Then bed. Alfred stretched, feeling his back tighten. Yes, he was ready for slumber.
He was unable to reach the kitchen, however, because as he stepped toward the door to the servants’ corridor, it was opened rather abruptly, and an irate Mrs. Martin appeared.
“Your Grace,” she said sternly, and Alfred stepped back. It was almost a malediction.
“Yes, Mrs. Martin,” he said, trying not to hold the lamp as a protective shield.
The housekeeper glared, and he hastily put the lamp down on a small table.
“I am glad I have caught you,” she said quietly, “particularly as we are alone. ’Tis a sensitive matter I must discuss with you.”
Alfred privately thought it felt more as though he was being accosted, but he was too polite to say so. Besides, Mrs. Martin had served the Rochdales for years. He could barely remember the housekeeper before her, and she had always performed excellently. The recent ball was just one example of that.
He cleared his throat but kept his voice low. “Anything you wish to say to me, Mrs. Martin, will be treated in the strictest confidence—but perhaps you would like to converse in the drawing room?”
Mrs. Martin looked around them, and Alfred felt a prickle of foreboding creep up his neck. What on earth did she need to speak to him about that was so vitally important?
“I think that would be best, Your Grace,” she said, stepping over to the drawing room without waiting for him.
Alfred followed, picking up the lamp for a little light, but he needn’t have bothered. The fire in the drawing room grate had died down but still gave sufficient light to the two armchairs nearest for them to easily converse.
He sat down in one and then stared at the hovering Mrs. Martin before he remembered himself. “Oh, sit down, Mrs. Martin, do.”
The housekeeper sat down and smoothed her skirts nervously.
Alfred smiled, then forced a more serious expression. He should take whatever Mrs. Martin said seriously, he knew, but it was difficult to get worked up about petty household affairs. Whatever it was, Mrs. Martin would be able to sort it out if she put her mind to it.
“I…I am glad to have caught you, Your Grace, private like,” said Mrs. Martin in a low voice. “’Tis not a pleasant topic of which I have to speak to you, and…well. I would not be saying it, coming to you, if I was not sure.”
“And I am glad you have caught me in turn, Mrs. Martin,” Alfred said easily. “Now. How can I help you?”
“’Tis more a case of how I can help you, Your Grace, if you permit me to say so,” said the housekeeper in a hurried voice. “You see, I have long had my suspicions, yet I have kept quiet for fear of rousing the culprit afore my time, but things are still going missing.”
Alfred could not entirely follow. “Missing? Are you sure things are not being moved to other places? I, myself, often find if I cannot find a thing, I just—”
“No, Your Grace,” interrupted Mrs. Martin, concern across her face. “No, I have looked everywhere for some of these items, and they have been missing for…well, almost two months! Some of them are quite valuable. I first noticed it when…”
Alfred sighed. Silver spoons and the like, he supposed. Well, those were the affairs of others, though he would rather swap this little problem for his own—that damned election and what it entailed—for something as small as this.
Besides, he was never one for trifles and material possessions. He had been like his mother in that regard. They had never noticed pretty new things or adequately thanked his father for any of his treats. One of the reasons they had so frequently angered him.
“—no wish to apportion blame onto anyone, but something must be done, Your Grace, for I fear we are not safe in our beds if—”
“My dear Mrs. Martin,” Alfred interrupted. This had gone on too long, and he was starting to tire. “I really do not mind where things are put back. There is no need for items to be placed precisely from where they were taken.”
Mrs. Martin bristled. “That is not what I am saying, Your Grace! I am trying to tell you I think they’ve been stolen! There is a thief in the house or coming into the house and—”
“A thief?” Alfred blinked. It was quite an accusation, particularly from his steady and otherwise unruffled housekeeper. “If you are concerned, Mrs. Martin, and I can see you are, then I recommend speaking to Roberts. At the very least, I think we can assume if there is a thief,” something he privately highly doubted, “then we can agree it is none of the staff. No servant would do such a thing.”
His housekeeper was still smoothing down her skirts anxiously, not entirely meeting his gaze. “Well, that is the thing, Your Grace, you see. It all started when—”
“I am sorry, Mrs. Martin, I am most fatigued,” said Alfred with a weary smile. It was time to shoo away this complaint. It did not seem to have any relevancy to him. “I was off to bed when we started to speak, and I must continue on there now. Good evening, Mrs. Martin.”
He rose, and she rose with him, her lips pursed as though preventing all the things she wished to say from spilling out.
Alfred sighed heavily as he stepped into the servants’ corridor. What a thing to get upset about! Besides, Mrs. Martin was hardly a young woman. Was it possible she was losing her memory, starting to forget where she had put things or what was put away?
He would have to speak to Roberts about that. The butler would undoubtedly have noticed if there was something amiss with his housekeeper.
As Alfred stepped down the corridor, he turned a corner and heard a voice. It was low, gentle, and unless he was mistaken…
Meredith.
Alfred stopped. She was speaking quietly to someone he could not see, but as he tried to slow his breathing to allow his ears to hear anything other than the frantic pulse of his heart, he guessed it was Archibald. Who else could it be?
“—and that is why, whenever a child goes to sleep,” came her gentle voice down the corridor from the kitchen, “a special fairy is sent down by the king of the fairies.”
“The king of the fairies?” That was Archibald.
“Yes,” said Meredith quietly. “And there is a special fairy for each child, and you have the same one every night, so she knows you well. She is there to protect you from nightmares, you see? Even if you cannot see the fairy, she is there.”
“But…but I still have nightmares,” came the quiet concern of the child.
A clatter. A movement of crockery, perhaps a cup.
“I know, Archibald,” Meredith’s voice was low and warm. “But you see, your special fairy is there, even if you cannot see her. And that is why, no matter the nightmare, no matter how frightened you are, nothing can hurt you.”
“Because…because of my special fairy?”
“Because of your special fairy. Now, drink up that hot milk.”
There was silence as Alfred’s heart melted. A beautiful story cleverly done. Archibald must have had a nightmare, and instead of chastising him for disturbing her as Alfred might have done, Meredith had taken him downstairs, warmed some milk, and told him that tale.
She was caring for him, really caring for him. Alfred had never expected a governess to do anything of the sort, but Meredith…she was special.
“Are you sure?” came Archibald’s voice, still quiet but without the tension Alfred had first heard. “Did I really have a special fairy protecting me?”
Alfred smiled. Ah, to be young again, with all the myths and legends before you. What it was to believe something so completely. The innocence of a child.
“Sometimes,” he heard Meredith reply, “that special fairy lets someone else in the house know she is there. ’Tis only polite, after all, for she is a guest here. Your fairy informed me of her presence a few hours ago, just as you were going to sleep.”
Alfred could only imagine how wide-eyed Archibald must be.
“Truly?”
“Truly,” came Meredith’s voice. “She is a flower fairy, you know. Her
name is Rosemary, and she has a friend called Lavender, another flower fairy.”
“I am glad Rosemary came to visit.”
“And she will return every time you go to sleep,” added Meredith in a soft voice. “You know, tomorrow we could go down to the kitchen gardens and ask one of the gardeners there if we could cut little sprigs of rosemary and lavender to make sure your fairy feels welcome.”
Alfred smiled. She really was a governess of great talents. Of course, the rosemary and lavender would help the boy sleep and give him the confidence that his—what did Meredith call it?—special fairy would be welcome.
Meredith. She would be the most incredible stepmother to—
Alfred jerked his head slightly. He must be tired. Archibald was not his son, though at times, it felt like it. He had helped care for him and then been his guardian for so long, it was as though Archie was his own.
Stepping forward quietly, he gently pushed the kitchen door open.
There they were, facing away from him. Meredith was seated at the wide oak kitchen table with a cup of warm milk, and Archibald, dressed in his little nightclothes, was in her arms grasping his own cup.
Despite thinking himself inobtrusive, Meredith immediately looked up to see Alfred, and smiled. She was dressed in what could only be described as a nightgown, though it was lighter than he had expected. Autumn nights were still warm.
“You see, Archibald,” she said softly, continuing on with her story, “the flower fairies particularly like to come indoors as autumn draws near because it’s colder outside. When they choose a child to care for, they are loyal to that child all year round. You are very fortunate.”
“I-I wasn’t afraid, you know,” said Archibald quietly.
Alfred could see his fingers white against the cup, his face pale.
“I know,” said Meredith gently. “But your special fairy, Rosemary, wanted to make sure you knew she was there, so if you spotted her out of the corner of your eye, you did not shout at her. She’s very gentle, and sometimes you can catch sight of a flutter of their wings, just as you start to drift off to sleep.”
Archibald nodded solemnly. “I wouldn’t shout at a fairy.”
Alfred could not help it. His heart, already softened at the story she had been telling, was now overflowing. How quickly childhood was over.
“Are you ready to go to bed now, Archibald?”
The boy nodded, slipping off Meredith’s lap and placing his cup on the table. Meredith rose, too, and offered her hand to the child, but Archibald shook his head.
“With Rosemary upstairs, I am quite happy to go up on my own,” he said, with a little of that old Carmichael cheek returning. “I want to see if I can spot her, and she might hide if both of us go up.”
Alfred saw Meredith smile. “I quite understand. Off you go—I will tidy up here, so Mrs. Martin does not come for us in the morning!”
Archibald giggled and started walking toward the door at the other end of the kitchen.
“And do not consider this an excuse not to do your Latin work tomorrow morning,” Meredith called after him, but the door had already closed.
Alfred stepped into the kitchen. “You spoil him, you know.”
Meredith did not look around as she picked up the two cups and took them over to the sink. “He has not been spoiled enough, I think.”
There was no malice in her words, so Alfred did not take the comment personally. The Rochdale family was not one for being pampered, at least not in his experience.
“Is that my fault?” he teased.
Meredith glanced over her shoulder as she poured a little water into the basin. “No, I do not think so. I think you have had many other calls on your time, and you have done your best for him. Not all children can boast a steady and dependable home.”
Nine times out of ten, Alfred would not have noticed. He was not really the noticing type, but because the words were spoken by Meredith, they had added meaning.
Her words were brisk, but her tone was sad. Almost as though she knew what it was to experience the opposite. Almost as though she had suffered in the past.
“You…you did not have that?”
Meredith was too busy washing the cups to reply, though Alfred wondered whether that was just a rather convenient excuse to collect herself and consider her words.
When she had placed the cups on the side to dry, she turned to him with a smile that looked rather brittle to Alfred’s eye.
“He should really be in school in a few years,” she said quietly. “He will be a man before you know it. The more time with others, the better. He is alone here.”
Alfred sighed, stepping around the kitchen table. “The future is set for him, Meredith. There was a place waiting for him at Eton from the day he was born. I know, I helped with the paperwork.”
Helped with the paperwork? He did the entire thing. His father—their father—had been too busy with his red box. Parliamentary paperwork came before family every time.
“However, I agree that making some friendships with the right people would be beneficial,” he added.
Meredith smiled. She stepped forward and kissed his cheek. “You mean alliances,” she said gently. “I meant friendships.”
She had started to step back, but Alfred did not let her. His arms quickly found their way around her waist and pulled her closer. A kiss on the cheek? Was that all he would be given?
“Not so fast,” he murmured, before bestowing a passionate kiss on her lips. Christ, she felt wonderful—and what was even more wonderful was the very slight amount of fabric between his hands and her skin.
It was all he could do not to push her onto the kitchen table and take her right here. Meredith returned the kiss, her arms around his neck, but when the kiss ended, there was a wry smile on her face.
“Do not think you can get around me with your kisses, delightful as they are,” she said.
Alfred laughed, keeping her in his arms. “I have said before, and I will say again—Archibald’s life is already mapped out for him. He is a Carmichael. It has hardly hurt me.”
Should he be worried by the hesitation on her face, that look of concern?
“Well, not much,” he amended with a laugh. “And I speak the truth when I say that some of those friendships, or alliances as you would call them, are already set for him. One has to look at the world head-on, Meredith.”
She pulled away from his arms and leaned against the sink as she examined him.
“I wish…” she said finally. “I wish it could be different.”
“Different?”
Alfred had never considered different to be a possibility. Different?
It had never occurred to him. What would his life be if not…this? It was impossible to imagine the trajectory of a Carmichael’s life in any other way. They were the Dukes of Rochdale. They were members of Parliament.
To change it in any way would be to leave behind decades, nay, centuries of tradition.
“Goodness, different,” he said jovially as he sat down at the table and gestured that Meredith should sit. “I am not sure I would even know where to start. You mean to tell me Archibald may not be a member of Parliament?”
Meredith moved to sit beside him as indicated, but Alfred pulled her toward him and onto his lap. She laughed as he kissed her neck.
“Whether or not he will be a member of Parliament in the future, he is a child now,” she said. “Any child should be what they want when they grow, not hemmed in by tradition.”
Alfred laughed, but then caught sight of Meredith’s face. There was no jesting there. She was serious.
“By God, you cannot mean that,” he said slowly.
Meredith shrugged, her nightgown slipping slightly and almost giving Alfred a most delicious view before she most irritatingly rearranged it.
“Why not?” she said. “I was never destined to be a governess until—I mean, I chose it, and here I am.”
Alfred smiled. It was almost funny, th
e way she thought she could compare a simple choice to hundreds of years of tradition. “But you won’t be a governess forever, will you?”
The words had slipped out before he could stop them, and as Meredith looked at him shyly, he saw she knew what he was attempting to suggest. It was just like the conversation at the lake. Alfred knew the words he wanted to say but could not bring himself to say them.
What was he thinking? Having a beautiful woman in his arms did not mean marriage. So many other gentlemen in his position would have bedded her by now, pensioned her off somewhere—or kept her in the house for a ready supply of comfort.
And Rochdales did not treat servants that way, whatever that damned Talbot said, Alfred thought savagely.
But…marriage? Why was he even considering it?
Alfred knew why as soon as he looked into Meredith’s eyes. Here was a woman beyond compare. A governess, true, but the great talents she possessed were more valuable than beauty or dowry—and she had one of those anyway.
Alfred swallowed. He had known the woman a few months. Did he really think offering his hand was a good idea?
“I suppose I will not be a governess forever,” said Meredith, cutting into his thoughts. “But I like being a governess, and I like Archibald. I would not want to disappear from his life without…without great cause. Not unless a better offer came along.”
There was just a hint of mischief in her words, and Alfred tightened his grip around her. He did not want to let her go, not ever, but that did not mean marriage was the solution.
What had she said, down at the lake?
“You need to take your words back. You cannot mean it.”
It was all so damned confusing. If only he knew his own heart, his own mind, it would not be so difficult, and he knew her heart even less.
Meredith felt something for him, he knew she did. She accepted his kisses—but she did not want him to propose marriage, that was certain. Or was it?
“Not unless a better offer came along.”
What did she want from him? What did he want from her?
A Governess of Great Talents Page 18
