A Governess of Great Talents

by Murdoch, Emily E K

  Meredith smiled back. Well, she could see no harm in it. There was naught wrong in being polite—but her courtesy had an effect she had not predicted. The woman picked up her bowl of stew, rose from her seat, and started toward her.

  Meredith groaned internally. It was a mistake to catch someone’s eye! All she wanted was peace and quiet. She should have asked Mr. Morgan to take her stew in her room.

  “May…may I join you?” the woman said, a little breathlessly. “I would rather do that than have a man ask to sit with me.”

  Meredith had not considered this. Sitting together would certainly prevent anyone else from wishing to speak to her, and the woman looked harmless.

  “Of course,” she said as graciously as she could. “Please, sit down.”

  The woman did so, almost dropping her bowl of stew in her nervousness. Meredith could not begrudge a woman like that.

  “I’m Molly,” she said with a smile.

  The name rang a bell in Meredith’s tired mind. “Meredith,” she said. “I am—I was the governess, up at Rochdale Abbey. With the Carmichaels.”

  Whether it was at the mention of Rochdale Abbey, or the Carmichaels, Meredith could not tell—but Molly suddenly flushed. Meredith looked down at her stew. Perhaps the gossip had travelled far faster than she had imagined.

  “And…and what about you?” she asked, curiously.

  Molly coughed. “Well, as it happens, I was an undermaid there myself.”

  Meredith’s mouth fell open. Of course, why had she not put the two things together—Molly Butters! The undermaid who left on the day she herself arrived at the abbey.

  “Goodness,” said Meredith, trying to cover her moment of surprise. “To think, in another lifetime, we may have known each other up at the abbey!”

  Molly nodded. It could not be more evident to Meredith that the undermaid did not wish to speak any more about her time at the abbey, and though it was impolite to merely ask outright, she could not help it. She had to know.

  “And…you left hurriedly?” she asked quietly.

  Molly nodded. She placed her spoon down and took a deep breath, as though about to admit to something awful. “I had to, in the end. I could not stay.”

  Meredith worked hard to keep her face impassive. This was it; she was finally getting to the bottom of the mystery of the undermaid. Why had she left? Why had it been so impossible for her to remain there—close to Alfred?

  “Do you…” Meredith swallowed. “Do you mind if I ask you why?”

  Molly did not answer immediately. She looked around as though to ensure no one else could overhear them before answering. “I…I had a baby.”

  Meredith’s mouth dropped, and she hastily closed it to ensure Molly was not offended.

  She could hardly believe it. She had been right! She had not precisely accused Alfred of seducing and then abandoning Molly Butters, but her instincts had been right. The man was a menace!

  She and Molly could surely not be the only ones. The Duke of Rochdale preyed on his servants, and really, she should be grateful she was able to escape with her innocence intact.

  Just about.

  Her instincts had been true, and in hindsight, the sullied reputation of a thief was a far better outcome than poor Molly Butters. Having a child…

  “Did…did you ever get money from him?” Meredith asked quietly. “From His Grace?”

  Molly frowned. “I don’t understand.”

  Of course, she didn’t, Meredith thought bitterly. A mere undermaid wouldn’t consider Alfred needing to do anything of the sort. She knew his type, the men who thought they could just dispose of a woman after they got a little bored of her.

  “Money,” she repeated. “From His Grace, Alfred Carmichael. The duke. For you and your baby to live on,” she spelled out.

  A strange look flooded Molly’s face. “Oh, no. No, it wasn’t—His Grace never touched me. He was too much of a gentleman to even consider it!”

  The very thought seemed to give Molly a fright, and she shivered.

  Relief, sweet relief tinged with a little guilt, swept through Meredith’s soul.

  She had jumped to the most likely conclusion.

  But not here. Alfred had not seduced Molly Butters, and that was why he had almost no memory of her.

  “Molly Butters. She was the undermaid here. She left the day that I arrived. You…you do not remember her?”

  “What has a Molly got to do with us?”

  But now she knew it had not been Alfred who had seduced Molly and abandoned her with child, so Meredith was filled once more with curiosity. Who could it have been? Roberts, perhaps? There was no knowing with some people…

  Molly could obviously see the question on her lips before she spoke it, because she sighed and said, “I thought everyone in Rochdale knew by now, so there’s no reason why you should not. It was…it was John Talbot. Him’s as running against His Grace in the election.”

  Meredith’s mouth fell open. “John Talbot?”

  “You should watch out for old Rochdale there. Can’t have a woman in the house but he wants to bed her. Achieves it, most of the time, too. Did you ever meet Molly Butters?”

  Why had she not seen it before? She had felt something was off about Mr. Talbot the first moment she had met him, and she had never heard a kind word spoken of him. Even Alfred had not been able to find anything nice to say about him, and…

  Alfred. Oh, she had accused him falsely just as he had accused her. She had been so sure he had been the one to seduce and abandon Molly Butters. Now she thought about it, there was just as little evidence as there was proving her to be the thief at Rochdale Abbey.

  She should not have shouted at him. She should have believed him, as he should have believed her.

  They should have believed each other.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  October 9, 1812

  “—and though of course, it will be a great loss to the people of Rochdale itself, in time we will recognize the great advantage it is to have you in London,” continued Mr. Walker in an unbroken stream since he had first arrived at Rochdale Abbey just before dinner had started.

  After the cook had ensured there was enough food for two, Alfred had received him in the library, in the vague hope that here, rather than the drawing room, would indicate his interest—or lack thereof—in a long conversation. That had been two hours ago.

  “Why, having a Carmichael back in Parliament is what this duchy needs,” Mr. Walker said as he sat comfortably in an armchair by the roaring fire. “Though I will of course miss you, my boy, just as I missed your father whenever he went to serve us in the big town. But then, I said to my own boys…”

  Alfred’s eyes were glazing over, and he was managing to nod at all of the right times, as far as he could tell, as Mr. Walker continued on quite happily.

  “But when you win the election, we will have to accept…”

  Alfred’s stomach, full of good food and even better wine, was starting to make him soporific. It was pleasant to sit with Mr. Walker and be unrequired to contribute in any way. The last few weeks had been exhausting, and it was a relief to simply allow another to take the burden of conversation. The election was soon and with each passing day, there was a greater knot in his heart, tightening, growing ever heavier.

  “—though it is fascinating how quickly these things change,” said Mr. Walker, hiccupping slightly, his eyes unfocused as he poured himself another glass of red wine. “Take Hemmings, for example. Rapscallion in many ways, only just arrived in Rochdale!”

  Alfred tried not to smile. The Hemmings had arrived almost thirty years ago.

  “Blasted ingrates,” muttered Mr. Walker. “Like those Talbots—aye, I know you do not wish to hear about them, but the man fair gets my blood boiling and no mistake!”

  He would not be here much longer. He had already instructed Kittering to start packing, and Mrs. Martin’s questions about hiring new servants had increased before he left.

&nbs
p; Within a few weeks, he would be gone. He would have to be content with having Rochdale as a distant memory. A memory of home. No one could call the rooms he took in London ‘home’. Not compared to the abbey. Not compared to the home he had wished for, had dreamt about with…with her.

  Meredith. Miss Hubert. Governess she may be, but that was no reason why he had not hoped that one day, she could be much more to him.

  That was all over. As Mr. Walker’s voice continued, Alfred attempted to both listen closely to ensure he nodded at the right times, and ignore him completely. It was far more pleasant and yet more painful to lose himself in thoughts of Meredith. Two days, or perhaps three, and no sign of her. Alfred had been certain she would return.

  There were still some belongings of hers upstairs. Mrs. Martin had told him there was one trunk remaining, and Alfred had instructed her, without explanation, to leave it.

  Leave it? A small part of him was obviously convinced Meredith was coming back. Alfred hated that part of him; it was weak, pathetic. Did he really believe that?

  Yes. He desperately wanted her to provide proof she had not stolen those things. But if she had such evidence, why had she not presented it at the moment of her accusation?

  Because, thought Alfred dully, it did not exist. She was the thief.

  “—Walkers in these parts for five hundred years!” Mr. Walker said, and Alfred nodded. “Carmichaels in these parts for nigh on the same amount of time!”

  “Yes, indeed,” said Alfred, finding it amusing that his family was only just accepted to be on a par with the Walkers.

  Mr. Walker pointed at Alfred. “Y’see! You see what I mean then!”

  There was a pause before Alfred realized he was required to input at this point. “I-I do indeed, yes, Mr. Walker. Most elegantly put.”

  This seemed to appease the older man, who sipped his red wine and looked at the fire before he started speaking again. “I don’t know, you think the old ways will continue forever and then before you know it, another decade has passed and half the people around you cannot even remember what the old ways were…”

  Any other year, Alfred would have had great sympathy for the old man. It could not be pleasant, seeing the traditions of life that you loved so much disappear. One could cling onto them as much as possible, but that did not mean they disappeared any less.

  If only he could turn back time—but what difference would that make? Meredith would still choose to steal, and Alfred would be presented with the same difficulty; confronting her with her own thievery, and watching her lie about it.

  The library door opened, and Roberts entered with letters on a silver tray. “The evening post, Your Grace.”

  Taking them from the butler’s tray, Alfred could see a letter from Talbot, which he put in his pocket—no point in opening that now, not in the state Mr. Walker was in—something that looked like another bill, and a letter addressed to…

  “Miss Hubert, Your Grace,” said Roberts delicately. “I shall forward it to Miss Clarke at the Governess Bureau, if I may?”

  Alfred nodded. He did not trust his voice. How long would post arrive for the governess? How much longer would he be reminded of her absence? Not long. In a few weeks, he himself would be gone from the place, away from the land he loved and to the town and duty he despised.

  It was only then that he realized the butler was still hovering by his chair. “Yes?”

  Roberts swallowed. “I have been requested to ask you, Your Grace, as a favor to Mrs. Martin…she wishes to know whether she can go through the governess’s room and clear it out.”

  “No,” said Alfred hastily, as nonchalantly as he could.

  The butler raised his eyebrows, and even Mr. Walker ceased his monologue.

  Alfred tried to keep his face straight. He wished for neither his old friend nor his butler to have any comprehension of the pain he was feeling. It was simple enough.

  “I believe Mere—Miss Hubert is still at the King’s Head in Rochdale,” he continued stiffly. “She may request that trunk to be sent to her. I wish it to be left.”

  Roberts’ eyebrows rose—if possible—a little higher.

  Irritation flared in Alfred’s heart. Well, really. Who was the master here? Did he have to explain his every wish and desire to those who were supposed to serve him? What next, an explanation as to why fish was chosen for Fridays?

  “I know the servants are surprised at my decision to let Miss Hubert go, Roberts,” he said in his most authoritarian voice. “But I had good reason, and I would ask you and the others to trust me.”

  Roberts’ gaze flickered over to Mr. Walker, who despite the great amount of red wine he had imbibed, was not entirely immune to the temperature of the conversation. He had evidently plucked a book from the bookshelf beside him, and was now assiduously concentrating on the third volume of Mrs. Radcliffe’s The Mysteries of Udolpho.

  Alfred and Roberts’s gaze returned to each other.

  “No question of trust,” said the butler quietly, “just surprise. Is that all, Your Grace?”

  “Yes,” snapped Alfred, his bad temper not receding. It was only after Roberts had quietly shut the library door behind him that he regretted his tone.

  He was not that sort of person. He was not that sort of master! He could not remember the last time he had shouted, really shouted at a servant.

  This whole kerfuffle had left him unsettled. He had never been forced to terminate the employment of any servant before, and now he had.

  And worse, it had been Meredith.

  Alfred swallowed and looked over at Mr. Walker still hidden by his book. It was only now she had gone that Alfred realized just how much Meredith…grounded him.

  Like lightning to earth, she had anchored him. Surprising, shocking, challenging, yes, but he had never felt more safe, more accepted. Now she was gone, he was…well, all at sea.

  Alfred closed his eyes and tried not to recall the numerous encounters which had built up, slowly but surely over weeks, the close connection they had enjoyed. Why, it had been in this very library that he had first kissed her. In the kitchen where…she had allowed him to…

  His eyes snapped open. Careful, man, he counselled himself. The last thing you want to do is lose control.

  Mr. Walker turned a page, the noise deafening in the quiet.

  Perhaps he was overthinking this because Meredith was close by, Alfred wondered, shifting uncomfortably. The King’s Head was not far on horseback. He certainly was not considering riding over there and telling Meredith that it did not matter she was a thief, that if she loved him, and he loved her…

  Alfred sighed. No, it was a foolish dream. How could a member of Parliament declare his love for a thief? How could a duke wed a governess? Idle thoughts.

  Besides, Roberts had hinted just yesterday that there may be a far more sinister reason why Miss Hubert had not yet departed for town. Was she waiting for the master of the house to leave the abbey, leaving it vulnerable to additional thefts?

  It was an excruciating thought, but not one Alfred could discount. After all, she knew the house. If her climbing abilities are anything to go by based on what he had seen with the kite, she had the ability to get through a window even two floors up, if she wanted.

  Alfred reached for his glass of wine, hardly touched since he and Mr. Walker had entered the library. Perhaps going to London wouldn’t be a burden after all, but a relief.

  “Mr. Walker, please return home as soon as you wish,” Alfred said delicately. “I am sure Mrs. Walker is waiting for you. I would not wish to deprive her of your company.”

  Mr. Walker, unfortunately, did not take the hint. Lowering the book, he said with a bright smile, “Oh, no, she is not expecting me until long after dinner. And what an excellent one it was, too. I must thank your cook. You know, it has been years since I enjoyed…”

  A clock quietly chimed ten o’clock as Alfred returned to nodding at whatever Mr. Walker said. That was all the input required, apparently
, as the old man just continued on.

  “Not that our cook is particularly bad, of course,” Mr. Walker’s voice cut into Alfred’s thoughts. “I had to tempt her away from London with much higher wages than I had initially been prepared to pay, but the custard tarts, Your Grace! Never before nor since have I tasted…”

  Talbot. Blaggard. He had organized the last-minute husting to toy with him, and the blasted thing was, it had worked! If only he’d had Meredith to assist him with the—

  Alfred caught himself just in time. He could not go through life wishing he had Meredith by his side. He would be back in Parliament before he knew it.

  Still, the misery of the husting had cast a shadow over his election campaign Alfred simply had not needed.

  Miss Wilhelmina Talbot had been there, too. Alfred had looked for a friendly face in the crowd as he had spoken, wondering whether Miss Talbot would give him a smile.

  She had not. If ever the phrase ‘cold shoulder’ was employed, it was for Miss Talbot.

  Perhaps that would have upset him another time, in another life. He was more distressed that Meredith had not been there. It had been a slim chance. Just because she was still in Rochdale Town that did not mean she was likely to attend the husting, even though a small part of him had wondered whether she would hide at the back.

  But she had not. Alfred had been forced to do the damn thing alone.

  “Your Grace.”

  Alfred started. Mr. Walker’s voice was low, quiet, companionable. He looked up to see the older man smiling with a gentle and understood expression.

  “Your Grace, I know the hustings weren’t what you wanted them to be…”

  Alfred nodded, not trusting his voice. Sometimes it was easy to forget Mr. Walker, though a social inferior to the House of Rochdale, had known Alfred since the day he was born.

  “Archibald refused to come,” said Alfred bleakly. “I tried to impress upon him the importance of his attendance, both for my sake and for his own, but he didn’t agree.”

  “Children can be most troublesome,” Mr. Walker said. “I would know. I have five.”