“Mais oui, bien sûr, madame… um, Dame Dorothea? What am I to call them?” he said helplessly to Miss Winterton. “‘Lady’ does not translate comfortably.”
Miss Winterton smiled but said nothing, nodding her head towards Dorothea.
“En Angleterre, je suis Lady Dorothea, mais en français, je suis Mademoiselle Dorothea.”
“Eh bien. Pouvez-vous me montrer la petite maison, mesdemoiselles?”
So they showed him the house and all its inhabitants, a ducal family, the twins insisted, and their tiny beds and chairs and plates and the portraits on the walls, every word in French, and although the sentences were not always correct, Miss Winterton would merely repeat the words as they should be and the girls would nod sagely and carry on talking. It was a game to them, but they were becoming fluent in French as they played.
After an hour or so, the nursery maid came in to take them away to be bathed and fed and readied for bed. They disappeared still talking in French.
“So how did I do?” he said with a smile to Miss Winterton, as he began replacing the little dolls in the house. “My French is a little rusty, but I did not make too many mistakes, I believe.”
She shook her head solemnly. “I am disappointed in one who professes to have French blood in him. Your grasp of tenses is tenuous at best, my lord, your verbs are ramshackle and the less said about your use of male and female pronouns the better. But your vocabulary is adequate.”
He laughed out loud. “Adequate! I thank you for the compliment, madam. I must practise more, must I not? Where does this little lady go? Oh, she is wearing her tiara, so I will put her in the ballroom. There!”
“I think you did not come here to play with dolls, Lord Brackenwood,” Miss Winterton said.
“No, and if you had asked me if I wished to do so, I should have thought you mad, but that was the most astonishing fun. Although I am very sorry about the duchess’s leg. I hope her grace will forgive me. I did not realise she was quite so fragile.”
She laughed. “Mr Hamlyn will be able to glue her back together. At least it was not one of the dogs. There would have been a riot if any harm had come to the dogs. The people are of far less interest to the girls. Where are your dogs, by the way?”
“Confined to the library, sadly. They make Miss Wotherspoon sneeze.”
“Oh dear.” She bit her lip, and he could see her trying not to laugh.
“I know, I know. It did not seem possible that my mother’s second choice of guests could be any worse than the first, but I truly think she has outdone herself.”
“Oh but Miss Wotherspoon is the granddaughter of a duke, and the Miss Simkins are—”
“—second cousins once removed from Sir Rupert Hardy’s wife Susan, yes, I know. They tell us of the fact almost hourly. And then there is Lady Alice Fortescue, who is older than I am, and more interested in the house than in me. I keep finding her tapping the walls in the search for secret passages. Why my mother imagines I would marry one of these ladies is beyond my comprehension, but there it is. However, there is one great asset amongst our guests — Mrs Simkins likes to perform on the pianoforte, and she has put herself forward to play for the dancing in the evenings. Are you minded to dance, Miss Winterton?”
“I? Certainly not! A governess dancing — how irregular. Her ladyship would be horrified.”
“But I would not be. Will you not take pity on a poor earl who has not a single other soul in the house with whom to have a sensible conversation?”
She looked at him askance. “Surely Mrs Pargeter—”
“Not Mrs Pargeter,” he said firmly. “I will dance with her if I must, and also with Miss Wotherspoon and both the Miss Simkins and with Lady Alice, if she wishes it, but I should like to dance with you as well. Will you oblige me in this, Miss Winterton?”
She was silent, gazing at him uncertainly. He understood her concern, for her position in the household was a difficult one, neither family nor servant. He had no wish to expose her to gossip, but he had such an irresistible urge to dance with her.
He took one of her hands in his. “Miss Winterton, your life now is one of toil and worry and poverty such as you are not accustomed to. You were not born to sit in dim corners with your needlework, excluded from society. I should like to bring you out into the light for once, so that you may be Miss Winterton of Woodside again for a short time. I should like to see you dance and enjoy yourself and smile. Will you not allow me that pleasure, just this once? I promise you I have no other motive in view.”
And even as he spoke the words, he wondered if that were true. This was not the disinterested care of an employer looking after his governess. There was, for him, more to it. He wanted Annabelle to come out of her corner so that he could get to know her as an equal, not as a governess. And perhaps then… but he would not put the nebulous thought into words, not yet. For now, he merely wished to know her better.
“Well, if you wish it, then it shall be so,” she said, gently withdrawing her hand. “However, I shall accept no responsibility if Lady Brackenwood should be sent into spasms by the sight of me joining the dance.”
The prospect made him smile all afternoon. He may even have startled Portman by whistling while he bathed. He startled him even more by asking for his blue coat instead of the black, and wearing pale satin knee breeches for the first time since Eloise had died. It was more than six months, after all, and for a man there was no fast rule about the wearing of black or the length of time to do so. He had mourned his poor wife for long enough.
His mother smiled when she saw him, taking his new brighter attire as a sign that he was finally turning his thoughts in the proper direction to secure the succession. And perhaps he was, although not perhaps in a direction his mother would approve. He took care not to pay too much attention to Annabelle before dinner, but he noticed that she had finally left off her black gloves, and that was a good sign. He sat beside Lady Alice during the meal, and when the dancing began, she was his first partner, as her rank dictated. But then he looked across the saloon to Annabelle’s dark corner. She was watching him, a little smile on her lips, her sewing laid aside for once.
He made his way across the room, never taking his eyes off her.
“Miss Winterton, may I have the honour?”
“Thank you, my lord, I should be delighted.”
He was aware of conversations suspended as he led her towards the small area set aside for the dancing, but he looked neither to right nor to left, and therefore could only imagine the displeasure on his mother’s face. He was not perturbed by the thought. He was four and thirty years of age, of sound mind and tolerable intelligence, and could decide for himself with whom to dance in his own house. He wished to dance with Miss Winterton, and if she were willing, he could not see what it had to do with his mother. Even had he wished to marry Miss Winterton, he need consult only his own wishes in the matter.
Only Marisa dared to speak as they passed her by. “The governess dancing — how unusual!” she murmured, but with her customary wide smile to soften the reproof. Allan ignored her, too.
Annabelle danced well, of course. That did not surprise him in the least. She was excellent company, and again it was no surprise. That, after all, was why he had chosen her, as a friend, someone capable of conducting a rational conversation with some wit. No, what surprised him most was how the exercise heightened her colour and improved her looks. He had always thought her a handsome woman, but very pale, which, when combined with her habitual composure, gave her an air of coldness. Now, with her cheeks flushed and her eyes sparkling, a wide smile enhancing her mouth, she was entirely beautiful.
Watching her, he was entranced. He was enraptured. He was in love.
10: Impropriety
The dance ended all too soon, but Allan had no need to return Annabelle to her secluded corner, for Mr Cross eagerly claimed her hand, and several of the other young men, seeing that the earl had distinguished her and that she had no objection to dan
cing, were watching her with interest. Allan returned to his duties as host, and accompanied Miss Simkins onto the floor, then her sister and finally, between bouts of sneezing, Miss Wotherspoon. Duty done, he rewarded himself with a rest.
It was one of those May days that give promise of the summer to come, and the doors to the terrace stood open to the evening air. He stepped outside to cool himself after the exertions of the dance, and leaned against the balustrade, gazing out into the garden. Sweet scents drifted up from the flowerbed below him. There was still a hint of colour in the western sky, and the birds were hard at work in the trees, singing their tiny hearts out.
He felt like singing himself, for suddenly the future was full of hope. There had been a time when he had been young and optimistic, when the future had been some glorious unknown, yet to reveal itself, but, whatever it might be, he knew it would be wonderful. But the early death of his brother and his father, and his too-hasty marriage had taken that away from him. So many dull years wasted, but no longer. Now at last he was in control of his own future and his own happiness. He could not rush into it too quickly, of course. She needed to be given time—
“Allan, what are you doing hiding out here?”
Marisa. He sighed, but turned to her with a forced smile. “Just taking the air.”
“You will not mind if I join you.” It was not a question so he made no answer. “I too weary of the dance.”
“I am not weary of it, merely a trifle overheated, and the cooler air out here has refreshed me perfectly. Should you care to dance, Marisa?”
“Let us enjoy the solitude here for a few moments more,” she said. “There is no impropriety in that, is there?”
“Not the least in the world,” he said, although he was wary of being alone with her. He no longer trusted her to behave in a seemly manner.
“There, you see, do we not always agree? We are of one mind in all things, and it was always so, was it not? You and I were ever in perfect attunement.”
He thought it best to make no reply to this.
“It once seemed as though—” she began, but then bit her lip, and stopped, hanging her head. She sighed heavily. “But it was not to be, not then. But now, it is almost as if the fates are conspiring to throw us together again,” she said, with a tinkling laugh. “First Jacob went to his maker, and then Eloise… it is almost like destiny, both of us being free at the same time.”
Unbelievable as it was, he could not mistake her meaning, but such a line of thought had to be stopped at once, and without any possibility of misunderstanding. “I do not know what might be in your mind, Marisa, but if you are thinking that we are free to marry each other, then you would be quite wrong.”
He hoped — oh, how he hoped! — that she would be shocked by the very idea, would deny it instantly. If so, he could at least salvage some shred of respect for her. But she did not.
“Oh, you are smitten by the governess, is that it? There is no thought now for your poor Marisa.”
“This has nothing whatsoever to do with Miss Winterton or any other person. This is a family matter. You are the sister of my late wife, and the church forbids such a union.”
“Pooh, no one takes any notice of that! I know any number of cases, and there are plenty of clergymen willing to marry such couples.”
He turned to look her full in the face, horrified. “My dear Marisa, you cannot be serious!”
“It is done all the time, Allan. There is nothing really wrong about it. Such marriages go on happily for years, just like any other.”
“They go on happily until someone lodges an objection, at which point the marriage becomes void and all the children bastards,” he said sharply. “I am a peer of the realm, Marisa, with a title and estates entailed on my legitimate male heirs. I cannot in all conscience throw my entire line into confusion by allowing any possibility of doubt in the matter of inheritance. There are few duties imposed on me so clear as this one. If you had any idea of such a marriage, you must give it up entirely.”
“I thought you loved me,” she whispered, tears shimmering on her lashes. “I see now I was quite mistaken.”
And so saying she turned and ran along the terrace and down the steps into the garden. Allan watched her until she was swallowed by the darkness.
He should have pitied her, perhaps, but he could not. He paced up and down the terrace for a long time, trying to bring his anger under control, but failing. He wondered now if this was her whole objective in coming to Charlsby. For twelve years, she had not come near him, even though she could have visited her sister at any time. Eloise had invited her to come many times, but she had not, nor had she invited them to Devonshire. Yet now, as soon as Eloise was dead— No, that was wrong. Eloise had been dead for months. It was because Marisa’s own period of mourning had come to an end, that was why she had arrived at Charlsby now, and why she had made that strange remark about sleeping in Eloise’s bed. She had meant that in more than the literal sense.
Good God, what a dreadful woman! As if he could ever consider marrying anyone so selfish and insensible of honour!
From inside the saloon, the sound of the pianoforte wafted out, Mrs Simkins’ fingers being quite tireless in pursuit of her daughters’ enjoyment. Amongst the voices drifting through the open window, Lady Brackenwood’s was the most strident. Could Allan return to the room and smile and dance as if nothing had happened? He could not. But where could he escape to?
Two voices were closer to hand, standing just inside the open door.
“Do come outside! The cooler air is most refreshing, I assure you.” The wheedling tones of Mr Cross.
“I should not. Mama—” One of the Miss Simkins.
“Your mama will never know.”
“Just for a moment, then.”
Not wishing to be discovered, Allan ran down the steps to the garden and hid in the shrubbery that edged the terrace. He could still hear their voices, however, and not wishing to overhear, he made for the path that circled the house and began to walk. There was enough light still in the sky and emanating from the windows to guide his steps around the corner and out of sight.
And there he made an interesting discovery — the window to the library stood wide open, and there was a stone bench conveniently placed beneath it. He could regain the house without either walking through the saloon, disturbing the servants below stairs or, humiliatingly, knocking on his own front door.
He climbed up onto the bench, whereupon he discovered that it was not as easy as he had supposed to break into his own house. The window was high, for one thing, the whole ground floor raised by the need for the basement to have windows. Then the casement would not stay open and kept flapping into his face or, as he climbed, poking him painfully in the back. As if that were not enough, there was a rose tree set against the wall which was determined to get in the way. But eventually, scratched, bruised and torn, he gained entry to the library and half scrambled and half fell to the floor.
There he lay, laughing, for some minutes, and rather wishing his mother could see her son lying on the floor in such a state. The thought of her indignation only made him laugh the more. But eventually he pushed himself upright. He was in the corner beside the drinks cabinet, and this seemed like rather a good idea under the circumstances. He stretched up for the decanter and a glass, placing them beside him on the floor, poured himself a large measure, then settled back in his corner, leaning against the wall with his legs stretched out in front of him.
The decanter was full of rum. It was not his usual drink, but he could not summon the energy to move, so he drank it and found it rather good. He poured himself another glass. And perhaps there was another after that, he could not say for sure, for his eyes were unaccountably heavy. At some point, he woke to find Portman moving about the room, dousing the candles, humming as he worked. The door clicked and there was silence. There was still enough light from the fire to see the decanter, so Allan poured himself another drink.
; ~~~~~
Annabelle had to confess that she had enjoyed herself enormously. After the earl, she had danced with Mr Cross, then with Mr Knight, Mr James Knight and Mr Smythe, the latter puffing and wheezing so much that she was rather afraid that he might expire on the spot. To save him the embarrassment, she proclaimed herself exhausted by the dance and let him lead her to a seat. He would have deposited her in her usual corner, but Lady Brackenwood crooked a finger at her and so she had no option but to smile and take a seat beside her ladyship, leaving Mr Smythe to be snapped up by the card players.
“You are enjoying yourself, Miss Winterton?” Lady Brackenwood said in her strange hoarse voice. Unaccountably she was smiling.
“I am, thank you, although I am quite worn out from the unaccustomed exercise.”
“My son has such a kind and generous nature, to take pity on you in that way. He was always so, and such a sweet-natured child, although nothing to his brother. Ah, poor Duncan! We miss him still. But Allan does well enough in his way, although he lacks judgement. Why, at times I think he forgets that you are merely a governess, and treats you quite as one of the family, as he did tonight. I don’t suppose his generosity will be repeated, however, for naturally he can’t be seen to give consequence to those far below his own elevated position in society. Sometimes he forgets he’s an earl now, and can’t give way to every charitable impulse.”
“Lord Brackenwood has all my gratitude.”
“Now Mr Smythe is a different matter. No connections, no position in society but he has seven thousand a year free of all encumbrances, and is very much in want of a wife, one who is not too high but knows how to go on. I am sure you take my meaning, Miss Winterton.”
“I believe I do, my lady.”
“There now, you’re a good girl, I’m sure, despite all this French and horse riding you have the girls doing. Ladies are too delicate for such a physical activity as riding.”
“Lord Brackenwood gave his approval, my lady.”
The Governess Page 10
