There was a special kind of quiet here, one that couldn’t be found in any other room. Libraries somehow had this quality, and she could not put her finger on why. Was it the books themselves? The amount of sound deadening paper? Or was it the stories, their ability to transport one away from the world and into another entirely different landscape?
Meredith stepped forward, brushing her fingers across the metal filigree protecting the books as she went. She reached the window and knelt to pick up a book from the rather ingenious window seat design. She could while away many happy hours here.
“This time, I can ask you to unhand my books.”
Meredith whirled around. Now she was on the opposite side of the room, and she was looking into one of the leather chairs—where her master, the Duke of Rochdale, was seated with a book in his hand and a smile on his face.
It was impossible not to blush. How could she prevent it, with their last conversation still ringing in her ears?
“Thank you for the suggestion. And I will ask you to pay me the same courtesy.”
She had hardly been civil, and by the end of it, politeness was the last thing on her mind. She had been determined to give him a tongue lashing, and only her sorely tested self-control had prevented it.
It was a wonder, really, that she was still employed and not only now arriving back in London to be scolded by Miss Clarke.
Perhaps he had written to her. Perhaps his letter ending her employ in his home was almost in Miss Clarke’s hand! And now she had meandered into his library, a room which was so very private and personal, and started picking up his books!
Meredith had never been one to avoid an apology if someone deserved it. “I do apologize for disturbing your peace, Your Grace, and for looking at your books. I was…I wanted to explore the abbey. I had not realized you had returned.”
For some reason, there was now an even broader smile across the handsome man’s lips. “Ah, so you have no qualms looking around my home as long as I am not in it?”
If Meredith had been someone else in that moment, she would have cursed and loudly—but then if she had been someone else, he would not have looked at her like that. And her body would not warm, despite the coldness of his look.
Her gaze dropped to her hands and the offending book. If only she had something clever to say, a retort which could explain herself, absolve her of her folly.
But when Meredith raised her gaze defiantly to defend herself, she saw a natural smile had crept over Alfred Carmichael’s face.
“Do not worry yourself, Miss Hubert,” he said more softly. “I know what you meant. Besides, this is your home now, too.”
It was more the sort of response she would expect from a duke, not the unbridled anger of a few days ago. He was sitting languidly, looking up at her in such a relaxed way that she felt uncomfortable.
His gaze was…penetrating. He seemed to be looking within her, at her thoughts.
“I, myself, was looking for the family Bible,” the duke continued. “I cannot find it anywhere, gone, gold leaf and all. But no matter. Any particular book you were hoping to find?”
Meredith looked down once again at the book in her hands. It was The Theory of the Four Movements, by Fourier. She had picked it due to the beauty of the red leather, title utterly ignored.
Still. It did not due to be overwhelmed.
“Yes,” she said, looking back at her master. “Theaetetus. By Plato.”
The Duke of Rochdale raised an eyebrow. “Yes, I know it’s by Plato. Impressive. I did not expect a governess to even know Latin, let alone speak it and hunt down its classics.”
Not expect a governess to know Latin? Meredith tried not to bristle too much, though a part of her glorified in the chance to show off her skills. Time this man got a little education.
“What kind of governess did you think you were getting?”
She paired the question with a wry smile and prayed she had not gambled. If he knew—if the Duke of Rochdale knew he had hired a woman who had grown up in a criminal gang!—she would be out of his home before the end of the day.
“You know, I had no idea what I was getting, really,” said the duke idly. “I just sent a letter and a blank check to your Miss Clarke after reading your description, and you arrived two weeks later.”
She could not help but smile at this. He spoke so honestly, without guile, hesitation, or embarrassment. He saw nothing strange with what he had done.
“So you purchased me,” Meredith said lightly. “Bought and paid for, sight unseen.”
Was that a smile?
“In a way,” said Alfred Carmichael, “yes. Oh, do sit down, by the way.”
Meredith sank gratefully onto the window seat. There was something about being in his presence. It did something funny to one’s knees.
“The rich are indeed strange. One can buy people, something I consider in most cases to be quite abhorrent,” she said. “And you knew nothing of me before you invited me into your home. It must be nice to have such faith in people.”
The duke shrugged. “When you have servants, you have to trust that people are good. Even those without titles have servants of a kind. I mean, your mother must have help?”
Meredith kept calm, ensured her breathing did not alter one whit. “Oh, my parents always preferred to do things themselves. And they travel a great deal, so there is no point attempting to keep servants.”
She had intended her response to be vague, to elicit no interest—and yet the Duke of Rochdale leaned forward.
“Travel? What for?”
Meredith swallowed. This was not a safe topic.
“You told me a week ago that you had rules. Well, I suppose the reason you could be so sure of an outstanding governess was because you hired me through the Governess Bureau,” she said as matter-of-factly as she could. “We have rules, too. Rules keep people in their place. Rules keep everyone happy.”
Why did his eyes seem to glint with mischief? “My word, governess rules. I am curious.”
Meredith opened her mouth and closed it again. This felt like dangerous ground. She had not intended to speak so directly to her new master.
“Out with it, woman,” said the duke easily.
“Rule one, you must have an impeccable record,” said Meredith slowly. “Rule two, you must have a special skill, naturally. And rule three…rule three is that one must never fall in love.”
She was not entirely sure what to expect, but laughter was not it.
“Dear God!” chuckled the duke. “I like Miss Clarke more and more, though I cannot say I agree with her.”
Meredith smiled. “Well, no fear of anything like that happening.”
Alfred Carmichael’s eyes flashed.
“Yes,” he said softly, gaze not leaving her face. “At least, probably not.”
Was it the heat of the sunshine through the windows that was warming her? Meredith was certainly getting hotter, and realized that they were alone together. No one else was there to chaperone her.
Perhaps her discomfort was visible on her face.
“Well, as much as I have enjoyed this conversation, Miss Hubert, I must depart and continue my search for the family Bible,” said the duke, rising from his seat. “The election takes up much of my time. I am sure you understand.”
Meredith rose with him. “Of course, Your Grace.”
He had stepped toward the door but hesitated. “I snapped at you about the horse, and I was wrong. I can, at least, admit my faults. Even though I am a little rough and ready, will you stay?”
Her eyes met his and saw the honesty there, the discomfort the apology gave him but the feeling it had to be said. Her heart fluttered painfully, the heat in her body rising inexplicably.
“Y-Yes,” she found herself saying. “Yes, of course, I will stay, Your Grace.”
“Rochdale.”
Meredith blinked. “I beg your pardon?”
“Rochdale, ’tis often more natural,” said the duke. “And
I think…yes, I would like it if you called me Rochdale.”
He was gone without another word, and Meredith almost fell back down onto the window seat. Rochdale. The duke. Alfred Carmichael.
How was she ever to stay away from him?
Chapter Six
August 9, 1812
Alfred knew churches were built partly to impress, partly to inspire, but also partly to facilitate beautiful choral music. Every archway, spire, and measurement was calculated for the best musical effect, helping even the smallest voice to echo clearly throughout the entire building.
Which was why he was trying to hide a smile, unsuccessfully, as a loud snore from somewhere at the back of the church echoed noisily throughout the place as the vicar continued tremulously with his sermon.
“…which we see again in Leviticus, and I shall read that passage for us now, so we are all understanding why the relevancy of the moment is so critical to our comprehension of…”
Poor Reverend Michaels. The elderly vicar had been a firebrand in his day, or at least that was what his father had always told Alfred. But the man was nearing seventy now, his grandson a vicar somewhere in Bath, and was starting to reach the limit of people’s patience.
Alfred turned his head ever so slightly from his front pew seat, as befitted the Duke of Rochdale, and saw old Johnson had, once again, succumbed to exhaustion.
He could hardly blame the man. Harvest time was an exhausting season, and he had seen them himself in their droves, bringing in the hay. Every able-bodied man had been drafted. Even Roberts had been sent for and, to his credit, immediately downed his more refined tools of polish and rag to help.
Alfred smiled as he faced the altar once more. That was why he liked Rochdale. No one, not even the butler, was too important to help with the harvest.
Trouble was, the farmers were paying for their exertion now. Alfred could feel it in the church. One did not have to look around to feel the tiredness. It was hard to describe, as though a great breath had been taken in April had now finally been let out.
“…each time we see the words, we must understand the Greek and Latin roots,” droned on the reverend in his monotone. “We shall begin with…”
Alfred blinked furiously. The soporific heat and general feeling of fatigue were even starting to affect him.
Alfred stifled a laugh, knowing it would be most indecorous for him to be seen laughing in church—and worse, at one of his tenants. Evidently, Mrs. Johnson was tired of being embarrassed by her husband.
“…which clearly shows us the true meaning of this verse,” said the Reverend Michaels with a smile at Alfred.
Alfred returned it. There was a distant connection between the Carmichaels and the Michaels, generations back. The reverend deserved his respect as a man of the cloth—though he had certainly not earned it with his sermons.
“Unless,” continued the vicar triumphantly, “we take an opposing view! If we turn to the letters of Paul to the Ephesians…”
Glancing down the Rochdale pew, as it was known due to its continuous use by the Carmichael family, Alfred saw to his dismay that Archibald had fallen asleep. Damnit, they were meant to be setting an example! How could he expect any of his tenants to force themselves to listen to old Michaels’s nonsense if his own brother…
His heart softened. Archie looked so peaceful, his soft brown hair askew, his head leaning against Miss Hubert.
This brought his attention to the governess, who was seated on the other side of the boy. Miss Hubert. She was wearing a proper gown with a high neckline, a bonnet in the Carmichael blue, though he had no idea how she had found one, and matching gloves.
It did not matter that she was dressed respectfully. Many of the thoughts now flooding Alfred’s mind were certainly not respectful.
Christ alive—oh, damn. He shook his head as though ridding water from his ears. This was insupportable. He had to remember where he was, and even if those curses were not spoken aloud, he certainly shouldn’t be thinking about them in church!
He glanced at Miss Hubert again. Her eyes were still affixed on the Reverend Michaels, bright and unfazed by his monotonous tone. She appeared to be paying rapt attention.
How on earth did she manage it?
Alfred peered behind them. There did not appear to be another person in the church able to keep from dozing, or at the very least allow their attention to meander.
It was just Meredith—Miss Hubert. Perhaps it was being a governess. Her powers of focus were extraordinary. If only he had some of her skills; it was all he could do in long parliamentary sessions not to drop off occasionally, although if one was caught doing so, it was highly frowned upon.
Not that it made much difference to the older fellows. Why, James Ferguson was almost eighty, and had not made a contribution in a session for the last ten years, or at least that was what Alfred had heard.
“Sinners!”
Alfred jumped. His attention had wandered again, and he was not the only one who started as the Reverend Michaels looked out at his congregation with an unusually sharp eye.
“Those are who St. Paul refers to, in the chapter following, as…”
From what Alfred could see, Miss Hubert had not started. Of course, she hadn’t. She had not stopped paying attention for a moment. Hopefully, she would be able to teach Archibald how to do it—or at the very least, to appear to be doing it. If they were fortunate, no one else in St. Matthews would have noticed that the current heir to the Rochdale duchy was asleep.
Alfred glanced over to the other side of the church, and his heart lurched. There sat the Talbots: the Right Honorable John Talbot and his sister, the Right Honorable Wilhelmina.
John noticed his glance and winked before he looked at Archibald. His rough smile broadened, and he snickered, nudging his sister, who looked over and rolled her eyes sardonically before making a point of looking back at Reverend Michaels.
Heat swept over Alfred’s chest as he turned to the vicar, but he could hardly concentrate. John Talbot. The man was tall, handsome in that rather irritating way that seemed to take no effort and only increased when his hair was uncombed or cheeks were unshaven.
A bigger blaggard he had never seen.
Irritation rose in Alfred’s chest that made his waistcoat too tight and his cravat uncomfortably knotted. The Talbot family had been looking for a way to ridicule the Carmichaels for generations. Bad blood, that’s what it was. Alfred had never had it properly explained to him, and even his father did not seem entirely sure of the details.
It did not matter. John Talbot was cut from the same cloth as his foolish father, and now the idiot was running against him for his seat at Parliament.
A Talbot, in Parliament! It did not bear thinking about.
Still, Talbot was good at making Alfred look bad. It was only a few months since he had spread that rumor about the roads leading up to Rochdale. Alfred had told everyone once if he had told them a dozen times—they were not on his land, and he was not liable to repair them.
But that was not what Talbot had said.
Alfred found he was clenching his hands and slowly unfurled his fingers. He had fixed the damn—the roads in the end, anyway, and there John Talbot had been the next day, smirking away in the Town Hall, as though he had won some sort of victory!
He bit his lip. He knew Archibald meant no harm by slipping into slumber, but what would Talbot do with that information? Tell everyone at the next hustings that the Carmichaels did not respect the Church?
There was nothing for it.
Alfred nudged the boy—a little harder than he had intended.
“Wh-What?” Archibald said, roused from sleep hurriedly and evidently with no idea where he was.
It was fortunate indeed that Miss Hubert coughed loudly at that precise moment. Indeed, her coughing was so violent that the Reverend Michaels halted in his sermon and looked down at her from the pulpit in concern.
“I do apologize, sir,” she said sweetly. “I
am afraid a little dust caught in my throat—you were saying about the Ephesians and their difference to the Philippians?”
Alfred stared in disbelief as the Reverend Michaels smiled. “I was indeed, Miss Hubert, thank you. So, as we journey to the Philippians, who have a most different approach to…”
He should have thought of that. Why was it that Miss Hubert had all the good ideas at the moment? Alfred glared at his half-brother, who had red cheeks and a nervous expression.
“I-I did not mean to—”
“Do not concern yourself,” said Miss Hubert under her breath, under the guise of passing a clean handkerchief to the boy. “Here, blow your nose.”
Archibald hid his obvious embarrassment in a long blow of his nose—one that startled the vicar so entirely, he paused once again in his sermon.
“Is…is everything alright, Miss Hubert?”
Miss Hubert smiled, and Alfred saw the old man beam back. “Quite all right, thank you, sir.”
“Yes, yes, well…” trailed off the Reverend Michaels. “Well, that was essentially all I had to say in the matter. If you would please rise…”
Alfred rose in relief. It was not that he had no time for the Church, far from it. He liked Reverend Michaels, always had done. It was the heat, together with the sermons.
But only one hymn later, the Rochdales followed the vicar out of the church, first in line, as befit their status. Once, John Talbot had attempted to step before them. It had not ended in a scuffle, precisely, but it was a close call.
The Reverend Michaels paused at the church door and turned to greet them as they left.
“Your Grace,” he murmured. “I…well, I do hope Miss Hubert’s cough is not serious.”
Alfred turned to look at his brother’s governess, who had the good grace to blush.
“I am sure tis just a tickle in the throat,” he said stiffly.
The Reverend Michaels nodded. “So unfortunate to feel unwell during the summer months, Miss Hubert.”
She smiled at the vicar, and Alfred was forced once again to hide a smile. Well, she had made a conquest there, and no mistake.
A Governess of Great Talents Page 7
