by M C Beaton
She carefully dried her eyes and went up to Amanda and Clarissa’s bedchamber. They were both sitting upright in the large bed that they shared, looking expectantly toward the door.
Jean held out the letter. “How did you get this written?” she demanded harshly.
Their little black eyes opened to their fullest in innocent surprise. “Us!” Clarissa exclaimed. And then realizing her error said quickly, “What letter?”
“I am sure you know very well what I am speaking about,” Jean said, suddenly weary. “But you have achieved your aim. I do have some standards. I am not going to stay under the same roof as that woman. Lord Hunterdon may find you another governess.”
Amanda’s mind worked quickly. If Miss Morrison went, there would be no more stories from this Scheherazade. But she could not think of anything to say.
“In any case, I am sure you are both very happy to have achieved your aim,” Jean said.
She went to her own room and slowly began to pack her trunks. She glanced at herself in the mirror. She was wearing one of her new gowns, thin India muslin ornamented with little green silk leaves. How she had hoped he would notice how well she looked in it only earlier that evening! Should she leave him a letter to say he could keep the new gowns? But she had worked for them, and deserved them because Amanda and Clarissa had damaged some of her old ones. It was highly unlikely she would ever have such pretty clothes again. She worked for a long time, trying not to think of the viscount lying in the arms of “that woman.”
When she had finally finished packing, she sat down and wrote the viscount a short letter saying that he would appreciate the fact that she could no longer, under the circumstances, remain in his employ.
In the morning she handed the letter to Dredwort as one of the footmen loaded her trunks into the castle gig. The normally uncommunicative Dredwort begged her to stay, but Jean was adamant.
Dredwort gloomily watched her go.
The viscount had not spent the night in the arms of his mistress, much to her surprise. But he had passed a pleasant evening with his friends, talking gossip and drinking deep.
He awoke the next day and looked in bleary surprise at the clock. Ten in the morning! He was not accustomed to sleeping so late. His head felt heavy and his stomach queasy. He realized ruefully that he had become used to feeling healthy in the mornings. There was still so much to be done and yet he must entertain his friends, and what was to be done with Nancy? His face hardened. Jean Morrison would just have to get used to her presence.
His guests were not awake when he went downstairs. He assumed they would keep London hours and rise about two in the afternoon. He climbed up to the schoolroom to give himself the pleasure of putting his governess firmly in her place, but found it empty.
Feeling strangely flat, he went downstairs and rode out to check the improvements to his estates. He became so absorbed in the repairs to buildings and the crops in fields that he quite forgot about the situation waiting for him at home. When he returned, he found his friends and Nancy eating hearty breakfasts.
“Have you seen Miss Morrison?”
“Your Scotch governess? Neither she nor the little girls have been about,” Lord Charnworth said, spearing a kidney. “What have you got planned for us today, hey?”
“In a minute.” The viscount strode out and went to the stairs to go up to the schoolroom. Dredwort waylaid him and handed him a letter. “Later,” the viscount said.
“It is from Miss Morrison.” Dredwort spoke in hushed tones, as if announcing the death of a relative.
The viscount broke the seal and read what Jean had written. “A pox on her,” he said savagely. “I’ll advertise for another one.”
“If I may make so bold, my lord,” Dredwort began.
“Oh, make away. This looks like being a filthy day anyway.”
“I cannot think that there is any female in the whole of Dorset as highly qualified as Miss Morrison. We have had many governesses here … weak, spineless creatures, if I may say so, my lord. To take charge of the Misses Courtney requires razor-sharp wits and a great deal of moral strength. If I may talk man-to-man on this one important occasion …?”
“Get on with it.”
“From what I have heard of London, my lord, there are more lightskirts than there are decent women. A good governess is irreplacable, a Cyprian is not.”
The viscount flushed angrily. “How dare you, Dredwort. Miss Cruze is a respectable lady.”
“Your lordship may not have remarked the dress Miss Cruze is wearing at the moment,” the butler went on. “It is of very fine India muslin, and Miss Cruze is not wearing a stitch under it. The footmen are impressionable lads, and I have had to confine them belowstairs and serve the company myself. I naturally gained the wrong impression of the lady.”
The viscount cursed Nancy under his breath. “I will speak to you later, Dredwort. Where are the girls?”
“They are in the schoolroom, my lord.”
“Here he comes!” Amanda said. She and Clarissa quickly scrubbed their eyes with raw onion. The viscount crashed open the door and surveyed the apparently weeping pair. “I do not know how you did it or who you got to write that scurrilous letter,” he raged. “Forgery is a crime, d’you here? Damn the pair of you.”
“We never wrote that l-letter,” Amanda sobbed. “It’s not fair to blame us. It’s not our fault that you l-like that sort of woman.”
“I am locking you in here,” the viscount said grimly, “until I get to the bottom of this. I am sure none of the servants would have written that forgery. You got someone, probably some villain in St. Giles who pens letters for the illiterate.”
He went out and locked the door. The twins eyed each other in consternation. “He will get to Gully, and if Gully is in his cups, he will confess all,” Amanda said. “We’d best pay him off. And our money is running low.”
“But we know how to earn more,” Clarissa pointed out.
Amanda prized a floorboard up in the corner of the schoolroom and took a bag of gold and another key to the schoolroom door. The twins let themselves quietly out of the schoolroom and then scurried along to the landing, where they moved a large cabinet away from the wall to reveal a secret door. They opened it and then pulled the cabinet back across it before hurrying down the dark stairs. The stairs led down and then along a damp tunnel that came out among the jumble of huge rocks on the beach. Then they set off for St. Giles at a run to find Gully, pay him the money, and send him away.
The viscount took Nancy and his friends around the estate that afternoon, after Nancy had been ordered to change her gown. But Nancy’s appearance, which would not have raised many eyebrows in London, where the ladies of the ton were apt to look like prostitutes, caused dismay among his cottagers and tenant farmers. The viscount could not help noticing that the man of the house shooed his women and children out of sight as soon as he set eyes on Nancy and entertained the viscount and his friends himself. And Nancy, resentful and bored, interlarded her conversation with broad swear words, demanded wine, and became increasingly drunk and noisy. Jean Morrison’s sorrowful face rose before the viscount’s eyes. He realized at last that he had actually enjoyed being a savior and hero to these people. Because of Nancy he was losing status, and as he watched Nancy reeling about and shouting and singing, he began to see why. There was no way he could impose the likes of this rowdy mistress on the gentle and respectable people of the countryside. He also saw the beginnings of fear and wariness in their eyes.
Mr. Peterman, the agent, who was accompanying him, explained the reason when the viscount demanded angrily what he had done to make everyone afraid of him.
“Your servants thought very highly of the Scottish governess, my lord. Gossip travels quickly in the country and the news is that you let her go rather than get rid of your … er … lady companion. They do not understand London ways and believe your behavior shows a dangerous fickleness and that you could suddenly turn on them. Most have endured te
rrible times of hardship and they cannot quite believe their present luck.”
“What’s up, Beau?” Mr. Jolly asked.
“Demme, it’s Nancy.” Nancy was in her bedchamber, and the viscount and his friends were sitting in the library, drinking burgundy.
“Thought you’d be delighted,” Mr. Trump said.
The viscount sighed heavily. “It’s like this. I wouldn’t have had Nancy at my house in Town. The servants wouldn’t have stood for it. So can you imagine what effect she is having here! Besides, I am responsible for those two brats. If the lawyers get wind of this, then Toad Basil may inherit all. The thought, I admit, is tempting. But I cannot go back to my old life and leave things unfinished here.”
Lord Charnworth looked at him sorrowfully. “The fact is, Beau, you’ve changed.”
“How so?”
“Used to be up to every rig and row in Town. Now you’ve got the cares of the world on your shoulders. There’s no fun in you anymore. Say good-bye to this place and return with us.”
The viscount gave a rueful smile. “In truth, if I left my tenants and farmers to Basil, I would never sleep easy. I am sorry, but I must ask you to leave and take Nancy with you.”
“All that way back to London!” Lord Charnworth looked at him in horror. “It’s miles and miles and miles. Besides, we’ve only just arrived here. Think of the noise Nancy will make.”
“I’ll deal with Nancy. You must see that I did not write that letter. Of course I will be glad to entertain you anytime, but not with Nancy.”
“You’ll lose her,” Mr. Trump warned. “Lord Tenbar has been trying to get her away from you.”
“Then let him. See to your packing and I’ll get rid of Nancy.”
The viscount went up to Nancy’s bedchamber after having written out a generous draft on his bank. Nancy was lying asleep on top of the bedcovers. He studied her for a few moments, wondering why he had ever become involved with her. But how dainty and pretty she had looked on the other side of the footlights. All the men were mad about her, and he had set out to secure her, driven by the spirit of competition. Courtesans such as Harriet Wilson, for example, dubbed the Queen of Tarts, were always in demand because they were in fashion rather than because their charms were superior to those of any other member of the demimonde.
He shook her gently awake. Her eyes opened and she slowly smiled up at him and held up her arms. What, he thought irrationally, would Jean Morrison look like in bed, holding up her arms to her lover? He shook his head angrily.
“Nancy, you must leave. I am sorry, but my friends should not have brought you.”
She sat up and scowled at him. “You’ve turned pompous and respectable, Beau.”
“Perhaps. But perhaps this will ease our parting.”
She opened her mouth to start to create a scene, but then her eyes fell on the bank draft he was holding out to her and her eyes widened. It was a magnificent sum. Her hands like little claws, closed tightly around it. Nancy, unlike other members of the fashionable impure, was thrifty with money, squirreling away the bulk of it. Her aim was to amass enough and then to retire to some provincial city and take on the character of a lady.
“Do you not want to see me again?” she finally asked.
“No, Nancy, I will be too much occupied here.”
“Lord Tenbar is keen for my favors.”
“Let him have them, if that is your pleasure.”
“That governess has changed you,” Nancy said waspishly after she had carefully stowed the bank draft away in her jewel box. She sighed. “Men always fall for that sort of thing.”
“What sort of thing, Nancy?”
“The morals of a puritan and a passionate face. Leave me, Beau, before you make that speech about wanting me to leave as soon as possible.”
Jean Morrison sat sewing. Her aunt was taking an afternoon nap, but she had left her plenty of sewing and darning to keep her occupied. Mrs. Delmar-Richardson had graciously condescended to forgive her niece, for she had now an unpaid companion for life. Jean read and played the piano so well. Like most women who were incapable of making friends, Mrs. Delmar-Richardson could ignore that fact so long as she had a companion in her power. Various companions had come and gone, finding the harsh regime and the fact that no free time was allowed too much for them.
Thinking her life was over, Jean stitched away diligently and tried not to cry. If only those last two weeks at the castle, before his friends had arrived, had not been so happy and pleasant. And Nancy! How could he?
That such things went on, she knew very well. Her aunt in Edinburgh, a stern Calvinist, enjoyed nothing more than talking salaciously about the affairs of the aristocracy over the teacups with her friends. If she had not known Lord Hunterdon and someone had told Jean that he kept an opera dancer, she would not have been shocked in the least, particularly as the viscount was unmarried. She had been unrealistic, Jean told herself sternly. She had wanted the viscount to remain forever on his pedestal, golden and smiling, to be looked up to and admired. She could not have him and therefore no one else should. And yet, whatever her reasons, she could not have remained as governess to two young and impressionable girls with that Cyprian in the same house. She had done what was right and the fact that she gained no pleasure from her actions was just too bad. But she had hoped he would call, even to berate her. During her first few miserable days with her aunt she had comforted herself with visions of what he would say and what she would reply.
Now she felt he would not come. Why should he? All he had to do was to find another governess. Jean was wearing her gray dress, which she was beginning to hate, her aunt having taken one horrified look at her new gowns and pronounced them unsuitable.
No, he would not come, and she, Jean Morrison, would be left to rot here under the thumb of the domestic tyrant that was her aunt.
The twins were in a fury. The days since Jean had left were long and boring and unstructured. They had assumed that as soon as Jean had left, the viscount would get her back. They crept down to the library one night and found the draft of a new advertisement for a governess of distinction.
Amanda missed the readings and Clarissa missed the rides, for the head groom said he would not allow them to take any horses out of the stables unless they were supervised by a governess. Normally they would have then taken out their spite on someone like their lady’s maid, Betty, but Betty was such a powerful woman and the viscount had told the servants that they were to report any disobedience on the part of the twins to him, so they could not relieve their feelings that way.
“I think,” Amanda said one morning after a restless night of thought, “that we should appeal to his sense of duty.”
“What?” Clarissa demanded.
“Well, why doesn’t he go back to London instead of riding about seeing that a lot o’ peasants are comfortable? Duty, that’s what it is. He’s got a duty to us although we ain’t pointed that out.”
“All sounds a bit high and windy to me,” Clarissa commented. “Good thing Gully got clear. Hunterdon rode to St. Giles the day after and found out about him, but Gully was far away by then, thank God! Where is our lord and master at this moment?”
Amanda leaned out of the window. “Just come back. It’s raining like the devil and he’s all wet and muddy. Let’s catch him before he goes off again.”
They scampered down the stairs. The viscount was just drawing off his gloves. He saw the twins and scowled. “Now what?” he demanded.
“It is very serious,” Amanda said, putting her hands behind her back and standing before him like a model schoolgirl.
“What is?”
“Your lack of care for us. We understand that under the terms of our father’s will you were to care for us and find us husbands.”
“So? You’re too young at the moment.”
“But how are we going to get any if we’re not schooled,” Amanda wailed, exasperated. “It’s your duty to see to our welfare.”
What
an unlovely pair they are, he thought. “I am doing my duty. I am sending a new advertisement for a governess out today.”
“Why go to that trouble?” Amanda demanded. “Get Miss Morrison back.”
“How can I get Miss Morrison back? She is probably halfway to Scotland.”
“No, she’s not,” Amanda said triumphantly. “She’s at her aunt’s in Gunshott.”
“And how do you know that?”
“We asked about,” Amanda said vaguely. “So she’s there.”
“May I remind you that Miss Morrison left my employ of her own free will?”
“Miss Morrison left because you brought your light o’ love into your own home,” Amanda said. “She has a strong sense of duty, you see. She cared for us.”
He stood for a moment, thinking. It certainly would make life easier if he persuaded Jean Morrison to come back. The house had seemed … temporary … without her, as if it had lost something. The servants missed her, he knew that, and it was odd that servants would have such regard for a governess, that usually despised class.
“I will write to her.”
“No,” Amanda said stubbornly, “that won’t do. Her aunt may open the letter and she’d never get to hear of it.”
“If I go in person, I may never get to see her,” he pointed out. “All her aunt has to do is to show me the door.”
