by Nina Mason
“With no more than you brought to the table,” she’d always add before pointing out that even his brushes, paints, and canvases—the finished ones as well as the blanks—belonged to her.
A knock at the door interrupted his introspection, bringing him back to the library. Afraid it might be Lady Cécile or another scheming woman, he gruffly called out from his chair, “What do you want?”
“I apologize for disturbing your solitude, Lord Brontë, especially at such a time as this, but I wish to have a word with you in private—about my daughter, Cécile.”
The fist of dread punched Matthew in the gut. Had Lady Cécile told her father what had taken place in the garden? No, surely not. For she had no more wish to be saddled with a penniless painter than he did to be yoked to a minx who’d connive to trap a man into matrimony.
“You may enter, sir,” Matthew called out loud enough to be heard. “The lock is not engaged.”
The knob turned and the paneled wooden door opened a crack just before the viscount’s face appeared from around the edge. “A thousand pardons for disturbing you in your grief, Lord Brontë. I would not have done so were my business with you of less importance.”
“Do come in,” said Matthew with as much conviviality as he could muster. “And tell me what’s on your mind.”
Lord Brousseau, a rotund man of middle stature in his early forties, strode deeper into the room, stopping a few feet from Matthew’s chair, where he stood in obvious anxiety for several moments.
Just as Matthew was losing his patience, the man spoke. “Clearly, your stroll with my daughter did not go well. And I beg of you to share with me the reason you were displeased with her.”
Was that all this was about?—his reasons for turning cold toward Lady Cécile? Matthew took a moment to choose his words. He could easily give the man an earful about his daughter’s coquetry, though to do so would give too much of his own bad behavior away. At last he said, striving for succinctness as well as honesty, “I found her somewhat deficient in substance and honesty.”
“Merci, Monsieur.” The viscount lowered his gaze and wrung his hands. “Your unfortunate observations confirm my own fears regarding her chances of making a good marriage with a sensible man. And I want you to know I am taking steps to correct her shortcomings before her entrance into society.”
“She mentioned you were hiring a governess.” Matthew was still intrigued by the idea of Jane Grey. “Is that part of your plan for improving her prospects?”
The elder gentleman nodded. “I just hope her character is not already too fixed to be altered.”
“As do I,” Matthew said. “But I also fear her greatest flaw may already be beyond the reach of correction.”
“Oh, dear,” Lord Brousseau muttered. “And what flaw would that be, in your estimation?”
“Selfishness—an invasive weed that, when allowed to spread, pushes out the cultivated plants and spoils the whole of the garden.”
Chapter Four
Much as Jane hated to leave the comfort of her bed, she crawled out of her warm cocoon and splashed her face with the cold water Madame DuBois had left in the basin on the washstand. After putting on a plain black frock and crisp white tucker, she checked her appearance from all angles in the looking glass in the corner of her room. To her delight, she looked the picture of a proper English governess.
Now, to find out what she’d gotten herself into…
With a deep, courage-mustering breath, she opened her chamber door and ventured forth into her new life. She walked stiffly down the stairs, her hand trembling on the banister. At the bottom was a paneled gallery lined on both sides with paintings and elegant chairs and tables. On one end, a door stood open, letting in pale morning light.
Wanting a breath of fresh air and a look at the grounds, Jane moved down the gallery, taking in the artwork she passed. Most were landscapes and portraits of people she presumed to be ancestors of the Brousseaus. One made her stop for a closer look: a three-quarter-length depiction of a pretty young woman with striking green eyes and golden ringlet curls. That her pink frock was of the current fashion led Jane to suspect the subject of the painting might be Lady Cécile.
Hastening toward the open door, she stepped over the threshold into the sunshine. The view of the surrounding vineyards was breathtaking—and so different from England, right down to the color of the light. Here it was warm and bright gold, while back home it was cool and dull gray. Advancing onto the plush lawn, she turned and looked up in awe at the castle’s spired towers and toothed battlements.
“I see you are an early riser, my dear.”
Turning with a start, Jane saw Madame DuBois standing in the doorway she’d just come through, dressed in a black gown and white tucker similar to her own.
With an affable smile, Jane replied, “Most days, I’m up with the sun.”
“How do you like Château de Vouvray so far?” the housekeeper inquired, her spectacles and chatelaine glinting in the sun.
“I like it very much.”
“I hope you like it as well after you’ve been introduced to your new pupil.”
Her comment shot an arrow of anxiety straight through Jane’s heart. “Do you have reason to believe making her acquaintance might alter my good opinion?”
“If it did, you would not be the first. Her poor father has had a deuce of a time keeping a governess for her. That’s why he empowered me to answer your advertisement. We both hoped that an Englishwoman might be made of sturdier stuff than the French girls we’ve employed in the past.”
Jane’s hopes of finding contentment here shriveled likes grape left in the sun to dry. “When will I have the opportunity to meet her?”
“Not until later in the day, as her father has taken her to town this morning to be measured for a gown for her presentation ball.”
Jane pursed her lips. “If her debut is so close, why did he take the trouble to hire a governess?”
“Lord Brousseau fears that, if he does not take immediate steps to curb her exuberant spirits, she will never land a husband of quality. As his only child, you see, she and her husband will inherit Vouvray and all that goes with it.”
“I see.” Jane, daunted by the description of her new master’s high expectations, now felt sure she would find life here no more agreeable than at Hedgesparrow Hall. “But how does he expect me to amend the girl’s character when nobody else—himself included—has been able to make an impression on her?”
“Don’t trouble yourself overmuch, my dear.” The lady offered her an understanding smile. “Lord Brousseau is a reasonable man. He only expects you to make a dedicated effort.”
They went in for breakfast, over which Jane asked the lady about the girl in the portrait.
“That is indeed Lady Cécile—a pretty thing, to be sure,” Madame DuBois told her between bites. “Sadly, she is vain about her beauty, which she uses to toy with the hearts of the gentlemen of her acquaintance—the married ones as well as the bachelors. That is one of the undesirable behaviors her father especially wants you to correct.”
Though now more daunted than ever, Jane let the subject drop. After they’d eaten, she returned to her chamber to collect her bonnet, cloak, and Jane Eyre. While it had rained hard the night before, the weather this morning was clear and calm—ideal for a walk in the countryside. If she stayed in, she feared Lord Brousseau’s expectations would only prey upon her mind to a debilitating degree.
A church bell tolled somewhere in the distance, announcing the hour as ten o’clock. The Brousseaus were not expected back until two in the afternoon, allowing plenty of time to roam and explore. She had in her mind to walk all the way to Tours to do a bit of window shopping and perhaps have another look at that haunting portrait at the coaching inn.
Once she reached the lane outside the gates, she found conditions not quite as perfect for walking as she’d imagined. The muddy road sucked at the soles of her boots and the cold wind burned her nose and cheeks. Cl
utching her book to her bosom, she walked fast to keep warm, doing her best not to dwell upon the seemingly impossible feat she’d been hired to perform. Nothing she’d attempted had brought Rupert Massey to heel, and she doubted she’d have any greater success with Cécile Brousseau. In fact, being older, the young lady was likely to be even more set in her ways than her former pupil had been.
Between the mud and the uphill slope of the lane, she grew fatigued more quickly than she might have were conditions more conducive to walking. Having reached her limits, she sat down on a rock wall to catch her breath and rest her legs.
After a few moments spent taking in the view, she opened Jane Eyre to the page she’d marked and began to read.
Women are supposed to be very calm generally: but women feel just as men feel; they need exercise for the faculties, and a field for their efforts, as much as their brothers do; they suffer from too rigid a restraint, too absolute a stagnation, precisely as men would suffer; and it is narrow-minded in their more privileged fellow-creatures to say that they ought to confine themselves to making puddings and knitting stockings, to playing on the piano and embroidering bags. It is thoughtless to condemn them, or laugh at them, if they seek to do more or learn more than custom has pronounced necessary for their sex.
Jane said a silent hurrah, for she wholeheartedly agreed with the passage. Women were equal in intellect and aptitude to men and should be educated to do more than run a household, do needlework, look after their infirm relations, or take charge of other people’s children.
The sound of distant thunder broke in on her thoughts. Looking up at the cloudless blue sky, she puzzled a moment before realizing the rumbling hadn’t come from overhead. It was the sound of a horse coming along the lane at a full gallop, judging by the rhythm of the pounding hooves.
Jane stayed on the wall, well out of the way, her gaze glued to the curve of the road. The horse came—a tall, black steed with a man on his back—moving too fast for her to see much more than a dark blur. When they passed by, she returned to her book.
A sliding sound and a vulgar exclamation—in English, to her surprise—brought her head up abruptly. Man and horse, having slipped in the mud, were down in the road.
Jane, concerned for the well-being of both, shut her book and hurried to the fallen rider, who, by this time, was struggling to free himself from his mount. His efforts were so robust, he could not be badly hurt, but she nevertheless felt obliged to ask, “Are you injured, sir?”
“Only my ego.” His accent was English—and colored with equal parts mirth and embarrassment. “I’m breaking in a new horse, in case my spill has raised any questions in your mind about my riding skills.”
He’d lost his hat, and his hair—an unruly mass of black curls—covered most of his face. She hurried to retrieve his stovepipe topper, which had rolled to the other side of the road. As she returned to him, wiping mud from the crown with her gloved hand, he pushed the hair out of his eyes and looked up at her.
A lightning bolt struck her as she met the same arresting dark eyes she’d seen in the painting in Tours.
“It’s you!”
His mud-splattered brow furrowed. “Are we acquainted?”
As he held her gaze, strange feelings awoke inside her. Prickling sensations she’d never experienced before. They were decidedly discomposing, utterly confusing, and downright improper. As a blush scorched her cheeks, she handed him his hat and pressed her muddy fingers against the cover of Jane Eyre.
“No…I-I saw your portrait only yesterday—at the Blue Talon Inn. And, if I may be so forward, you are a gifted artist, Lord Brontë, for it is an excellent likeness.”
“You are kind.” He gave her a smile that intensified the unsettling flurry low in her abdomen. “And English? What an unexpected pleasure to encounter a fellow expatriate so close to home.”
“Yes, I’m fresh off the boat, having arrived only last evening in this part of the country.”
He rose with considerable effort, getting first to his knees, and then to his feet. As he straightened, he attempted to dash the mud from his buff breeches and velvet frockcoat, which displayed his broad shoulders and considerable breadth of chest. His hair looked rather wild at present, but his face, even begrimed, was as handsome as it had been in the painting. A little more weathered and filled out perhaps, but no less attractive for his greater age. He was older than she, but by less than ten years.
He met her gaze. “Pray, what brings you to our neck of the woods?”
“I’ve been employed by Lord Brousseau to tutor his daughter in the social graces.”
Something unnamable flickered behind his eyes before he turned to his horse. The poor beast still lay on its side in the mud, heaving and snorting. “You must be the new governess, then.”
Astonished by his guess, Jane said, “Yes, but…unless you’re clairvoyant, I don’t see how you could know that.”
“I’m acquainted with the Brousseaus”—he grimaced as he crouched to attend his stallion—“both of whom mentioned your coming only yesterday.”
She wanted to ask his opinion of the Brousseaus. She also wanted, rather dearly, to ask him for drawing lessons. To do either, however, would be as shocking as the stirrings in her womb. So, she stood by in silence as, favoring one of his legs, he got his fallen mount to its feet.
“I’ve not yet had the pleasure of meeting the Brousseaus.” Jane hoped he might volunteer the opinion good manners prevented her from soliciting.
He stooped to feel the animal’s forelegs. Apparently, something ailed them, for he didn’t remount. Instead, he limped to the fieldstone wall where she’d lately been reading and propped himself against it.
As Jane drew closer to him, the flutterings in her abdomen grew more violent. “If you or the horse is in need of aid, I’d be only too happy to fetch someone from Château de Vouvray…or your own estate, perhaps, if it’s nearer.”
“It’s just there.” He motioned toward the castle over the rise, which was even grander than the Brousseau’s. “An easy walk—unless one happens to be crippled by a bad sprain.”
He straightened up, put weight on the foot, and winced in pain before returning his seat to the wall. Jane stood by, flustered and hesitant. She wanted to help, to offer him her shoulder, but feared the effect physical contact with him might have upon her countenance. Just being near him made her feel things virtuous young ladies ought not to feel. Perhaps his gypsy eyes were to blame. They seemed to entrance her like a snake under the spell of a charmer. Or was he the serpent and she Eve, tempted by the forbidden apple he offered? Either way, his mesmerizing effect on her threatened her restraint and disrupted her peace of mind.
These feelings were dangerous, considering she didn’t even know if he was married—or in the market for a wife if he was unattached. Not that he’d choose someone like her if he was. For he was a handsome count who lived in a castle and she was naught but a governess of no birth or beauty. Undoubtedly, like most men, he wanted a voluptuous and vivacious bride of eighteen or nineteen, not a plain and penniless pipsqueak of seven-and-twenty with financial dependents adding to her detractions.
Lord Brontë, she noticed then, was looking her over, as consumed, it would appear, with his own thoughts as she’d been with hers. At length, he gave voice to his musings. “Would it be a crime against decorum if I were to ask for the loan of your shoulder? I believe I might just manage to hobble the short distance with a bit of support.”
“I’m happy to assist you in any way I’m able.”
Curse her impulsive tongue! Why did she not offer to find him a stick to lean upon? For she would be hard pressed to preserve her dignity—let alone, her poor heart—in such intimate proximity to such a beguiling male specimen.
“What about your horse? Is he lame as well?” If his steed was sound, perhaps she could give him a leg up and lead him home instead. For much as she feared the horse, she feared the rider’s closeness much more.
“No, but be
ing new to my stable, I cannot depend upon him to follow. So, you’ll have to lead him at the same time you support me. Do you think you can manage to do both at once?”
She fought to hide her hesitancy. Not only was she daunted by the difficulty of the task described, she also was deathly afraid of horses, having been thrown by one as a girl.
“I shall do my best,” she said meekly.
“Good girl,” said he. “Now, try to get hold of his bridle and bring him to me. Then, after I’ve situated myself, I’ll hand you back the reins.”
“I’ll do my best,” she said again, “if you will be good enough to hold my book for me.”
He took the book from her and, as he looked it over, shock spread over his features—a reaction that puzzled her exceedingly. As far as she was aware, there was nothing scandalous about Jane Eyre, except perhaps for its feminist viewpoint. And, if he thought those of her gender inferior to his, she would happily give him up. Not that he’d ever been hers in the first place, of course, but that was neither here nor there.
Turning her attention to the formidable task at hand, she gingerly approached the large stallion and endeavored to catch the bridle. The spirited animal, however, wouldn’t let her come near its head. She made attempt after attempt while doing her best to avoid its snapping teeth and trampling hooves.
All the while, Lord Brontë remained on the wall, watching in silence. At length, he laughed, stinging her pride. “If you can’t bring me my horse, you’ll have to take me to him.” The conviviality of his tone salved her feelings some. “Come, and give me the loan of your shoulder.”
Relieved to be released from the chore of capturing the horse, Jane returned to him and, after taking back her book, stood as solidly as she could while he laid a heavy hand upon her shoulder. With him leaning on her with considerable pressure, she led him limping to the horse. On his first attempt, he caught the bridle and, with admirable aplomb, soon calmed the rambunctious stallion.
Impressed by his gentle handling of the animal, she felt the need to express her approval. “If your proficiency as a horseman was ever in doubt, you have more than redeemed yourself.”
