“I would have liked him to be there. Someone by my side,” Alfred said. “But then I think I expected too much of Archibald. He has been impossible since…”
He could not bear to finish his sentence. He would not think about Meredith.
Damn. He had depended on Meredith far more than he had realized over the last few months, more than he could possibly have known until she was taken from him.
“Well, I think you are doing a fine thing, a very fine thing indeed, if you do not mind me saying so, Your Grace,” said Mr. Walker with a smile. “Following your father’s footsteps. Continuing on his legacy, and that of your grandfather, and his father afore him.”
Alfred nodded, but the man’s words did nothing to assuage his heart. He had never been truly honest with Mr. Walker, not really. He had never told the man that running for election was not his preferred choice. He had never revealed the panic that speaking in Parliament elicited in him, how he hated London, hated the duty his life was dedicated to.
Perhaps he should have been more open. Perhaps of all people, Mr. Walker would have understood. It would certainly have saved him heartache. Maybe that honesty would have helped Mr. Walker understand why Alfred did not wish to run for this election.
Or perhaps not. Mr. Walker was looking with such pride, Alfred was not sure what would happen if he was finally honest with the man.
“Well, Mrs. Walker will be waiting to lock up,” said Mr. Walker, glancing at his pocket watch and eyes bulging as he saw the time. “I had better be off, Your Grace, I hope you can forgive me.”
Alfred rose. “Oh, so soon? What a shame, but thank you for your company, Mr. Walker. I have greatly enjoyed our conversation.”
“No need to see me out,” said Mr. Walker as he started to walk to the door.
But Alfred would not permit that. “No, no, I insist.”
Roberts was by the front door, having predicted in that impressive way only butlers could that a guest was leaving. Alfred shook Mr. Walker’s hand, promised he would ask his cook to send around to Mr. Walker’s cook exactly how the ham had been prepared, and sighed heavily when the door finally closed behind him.
“Right,” said Alfred with a sigh. “I think I will—”
“Your Grace, a moment?”
Alfred worked hard to ensure Mrs. Martin could not see the frustration on his face as he turned to greet her. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw on the grandfather clock that it was near eleven o’clock. No wonder he was so tired.
“Your Grace,” said Mrs. Martin with an unusually stern face.
Alfred knew precisely what she was going to ask. “The answer is no, Mrs. Martin.”
“I cannot abide to leave it!” she said. “I want to clear out the rooms where that woman was, Your Grace, and I do not understand why I am to leave things as they are!”
Alfred could no longer answer that question himself anymore. He had to let go. He had to accept that Meredith Hubert was not coming back.
“Fine,” he said, his temper showing then adding, “Fine, Mrs. Martin, I understand. Please go through the room tomorrow.”
The housekeeper was evidently expecting more of a fight and appeared wrong-footed by his reply. “I mean to say, I—oh. Right. Thank you, Your Grace.”
“I do apologize, Your Grace,” said Roberts quietly. “I was under the impression you had told me—”
“Yes, I know what I said,” said Alfred wearily. “And now I am saying something else. Please, sort this out between the two of you. I…I am tired.”
Roberts and Mrs. Martin exchanged glances before walking away. Alfred was left alone in the hallway with only his bitterness and contrariness to keep him company.
God’s teeth. How was it possible to feel a stranger in his own home?
It was time for bed. Alfred dragged his weary feet up the staircase and along the corridor to his bedchamber, but his mind was so on other things he did not notice at first that he had stepped right past his own chamber and along the corridor and toward…
The schoolroom. The door was ajar, as it had been the first time Alfred had walked past it and espied Meredith teaching Archibald. The memory was so clear, it was as though it had happened yesterday.
It was almost inevitable where his feet took him next, and Alfred had no ability to chastise himself. Meredith’s bedchamber.
Pushing the door open, Alfred stepped inside. Despite Mrs. Martin’s concern that she had not cleaned it after the governess had vacated it, from what Alfred could see, Meredith had left the place in relatively good order.
The bed had been stripped, linens carefully folded. There was not a scrap of evidence that anyone had lived here, other than the trunk pushed up against the wall. There was almost nothing left of her.
Knowing how foolish he was acting, but unable to prevent himself, Alfred picked up the pillow and brought it to his face, breathing in. It smelled exactly like her. The last bit of her that he had left—other than a piece of paper scrunched up in the wastepaper bin.
Alfred knew he should not look at it. For all he knew, it was private correspondence between Meredith and…who? The only two people she could possibly have been writing to were Miss Clarke and…and whoever she was involved with in this thieving malarky.
Reaching down, Alfred picked up the paper. His guess had been correct. It was a letter from Meredith. There were quite a few ink splotches and even areas that appeared to be…tears.
Dear Miss Clarke,
I regret to inform you I know one of the most important rules of the Governess Bureau is not to fall in love. I have always believed never been tempted to do so before. but I must tell you
I am writing you this letter to give up my employment at the Governess Bureau, for I have fallen in love with my employer the Duke of Rochdale, and I believe hope believe he returns my affections.
I don’t know what to do, Miss Clarke. Help me to understand Should I Can you
Alfred bit his lip. Christ, she seemed so lost when she had written this letter, so unsure of herself. So unsure of him.
Meredith had been something truly special. And he had lost her. Or had she lost him? It was her actions which had separated them. If she had just not stolen—how hard could it be?
A governess could not become the Duchess of Rochdale. A servant couldn’t marry the master. A member of Parliament couldn’t marry a thief.
Crumpling the letter and dropping it into his pocket, lest Mrs. Martin saw it tomorrow, Alfred left her bedchamber and was on his way to his own when a thought occurred to him.
The missing items, those which had been stolen. They had searched her bedchamber, and it was quite clear that they were not there. Mrs. Martin had even done so before Meredith had been confronted, so there was no chance they were secreted into her locked trunk.
But the schoolroom. They had not searched the schoolroom.
Heart beating frantically, Alfred hastily stepped over to her desk and opened it slowly, half hoping he would find the stolen items, half hoping that he would not.
The desk was empty.
Alfred’s shoulders slumped. Well, it was too much to hope. She was evidently far cleverer than he gave her credit for. It certainly would have been a foolish place to hide them.
It was only as he walked back toward the door that Alfred noticed Archibald’s desk was slightly open. There was something preventing it from closing. A strange impulse to open it overwhelmed him, and it was with horror and surprise that Alfred lifted the lid to find…
The golden pocket watch. Two miniatures. The large family Bible, and countless other small things which Mrs. Martin had not even noticed were missing.
Alfred sagged onto the small chair by the desk. Archibald. It was Archibald. He was the thief—his own brother!
“Have you asked Archibald about the missing items?”
Oh, it all seemed so obvious now. Archibald was always asking about his parents, hadn’t he? Alfred had brushed off the questions as not important, not worthy of hi
s time.
Yet they had been for Archibald. A mother who had died giving him life, a father who was older, distant, and had died when he was so young. It was natural for him to have questions, and for him to go about the house finding artifacts of their existence, all for himself.
“Oh Christ,” Alfred moaned, a hand moving to his temple.
Meredith had seen it. She had at the very least suspected, and what had he done when she had voiced that suspicion?
“How—how dare you blame my brother!”
Why would Meredith—Meredith!—have stolen from him? She loved him.
And he loved her. Alfred found with rising joy that not all, but many of his problems were about to solve themselves. Meredith was not the thief, and they loved each other. Now the truth had been discovered there was no reason, after he had won the election of course, that they could not be together.
He would offer her his hand in marriage. They would be happy.
All this information and rush of emotion made Alfred feel giddy. It was hard to know what to do first—until it became clear as he looked down into the desk of stolen treasure.
Archibald. He needed to speak to Archibald, explain he was not angry nor upset, and that they would be asking Meredith back to the abbey not as Archibald’s governess, but as Alfred’s wife.
Alfred rose hurriedly and checked his pocket watch. Past eleven o’clock. True, it was late to be waking the boy, but it was such a joyous piece of news, he would surely not mind. Opening Archibald’s bedchamber door quietly, Alfred tiptoed over to the bed, and reached out to wake his brother.
That, however, proved impossible. The bed was empty.
Alfred looked around the room in the darkness, as though expecting to find Archibald inexplicably out of bed playing with his soldiers. He was not there.
This did not make sense. Where else would the boy be at this time of night?
Perhaps in the room assigned as dining room for Archibald and his governess. It took Alfred a few steps along the corridor to peer his head in, but the place was empty. He knew Archibald wasn’t in the schoolroom, nor Meredith’s bedchamber, he had been in both of those.
So, where was he?
“Your Grace, goodness!”
Alfred whirled around to see Mrs. Martin clutching her chest.
“I did not expect to see you still up, Your Grace,” she said. “You will forgive me for saying this, but you look troubled.”
“I cannot find Archibald,” said Alfred blankly.
Mrs. Martin nodded. “Yes, it was strange he wasn’t at his dinner, wasn’t it? I assumed he ate too many autumn apples, out in the orchards where he’s been playing all day. I hope he’s sleeping soundly now.”
Alfred’s heart went cold. “You…you mean to say he hasn’t been seen all day?”
“Well, no, but little boys run about, don’t they?” said Mrs. Martin heartily. “He’ll be tired in the morning!”
Alfred attempted to keep his voice calm. “Mrs. Martin, I do not believe we understand each other. I cannot find Archibald now. He is not in his bedchamber, nor anywhere else.”
Mrs. Martin’s smile vanished. “Not…not in his bed?”
“What is all this commotion? Really, Mrs. Martin, I expected—oh. Your Grace.” Roberts joined them and looked between his fellow servant and their master. “What is wrong?”
“I’ll tell you what’s wrong,” said Alfred with a dry mouth. “Archibald is missing.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
Meredith knew it was a dream. It could not be true. Alfred would never shout at her like that, not even if she had done all the terrible things he was now accusing her of.
“—broken all our trust!”
“No,” Meredith murmured. She had to make him understand. She was not a bad person, and she would never have done those things. She hadn’t stolen, she hadn’t hurt Archibald. She would never hurt either of them.
There was a loud banging hurting her ears. The Alfred before her glaring, all affection stripped from his features. “I should never have allowed you entrance into our home—or into Rochdale! You must leave!”
“I-I cannot leave without—”
“No one wants you here,” Alfred sneered, though it could not be Alfred, something about him wasn’t right. “No one wants you, Meredith.”
And she was crying, tears falling down her cheeks. The banging was drilling into her mind, preventing her from thinking, and Alfred was stepping toward her with fists raised.
Meredith wanted to throw herself into his arms, kiss away the mistrust and confusion, but it was not the Alfred she knew and so instead she ran from him and the pain he was causing.
“Meredith!”
She would not look back, Meredith vowed as she ran, but she did not seem to be getting any further away as she tried to put one foot before the other, trying desperately to escape him. Her heart—was the banging she could hear the pounding from her own pulse?
“Meredith!”
Alfred was calling her name but it sounded different now, earnest, and eager to speak to her. What was happening? Why did none of this make sense?
“Meredith, wake up!”
Meredith awoke with a start. Her sheets and pillow were damp with perspiration and there were tears on her cheeks. The banging continued—it had not been part of her dream then.
“Meredith, open the door!”
She started. Alfred’s voice was whispering her name. Was she still dreaming?
Pinching herself and feeling the sharp sting in her arm, Meredith tried to think. She was at the King’s Head. She was supposed to be leaving today, but from the little she could see in the gloom of her small chamber, today had not arrived yet.
What time was it? It must be the middle of the night, yet Alfred was here. Was he?
“Damnit, Meredith, open the door!”
Yes, he was certainly here. It was not just the remnants of the dream that was convincing her; no amount of wishful thinking would have created that.
Crash! Meredith gasped as the door of her chamber was kicked off its hinges, and a man rushed in with a bellow at the exertion of forcing his way into her room.
Clutching her bed linens to her, Meredith sat up. “Alfred?”
It was indeed Alfred, and he appeared half mad. His hair was standing up on end and there was a wildness in his eyes as he looked around the room manically.
“What on earth…” breathed Meredith.
This did not make sense. Alfred had almost thrown her from his home. He had accused her of theft, which she had not done, and not believed her when she had sworn her innocence.
Yet here he was, in the room at the inn.
And what was worse, if she was truly honest with herself, was that he did not appear to have broken her door down in a fit of passion. He had not moved toward her attempting to kiss or make love to her, or even spoken to her since he had barged his way in here.
“Alfred,” Meredith hissed.
Alfred turned. “You have him, don’t you? He’s here? Tell me you do, Meredith!”
His words did not make any sense. “Him?”
Alfred nodded wildly. “Yes, yes, he’s here, isn’t he?”
Meredith could not understand him. Him? Here? Did he believe that she merely opened up her bedchamber for any gentleman passing through?
“Alfred, you simply cannot be here,” Meredith said, trying to keep her voice down.
It was an absolute miracle no one had heard the door breaking off its hinges, but then there had been rather a lot of singing last night, from what she had heard. It was perhaps no wonder most of the inn’s inhabitants were sleeping it off.
“You cannot be here,” she repeated, as Alfred had given no sign he had heard her. “The scandal, if you were to be found—you, in my bedchamber!”
After all their concerns about what their intimacy could do to both of their reputations, it seemed ridiculous that he had decided to break into her room in the dead of night!
Meredith rubbed her eyes and looked more closely at the Duke of Rochdale. He seemed half possessed, poking into the corners of her room, pulling out the desk. Meredith’s heart went cold. Her letters—the drafted letters to Miss Clarke, they were all on that desk!
“You have to leave,” she hissed.
Alfred straightened up. “Blast it, is he here?”
“I have no comprehension of what you are talking about!”
He looked half-deranged. “Meredith, it’s Archibald—is Archie with you?”
Meredith frowned. “Archibald, here? Why would he be here?”
“Because he is not at home,” said Alfred, his voice cracking. “And I thought—well, he was so upset about you leaving, really took it hard. I haven’t been able to get any sense out of him since you left, and I thought, maybe…”
Meredith’s heart skipped a beat. Archibald was not at home—and he was certainly not here with her. And that meant…
“Do you mean to tell me that Archibald is missing?” she said slowly.
Alfred sagged onto the end of her bed and put his head in his hands. “I have failed him, Meredith. I have failed my only flesh and blood, and I know not where he went and I have no hope of finding him.”
Meredith started getting out of bed, disentangling herself from the bedlinens which had twisted around her during her nightmare.
“My father would never forgive me this great betrayal,” Alfred was saying in a muffled voice. “How can I ever forgive myself?”
“Easily,” said Meredith, pulling on her gown over her nightgown.
Alfred lifted his head. “I beg your pardon?”
“Easily,” Meredith repeated, pulling on her stockings as fast as her fingers could manage and then scrabbling about to find her riding boots in her open trunk.
“What…what are you doing?”
Meredith looked at him. There was the man she loved, who she had believed she would do anything for—and now that was going to be put to the test.
Because he did not love her. If Alfred had loved her, he would have believed her when she told him she was not the thief in Rochdale Abbey. Not that she had believed him when he had spoken the truth about Molly Butters.
A Governess of Great Talents Page 28
