  She was attempting to pretend there was a wall between them, given her refusal to look at him. Had his accident somehow embarrassed her?

  He leaned closer to her and lowered his voice. “Miss Sharpe?”

  She hesitantly turned to him, then whispered, “I am sorry I made you cough.”

  Rupert’s heart softened further toward her. “I owe you an apology, too. I did not mean to give you insult before. About the scientific journal.”

  Those blue eyes were wide and apologetic behind her spectacles. “You did not? I mean—of course not.” She dropped her gaze to her lap where he saw she twisted a ring around her thumb. “It must surprise you, though. My cousin always thought it odd for a woman to show interest—”

  “For anyone, Miss Sharpe.” He forced a smile. He had already humiliated himself that evening. Making a clear, thorough apology would not hurt his pride. “I can count on one hand the number of acquaintances I have, outside of the naturalists I’ve befriended, who have even looked at a journal published by the Linnean or the Royal Society. It is unique, no matter your sex.”