“The rules are simple.”
Meredith blinked. The moment between them had gone—unless she had imagined it.
“Rules?” she said blankly.
Alfred Carmichael, Duke of Rochdale, nodded. “The boy is not seen, not heard, and neither should you be. I am a busy man, Miss Hubert. I would like it if I could forget there was even a governess in the house.”
Temper sparking but tongue, thankfully, keeping it under control, Meredith smiled. “I understand, Your Grace, and I, in turn, share my rules with you. My schoolroom, my rules. Besides, we may not want to see you. Archibald and I will be very busy. Good day.”
Chapter Four
August 3, 1812
Alfred awoke, sitting upright in his four-poster bed so violently that his pillow slipped to the floor. Forehead beaded with sweat, his heart was racing, and he was aware of having just departed a dream so real, he had to touch the damp linens to assure himself of where he was.
Home. Rochdale Abbey. His bedchamber.
His heart rate slowed. He had never moved into the master bedchamber at Rochdale Abbey when his father had died. It was too painful. One did not simply step into the shoes of a dead man.
His bedchamber since he had come of age was pleasant enough, and so he had remained. Now his gaze moved across the familiar bookcases, the dresser, the window with dark red velvet curtains blocking out what was undoubtedly another beautiful day.
Alfred breathed out slowly, feeling the hackles on the back of his neck calm. Whatever it was he had been dreaming about, for he could not recall now, he had returned to the waking world.
Unsettled, he leaned back, pulling a pillow behind him to sit up. Unsettled, that was most certainly the word for the last three days ever since that governess had arrived.
Miss Meredith Hubert. She had sounded like a quaint little old lady when he had considered her, reviewing her merits and previous report from the Earl of Marnmouth. Good with children, a respectable educator, and no concerns from either him or the owner of the place, Miss Clarke.
She had sounded perfect.
And then that buxom, sharp-eyed, quick-tongued woman had meandered into his life, and he had been unable to account for it.
Miss Hubert.
“Besides, we may not want to see you. Archibald and I will be very busy. Good day.”
In the stillness of his bedchamber, Alfred smiled, despite himself. Attempting to clear his mind of Miss Hubert was utterly impossible. Women with curves like that were made to be obsessed over, made to be courted, to be desired.
What was all the more irritating was that she had entirely taken his rules to heart. He had not seen hide nor hair of her since he had summarily dismissed her on the day she had arrived.
Miss Hubert was obedient, utterly invisible, and from what he had gathered from the chatter of Mrs. Martin and Roberts, charming.
Damn her. Alfred could hardly bear it. It was intoxicatingly intriguing to have such a woman in the house that he never saw.
But he could not think about her. Alfred pushed his dark, sweeping hair out of his face. She was here for the boy’s good. He would simply have to put her out of his mind and concentrate on more pleasant things, like…
Alfred closed his eyes. Christ alive, the election. Every morning he woke in happy ignorance, the foolish thing having slipped his mind.
The election. It crept ever closer, threatening him with all the things he hated. Hard work. Going back down to London. Being treated like a fool because Rochdale was nothing compared to Devonshire. Away from the land, away from the people who made him Rochdale.
The damned election. When he had the misfortune to win again, that would be it. Years down in the south with nothing to do but write letters to his tenants and Archibald…
A wry smile crept over his face. Well, there was one potential silver lining. Now Miss Hubert was here, he would be able to correspond with her.
About the boy, naturally.
Hell’s bells, he had managed to get back on the topic of that cursed governess again.
“This is your house, Your Grace, and I am in your service.”
Alfred’s wry smile disappeared. No, this simply would not do. He was not one of those men who believed the women in his household were his, like some sort of possession. He had never touched a servant, never been tempted to, and had never considered doing so.
That was before Miss Hubert had entered the house.
If she was anyone else, he would bed her to get her out of his system. Alfred knew it worked. How many times had he taken such a route in London?
But a serving maid in a pub who caught one’s eye was not the same, Alfred told himself sternly, as the governess to your brother!
“Good morning, Your Grace.”
Kittering, his valet, had slipped into the room so quietly, Alfred had not noticed he was there.
“Ah, morning, Kittering,” he said distractedly. “What time is it?”
“A little after eight o’clock,” said Kittering as he walked across the room. He pulled back one curtain but left the other closed, just as Alfred liked it. It was the easiest way to enter the day. “I believe you have a meeting with the election committee again today, so something in Carmichael blue?”
Alfred smiled dryly as he rose from his bed. “Sometimes I think you have a better handle than I on my diary, Kittering. Yes, the Carmichael blue waistcoat, and there should be a cravat to match.”
The valet bowed his head. “Very good, Your Grace.”
The servant knew him well. In the adjoining dressing room, there was already the blue waistcoat and cravat, along with a frockcoat and breeches in a light gray, which perfectly offset the blue.
“There has been a great stir in the kitchen this morning,” said Kittering as he started to dress his master. “It appears that the butcher’s order was not adequately prepared, and Cook has decided it is none other than Roberts’s fault. This, as you can imagine, has been highly contested, and…”
Alfred allowed the chatter of the servants’ hall to wash over him. It was one of the easiest ways to keep up with his staff, and there was never any malice in Kittering’s words.
For the first time since he had returned from London at the end of the parliamentary session, however, he was tempted to ask about someone in particular.
The name of Miss Meredith Hubert was on his lips, but Alfred restrained himself as he stepped into his breeches. From the little he knew of servant dynamics, there was just as strict a hierarchy, if not more, below stairs as there was above.
“There, I think you are ready for the day, Your Grace.” Kittering stood back and examined his creation. “Yes, the gray and the blue. Yes.”
Alfred looked down in surprise to see he was entirely dressed, cravat and all. Kittering had even placed his pocket watch in his waistcoat. The man was getting very good, and had hardly been shabby before—a real natural. He would have to speak to Roberts about some sort of reward.
“Thank you, Kittering,” he said distractedly. “Good morning.”
The valet saw the dismissal for what it was, bowed, and departed, leaving Alfred alone in his dressing room.
He stepped across to the large window and looked out over the lawn. Crusting brown in the heat of the summer, the unrelenting sunshine never giving way to rainclouds, the entire Rochdale estate was looking a little worn around the edges.
Alfred smiled. There was something very comforting about the constant turning of the seasons. In London, one could hardly tell March from August, for it was always the same sticky, smoky hell. The last four Augusts, he had been trapped in town, unable to escape to where he knew he belonged.
Here, in the countryside. Alfred breathed in slowly and then let his breath out, watching a gardener stride over the baked lawn toward the greenhouses. Now he could enjoy summer as it should be. Riding, walking, eating too many ices, and wondering how the fish were doing in the lake, spending the day with a good book in a gentle breeze.
&
nbsp; Alfred groaned. Or, sitting in election committee meetings arguing over whether the Talbots were as big a threat as everyone seemed to think they were.
Damn it, he would not be cooped up by Mr. Walker’s endless meetings. He wouldn’t permit it.
As he began to open the door, he caught the sound of voices—ones he recognized.
“Attend, Master Archibald,” came Miss Hubert’s voice with that sharpness he recognized from his meeting with her.
Alfred stepped into the corridor and looked to his left, toward the other bedchambers in the abbey—and where the schoolroom had been established, just along from the boy’s room.
“I said, attend.”
Alfred grinned. Goodness, that took him back. The tone, the forcefulness, the desperate desire to be anywhere else but the schoolroom…had they used the precise room he had been forced into every day with…what was her name? Miss Chesterton?
Miss Hubert sounded precisely how his old governess had scolded him for his inattention. Was that something all governesses were taught, somehow? Was there something in the blood of all governesses, something that drew them to the profession, which determined the precise pitch of authority, which made all boys squirm?
Against his better judgment and knowing he had a hundred other things he should be doing, Alfred crept down the corridor and saw the door to the schoolroom had been left ajar—just wide enough for Miss Hubert’s voice to pour through.
“Archibald!”
“Yes, Miss Hubert.”
A grin crept over Alfred’s face. A strange sense of trespassing flowing through him—trespassing, in his own home?—in the thrill in eavesdropping on Miss Hubert.
It sounded like the boy was just as uninterested in his lessons as Alfred had been all those years ago. Alfred could remember heat-soaked days stuck up here in the eaves, algebra going in one ear and straight out of the other.
It was a mercy he was able to get through Eton, really, and it was only the name that got him through Cambridge, he was sure of it.
What did a duke need of a degree? Yes, it was pleasant to have the piece of paper somewhere…though truth be told, he had no idea where the damn thing was…
“—your book on history, please, and we will begin the lesson.”
Alfred’s stomach growled, but he ignored the growing hunger attempting to distract him. History. His least favorite subject and he was certain young Archibald was not going to be impressed by the first subject of the day either.
“History?” Archibald’s whining tone, the one that grated Alfred’s nerves the worst, flowed out from the crack in the door. “I have no need to study history—it has already happened! I cannot do anything about the mistakes of others!”
Alfred was forced to stifle a laugh. The damned cheeky sod—yes, he was certainly a Carmichael! There was the proud lilt in his voice they had both inherited from their father and a little of the determination that one’s opinion was the only one worth having. The Carmichael spirit was well and truly alive in little Archie.
He listened carefully, almost jubilant to see what Miss Hubert would say next. The poor miss had cared for the dutiful children of an earl, from what he could tell. She probably had no comprehension of how to manage—
But what was this? Alfred leaned a little closer to the door, sure he had misheard what was happening in the adjoining room.
No, his ears were not deceiving him. Though he expected splutters, even perhaps a little punishment for the younger Carmichael, Miss Hubert was…laughing.
“But how else can we learn about the future, and make better decisions, if we do not know the mistakes we have already made?” she said in a cheerful voice.
Alfred blinked. It was not a response he could have given himself. It was…clever. He was impressed. Few were ever able to surprise him, let alone impress him.
The door moved slightly in the warm breeze wafting past, still keeping Alfred hidden from view but allowing him a slither of perspective into the room.
There sat Archibald, scowling. He had on his least favorite clothing, his restrictive frockcoat, and even a little waistcoat cut much in the same manner as Alfred’s, and he was glaring at the other side of the room.
“Do not concern yourself though, Master Archibald,” came Miss Hubert’s voice in a warm, slightly patronizing tone. “It is quite alright if you do not know much history. I am not going to penalize you for your lack of knowledge. After all, not everyone knows that Henry VIII had ten wives—”
“Six wives,” Archibald interrupted, a frown appearing on his young face.
There was a moment of silence. Then—
“I do not think you are correct, but excellent try,” Miss Hubert continued from where Alfred assumed was the blackboard. “Now, his first wife was called Augusta, and she—”
“Wha—no, she was Katherine of Aragon!” Archibald protested.
“Really?” Miss Hubert sounded surprised. “You can name the first one?”
“I can name all of them, actually,” said Archibald confidently. “Katherine of Aragon, Anne Boleyn…”
Alfred watched in amazement as Miss Hubert transformed the sullen and argumentative boy before her into an eager, contributing, and engaged child.
How did she do it? The way she had guided the boy along a conversation, transformed him into a child who had positively no interest in history and was now, from what Alfred could hear, having a debate about whether it was better to divorce one’s wife than execute her.
A little concerning, true, but the boy was learning. He had brought out a pencil and was scribbling something down.
Alfred stood up straight and shook his head. Perhaps there was some value in Miss Hubert, after all. If she tamed the boy into someone resembling a gentleman, then she would be doing some good.
As he turned away from the schoolroom, Archibald had entered into a rather violent and spirited discussion about which Tudor queens he would have chosen to execute.
Alfred shook his head as he walked down the staircase. He had never seen such an impressive display with a child. Archibald was a little old to start with a governess; in a few years, he would be old enough for Eton, even if he did not wish to matriculate straight away.
But the boy was so behind, he had engaged someone from the Governess Bureau particularly to bring him to speed. The best education a boy could get, that was what a Carmichael deserved. Miss Hubert appeared to be a competent enough stand-in until the boy could go off to school.
It was an unusual start to the morning, and one that boded well for the rest of the day. Sadly, for Alfred, it was a false start. For a Monday, it was relatively dull.
First, after breakfast, there was the estate’s paperwork. Paperwork, paperwork, there was always some sort of note to sign or bill to pay. It took until luncheon to clear the last of the bills, and when he returned to his desk, a few more had already appeared.
Then there was the letter sack brought up from London. Alfred stared in horror at the literal sack that was placed before him by Roberts.
“They can’t all be for me?”
Roberts opened the sack and pulled out a handful, glancing at the addressee. “I am afraid to say they can, Your Grace. Letters addressed to you at parliament, to your rooms in London, to your club—”
“But—but I am not currently the member of Parliament for Rochdale!” Alfred stammered, hearing in his own voice the desperate plea of a man who just wanted to be left alone.
Roberts reached out a hand, and Alfred passed him the letter opener. The butler slit open one of the letters and scanned its contents.
“It appears that does not matter to them, Your Grace,” the butler said matter-of-factly. “Their assumption that you will be their representative in government in a few months’ time means that some are petitioning you early in order to, in the words of a Mr. Graham Hargreaves, ‘jump the queue.’”
Alfred swore, using language he would never have permitted Archibald to use.
“They ca
nnot all be requests made to me as a future member of Parliament,” he said in an exhausted voice, falling back into his armchair.
After several minutes of Roberts opening a good number of the letters, however, he was forced to concede that was exactly what they were.
People always wanted something for nothing. They could not even wait until he had the power before they started demanding it for themselves!
Alfred swallowed. “Read through them, Roberts. God knows I may have to get a private secretary if—when I get elected again. In the meantime, anything useful, and you know what I mean man, anything important, leave on the desk in my study. Burn the rest.”
Roberts bowed and left, carrying the sack of letters with him, as Alfred shook his head in disbelief. The more he saw of humanity, the less surprised he was about people’s dark and devious little ways.
And yet it was all so boring. He had received letters like that years ago when he had first taken his seat. No doubt he would be receiving letters just the same in forty years.
His gaze drifted away from his desk and toward the window. He was a duke, a member of the ruling classes. What a shame he had no actual interest in being a ruler. Members of Parliament did not have the power they once had, but Alfred had never considered himself a man on a mission. He had no injustices to fight, no demands to make. He went to London, ate too many good dinners, and slept in the backbenches, hoping no one noticed.
He was there because a Carmichael was always there, and their dukedom simply wasn’t big enough to secure a place in the House of Lords.
Alfred’s eyes sharpened. He had become so lost in his thoughts, he had barely noticed what had moved past the window, but now his mind prompted him that what he had just seen, he should not have been able to see.
A woman. Not just a woman, a woman on a horse. Riding across the lawn. His lawn!
Forced from his stupor, Alfred rose and stepped around his desk toward the window. His movement brought the woman back into sight. The horse was trotting across the parched lawn in fine fettle.
The rider turned her head, and Alfred’s jaw dropped. It was Miss Hubert.
A Governess of Great Talents Page 5
