by Diane Gaston
‘Of course,’ Agnes said in her sweetest voice. ‘The children.’
Miss Tilson curtsied and left the room.
‘Well, that was certainly dramatic,’ Agnes remarked to Brookmore.
‘The whole matter is odd, if you ask me.’ Brookmore’s words were more spontaneous than usual when he spoke to her. ‘Why did he show up in the first place?’
‘I attempted to discover his reasons while you sent someone to find Miss Tilson.’ She might as well have him think she was trying to be helpful to him. ‘He told me his wife died and he needed Miss Tilson to return to care for his children. They are all alone now, you see.’
‘They are alone, so he travels all the way here?’ Brookmore huffed. ‘He might have stayed with his children and written a letter.’
It was pathetic, really, these two gentlemen fawning over that plain spinster of a governess. She was too tall. Too...robust. And lacking in refinement.
She shook her head. ‘A letter would not do, you see. A personal contact like this is much more convincing.’
He darted a fiery glance at her. ‘You sound as if you are taking up his cause.’
‘Do I?’ She laughed. ‘I do not mean to sound that way. I do have some sympathy for Sir Orin, losing his wife. And his little children, losing their mother. If Miss Tilson returned to him, his children would regain some stability.’
‘I want stability for my nieces,’ Brookmore stated. ‘They lost both their parents.’
She slid her arm through his, brushing her breast against him. ‘Don’t get in high dudgeon, Brookmore, dear. I am excessively proud of the way you have taken care of your nieces. Those dear little girls. But, I must say, Miss Tilson is not like any governess I ever knew.’
‘Nor I,’ he said absently.
She seized on this. ‘She seems to take them outside all day. Is she ever in the classroom? Do you know if they are learning French? Italian? Or doing needlework? Or learning the social graces?’
‘I have not discussed the details of Miss Tilson’s lessons with her,’ he admitted.
What did he discuss with her, then?
They walked into the drawing room. He went over to a cabinet and took out a decanter.
‘Some claret?’ he offered.
‘Please.’ She smiled.
While he poured, she draped herself gracefully on one of the sofas. He handed her a glass.
She took a ladylike sip. ‘Would you like me to involve myself with the nursery? I could visit the schoolroom and see what exactly Miss Tilson is teaching your sweet nieces.’
‘No,’ he shot back. ‘Leave it. Ellen and Pamela are starting to be happy again.’
She took another sip. ‘As you wish.’
Chapter Fifteen
It took Rebecca three days to calm down from Sir Orin Foley’s visit. The day of his visit, she’d gone into Lord Brookmore’s library and looked up Sir Orin in Debrett’s. She’d had to comb through all the listings, which were by title and not given name, but she’d found it finally. Orin Foley of Newpark, Second Baronet. As of 1814, that issue’s publication date, Sir Orin had been married to Anne Walsh, daughter of the Earl of Branard and had issue, one son, Charles, and three daughters, Mary, Margaret and Bridget.
She wished she could discover what had happened to Lady Foley and what had happened to Claire to make her leave her position.
But the days settled into their usual order and her thoughts about Claire and Sir Orin became more fleeting. Her feelings regarding Lord Brookmore settled into a quiet ache and she sometimes could see him without feeling like the wound had been reopened to bleed all over again. Lady Agnes more and more took over the house as if it were hers, which, of course, it was destined to be.
Rebecca’s teaching had settled into a routine, as well, if one could call her haphazard lessons a routine. Sometimes she remembered to teach them sums and French, but mostly she read to them from Lord Brookmore’s extensive library or they went outside and looked at everything. How the plants grew, how the animals behaved, both those on the farm and in the wild, how the weather changed, although it didn’t change much. It remained unseasonably cold.
Every morning the girls had riding lessons on their ponies. Pamela was taking to riding as though she was born on a horse, but Ellen, the typically intrepid one, was slow to giving up her fear. Her pony was the sweetest creature, though, and was steadily winning her over.
She encouraged them to talk to her about their thoughts and feelings or to write them down in their journals. If nothing else, she was determined they know their own minds.
This morning, as the sun merely peeked over the mountains, Rebecca mounted Lily, the horse that was hers in her heart, although she’d never again own a horse. Galloping on the fields, she and Lily seemed to have one mind. She loved her morning rides. For a few minutes every day, Rebecca could feel free as the wind whipping through the fells.
On her way back, in the distance a man on horseback appeared on the next hill. Rebecca’s heart thrilled, as it always did when she saw Brookmore unexpectedly, but a second later she realised it was not Brookmore. She rarely saw anyone else on her early morning runs, except workers beginning their day’s toil.
The figure rode down the hill out of her sight and she put him out of her mind. The ride back was when she talked herself into being grateful for what she had. Life, for one. So many others on the ship lost theirs. She again thanked Claire for the chance to live Claire’s life, even though nothing turned out like she thought.
She made herself think of Pamela and Ellen, of how they were blossoming under her care. Inept as she was as a governess, something she was doing made these little girls happier. She and Lord Brookmore, of course. He daily showed he cared about them.
Lily climbed the far hill where Rebecca had seen the man. She started to plan her lessons for the day. They always seemed so organised in her mind. In practice, though, it never worked out so neatly.
She rode over the hill and was startled to see the rider waiting there.
Sir Orin.
‘What a surprise to see you riding, Claire!’ He spoke to her as if continuing an ongoing conversation. ‘I did not know you rode.’
‘There is much you do not know about me.’ Like the fact that she was not Claire.
He started riding beside her. ‘Yes, indeed. You are so changed. I find it exciting.’
Anxiety crept up her spine. ‘Why are you still here, Sir Orin? I told you that I am happy in my position here. I’m not returning to your employ.’
‘Can I not tour the Lake District? It is becoming fashionable to do so, I understand.’ He smiled at her.
‘You should go home to your children,’ she admonished.
‘Not without you,’ he said.
‘You must not speak to me that way.’ Can Lily gallop home? she wondered. She didn’t wish to try for fear of overworking the horse.
‘Why did you leave, Claire?’ He acted as if she’d not spoken. ‘I told you I would find a way for everything to work out.’
Had he romanced Claire? It certainly seemed as if he had, but he wasn’t precisely stating so. She did not want to say the wrong thing.
‘I am quite content here, sir. There is nothing more to discuss. I am riding back to Brookmore House and I do not want you to follow me there.’ She signalled Lily to canter and she did not look back, but she could hear no hoofbeats behind her.
* * *
Later that day Lady Agnes asked to be taken to Ambleside for shopping. Her aunt did not accompany her. Ordinarily Agnes preferred riding in her carriage, but, since the ride to Ambleside was only three miles, she allowed herself to be taken in the gig. One horse instead of four. Her coachman drove instead of one of Brookmore’s stablemen.
‘Take me to the Unicorn Inn,’ Agnes said as they neared the village. ‘I have an errand there bef
ore shopping.’
‘Yes, m’lady.’ Her coachman would spend the time in the inn’s tavern, she guessed. And he lacked any curiosity as to her business.
Agnes entered the inn.
A man, obviously the innkeeper, attended the hall.
‘Good day to you, my fine lady,’ he said in the jovial manner so common to these sorts.
She gave him one of her charming smiles. ‘Good day to you, sir. I am looking for a gentleman of my acquaintance. Sir Orin. I wish to speak with him. Is he here, do you know?’
‘Sir Orin.’ He nodded. ‘I believe he is in the parlour reading the newspaper. Shall I get him for you?’
Silly question. ‘Either that or show me to the parlour.’
He extended his arm. ‘This way, madam.’
She was not a madam yet, not until she got Brookmore to the altar. This plan of hers would get the deed done, though, she was certain of it.
Sir Orin fortunately sat alone in the parlour.
‘A lady to see you, sir,’ the innkeeper announced.
Sir Orin looked up and smiled. He stood and walked over to her. ‘Lady Agnes. How good to see you.’
When the innkeeper closed the door, Agnes spoke. ‘I told you I would come.’
He gestured for her to sit.
She brushed off the upholstery of a chair and lowered herself on to it.
‘I hope you are well,’ he said as he chose a chair facing hers. He leaned forward as if eager to hear what she had to say.
‘I am glad you have not given up,’ she said.
His expression turned serious. ‘I shall never give up. Do you come to offer me some hope?’
She turned serious, as well. ‘I wish you to be very honest with me.’
A slight smile lit his lips. ‘I am the soul of honesty, my lady.’
Then he was a fool. Everyone needed to tell a falsehood now and then.
She refrained from rolling her eyes. ‘Tell me truthfully. Do you wish Miss Tilson back as your children’s governess or is there another reason?’
He clamped his mouth shut as if considering whether to answer her question or not. Or to lie or not.
Finally he spoke. ‘I am determined to make Miss Tilson my wife. I wish this above all things.’
She leaned back. ‘I suspected as much.’ How convenient that his wife had died. ‘And does she return your regard?’
He glanced away. ‘How could she have done? She was too honourable. And she was loyal to my wife.’
Who now was conveniently out of the way.
Agnes straightened her spine. ‘Well, I have contrived another opportunity for you.’
‘Excellent,’ he said. ‘I rode this morning and intercepted her, to no avail. I did not recall her being so stubborn.’
‘I think there are other factors at play here.’ She was not going to divulge them to him, though. He was a man, after all, and men could so easily ruin things. ‘In any event, you are invited to my dinner party this Saturday next. Five other couples, all I could find who would be suitable. I will insist she be a member of the party, as well, and that you have an opportunity to speak with her privately.’
‘A dinner party?’ He did not look convinced.
‘Let her see you with other good people.’ Or at least the best she could find in this remote area of England. ‘Put on the charm.’
He gave her an earnest look. ‘Do you believe I have seemed too eager?’
‘Absolutely.’ She believed he’d played this all wrong. ‘Be a gentleman. Make the others like you. Let her see you through their eyes.’
He sat back and grinned. ‘I dare say I can do that.’
‘I am certain you can.’ She stood. ‘Come at eight o’clock. Come by carriage. Do you have proper attire?’
He rose, as well. ‘I do indeed.’
He extended his hand. She put her gloved hand in his and accepted the handshake.
‘Until Saturday, then, Sir Orin,’ she said.
* * *
When Agnes returned to Brookmore House she changed out of her walking dress and went in search of Miss Tilson. She climbed the stairs to the second floor and passed what she supposed was Brookmore’s bedchamber. At least, it was the room his valet exited as she walked by.
‘Good day, m’lady,’ the old man said.
‘Good day,’ she said brightly.
The valet shuffled off and Agnes wondered why Brookmore did not pension off such an ancient servant. Surely the man had no sense of men’s fashions today. It could not be pleasant to have such a wrinkled creature touch him or his clothes.
But, never mind. That was a task for another day.
She continued down the hallway until coming to what she supposed was the children’s wing. She heard a voice and listened through the door.
The voice was Miss Tilson’s, sounding as if she was reading from a book:
‘“The elk is twice as big as a hart and bigger than a horse in Norway and Sweden. It is tamed and put into a coach, chariot or sledge to draw men through great snows and upon the ice. It is said to be more swift and to run more miles in one day than a horse...”’
Agnes opened the door without knocking.
‘Lady Agnes!’ Miss Tilson closed the book.
The little girls were seated at the table, their backs to the door. They whirled around to the doorway.
‘Stand and curtsy to Lady Agnes, girls,’ Miss Tilson said.
They scrambled off their chairs and did as she said.
‘How darling!’ Agnes let her gaze encompass the three of them. ‘What were you reading?’
Pamela answered. ‘A Description of Three Hundred Animals.’
‘Beasts, Birds, Fishes, Serpents and Insects,’ Ellen added.
‘Animals,’ Agnes repeated. ‘How delightful.’ She turned to the governess. ‘May I speak to you alone for a moment, Miss Tilson?’
As Miss Tilson made her way to the doorway, she handed the book to Pamela. ‘Read some of this to Ellen while I speak with Lady Agnes.’
Agnes stepped back out to the hallway. Miss Tilson joined her and closed the door behind her. She did not speak, but merely gazed at Agnes.
Agnes smiled. ‘Do not fear, Miss Tilson. I bring you very pleasant news.’
The governess looked sceptical, but still did not speak.
Agnes took a breath. ‘I am inviting you to our dinner party on Saturday night. I have invited some of the area’s important people and it would be so kind of you to join us.’
It took Miss Tilson several seconds to finally speak. ‘I must respectfully decline, my lady. I do not have suitable clothes to wear.’
Agnes waved a dismissive hand. ‘Simply wear your best dress. It will do, I am sure.’
‘I do not think so,’ Miss Tilson said.
Agnes gave her a steely smile. ‘I must insist. I need you at the table, otherwise the numbers will not be even. Come to the drawing room at seven-thirty.’ She nodded a dismissal, turned on her heel and left.
* * *
Rebecca watched Lady Agnes walk away. The tension from the encounter came in a rush and she tried to quiet her breathing.
Refusing to attend this dinner would likely cause more drama than enduring it. She’d have to attend.
She wished she were a man so she could curse!
Her fists clenched and unclenched.
Finally when she felt like she could act with some semblance of normalcy, she opened the classroom door.
Pamela and Ellen both jumped back with guilty looks on their faces.
‘Were you two listening at the door?’ Rebecca asked, although she knew very well they were.
‘Yes, Miss Tilson,’ Pamela admitted.
Ellen’s eyes grew big. ‘Are you really going to a dinner party?’
‘I don’t k
now, Ellen.’ Rebecca sat in her chair and the two girls came to her side.
Ellen’s brow furrowed. ‘What is a dinner party?’
Pamela looked exasperated. ‘It is when you invite people to eat dinner with you and they come dressed in pretty clothes. Do you not remember Mama and Papa having dinner parties?’
Ellen shook her head.
Pamela turned to Rebecca. ‘You do not have pretty clothes, though, do you, Miss Tilson? Your pretty dresses are all at the bottom of the sea.’
‘I am afraid so.’ Rebecca looked down at herself. ‘I’ll have to wear this.’
‘You cannot wear that,’ Pamela insisted. ‘The other ladies will be in silks and laces and such.’
Ellen jumped up and down. ‘I have an idea!’ She pulled Pamela some distance away and whispered in her ear.
Pamela’s face brightened and she whispered something back. Ellen jumped up and down again. This time Pamela pulled her back to Rebecca.
Pamela took Rebecca’s hand. ‘Come with us, Miss Tilson.’
Ellen grabbed her other hand and they pulled her out of her seat.
‘We’ll need a lamp,’ Pamela said.
Rebecca picked up one from the schoolroom and followed them into the hallway. They led her to another staircase, one she had not seen before.
‘This is the attic,’ Pamela said.
They climbed the stairs up to a third floor and opened the door to a cavernous area dotted with trunks, wooden boxes, furniture covered with cloth. The girls walked over to a trunk stashed near the entrance. It was made of the same carved oak wood that panelled most of the rooms in the house.
It took the two girls to lift the lid.
‘Come see, Miss Tilson!’ Ellen cried.
She carried the lamp closer and placed it on the lid of a nearby wooden box. She peered inside the trunk. There appeared to be women’s clothes carefully folded.
‘What are these?’ Rebecca asked.
‘Mama’s dresses,’ Ellen said. ‘You could wear one to the dinner party.’
Rebecca stepped back. ‘Oh, no. Not your mother’s clothes.’
The girls could not possibly know how it would feel to see their mother’s clothes on someone else.
