Still, his priority was clearly the election.
“We still need to discuss where the hustings will be, and,” Mr. Walker said darkly, “what do to about the Talbot boy.”
Alfred sighed heavily. The Carmichaels and the Talbots. How many generations was it now that the two families had been at odds? Enemies for goodness knows how long, they were—well, not enemies exactly. Dukes did not have enemies. They had adversaries.
He could never recall being instructed to hate Talbots. His father had always believed that men such as Thomas Talbot, and now his son, were not worthy of Carmichael hatred.
“Ah, the Talbots,” said Mr. Hemming, shaking his head. “An ill-wind brought them here.”
“Brought them here?” added Mr. Shaw, a rather nasty smile on his face. “You don’t know what you’re talking about Hemming, they’ve been here at least two generations longer than you!”
Alfred allowed the conversation to wash over him. It was easier than attempting to interrupt.
“We cannot do anything about John Talbot,” interrupted Alfred with a wry smile. “I suppose this happens in most towns when two families rise to prominence, but there is nothing for it. Both myself and Talbot are running for election, and the best man will win.”
He had intended his words to smooth the rough edges of the conversation and lead to an end, but Mr. Hemming looked outraged.
“Best man will win?” he repeated, eyes wide. “But surely, Your Grace, that would mean you should win!”
Alfred sighed and glanced at the clock. Ten to five. Mrs. Martin was going to be beside herself.
“We may have to accept that I am not guaranteed to secure the seat for myself,” he said. “Now, if you will excuse me gentlemen, I—”
“Not guaranteed?” It was Mr. Walker who had spoken this time, Mr. Shaw’s face turned toward him in panic. “How can you say such a thing, Your Grace? Why, a Carmichael has held the seat of Rochdale for—”
“Four generations,” echoed Alfred, his voice slightly sharper now. “Yes, I am well aware of that, Mr. Walker.”
The man looked a little abashed, but Mr. Brown continued to look at him as though he had gone mad.
Alfred should have known it. He should never have attempted to explain it to them, and he would not be so foolish as to continue the effort.
How did one tell those who wished for nothing more than his re-election to Parliament that…well, he did not wish to be.
Member of Parliament. ’Tis an honor, his father had always said. The elder Carmichael had been too frail, too elderly at the time of the last election, and Alfred had taken on the mantle with poor grace and significant irritation.
He had done it because his father had asked him to.
The following year, his father had died. Alfred had inherited the title, the house, the fortune, the tenants—and with it all, the responsibility of going to Parliament.
That, as he had always been told, was what Carmichaels did.
“Rochdale without a Carmichael?” Mr. Shaw was saying quietly. “It could not be countenanced!”
Alfred almost laughed. “Losing the election would not require me to quit Rochdale, nor the abbey.”
Mr. Shaw colored. “But to see a Talbot take your seat—your seat, Your Grace!”
There was a low rumble from Mr. Brown. An elderly gentleman with a beard almost reaching his waistcoat pocket, he had not said a word the entire time they had been in the town hall, and the place fell silent waiting for his statement.
“Rochdale needs Carmichaels,” he said slowly and impressively.
Alfred waited, but there did not appear to be anymore. “And I will do my best, Mr. Brown, of course, but at this moment, I really must away.”
“But Your Grace, there is so much more we need to discuss,” said Mr. Walker in a wheedling voice. “We must resolve what is to be done if you do not win the seat!”
Alfred opened his hands expansively. “I will win, though, won’t I? Carmichaels always do.”
It was all he could do to keep the bitterness out of his voice. Carmichaels always got what they wanted, always drove the hardest bargain, always fought until the end. It was what they did. It was what they had always done.
“Young Talbot is proving…well, effective,” said Mr. Hemming nervously. “In talking to the people, I mean.”
It was impossible not to laugh at this. “As do I, Mr. Hemming—I think you will find most are my tenants!”
Silence fell in the town hall as the men stared, shocked at his levity at what they clearly believed to be a genuine disaster.
Get a grip of yourself, man, Alfred told himself. These are not men of London who understand your dry humor. They are your townsmen, and they are looking to you to provide some sort of peace!
“Look,” he said quietly. “I agree, there is much more to be discussed here—more than can be reasonably covered in one sitting. I have a governess arriving for Archibald today, however, and I have no choice but to depart, return to the abbey, and greet her.”
“We quite understand you have other commitments, Your Grace,” said Mr. Shaw hurriedly, rising himself. “Good day to you.”
Alfred bowed and, as Mr. Shaw departed, Mr. Brown followed without saying a word. Only a gentleman like Mr. Brown could get away with such indecorum, but who was to disagree with him? A man of such advanced years could do what he liked.
“I-I wanted to thank you, Your Grace.”
Alfred looked up to see Mr. Hemming hovering. “Thank me?”
Mr. Hemming nodded nervously. “Yes, I-I was not involved in your first election campaign, you know, and ’tis an honor to be a small part of it now. I am most grateful to even be a part of this discussion.”
Alfred blinked. Mr. Hemming…new to the town, which meant he had only lived here thirty years. A gentleman, by all accounts, though from trade rather than family wealth. A nervous man, a gentleman. A man Mr. Walker had taken a disliking to ever since he had purchased the house Mr. Walker had earmarked for his son.
Alfred smiled. “Of course, the pleasure is all mine, Mr. Hemming.”
Mr. Hemming floated away on a cloud and shut the door behind him.
“You are not taking this seriously enough, Your Grace.”
Alfred turned. Mr. Walker was standing at the other end of the table, a frown on his face and a steely glint in his eye.
“I am taking my brother’s education very seriously, Mr. Walker,” Alfred said nonchalantly, starting toward the door.
“You know precisely what I mean,” Mr. Walker snapped. “Damnit, man, if you do not pay attention, you could let this election slip through your fingers!”
Alfred halted and looked at the man, now only feet from him. He had been loyal to the Carmichaels for generations. Beside every Carmichael who had taken up his seat at Parliament, there had been a Walker behind him, cheering him on, ensuring votes were counted—or if need be, counted twice.
There were few people in the world Alfred would permit to speak to him in that way. Mr. Walker was one of them.
“I did not want to run for this damned seat last time,” Alfred said quietly. “I ran, despite my better judgment, and I won. I have served in London. I do not wish to run for the seat again, and yet I am doing just that. Is that not enough?”
He could not take it anymore. Had he not sacrificed enough for his father and the family name? Striding outside into the warmth of the July day, Mr. Walker’s footsteps followed him.
“Archibald is getting himself a governess, you say?” Mr. Walker wiped his brow with a handkerchief and smiled nervously. “The scamp won’t be able to run amok anymore then. I suppose you will be glad of that!”
Alfred smiled. He could see Mr. Walker’s words for what they truly were—an olive branch after their disagreement.
“A scamp?” he said lightly, nodding to his man waiting outside the town hall who immediately went to retrieve his horse. “I seem to remember being described that way myself once, not too long ago.”
Mr. Walker’s face broke into a smile. “The number of times I had to chase you off my vegetable patch, I don’t think anyone would believe.”
Alfred grinned. The street was teeming with people going about their business, and none of them looked twice at the two gentlemen having their conversation on the pavement.
“I think Archibald is very much cut from the same cloth,” said Alfred dryly. “But nothing a good governess cannot cure, I am sure.”
Where is that damned horse? The sooner he could get away, the quicker he could avoid any more mention of this election.
“Hmm,” said Mr. Walker, looking skeptical. “You will have to find yourself a very good governess, if you ask me, for someone like young Master Archibald to change his ways, them’s set in stone! A lady who does not put up with any nonsense, otherwise you will be managing him yourself.”
One of the fascinating things about being a duke, Alfred had learned on the occasion of his father’s death, was that everyone was suddenly an expert on all parts of your life. Dukes? Everyone knew what a duke should look like, stand like, dress like.
Even raising his half-brother had become a part of county concern, and it was with relief that Alfred saw Williams arrive with his horse tugging at the reins.
“I have managed Archibald since his mother died,” said Alfred, not unkindly. “Please do not concern yourself, Mr. Walker. I think you will find that I have everything under control. Good day.”
“Ah, yes, right,” said Mr. Walker, not taking the hint as Alfred mounted his steed. “Now, about the enclosures. ’Tis an important topic, as I am sure you know and—goodbye, Your Grace!”
The last few words were shouted after him as Alfred nudged the horse to a gentle trot. Williams would be off to the Johnsons now, helping them with some of the harvest. He could ride alone, which meant in peace, something in rather short supply at the moment.
This damned election! Rochdale Abbey was a few miles from the town, and so it was not long until the roads were left behind him and countryside beckoned, as he took the road that led to the Carmichael estate.
“Please do not concern yourself, Mr. Walker. I think you will find that I have everything under control.”
Alfred laughed bitterly as his horse snorted. Everything was not under control, though he would be the last to admit it. Archibald was more than a scamp; he was a terror! No servant would agree to mind him, Mrs. Martin had vowed to leave if a governess was not found, and the undermaid was leaving today. God knows why—Mrs. Martin had made the decision, and that was her right, not that anyone had bothered to tell him.
As wind whipped through his hair, Alfred mused that it had been tempting to leave everything behind. He could just disappear and run off to America, a land where one could entirely reinvent oneself. No one could demand that the eldest Carmichael do his duty if he had a different name. No Carmichaels there ran for election. They did not serve the people in the smokey, dark, and dingy London in the south.
Alfred espied the Johnsons in the distance and made a mental note to check in on their harvest later on in the week. It was early, true, but they had enjoyed a hot summer. The sun shone down, and the bees flew up, all day, every day for weeks, and the land had responded.
He breathed it in, the unmistakable scent of Rochdale land. Just like the gorse on the moors and the trees that stood strong against the winds, he had been planted here years ago, and he would never leave it to run away.
Besides, he would never leave Archibald. Half-brother he may be, but he was a Carmichael. A Carmichael who had been permitted to run about wild for far too long.
Rochdale Abbey appeared on the horizon suddenly as he turned another corner, nestled into the landscape as though God Himself had put it there. Alfred could not help but smile. Home was home, even if it held worries and strains.
Dismounting from his horse and immediately handing the reins over to a lad who came running over form the stable, Alfred laughed to see a small scrawl of a figure sitting on the steps to the abbey.
“Hmmmph,” said the figure, arms crossed and frown on its little face.
Alfred composed himself, ensured he looked sufficiently parental, though God knew what that looked like, and went to sit next to his half-brother.
“You,” he said easily, “are supposed to be in the schoolroom, reading.”
Archibald sighed, his dark hair, just like Alfred’s, blowing upward. “You are meant to be here all the time playing with me, but you’re not.”
Alfred smiled wanly. What a pair they were.
He, the elder, the Carmichael who had begged his parents for a sibling and even cried when they had told him, sadly, it simply wasn’t possible. In hindsight, he had been particularly cruel to his mother, but he had not understood, not then.
Archibald, a sudden arrival after their father remarried. Unplanned, perhaps, but desperately wanted. Just as lonely as he, Alfred, had been. Neither of them had any siblings to grow up with, to play with, to chase, and argue with and makeup with later.
Alfred had hated those lonely years, and now he had to watch Archibald go through them all over again.
“I have a governess for you,” he said gently, “so you won’t be so lonely. You can get an education, an education befitting your name.”
Archibald frowned. “I don’t want a governess.”
“And neither do I,” Alfred said heavily. “I do not wish to have anyone else in the house who doesn’t have to be here. But there it is, Archie. We are Carmichaels. We do not make the rules. We just live by them.”
The scowl his brother gave was worthy of their father. “You are the worst brother ever.”
Alfred could not help but agree, though he did not say so aloud. He had not been much of a brother to him, more of a father, and by Carmichael terms, that was not saying much. But when there was twenty years between you, it was impossible for the situation not to be a little strange. Archibald could, just, have been his own son.
“Come on,” said Alfred, rising to his feet. “I need to go inside. I am already late.”
Archibald did not reach out for his hand, and Alfred did not offer it, though a part of him wished to. How could he understand this wild, reckless boy? Eight years old and already so far behind. The governess would see to that, of course.
“When is this governess arriving?” Archibald asked as they entered the hall.
“She is already here.”
Alfred looked up. Mrs. Martin was bearing down on them with a frown, and he did not blame Archibald scampering off down the corridor. Privately, he wished he could do the same.
“You should have been here, Your Grace,” said Mrs. Martin sternly, coming to a stop before him. “Half-past four, you knew that was when she would be arriving.”
Alfred tried to smile. “And I am sure you did a very good job at welcoming her, Mrs. Martin.”
She glared as though attempting to find sarcasm. “She is in the drawing room waiting for you—but before you go in, have you seen the small miniature of your parents? It was on the table here, and I was going to polish it but—”
Alfred had already ceased listening. Little trifles of knick-knacks and ornaments simply could not interest him. “Ask Roberts, he will know.”
“But—”
Alfred was already striding over to the drawing room. The sooner he spoke with this damned governess, the better.
Chapter Three
That same day…
Meredith had not been idle as she waited in the drawing room for this duke, who seemed never to arrive. She looked around with interest, absorbing the place that was to be, for the time being at least, her new home.
The room was large. All Miss Clarke’s talk of a minor duke was all very well, but Meredith had hardly grown up in circumstances such as this, and the plush carpet and wide bay windows overlooking the gardens were sufficiently impressive.
A number of armchairs and a few sofas were scattered around the fireplace framed with marble,
and behind them, a pianoforte with an elegant velvet cover, which suggested no one in the house currently played.
There were screens, tables, and little statues of Greek gods and goddesses littering the place, all visible from where Meredith had seated herself, refusing to wait to be asked after the first thirty minutes of waiting for the duke to arrive.
Meredith raised her gaze to take in the paintings. Elderly gentlemen lined the walls, most of them stern, all with a similar frown and shade of gray eyes that convinced her she was looking at the Carmichaels past. One of them seemed to be glaring directly at her.
Yet, she was not intimidated. Meredith was not overcome by feelings of grandeur, nor did she consider the obvious wealth that had poured into decorating the room something to tremble over. The abbey itself, repurposed hundreds of years ago from a religious house, had little drama to recommend it and appeared to have been little touched in the last hundred.
And that was it, wasn’t it? The thing nagging at the back of her mind as she sat, baking in the July heat, which had not let up during her almost weeklong journey to the north.
The room was beautiful, but it was strange. No personal items, no books, or favored ornaments. Nothing seemed to have been touched. It felt more art gallery than home.
Nothing demonstrated who lived here, their tastes or preferences. She could have been informed that a great duchess lived here, a family of seventeen from trade, or that the place had been shut up for a few years and cleaned periodically, and she would have believed them.
While she had had plenty of time to examine the room itself, she had no opportunity to examine her employer, who had still not arrived.
The clock on the mantelpiece chimed a quarter past five, and Meredith glanced at her pocket watch, an expensive purchase she hoped she would not regret, to check whether it was running fast.
It was slow. It was almost twenty-five past five—almost an entire hour late. Where was the Duke of Rochdale, and why did he think her so inconsequential that it did not matter whether he was here to greet her?
A Governess of Great Talents Page 3
