“Peter!” exclaimed Jane.
“How odd,” remarked Saybrook dryly. “I was under the impression that I had something to do with running Highwood. What a relief to know it is in good hands.”
“My lord,” faltered Jane. “I don’t know where he picks up such things... He must have misunderstood something he overheard... It is nonsense...” She stopped, utterly at a loss for words. Her face was flaming and her eyes went to Saybrook in mute appeal.
“Please, this is a silly conversation—let us forget it,” she managed to say.
“Ah, the look!” replied Saybrook, trying to suppress his mirth. “I see I dare not disobey such a command.”
“My lord, you are making fun of me.”
The Marquess gave a shout of laughter as he spurred Hero into a canter. “Peter,” he called. “There is the Abbey up ahead. Shall we race there?”
The two horses kicked up a cloud of dust, leaving Jane to settled her own swirling emotions as she made her own way towards the crumbling stone ruins.
* * * *
Saybrook tethered their horses on a grassy knoll and took up both baskets.”I should like to show Peter the Abbey before luncheon, if you don’t mind, sir,” said Jane. “It is his history lesson for the day.”
“Of course.”
They had entered an open courtyard, and though the walls were now no taller than an average man’s chest they formed a shelter from the breeze. The sun had warmed the grass and grey stone, making it feel quite pleasant. Saybrook placed both the large hamper and his smaller basket down and unfolded out a large blanket that had been tucked on top of Cook’s repast.
‘This seems a perfect spot.” He turned a questioning look to Jane and she nodded her approval.
“Now, Peter, let us start with the main building. There is a fascinating story about it...” She took the boy’s hand and led him away. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Saybrook take something from his basket and walk in an opposite direction. She thought she heard the sound of running water coming from somewhere over there, but as Peter was tugging at her hand, she quickly returned her attention to showing him around.
To her surprise, Saybrook joined them shortly thereafter. She hadn’t expected him to show any interest in a tour of the ruins, but he fell in step with them, his hands clasped behind his back, his head slightly cocked as if attentive to her every word. In fact, she was acutely aware of his gaze, even with her back turned, as she explained to Peter the design of the buttresses in the transept of the ancient church.
As they strolled to examine some of the outbuildings, Jane began to relate the part the abbey had played in the battle between Henry III and Simon de Montfort.
“Henry’s son, Edward, had moved his men here to camp right alongside the abbey,” began Jane.
“Edward was called Longshanks, you know, because he was so tall,” interrupted Saybrook. “He was a superb horseman—in fact, that is how he escaped from de Montfort in the first place. Do you know that story?”
Peter shook his head, and Saybrook gave a brief but very lucid explanation of the conflict between the King of England and his brother-in-law, Simon de Montfort. The boy listened in rapt attention.
“Sorry,” apologized Saybrook as he finished and looked over at Jane. “I broke in on you.” The surprise was still so evident on her face that he added, “I did manage to learn a few things while at Oxford. History was a favorite of mine.”
“Please,” she smiled. “Do go on.”
As she listened to him regale Peter with the exploits of long-ago heroes she couldn’t help but think how he constantly surprised her. In moments such as these it was hard to believe there was a cold and unbearably proud side to him, the face that he wished the world to see. It seemed to her that when the mask slipped—which was occurring with increasing frequency over the past few weeks—it revealed a sensitive, caring person. Even now, as he spoke to his ward, his features were alive with good spirits and his eyes held the warmth of summer rain. With his hair tousled by the wind and curling softly around his ears and neck he looked rather boyish and vulnerable—and even more handsome than ever.
Saybrook looked up to find her staring at him.
“Have I said something you disagree with? You must not hesitate to correct my facts. It has been a long time since I have been in a schoolroom.”
Jane quickly lowered her eyes. “Not at all, my lord. I, too, have been entranced by your story. I feel I have been given a holiday from my duties. You best beware, else I ask you to consider adding tutoring history to your other responsibilities at Highwood.” She kept her tone light and bantering, hoping that he would never guess her true thoughts.
They had walked on beyond the ruins of the buttery and sheds to where a stream flowed through a small copse of oaks.
“Oh, look,” cried Peter and dashed to the edge of the water where he began launching small sticks into the current.
“Mind your feet,” called Jane. “I don’t want you to catch a chill.” She turned to Saybrook. “What is it about water and mud that attracts little boys like a flame does moths?” She laughed. “It will be a wonder if there is a clean spot of linen on his shirt when he is finished.”
Saybrook chuckled. “I seem to remember doing exactly the same thing at his age.”
“I can’t imagine.”
A look of genuine surprise came over his face. “Why is that?”
“Well, it is hard to imagine you unbending and having fun, my lord,” she answered just to tease him.
“You think I’m stuffy?”
“Mmmm. High in the instep might be another way of putting it.”
“Hmmph,” snorted the Marquess. “You are being impertinent, Miss Langley.”
“And you are being—how did you put it?—stuffy, my lord. If you intend to tease, as you did earlier, you must expect to get it back.”
He laughed heartily. “Touché, Miss Langley. Why is it that you, of anyone I know, is so capable of pointing out to me my faults.”
“It was not meant as such,” she said quietly. “It was meant as fun, sir. You aren’t nearly so bad as you want people to think.”
“A rare compliment indeed!” He was still smiling but had an odd look in his eyes. “On that note, what say you that we declare a truce for the rest of the glorious afternoon?”
“Very well.” She turned to face him and was surprised to see that he was taking off his coat.
“Would you mind?” he grinned, handing her the garment. Before she could say a word he walked to the edge of the stream, bent down with Peter and began fashioning a boat of his own out of the broken branches laying around the bank.
“I shall lay out the luncheon,” she called, and received a distracted wave of acknowledgement from Saybrook, though neither of them looked up from what they were doing.
Cook had been generous indeed. A roast chicken had been carefully wrapped, along with crusty rolls, pickles, thick wedges of stilton and fragrant apple pastries. A jug of fresh apple cider, still cool from the cellar, accompanied the food. Jane arranged everything on a low stone ledge then sat down of the blanket, enjoying the warmth of the sun. She lay back and closed her eyes, listening to the shouts and groans coming from down by the stream. It made her smile, and feel a warmth inside her even greater than the sunshine. What a lovely day, she mused, slipping into a dreamy state somewhere between sleep and wakefulness. In it she began to picture…
Peter’s shouts brought her back to reality some time later. She sat up quickly to see the boy running towards her, liberally spattered with mud and shirttails hanging willy-nilly from his pantaloons.
“We had a splendid race and my boat beat Uncle Edward’s,” he cried happily. “I’m starved! Did Cook pack enough to eat?”
“Look at you!” smiled Jane. “Congratulations, Admiral, but at least wipe your face and hands before you sit down to dine.” She handed him a large linen napkin. “And sit here next to me in the sun, so you warm up.”
�
�Have you another napkin?”
Jane looked up and began to laugh. Saybrook looked nearly as bad as the boy. A wide smear of mud stretched over the left thigh of his breeches and his boots were hopelessly water-stained.
“Dratted fallen tree,” he winked. “Took me precious seconds to free my vessel, else it surely would have won, hands down.”
“Uncle Edward was balancing on a fallen tree trunk when it snapped, and he nearly fell on his...”
“Funny, is it brat?” He threw a playful cuff at the boy while seating himself on the blanket.
“Your bootmaker will no doubt be as pleased as Peter,” remarked Jane as she handed him a napkin as well.
“Yes, they are ruined, no doubt,” he replied, surveying the once-shining leather stretched out before him. “I shall have to send to Hoby for another pair—my valet would give notice if I attempted to appear in these anymore... Ah, the sun feels nice, doesn’t it.” He closed his eyes and threw back his head for a moment. “Your pardon,” he added, “for appearing for a meal in such a state.”
Jane smiled. “I think for today the rules of Society may be relaxed.”
“Good!” From behind his back Saybrook pulled a slender green bottle. “I put this in the stream earlier to chill and it’s ready now.”
“What is it?” asked Jane
“A bottle of Mosel wine—light, fruity, perfect for the occasion.”
“I couldn’t...”
“Yes, yes, I know. It wouldn’t be proper,” he mimicked her tone. “But the rules are suspended for today, remember?”
Without waiting for another word he uncorked the wine and poured two glasses. “To a lovely day. I thank you for inviting me.”
“A lovely day,” she repeated.
He was right. It was delicious. Soft, slightly sweet and very heady.
Peter had been eyeing the food longingly. “Miss Jane, may we begin? I’m famished!”
“Oh, Peter, forgive us. Of course!” She put her glass down and fixed the boy a plate.
She passed one to Saybrook as well, then helped herself to Cook’s repast. Soon the three of them were lost in a spirited conversation, so much so that Jane didn’t notice Saybrook refilling her glass. What she did notice was the unconscious smile that crept onto the Marquess’s face as he watched Peter chatter happily throughout the meal. Whatever it was that normally hardened his features—and she had come to decide it was no mere haughtiness but a private pain she could not begin to fathom—it was gone in moments like this. She found herself wishing she could keep it at bay indefinitely, for his sake.
“Oh, look!” cried Peter, his eyes following a colorful monarch butterfly. He put aside his nearly empty plate and dashed after it.
“You have worked miracles,” said Saybrook softly, his eyes still following the boy. “He has learned to be happy—you are an excellent teacher.”
“Happiness is not something you can teach, my lord. It is a gift. And it is you who have given it to him.”
He looked startled. “I?”
“Oh, yes.” She knew it would be prudent to stop there, but the wine had made her even bolder than normal. “You have given him love. Of course it has been a gift to yourself as well.”
“Indeed?”
“Once in awhile, you actually allow yourself to be happy, too.”
His face changed. The faint lines on either side of his mouth hardened. “What makes you think I am unhappy?”
She considered his words. “At first, I believed you were as cold and unfeeling as you wish everyone to think,” she answered frankly. “But now I know you are not. I see you with Peter.” The wine must truly have loosened her tongue for she went on. “I wonder why it is that you won’t allow yourself to be...”
“You are being impertinent again, Miss Langley.” He cut her off, not unkindly, but firmly.
She was silent for a few moments, but something inside spurred her to continue. “I have been watching you with Peter. You truly like children. Don’t you think of setting up your own nursery? you would be a good father.”
Saybrook stared at her in surprise.
“Oh dear, forgive me, sir.” This time she felt she had gone too far. “I should never have said such a thing, I know. I don’t know why I cannot curb my tongue.”
Saybrook’s look turned to one of amusement. “It is of no matter. I find I am getting quite used to it. But I assure you, I have no intention of marrying, ever.”
Her curiosity was piqued. “Why is that? Don’t you at least have a duty...”
“Duty be hanged. I cannot imagine myself leg-shackled to any lady of my acquaintance. Mamas are constantly thrusting their chits under my nose—there are those who simper and say what they imagine you want to hear, there are those whose faces light up like a banker’s on hearing your rank and fortune—any of them will do whatever it takes to achieve their goal, whether it is lie, deceive... You have no idea what the ladies of my class are like. Marriage! I think not. I prefer female company that is…less demanding.” He took a deep breath. “You, on the other hand, are different and to be admired, Miss Langley. You, at least, are deucedly honest. You are not capable of deceit.”
Jane suddenly felt hollow inside. She hoped that her voice didn’t betray the guilt she felt as she answered him.
“It seems a very cynical outlook, sir,” she managed to stammer.
“Do I shock you? If you had experience in Society, you might understand of what I speak. It is not a pleasant thing to be looked at like...” He stopped, as if searching for words.
“Like a stallion at Tattersall’s?” she suggested.
He gave a chuckle. “Well put.”
Jane thought of her own experiences in Town. “I think I do understand what you are saying sir. You are a romantic at heart. You wish to be loved for yourself, not for your money or your title.”
His face became stony. “No, Miss Langley, you have the wrong of it. I am no romantic,” he said bitterly. “I do not wish to be loved, or to love. I wish to be left alone.”
She wondered what had caused such bitterness, before she could say anything else, Peter came running back, breathless.
“It was too quick,” he announced, flopping down next to Jane. She put her arm around his small shoulders and he snuggled closer, resting his head on her lap. Her fingers moved to brush the dark hair out of his eyes, the same sea green eyes as—a sudden realization swept over her. The same eyes. The same straight nose and chiseled cheekbones. The hands, so different in size yet similar in shape and grace of movement. She had seen a painting of the marquess’s sister and her husband in the conservatory but it had never really registered until then. They were both blond, with hazel eyes, and the Baron was rather short and stocky. Could it be that…
Out of the blue, Peter spoke up. With childlike directness he asked, “Why do you always wear your hair in such a tight bun?”
“Because it is proper for a governess.”
“But why?” he persisted. “Lady Carew and her daughter don’t. And neither does the vicar’s wife. Cook say it is very severe.”
“Peter! Haven’t I told you that a gentleman never takes note of gossip, and he certainly doesn’t repeat it.”
Out of the corner of her eye she saw that Saybrook was grinning again.
“Severe,” he repeated. “I quite agree with Cook.”
“Please sir, don’t encourage him,” she appealed.
“Can I see it down?” continued Peter.
She froze. “Certainly n...”
Saybrook smiled at her and motioned for her to take the pins out.
“Please,” cajoled the boy.
Perhaps it was still the effect of the wine, but all of a sudden she relented. “Very well.”
She began to remove the hairpins and her thick tresses cascaded down over her shoulders. The sunlight cut through the dullness of the walnut wash and picked out the golden highlights of her curls. Absently, her hand moved up to brush away a lock from her face.
&n
bsp; “Ooooh, Miss Jane,” said Peter. “Why, you are beautiful! Isn’t she, Uncle Edward?”
“Indeed.” The grin had been replaced by some more inscrutable expression.
“You see, Peter. A gentleman must always be polite,” she said to mask her embarrassment. To her dismay, she could feel the color mounting in her face, just like some schoolroom miss receiving her first compliment. She quickly began fumbling for the pins and twisting her hair back into a thick rope.
“Leave it down,” murmured Saybrook.
Her hands paused.
“Just this afternoon. The rules, remember, are suspended.” There was a strange, poignant appeal in his look, something that made her release the mass of curls.
“Just for this afternoon.”
He smiled again and she tried to ignore the fluttering she felt inside.
“When can I see what’s in your basket?” Peter had suddenly spied the mysterious bundle sitting on the ledge.
“Go ahead and look, brat.”
“A kite! It’s a kite! Will you show me how to fly it?”
Saybrook scrambled to his feet. “We must go out into the field where there are no trees.” He turned to Jane, but she waved them both on their way.
“The two of you go along. I shall pack up everything here.” What she really needed was a little time alone to sort through her tangled emotions.
* * * *
The sun was beginning to set as they rode back towards Highwood. Peter wore an expression of complete bliss, but Jane could tell by the way that his chatter had died down and by the tilt of his shoulders that he was struggling to stay awake. Even she had to admit she was not unhappy to see the white limestone facade of the great house through the trees. She and Saybrook had spoken little on the way back, but it was a companionable silence, comfortable and easy as they exchanged smiles over some of Peter’s more exuberant observations.
Though the grooms were waiting for them, it was Saybrook who reached up to help her from the saddle, his strong, lithe fingers around her waist, lifting her effortlessly. As Peter slid off his pony, it seemed as if he would keep going, right to the ground until Saybrook’s arm shot out and caught him about the waist. Hoisting the boy to his shoulder, he remarked how it was time for imps to be in bed.
The Defiant Governess Page 11
