“Here you are, here you are, Mrs Villiers!” exclaimed Mrs Bess Fitzhugh, with kindly accent. “There now, what a long journey you have had, to be sure! You shall be made comfortable at once!” And she directed the butler to tell the coachmen where they would spend the night.
Valerie thought she was being treated more like a guest than a governess. She was shown to a pretty rose-decorated sitting room, with its own bedroom and bath, on the second floor. A silver tray of tea and cakes was brought up, and a maid helped her unpack.
Mrs Fitzhugh fussed about her in a manner that reminded Valerie of the countess. She fluttered, she fretted, she showed her kind thoughtfulness in a hundred ways.
“We have guests this evening, I wish you to meet them, unless you are too weary —”
Valerie assured her she would be glad to attend dinner in an hour, or at least to take coffee with them. The children were waved away, they could be introduced tomorrow. “Although they are vastly curious to meet you,” smiled Bess Fitzhugh comfortably. “How good is Aunt Darlington! I have longed for someone of your quality to come, and despaired of finding anyone. And she but waves her stick, and produces you!”
Her look was curious, but her manners and gentleness too ladylike to ask questions. Valerie thought she must one day explain to her why she had left the comfortable nest of the Arundel estate to make her own living.
For the evening, Valerie put on her violet silk dress, brushed her hair up severely into a coronet, then added the beautiful amethyst necklace and ring that Malcolm had given to her. She felt that was hers, that she could not yet part with it, though it had been an engagement present from a husband she was determined to divorce.
The guests were kindly, curious, attentive. Some nice likable young people and middle-aged ones from the village, all deference to the new squire, yet familiar as one who liked him. Thomas Fitzhugh was a man of almost forty, a lively, busy man with a twinkle to his eyes and a briskness to his manner that Valerie liked at once.
She had fallen soft, she thought thankfully that night, as she went to her four-poster bed. She drew the rose-sprinkled curtains about the bed and nestled down.
Then, unaccountably, she thought of Malcolm. Where was he tonight? In some comfortable officer’s billet, or bedding down preparing for battle, in some straw-filled stable, as he had told her he often did? Or was he already in some battle? Were guns booming about him? Did he crouch, musket in hand, listening for the approach of the enemy? She tossed and turned, too weary and stiff from the journey to sleep. And finally she found relief again in tears, until sleep came to blot out the memory and the worries.
The next day, she met her new charges. Eliza was sober and serious, even for fifteen. Jeanette eyed her with aloof curiosity, probably waiting for her to show her knowledge or ignorance. Little Marianne clung to her with instant affection and demanded a story. Thomas was nine, and would continue at the village school, which was an excellent one, said his father.
She set up a routine for their studies, after talking with each of the girls about her progress and her wishes. For Eliza, there were lessons in deportment (for which Valerie was relieved that she had put in one of her trunks the despised etiquette book). Also she must have lessons in piano, drawing, penmanship, polite letter-writing, a little history and geography.
For Jeanette, at twelve, there were lessons in arithmetic, spelling, reading, geography, history, drawing, and singing. Marianne was just beginning her lessons, and was a cheerful learner, so long as she was entertained in the doing.
So Valerie settled into her new routine, grateful for the goodness of her composed but timid mistress. She found herself advising Bess Fitzhugh on her dresses, her manners, the setting of her table, the disposition of her guests around the table.
As she wrote to the countess, now in London:
I am most grateful to you, madam, for teaching me, for now I can instruct dear Mrs Fitzhugh in matters she longs to learn. If you should see in one of the London book shops another even more detailed book of etiquette and polite manners, I should be most grateful if you would purchase it and dispatch it to me. Also, if you might find a little book of geography, with some maps of England —
She found herself writing often to the countess, who replied promptly with kindly thought for her. The books were sent, at once, with others which the countess thought would be of interest. Some were chosen by the earl, some by Eustace, all with her fondly in mind, as they said.
She missed them more than she could have thought. How good they had been to her, and continued to be, all through her obstinate decision to be parted from them. Never a word of reproach did they voice in their courteous letters to her. She was Malcolm’s wife, a girl whom they loved, and she would return to them one day, every letter breathed this message.
She found she was free and independent about two hours a day, with time to read and think. Also on Sundays, in the afternoon after church, she was free to walk about and do as she wished. Yet when one earned her living, thought Valerie ruefully, one was never really free. When Marianne begged to walk with her, Valerie had not the heart to refuse the child. When Eliza, growing older, slipped into Valerie’s sitting room, and curled up to confide her doubts and fears about the future, Valerie gave her a ready sympathy and attention.
Jeanette became gradually won over, and then she also wished her share of attention, confiding her wish to become a great poet. She showed her shyly some of her efforts, and Valerie praised them sincerely. They were indeed advanced and excellent for her age.
Bess Fitzhugh needed her most of all. The woman felt overwhelmed with her new duties. “Indeed, I never dreamed that Mr Fitzhugh’s uncle should die and leave no heirs but my husband,” she said, pressing her hand to her cheek in a shy sweet way. “How awkward it is! And most distressing. His cousins all dying in the war, not a male cousin left to inherit. It all devolves on Thomas, and he was not trained for this either.”
“He is fitting the position gallantly,” said Valerie, reassuringly. “Indeed, Pastor Martin informed me that never has a squire in his memory come to the post with such ease of manner, such sympathy for others, yet such justice at his command, that all are satisfied eventually with his decisions. If he was not trained, then surely God has given him the talents which are his that suit him as squire.”
“You are good to say so.” Bess Fitzhugh’s eyes lit up. She was silently adoring of her handsome, charming husband, and wondered often what he had seen in her — plump, gentle, shy — when he might have had any girl in the county.
Valerie had little time to think, then, about her own affairs. They had courteously not pressed her as to her motives. No one asked why the daughter-in-law of the Earl of Arundel chose to make her living as a governess. They knew that Malcolm Villiers was in the Peninsula, and small Thomas would ask eager questions about the battles, and indeed showed more knowledge than Valerie had of the action there.
Only at night, as she lay down to sleep, did she have time to think, to muse, to ponder. Had she done right? She had forced herself to leave the comfortable nest, as Eustace called it. She must not stay where she was not wanted, where her husband had married her only because he had lost at dice! They did not understand her pride and her independence that pressed her to leave and make her own way.
Sometimes, absently, she pressed the amethyst heart-shaped ring to her lips, and recalled how Malcolm had awkwardly put it on her finger. If only he had done it in liking for her, a growing love! Then she might have accepted the position in which she had found herself.
However, with nothing between them but a sexual desire on his part and a pride on hers, parting had been inevitable. And she must make the best of it, she would think, and turn over to try to woo sleep again.
CHAPTER 5
Malcolm’s first letter to her was forwarded from Arundel. He wrote briefly of the action, in a hurried scrawl that told more eloquently than his words how busy he was. He apologized for their leave-taking.
He was very gracious. Valerie wrote at once, assured him he was nightly in her prayers, told him of her new life. His next letter was furious!
How could you dare to leave Arundel? I am most angry. I have written at once to Eustace and to my father, to go to you and return you to your rightful home! To leave behind my back in such manner! It is most ungracious! You are as impulsive as Clarence was! I might have known you had more of his nature than I had considered! What a gamble you have taken on, to be sure! He was all for the chance and laughing at the outcome! I cannot have you live apart like this! You must! must! must! return at once to my parents' home! They are presently in London. I have given instruction that you are to have more fine dresses. Eustace is to escort you about, just as he does Deidre. You must learn to take your place in society, much though you dread it. Mater will continue to instruct you. You might take lessons from Deidre as well, she is a fine lady, conversant with all the proper manners required of a lady —
Take lessons from Deidre! Valerie had to lay down the letter and fume a bit before she could continue to peruse the scrawled pages, much torn about and the ink sometimes dimmed, as though water or rain had fallen upon the pages.
There was a break in the letter. Malcolm had drawn a heavy line. Then he continued.
I continue this letter two days after the earlier part was written. I beg you to return to the protection of my parents’ home. The action is fierce. I cannot tell you details. We prepare for another battle, sometimes I am out, gathering intelligence. I am so weary tonight my head will not make sense. Someone has promised to take this letter to Lisbon for sending on to you by the next ship. Therefore, will I close with haste —
Pray for me. We live constantly with the fear of —
The next words were hastily marked out, with heavy black ink. Then he went on:
One of my best friends, Lord Reston, is dead today. He was out with me, I saw him shot from his horse. I have the direction of his wife, will you write as from us both, and give her my condolences. He was a fine fellow, brave as anyone —
Must finish. God bless you, Valerie. Write to me.
Your loving husband,
Malcolm.
Valerie had sought the sanctuary of her pretty rose-coloured sitting room to read the letter in private. She was glad that she had, for at the close of his letter, she must set it down, and let the tears come. He was in danger, he was weary, the shaken hand told her he had written perhaps late at night, after the turmoil and deadly work he had been about. And his best friend dead! At the bottom of the letter he had added hastily the name and address of Lady Reston. Valerie remembered Malcolm speaking affectionately of his friend, how they had gone to school together, how they fought, and tried to remain near to each other in battle.
She looked again at the date. Malcolm might have gone into battle again — he might be dead now! Tears flooded her eyes, rolled down her cheeks. She wiped them away with determination. She must return to the schoolroom and give a lesson.
A light tap at the door, and Mrs Bess Fitzhugh peered around the edge of the door, her plump face concerned.
“My dear? I would not disturb you, but I was troubled — is there bad news?”
Valerie wiped her eyes again. “He is in danger, his best friend killed. Oh, dear, I must compose myself —” Her voice broke. Mrs Fitzhugh came to her at once, took her in her motherly arms, and petted her until Valerie wept again.
Thomas Fitzhugh was much concerned, and offered to take her himself to the home of her husband’s parents in London. Valerie had herself in hand by that time and shook her head firmly.
“No, I must remain. I am determined to be independent. I do not wish to leave, though I thank you most kindly.” She attempted a smile. “I wonder, have you a map of the Peninsula? I wish to trace where he is.”
“But of course,” and Mr Fitzhugh took her and his son to the study, and they traced out on a large map in an atlas he had, where Malcolm would be, the location of Lisbon and several other landmarks of which Malcolm had spoken.
They remained concerned and interested in him, and whenever a fresh letter arrived, she would read parts aloud to the family. They treated her like a daughter, she thought, and told Malcolm so. Young Thomas was especially keen to hear about the battles, though Malcolm spoke little of that.
The squire applied to a friend and had the London gazettes sent down regularly. Then they all read eagerly of the battles, sometimes hearing of them before a letter arrived from Malcolm. Wellesley was on the Douro. Marshal Soult of the French armies had arrayed his forces against him. What could Wellesley do? They read breathlessly of the battle that followed, how the French were surprised by the clever crossing of the Douro River by the large wine-barges, with the men crossing, and some cannon, taking occupation of a seminary. The building was fortified, the French routed when they had no idea that Wellesley’s troops were even crossing the river.
Wellesley ate the luncheon prepared for Soult! How they laughed over that. The French marshal had to leave in such haste that he had not time to eat, and Wellesley marched into town so quickly that he was able at four in the afternoon to sit down to Marshal Soult’s meal!
Portugal was clear of the French. But soon worse news came. The leopard, spoken of contemptuously by the French Napoleon, had come in and driven the eagles back into the mountains of Spain. Wellesley met with the Spanish General Cuesta to plan their next step. A worse battle would be the outcome.
Malcolm’s intelligence work increased. His scrawled letters were almost unreadable, but with patience, Valerie deciphered them. The French were pouring troops into the Peninsula.
The countess wrote of the pleasures of London. Deidre had been so charming last evening, in a new gown of pale blue silk covered with golden gauze. How lovely she had been! How often she had danced. How they had all wished that Valerie had come. The countess had located a beautiful piece of rose silk, and wished to make a gown for Valerie of the same kind as Deidre, covered with golden gauze. She would look charming in it.
The earl wrote a different tune.
London is full of dancing, whist, and the chatter of empty-headed fools. I passed a market-barrow on the street yesterday, it was full of white and red roses. I was at once struck with a sickness for my own roses, and a hunger for Arundel. If only you were here with us, to laugh with me over these foolishnesses. Or we might return to Arundel, to the peace of our Shakespeare garden. Once you left, I had not the heart to continue it. Do you stay long in the Cotswolds? Are you not weary of teaching yet? We hear from Malcolm, his mother weeps, and I have tears which I must hide. If only the reckless boy would return, how happy we should be.
Valerie smiled and sighed over their letters. She wrote weekly to Malcolm, on Sunday afternoons, after her duties were done. She wrote at length, for he welcomed her letters, and thanked her eagerly for them.
She told him of her work.
I am succeeding in teaching arithmetic to Jeanette. She would do nothing but read romantic novels, should I allow her. But she is becoming a charming little lady, and I have persuaded her that a lady should know a little something of everything in the world. We all look at the maps to see where you are. Geography goes swimmingly this way! We also study the French maps, to see where Mr Napoleon is about — I refuse to call him Emperor. He is not of the stuff of greatness!
Another time, she wrote:
I worry about your health. Have you recovered from the heavy cold? Do keep your clothing as dry as possible, especially your stockings. That is important, I always told my father so. Does it rain so much now? Here the weather has been dry and warm, the sunshine is so welcome. We had our lessons in the garden today, and the roses and honeysuckle teased our noses with their fragrance.
; I attended a dance on Saturday with the Fitzhughs. They insisted on it, and Mrs Fitzhugh said I must tell you what I wore, as you are interested that I have sufficient gowns to look smart. My dress was the lavender tulle with the two rows of flounces. I wore with it a gauze scarf about my shoulders, of deeper lavender. Also my amethysts, which I brought with me. The necklace and bracelet are much admired, and the ring on my finger brought several remarks. It is so large and unusual a purple stone, said one older gentleman, who seemed to know much about gems. One lady teased me that amethysts mean faithfulness in love and asked about you.
Valerie paused, and nibbled at her finger. Should she write that to Malcolm? Her heart ached strangely sometimes, as though she really missed him, much as they had quarrelled and disagreed. Oh, well, he might see nothing in the remark. She sighed, and went on:
Eustace has been ill, but is better now. I suppose you have heard from your mother about this. I think his chest is not strong, and the London air is heavy with dust, your father wrote.
She wrote again:
How good the Fitzhughs are to me. Whenever a letter arrives from you, it is brought at once to me in the schoolroom. The postman brings it from the coach, and says, “Here is another from the gentleman in the fighting, and best wishes to him.” Mrs Fitzhugh often brings up the letter to me herself and lingers to make sure the news is good. All the children are eager to hear your news. It is as though you were their own brother, they are so anxious over you. I have mailed a package of four pairs of warm socks, a new pair of boots, and a thick sweater of my own knitting. I do hope all fits you and suits you as to the colouring. I thought the beige colour would not stand out as you ride of a night, much as that worries me. Would you rather have black? I remember your dislike of black. Shall your next sweater be grey?
Amethyst Love: A passionate Regency romance Page 6
