A ball of emotion welled in Mercy’s chest and she felt it might explode then and there. She’d been perfectly aware that she was not a woman he would ever consider taking to wife. And yet his advances had unlocked the most improbable of yearnings within her.
Oblivious to the emotions rushing through Mercy, Sir William smiled at Nash, nodding weakly. “You were always the worst of the lot, lad.”
“No, I wasn’t. That was Arthur.” Lord Ashby’s expression turned boyish as he spoke, and Mercy realized he was speaking fondly of his late brother. He’d suffered so many losses in his family, and then the horrors of battle. Even though she’d recently lost her parents, Mercy could not imagine the kinds of sorrows Lord Ashby had endured.
Sir William chuckled at the earl’s quip. “Aye, but only if the criteria were for being a fussbudget. I was speaking of foolhardy, brash, impudent, overconfident—”
The earl laughed out loud. “Never say I was foolhardy!”
“Ha!”
They enjoyed the joke for a minute or two, then Lord Ashby spoke of the reason for their visit. “We’ve come for a dog, Sir Will.”
“What dog?” Lady Metcalf asked.
“A herding dog. You’ve got a few of those, haven’t you?” he asked facetiously.
“Of course we have. More than enough, truth be told. You can have your pick.”
“I thought Emmaline might like to choose,” Lord Ashby said as he stood.
“Well, let’s have our tea first,” said Lady Metcalf with a happy smile. “You stay here with Will, my dear Nash, while we ladies get things ready.”
Nash should have anticipated that the house would seem horribly empty without Jacob Metcalf. He’d been killed at Salamanca in ’12, and Nash had seen Sir William and Lady Edwina only once since then. They might have gone on living, but the sorrow hadn’t gone out of their eyes.
He wondered how Horace Carew could have neglected to mention William’s ill health. They’d spoken of Metcalf Farm—it would have been appropriate for him to speak of it then.
He almost wished he hadn’t come here, hadn’t seen their lingering pain. He sat down on a cushioned stool beside Will and looked closely at him. It was unlikely the man had much time left. He was hardly more than skin and bones, his hands and neck mottled with a purple discoloration. Nash was no physician, but he knew such a symptom could not be good, and it saddened him. He and his brothers had spent many a day and night at Metcalf Farm, running wild with Jacob, who’d become like a fourth brother to them. Jake had been Arthur’s age, but closer in temperament to Nash.
Nash knew Jacob’s parents had been sorely disappointed when he’d bought his commission and gone to war. They’d had only one child and heir, and he’d died without issue.
“You could do worse, you know,” said Will.
Nash raised a questioning brow.
“Miss Franklin. She’s a lovely thing. Don’t think I cannot see those pretty dimples on either side of her mouth. Or that deep blush that crosses her cheeks. Only the most passionate of women can pink up that way.”
Nash’s discomfort grew. Passion was the last thing he ought to be pursuing now, though looking at Mercy made him forget his intentions of marrying a fortune and restoring the Ashby estate. Almost.
She was a serious threat to his plans. He supposed he could dismiss her from her post and send her back to Underdale. But that would be grossly unfair. Mercy had done nothing wrong but to succumb to his formidable desire for her.
When she met the district’s eligible young men at the subscription ball and started collecting suitors, Nash would be able to put her from his mind and focus on wooing Helene and her handsome dowry. As quickly as possible, he would sire an heir or two and focus his full attention on the estate. “Sir William—”
“And you wouldn’t be the first lord to make off with the governess.”
Unfortunately, the very same thought had occurred to him last night while he lay awake in an agony of lust. “Aye. But I have need of a wife with a substantial dowry. Not to put too fine a point on it, Sir Will, but Ashby is in ruins. Arthur’s investments were calamitous, so there are no funds for improvements. A large number of our herd has died off, and I can’t say that we’ll have more than a handful of lambs this spring. If I’m to make anything of the place, I’m going to need money.”
“You’re right, I suppose, lad. The wealthiest man in the district is Horace Carew. And he has a daughter.”
“I know. I had supper at Strathmore Pond last night. With Carew and his daughter.”
A twinkle lit the old man’s eyes. “She’ll do, eh, my boy? She’s a comely lass.”
Yes, she was. But Nash knew she would never be able to set his blood on fire as Mercy Franklin did. He steeled himself against falling prey to thoughts of what could never be. “Her father is in favor of a match between us. He gave me his blessing to court her.”
Sir William chuckled.
“What is it?”
“Hoyt once mentioned that Carew suggested he marry the daughter. But your brother couldn’t even consider remarrying after he lost Joanna. He politely declined the offer.”
Nash rubbed his forehead. “He did?”
“Aye. Seems the man is determined to make his daughter a countess.”
“Well, she could do worse, eh?” But it bothered Nash that the Carews didn’t seem to care which brother Helene wed. It was the title they wanted, and the face of the man who owned it did not seem to matter.
Sir William allowed his gaze to drift to the scene outside the window. The sky was beginning to clear, and the hills rose up in all their early spring glory. Metcalf Farm had always been a jewel in the district.
And Nash was fairly certain Sir William would soon be leaving it. He rubbed the dull ache that rose up in his chest and wished he had not come here today. He needed a dog. And some advice.
But not another loss.
“If I wed Miss Carew . . . it won’t be . . .” He nearly choked on the words. “It won’t be anything like my parents’ marriage.”
It had been years since Nash had thought of the glow that enveloped his mother and father when they were together. Hoyt and Joanna had shared it, too. They’d had something that went far beyond mere satisfaction or contentment with their spouses.
Even if Nash wanted a similar bond with the wife he settled on, he could not afford it. Neither his finances nor his heart could take it.
“No. Few marriages are like theirs,” Sir William agreed. “Only the lucky ones.”
The inevitable weighed heavily on Nash’s heart. He stood and walked to the window. “Miss Carew cannot abide my scars. Or my clouded eye.”
“She’ll accustom herself, will she not? Becoming a countess will likely trump such a minor drawback.”
Nash doubted it. But finding himself loath to expend any more energy on thoughts of Miss Carew when the memory of Mercy Franklin’s kiss was fresh in his mind, he changed the subject. “I need someone to manage the estate, Sir Will.” Lowell might be good with numbers in ledgers, but he didn’t know anything about sheep farming.
William pursed his lips. “Are you asking for my advice?”
“Aye.”
“Is old Grainger still up at Ashby?”
Nash cast Will a questioning glance. “Hoyt’s old butler? Aye, he is. Why?”
“He has a brother, George. A widower. One of the best sheep men at Windermere, though I’ve heard he’s moved into his son’s house. He’d likely come up to Ashby if only to get away from his daughter-in-law and be closer to his brother.”
“I can’t pay—”
“That’s what I’m saying, lad. George and Giles were always close. Giles has no other family. George knows everything about running a farm like Ashby. He will likely steer you back onto your two feet for the mere pleasure of escaping his son’s house to live on the same farm as his brother. He did very well for himself down Windermere way.”
“Where is he now?”
“His son’s
house is down near Ambleside. Ask Giles Grainger. He’ll have George’s direction.”
“I’ll do that.”
“George knows every sheep man in and about Keswick. He might know of a few who will come work for you for naught but their keep until Ashby’s put back to rights.”
Nash nodded, thinking of the valuable resource he’d had under his roof and not even known it. And then he wondered how Lowell would take to having his position usurped by a country sheep herder.
Maybe the reason for his brothers’ demise had had something to do with the management of the herd. But Nash could not think what it could possibly have been. A healthy, plentiful herd meant a substantial income, and a steward would only profit from such a situation.
He was grasping at straws.
Nash decided to deal with Lowell later, after he learned whether George Grainger would actually come to Ashby. “I’ll need shearers come summer, Sir William. Will you lend me yours when it’s time?”
“Aye. Of course. Or . . .” He looked away. “Edwina will see to it. I’ll speak to her.”
Nash did not want to acknowledge what Will was saying—that he might not be there to make sure the Metcalf shearers were sent to Ashby Hall.
The kitchen was a warm and bustling place that reminded Mercy of Lady Metcalf herself—cozy and comfortable, though she was clearly in charge. The cook gave them a sociable smile, then reached into a hot oven to pull out a pan of hot, savory cake, which she turned out onto a wooden block.
“ ’Tis my husband’s favorite treat—Cook’s gingerbread.” The lady’s features sobered slightly. “ ’Tis about all we can get him to eat these days, is it not, Cook?”
“Aye, m’lady, he likes my gingerbread, all right,” said the woman. “Soothes the stomach, it does.” She pinched off a small piece from the corner of the loaf and gave it to Emmaline, whose eyes brightened at the treat. It was quite clear the child had not received any such coddling—at least, not in a very long time.
“Has your uncle told you of his antics here at Metcalf Farm, Emmaline?” Lady Metcalf petted Emmaline’s head.
Emmaline shook her head, and some of the bashfulness left her demeanor as she chewed the ginger cake.
It was a novelty for Mercy, too, who was unused to so such casual conversation and pleasant female company. The Franklin household was usually quiet, bordering on austere. Her father had required silence in the house in order to concentrate on his studies and his sermons. But even when the family came together at mealtimes, there was little discourse, other than the lessons Reverend Franklin chose to impart.
“Ah, your uncle was a wild one. The youngest of the bunch. I believe the worst was the time he set a wager to see which of the lads could climb the highest in that tree there.” She pointed out the window at a tall, thick oak that was only just budding. Emmaline’s shoulders seemed to loosen as she listened to the older woman talk.
Lady Metcalf’s eyes crinkled with amusement at the memory. “Nash was the first one up, of course. He was always the first to climb to the top of something—the barn roof, the highest fell.” Or a rooftop, Mercy reflected. “On that particular morning, Arthur managed to climb higher than anyone—even Nash.”
“What happened?” Emmy asked, forgetting to be bashful.
“Even a well-practiced climber like Nash knew when to stop, but Arthur was out to prove something that day. Which he did.” Lady Metcalf chuckled while the cook shook her head and clucked her tongue.
“He proved what a pigeon egg he could be.”
Emmaline let out a tiny giggle that brought a smile to Mercy’s lips.
“Arthur went into a panic when he realized how high he’d gone. Nash and my Jacob knew when to stop, and they were far below him.”
Emmaline’s eyes grew wide as she waited for Lady Metcalf’s next words, and even Mercy found herself hungry to hear more of Nash’s boyhood antics. She could easily imagine him as a carefree lad, his face clear and unscarred, his sculpted lips smiling widely.
“Your father—the sensible one—came into the house to get help. But your uncle . . .” She shook her head. “Always too impatient for his own good. Leaving good sense behind, he scrambled up and perched himself right next to Arthur to reassure him and talk him into climbing down.”
“Did Uncle Arthur climb down?” Emmaline asked, so engrossed in the tale she lost her shyness for the moment.
Lady Metcalf gave a nod. “Oh, aye. With Nash talking to him quite calmly, giving instructions and even encouragement, Arthur managed to get his two feet back on the ground.” She put one hand against her heart and looked up at Mercy. “We’d all come out of the house in a panic by then, certain that one of them would fall. But that Nash—he was as surefooted as one of those African monkeys.”
“How old were they?” Mercy asked.
“Hmm. Nash was about ten, and Arthur twelve.” Lady Metcalf looked at Emmaline. “Your papa was only thirteen, but he had more good sense than the other three altogether.”
Emmaline’s smile broadened, and Mercy’s heart clenched tightly in her chest. She knew what it was to be alone, but at least she was an adult, not a vulnerable little child like Emmaline, who seemed to have been an afterthought in the years since her father’s death. That had been two years ago. A very long time in Emmaline’s life. It was far too long since she’d had anyone who cared anything about her.
“Did Papa scold Uncle Arthur?”
Lady Metcalf laughed. “He did a great deal of scolding that day. Even his papa—your grandfather—hardly needed to say a word more. Arthur never climbed again. At least not that I ever heard.”
And yet Nash still liked heights, Mercy thought, if his presence on the roof last night was any indication.
“Your poor uncle, lass,” Lady Metcalf said, turning to speak directly to Emmy. “You must be very kind to him now that he’s home. I cannot imagine the suffering he must have endured with those injuries.”
Nor could Mercy. But Lady Metcalf seemed to be addressing something other than the earl’s scars. A tiny crease appeared in Emmy’s brow, and she gave the lady a questioning glance.
“Oh, aye. To be burned so. ’Tis a hard thing for a robust man so used to good health to be brought so low. Like my William. You must always try to understand how difficult it is for your uncle, lass. He’s had some very difficult times, too.”
Emmy sat quietly as she took in Lady Metcalf’s words, but she gave a slight nod.
“I’m sorry Sir William is ailing,” Mercy said to Lady Metcalf. Her father had had the same look about him in the days before his death. A quick but devastating stroke had taken him, weakening one side of his body and rendering him incapable of speech. Sir William seemed to have suffered much the same ailment, though not as rapidly devastating.
“I’m sorry Nash had to see him ailing so. He’s been through quite enough—losing both his brothers . . .”
Mercy felt the same. Much as he tried to hide his reaction, she’d seen how shaken the earl had been by Sir William’s obvious infirmity. He was far more tenderhearted than he wanted anyone to know.
Lady Metcalf gave Mercy a sorrowful smile. “It’s been nigh on a year since the stroke. William has done fairly well, but ’tis not right for a robust man like Will to be so incapacitated.” She sighed sadly, then brightened. “We’ll just take his ginger cake and tea into the parlor, and see how he does, won’t we, Emmaline?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Emmaline replied quietly, though her manner was not quite as tightly closed as it had been only a few days ago. Her intelligent eyes observed everything going on in the tidy kitchen, from the cook with her steaming pots, to the two maids who came to arrange the tea things on two trays.
A proper form of decorum was being followed here that was not present at Ashby Hall. Every servant showed deference to Lady Metcalf, who was quite obviously in charge, but not overbearing. She was a smiling force to be reckoned with, and Mercy could not have provided a better lesson in home management or the ex
pectations of a noble lady for Emmaline. She hoped they would have the opportunity to visit again soon.
“It looks as though all is ready,” Lady Metcalf said. “Emmaline, go along with Mrs. Jones and Ruthie and tell Sir William that we’ll be there presently.”
A look of utter panic crossed Emmaline’s face, but Lady Metcalf patted her shoulder and said, “You can do it, lass, and I need your help with this.”
Surprisingly, Emmaline took a deep breath and went after the maids.
“Now, Miss Franklin,” Lady Metcalf said, turning to Mercy once Emmaline and the maids had gone, “you must tell me what’s been going on at Ashby Hall.”
“I’m going to look into Hoyt’s death,” said Nash.
“In what way?” Sir William asked.
Nash rested his elbows on his knees and leaned forward, keeping his voice down. “I’ve gotten at least a partial list of the men who attended the deer stalking. And I’m going to ask every one of those men some questions.”
“You think the shooting was suspicious?”
Nash hesitated. “I don’t know what to think. Except that if someone wanted Hoyt dead, a shooting accident would be the perfect ruse.”
“Have you talked to the magistrate?”
Nash nodded. “Mr. Wardlow had little to say, and his report was not what I’d call thorough. I had to force him to create a list of witnesses.”
“He’s never had to deal with an incident like the one that killed Hoyt. I doubt there’ve been any other accidental shootings within a hundred miles.”
“Which is what makes me all the more suspicious. Can you think of anyone who might have had a reason to want my brother dead?”
“Hoyt? Of course not. He was a popular, sensible fellow. And we know Arthur was the only one who would have profited by his death.”
“But Arthur would never have harmed Hoyt. Besides, he was fifty miles away on the day of the shooting.”
“And now Arthur is dead, too,” Will remarked. “I didn’t really think of Hoyt’s death as anything but a terrible accident until Arthur’s carriage went over the side of the high road.”
Seducing the Governess Page 19
