Elliott could not appreciate the analogy as well as Peter certainly hoped he would, but he smiled anyway. “Thank you, Peter.” Elliott stood from the desk and went to the credenza beneath the bank of west windows that overlooked the immense estate. He had inherited it thirty-six years ago when his father had died unexpectedly, but Elliott had spent less than three full years in this house—in this country—since then.
He pulled open the top drawer and removed a blue leather folder from a stack. He walked back to the desk, where Peter was watching with new wariness.
Elliott resumed his seat and slid the folder across the smooth surface of the desk.
Peter looked at the folder but made no effort to pick it up. He looked at his uncle. “What is this?”
“It is the details of your wedding gift.” Elliott nodded toward the folder. “I have created it especially for you.”
Realization slowly dawned, and Peter’s jaw tightened. His words were clipped when he spoke. “I am touched to have been included, Uncle, but I have no desire to marry again, as I believe you are aware. With an estate already under my care and your holdings that will one day pass to me, I do not need the security you have put forward for the others, nor do I need motivation toward living a respectable life.”
“You are exactly right,” Elliott said with a deep nod. “You do not need motivation or financial security, but, as I told you, each gift is tailored to the person. Aren’t you the least bit curious as to what I devised as a gift for your future?”
Peter put his hands in his lap. “I am not.”
Elliott sighed. “You are still a young man, Peter. You deserve a companion to see you through the remaining years of your life, and your daughters deserve a mother. I believe with my whole heart that Sybil would want that for you.”
“Forgive me, uncle, but you did not know Sybil and have no basis for such an assumption.”
Elliott inclined his head, acknowledging the truth of that observation. “And the fact that you do not have an heir?”
Peter stood abruptly. With his broad shoulders and athletic physique, he was quite the commanding presence when his ire was fueled, as it was now.
He grabbed for his jacket. “Timothy’s son will be my heir just as I was heir for you.”
“Timothy has no son.”
“But he will. Especially now that he will have additional reason for doing so.” Peter’s certitude was admirable. “So, while I thank you for this”—he waved toward the untouched folder, barely concealing his bitterness—“I do not share the circumstances of my siblings or my cousins. I married well, I am raising my daughters in the privilege they deserve, and I am living an upstanding life. I have no desire for anything else. Now, if you would excuse me.”
Elliott stood and hurried around the table to take hold of Peter’s arm before the boy could escape. “I did not mean to offend you, Peter. I am sorry.”
Peter’s dark eyes were cold. “Apology accepted. I truly must be on my way, uncle.”
Elliott dropped his nephew’s arm, and Peter left, the door closing behind him with a snap. This was not how Elliott had hoped the first campaign proposal would go. He’d imagined Peter defensive at first, of course, but eventually seeing Elliott’s motivations in their purest light and being gracious and touched, not offended. Perhaps Elliott did not have the people-management skills he so highly prized after all.
Elliott walked to the east window of his study and scrubbed a hand over his face. Peter was right about Elliott having never met Sybil. But he still believed Sybil would not want her husband and daughters to be alone. Elliott had hoped the wedding campaign would bring Peter out of mourning. It had been four years.
Then again, what could Elliott say against Peter’s decision to remain a widower? Elliott had never loved anyone the way Peter had loved Sybil—though there had been a woman he might have loved that way.
Amelia Edwards had filled him with light, and he had expected that they would marry. Then his father had died and everything had changed. Elliott had stepped into the title, the debts, and the role as head of the family, and the young woman he’d wanted to be his wife had instead become a part of his past and his sacrifice. The life that had followed had not brought love again.
Elliott’s ambition now was to see his nieces and nephews secure and his family name restored for the benefit of future generations. The satisfaction of those things would make up for what he’d wanted for himself but could not have. At least that was what he had hoped. It might take a bit of time before he recovered from the unexpected conclusion of his first presentation. With a bit more attention, and perhaps tact, he vowed the next would go better.
Peter
The wind chafing Peter’s cheeks helped keep old ghosts at bay as he galloped away from Howardhouse. He had no time for ghosts; life took place in the present and, at present, he was in need of a governess. That was his focus.
The sooner he filled the position, the sooner he could return to the routine of daily life. The only thought he spared toward Uncle Elliott’s plan was hope that it would lead the others to live respectable lives, as he had always tried to do. Having a responsibility to rise to had set Peter on a path that required his best. He hoped Uncle Elliott’s offer would become the same motivation for the other members of his family, but he feared it would not. There were certainly some of his cousins, and his own sister, who did not seem to have much ability to do anything different than what they had seen all their lives. But he could only manage himself.
And so, the governess situation . . .
After the birth of their first daughter, Sybil’s cousin Lydia McCormick had joined the household as a nursemaid. After Sybil’s death four years later, Lydia had agreed to stay on. Without her constancy, Peter did not know how he would have managed, to say nothing of his daughters, who needed attention he didn’t know how to give. Since Sybil’s death, he had focused on his estate and his pack, which was earning him both money and a reputation now that he had a few years’ worth of experience under his belt.
But now Lydia had gone and fallen in love with the parish vicar, leaving Peter without anyone to look after the girls.
It was difficult to be happy for Lydia when her transition complicated his life so drastically. When he’d said as much, she’d reminded him that the girls would see her at church. As if he needed her sass at a time like that. He’d been tempted to not take the girls to church in protest but then realized he might be overreacting. Might. He was glad Lydia had found happiness with her vicar; she was nearly forty years old and had given up years ago on making a match. But he could not imagine his household without her, and he felt quite anxious about the prospect. He had procrastinated finding Lydia’s replacement as though that would somehow change reality, and now he needed a new governess by Friday next—the day Lydia would become Mrs. Oswell and stepmother to the vicar’s three children.
By the time Peter reached the village of Norwich, the horse’s sides were heaving with exertion and Peter’s mouth was dry. In another life, he would stop at the pub to wash the dust down with a pint while he talked up the locals for the sheer entertainment of it, but that was not the life he lived any longer. He needed to be home in time to say good night to the girls and get to bed early—tomorrow was his physical training day with the hounds. His life had become smaller since Sybil died. His desire to socialize and build relationships had worn away to almost nothing. What ambition and engagement he had left went to his dogs . . . and his daughters, of course.
Peter stopped in front of the public stable and handed the reins and a coin to the lad who scampered out to meet him. “I shall return within the hour,” he said over his shoulder as he strode toward the employment office.
He ran a hand through his hair, gritty with road dust, and remembered he was in need of a trim. Luckily, the footman was handy with the shears. Haircuts and hiring governesses and attendin
g meetings were not the way Peter liked to occupy his time, and he felt anxious about the time spent away from home today.
Peter stomped his feet on the mat outside the employment office, wishing he could dispose more of the traveling dust, and then pushed through the wooden door, setting off a bell that jangled to announce him. Once inside, he attempted to brush dirt from his overcoat, hoping he did not look too rough. He had said in the advertisement that the governess position was within a gentleman’s household, but he looked the part of a ruffian right now.
“Ah, Mr. Mayfield,” the round man behind the desk said, coming to his feet. He was not much taller standing than he had been when he was sitting. “I’ve settled each candidate in a separate room, per your request.”
Peter pulled out his watch, worried he was late but, in fact, he was nearly ten minutes early. “They have all arrived already?”
“Yes, sir,” Mr. Hastings said proudly. “Punctuality is a virtue I prize above all things.”
“As do I,” Peter said as he shrugged out of his overcoat. The office smelled like gravy, which was strange.
Mr. Hastings waved down the hall. “I put one lady in each of the three rooms on the left. The last is a broom closet, I’m afraid, but I cleared it well enough to accommodate your purposes and ensure a private interview.”
Peter nodded and hung up his coat, then slapped the man on the back as he made his way down the hall. With a bit of luck, he would be finished in under an hour.
Mrs. Grimshaw, the candidate in the first room, had recently left a teaching position at a girls’ school. In her midforties, plump and gray-haired, she had been widowed, still childless, five years earlier. Her lined face and sad eyes reflected a life that had not turned out as she’d planned. She said she hoped for a new start, and since her sister lived in Westfield, she was particularly interested in positions in this part of the country.
Peter was sympathetic to her struggles yet worried she was applying for the position out of necessity and not because she would enjoy the work. He also wondered if she could keep up with Leah’s energetic nature while not losing patience with Marjorie who, at eight years old, questioned everything. Mrs. Grimshaw seemed so very tired.
Peter thanked Mrs. Grimshaw at the conclusion of his interview and said he would send word of his decision through Mr. Hastings in a few days. He then moved to the second room. Mrs. Grimshaw might be the right woman for the job; he’d know better when he finished interviewing the other two. That he had to choose from these three was a fact—he had no time for additional interviews and did not keep sufficient staff to attend to the girls’ needs without a governess.
Miss Lawrence had the firmness and energy Mrs. Grimshaw lacked. She was a small woman and had been a governess for the same family for eighteen years. She was nearly fifty years old, she told him proudly, and as well-educated as any man. She had a long face, flat brown hair, and a stern countenance. He worried she would not have the tenderness he saw in Mrs. Grimshaw, but her references were exemplary, and Lydia had encouraged him to find someone who would educate the girls, not simply take care of them, which had been Lydia’s focus. Peter concluded the interview and repeated that he would send word through Mr. Hastings. Between the two women, Peter thought Miss Lawrence the better choice. But there was one more applicant for him to consider.
The doorway to the third room was narrower than the others, attesting to its prior incarnation as a broom closet. Peter stopped short in the open doorway. He’d expected the third candidate to be similar to the other two, but instead, a young woman sat on a stool only a few feet in front of him.
Miss Hollingsworth hardly looked twenty years old, let alone the twenty-seven years she claimed in her letter of introduction. This girl had a slender build, blonde hair curled around her face, a graceful neck, and light-blue eyes. She stood from her chair and smiled.
Good heavens, she’s nearly as tall as I am. And far too young.
Peter put a polite smile on his face and stepped into the room. He’d closed the door for the other two interviews, but he left it open this time—propriety was suddenly important. The two chairs barely fit between the shelves on one side and the buckets and mops pushed to the other. Peter waved for her to return to her chair. When Peter sat, his knees brushed against hers, and he pulled them back immediately, tucking his feet under his chair.
“Miss Hollingsworth,” he said, extending his hand. “I am Peter Mayfield. Pleased to meet you.”
She took his hand—hers was warm and soft—and he shook it quickly before pulling away. Such soft hands could mean she was lazy and unused to hard work, though a governess’s duties generally did not cause the development of many calluses, he supposed. “So, um, tell me about the family you worked with in London.” The closet smelled of lye and dust and . . . lilies? She must be wearing a fragrance—neither of the other women had. One candle in a sconce on the wall and no windows created rather intimate lighting. Peter shifted in his chair, feeling cramped and uncomfortable in the small space. What if their knees touched again?
She cleared her throat. “I worked for the Cranston family in London. There were three children—two boys and a girl. Gerald, the youngest, shall go to Eton next fall and is spending the next six months with his aunt and uncle in Surrey. You read Mr. Cranston’s letter of recommendation I sent with the application?”
“Yes.” The letter had made a strong impression, but Peter had naively assumed that an unmarried woman of twenty-seven—a spinster by all rights—would not look like a fresh-faced girl who had never lived away from her parents’ home, let alone in London.
She met his gaze with cornflower-blue eyes, and the direct look startled him enough that he forced words from his mouth. “Your father raised dogs.” He didn’t mean for his words to be clipped, but maybe that was best. Neither of the other candidates had looked at him this way, had they?
“Springer spaniels.”
“And involved you in the care?” Peter would never expose his daughters to the care of his pack. It was a man’s work, and barely a gentleman’s. Never mind that he’d been intrigued by this girl’s letter in which she mentioned her experience with dogs. He wished she had all the attributes that made her stand out but looked like Miss Lawrence. He’d assumed all governesses were rather homely. Lydia was no great beauty, and the other two candidates were equally plain. It seemed . . . inappropriate to have an attractive governess.
“My father said I had a gift with dogs.” She blushed, and he felt warmth wash through him as surely as it did her cheeks. What was that reaction on his part about?
She was looking at him expectantly. What was it she’d just said? Oh, yes, that she had a gift with dogs, but then she’d been embarrassed at having said it and seemed to be looking at him as though he might save her, which, as a gentleman, was his job, really.
Speak, man! “I have found that people either have a natural accord with dogs or they don’t.”
It was not meant to sound like such a compliment, but Miss Hollingsworth’s smile turned from polite to sincere, and in an instant, he was back in time to his youth and flirting and . . . Sybil. Remembering his late wife was exactly what he needed to get him through the rest of this interview.
“And would you say you have an equal gift with children?”
“I hope my gift with children is more than it is with dogs, sir. I have seven nieces and nephews.”
“Seven?” he said, staring at the paper. “You don’t say.” Uncle Elliott had seven nieces and nephews. Peter remembered the folder he’d left in Uncle Elliott’s office and still felt no curiosity about what was inside. He had no need for his uncle’s gift. He had two healthy daughters, fourteen fine dogs from the best bloodlines in Europe—with two litters due next month—an estate large enough to be comfortable but small enough that he could manage it himself, and an inheritance that secured his future comfort.
M
iss Hollingsworth continued speaking, drawing Peter out of his distracted thoughts. “My oldest brother has two children—a boy and a girl—and my sister has five. I was formally educated through the age of seventeen and then stayed on at the parish school as an assistant teacher for two more years.”
“Very good,” Peter said helpfully while looking for faults in the woman. She was more nervous than the other two had been. And younger, he noted again, which translated into inexperience. Though he’d been impressed with her application letter, a more critical review revealed that the loops of her L’s were not perfectly symmetrical. That was nothing but laziness.
Peter hadn’t realized silence had fallen again until a few seconds passed. He hurried to fill the space. When was the last time he had been this close to an attractive woman? Not that he was attracted. Certainly not—he was just taken off guard since he had not been in the company of an attractive woman in a very long time. Not that she was attractive. Well, he’d already accepted that she was attractive, but not to him. That’s what he meant. Attractive generally, yes, but not to him. Not at all.
“What prompted you to apply for this position in particular?”
“Your situation.”
“My situation?”
“Well, your family’s situation—you and your daughters. Mrs. Cranston was in poor health when they hired me, and she died a year later. Mr. Cranston often said that I had helped them through the worst of it. When he remarried, I believe I eased that transition as well by assisting the children to find comfort with their new mother. I am very sorry for your loss, sir. Losing someone you love is a heartbreak without much comfort.”
He stared at her.
She continued. “My father passed when I was young, and while nothing can make up for something as important as a parent, being loved and supported and encouraged to move forward can at least help.”
Promises and Primroses Page 2
