The Earl's Runaway Governess, page 14
‘There was a young woman with you. I only saw her for an instant, and afterwards wondered if I might have imagined her.’
‘Yes?’ said Ash tersely.
‘Well, I wondered—um—that is to say I was curious about who she was and how she came to be there.’
‘Why?’
This was unexpected, and Ash was suddenly entirely awake. What is his interest in Miss Bolton?
Grant looked uncomfortable. ‘I thought I knew her, that is all.’
Interesting. Grant might have some information on the mysterious Miss Bolton’s past. ‘How do you know her?’
‘Oh, I—she was a friend of—of my sister. If it is the same lady.’
Ash eyed him speculatively. ‘What is the name of your sister’s friend?’
‘Oh!’ He flushed. ‘Come to think of it, I cannot remember. But the lady who was with you did not seem to have a maid accompanying her, so I wondered if—’
Ash was more than a little taken aback. ‘Mr Grant, are you asking me if the lady was in fact my mistress?’
Grant’s flush deepened, and something like anger flashed briefly in his eyes. He made haste to deny it, but it was clear that was exactly what he had been asking.
The nerve of the man, Ash thought. How dare he pry into my personal life?
Ash wanted nothing more to do with him. ‘I am going now, and I shall forget that we had this conversation, Mr Grant.’ He dipped his head slightly, disdain evident in the coolness of the gesture.
Grant, looking frustrated, had no choice but to retire to his friends, whatever other questions he had going unanswered.
Ash made his way to the hallway and asked for his hat, cloak and cane. As he waited, he tried to work out what the connection was between Grant and Miss Bolton. How would a young woman who lived quietly in the country with her lawyer father ever have come into contact with one of the young bloods of London? Where was Grant’s family from, and how old was this sister he’d mentioned?
He had no doubt that Miss Bolton was genuinely country-bred. Her reactions to the noise, smells and busyness of London, as well as her witty and shocked observations, had brought him considerable amusement each time he’d called to Grillon’s to see her—to see them. So was Grant lying? And, if so, why?
Perhaps, Ash thought wryly, he has an eye for Miss Bolton for himself!
Although the governess did not have the showy beauty of the various incomparables that were being paraded around town, she had a quiet beauty that was stunning in its impact.
Well, if that is the case, I shall allow him this: he shows good taste in women.
Suddenly he was glad that Miss Bolton had left Town. The thought of Grant pursuing her sent anger flooding through him. His heart thundered, coldness filled his belly and his hands balled into fists.
The poor footman who had just that moment returned with Ash’s cloak, hat and cane looked decidedly startled by Ash’s demeanour.
Ash smoothed his features into an acceptable mask, thanked the man, then set out on the short walk to his rooms. As he walked down St James’s Street he lifted his head to feel the freshness of the rain on his face. It was barely there—more mist than rain—but he felt the need to cool down, and to shake off the unexpectedly strong reaction to his conversation with Henry Grant.
He pondered the matter all the way to Upper Brook Street, but could not for the life of him figure out whether his response was provoked by antipathy towards Grant or a sense of protectiveness towards Miss Bolton. Both options were unprecedented.
Although frequently irritated by fools, he tended not to actively dislike people—particularly when it was early in their acquaintance. He had met Grant once or twice, had recognised him when he had lain injured after the accident, but would have had difficulty in many circumstances in distinguishing him from any of his raucous friends.
A wild lot, that group, he mused, piecing together various bits of gossip he had not previously bothered to think about. Tales of gambling debts and wild parties came back to him.
He curled his lip in disgust. Yes, he and his own friends liked to gamble, and to bet on the horses and at the fives court, but they knew not to go beyond the bounds of respectability.
Grant and his friends were, he believed, close to being ostracised by polite society. And if their behaviour was anything like the forward manner of Henry Grant tonight he could see why. They were probably less than five years younger than his own group, but even in their wildest days he and his friends had not done anything to shame their families or their names.
His thoughts turned again to Miss Bolton. Perhaps he had been right in thinking that Henry Grant was seeking to seduce her. He certainly could not imagine a cock of the walk like Grant marrying a governess!
And surely it was not unreasonable to feel protective towards her? She was, after all, in his employ.
Ah, but would you have had the same concern for Aggie, if it had been she whom Grant wanted?
The quiet voice within his mind taunted him to look closer into his own heart. This was more than the concern he would have for any woman at risk of being pursued by a selfish young buck like Grant. The fact that it was Miss Bolton gave his emotions an edge that was more than plain chivalry.
Almost he finished the thought—then pushed it away with an instinct born of preserving his equilibrium.
‘Of course I would protect Aggie too!’ he exclaimed aloud, his voice sounding extremely noisy in the darkness.
Glancing around to make sure no one was there, and feeling extremely foolish, he quickened his pace and made for his lodgings.
Chapter Fourteen
‘Grant? Henry Grant?’
Barny’s voice was hurting Ash’s head. They were in their usual spot, downstairs at White’s, and Ash had tried a casual query about the young man who had irritated him so much last night.
‘That’s him. But, Barny, keep it down a bit, will you?’
Barny nodded sagely. ‘Thought you’d sloped off a bit early last night... Bad wine, was it?’
‘Not the wine, no. More like a distaste for my own company.’
And an arrogant young man who made me focus on the uselessness of my existence.
Aloud, he added, ‘Do you ever get tired of London, Barny?’
‘Tired? Of London? Course not!’ Barny eyed him suspiciously. ‘You’re not turning soft, are you, Ash? These months you’ve spent rusticating and starved of good company have turned your brain, eh?’
‘Actually, I’ve quite enjoyed it. The rusticating, I mean.’
And the company. Especially—
Barny goggled at him. ‘Never tell me you are become a farmer! Why, next you shall turn as dull as old Moreton—always prating on about corn and livestock and whatnot!’
‘Moreton? I had forgotten about Moreton’s fascination with farming methods. I shall certainly seek him out.’
‘Are you gammoning me? You will seek out Farmer Moreton? Deliberately? Lord, I never thought to see the day!’ Barny searched his face, adding dubiously, ‘He’s upstairs, you know. Moreton, I mean. Not Grant. He and the other young bloods don’t show their faces before dinner.’
‘Ah, yes, Mr Grant... Tell me what you know of him.’
Barny frowned. ‘Not much. Cambridgeshire, I think. Came into the property less than a year ago, when his old man died.’
‘What of his sister?’
Barny looked at him blankly, then his eyes widened. ‘That’s right—there is a sister, apparently. Freddy said he met her at Grant’s house party last Christmas. I think she’s younger than Grant. Never comes to town. Nor did the parents, come to that. Country types, you know.’
Ash nodded. Things began to make more sense. Perhaps Miss Bolton really had been friends with Mr Grant’s younger sister—she could certainly be described as a ‘country type’ herself.
‘He’s part of that gin-hell set,’ Barny added. ‘Up for every lark, and some of it not...you know...not quite the thing.’
‘What sort of lark?’
‘They play deep at the hells—gambling for huge sums. There are rumours of debt. Plenty of drink, of course—but we all drank too much at their age.’
‘What of women?’
‘Ah, well—’ Barny helped himself to some snuff. ‘There’s an entry in the wagers book that says they’ll have a by-blow each by Christmas!’
‘Really? But many men father children in temporary liaisons. Do they look after them?’
Barny leaned forward. ‘Here’s the thing. It’s said that the families of these ruined girls don’t come looking for aid—they want nothing more to do with the gin-hell boys. Most unusual.’ He looked round, to check that no one was in earshot, then added, ‘Rumour has it that some of them prefer their women unwilling.’
Ash raised his eyebrows.
‘Quite. But there was something about Grant in particular—some tale or other. Can’t remember what, though. It’ll come to me.’
‘Barny, as always, you are a fount of knowledge.’ Ash heaved himself upright. ‘Now I shall leave you, as I am going to talk to a man about crops.’
Barny shook his head sorrowfully. ‘Lost!’ he said mournfully. ‘Another good man, succumbing to the evils of responsibility.’
Ash laughed and left him.
As he mounted the stairs in search of Mr Moreton—a man hitherto of no interest to him whatsoever—he reflected that he had, as Barny had noted, changed. He stood stock-still as the realisation hit him like a thunderclap.
When had he changed? And why?
It had been coming for a while, he mused. Town was losing its appeal, and the rounds of sport and socialising no longer satisfied him as they had when he was younger. But the real catalyst was Ledbury House. That burden, which he had cursed so bitterly on the day of John’s funeral, now fired his imagination and his energy. He was positively enjoying having a purpose—a notion that he would have laughed at two months ago.
Of course his real life was still here in London—the Ledbury House project was a passing fancy, no more. Perhaps he should seek out some other purpose to occupy his mind when he was in Town. There was nothing special about Ledbury House...
Unbidden, an image came into his mind. Miss Bolton, her eyes sparkling with merriment as she rebuked him for some perceived slight. Again Miss Bolton, pensive as she considered a matter of business in Cronin’s office. And finally, and most potently, Miss Bolton as she had looked when they had ended their kiss. Her eyes had been heavy with desire, her face beautiful in unguarded passion.
He almost groaned, so strong was the memory.
Really, he ought to stop thinking of Miss Bolton in such a way. She was his ward’s governess, nothing more. Yet as he approached Mr Moreton the decision was made. He would return to Ledbury House as soon as he was able. There were matters of business to discuss with Mr Cronin.
* * *
Marianne’s life was almost perfect. She was back at Ledbury House, and this time she had Mrs Bailey and Jane by her side. Before sunset on that first day Mrs Bailey had already been through the house like a gale, a flock of awed and willing housemaids in her wake, and the great clean-up had begun.
The workmen and chimney sweeps had been set to work and Mrs Bailey had taken charge. Aggie and the village girls had been joined by three new housemaids and a footman from London, as well as Jane and Mrs Bailey herself.
Now, three days later, the house had emerged from its cloak of dust, dirt, soot and grime. Brasses and silver had been polished, windows washed and floors cleaned. Mr Cronin was delighted with Mrs Bailey’s achievements and gave her such fulsome praise that she blushed like a girl.
Jane, who was to be personal maid to Lady Kingswood and Cecily when they returned, had insisted on washing and mending Marianne’s second gown.
‘For I am only darning pillowcases and tablecloths at present anyway, miss, and I prefer to be busy.’
Marianne had gratefully handed it over and gone back to mending petticoats—a task much more within her abilities.
Aggie had told her that while she had been away a fox had taken one of the best hens, that Mr and Mrs Harkin’s baby was sick and that an old nest had been discovered in one of the chimneys. ‘Which probably explains, miss, why that fire would smoke the room out every time we’d light it. Now that the chimneys have been cleaned we can have fires in every room if we like.’
But there was no need for fires as spring had finally, it seemed, decided to come to Ledbury House. Everywhere Marianne could see signs of life. Pale green foliage began to adorn bare branches, turning the slope from a slant of angles and lines into a swaying mass of verdant beauty. Birds flew past with twigs in their mouths and small insects began to appear, buzzing through the air or scuttling in the undergrowth.
In the garden, a few flowers were bravely poking through, struggling to breathe among overgrown bushes. Marianne, determined to contribute to the rejuvenation she felt all around, found a trowel and a knife and set them free.
It was backbreaking work, for each time she finished one part of the garden she noticed more areas in need of care. But there was something so satisfying in clearing every little patch of land, trimming every overgrown bush and shrub and discovering the hidden beauty of what had once been a stunning garden.
She fell into bed at night exhausted, yet feeling more satisfied and content than she had done in a long, long time.
On the fourth day Lady Kingswood and Cecily returned, with the news that Ash was to follow them on the morrow. Marianne’s heart leapt at this news, though she scolded herself inwardly for her foolishness.
Really, she ought to know better!
Yes, he had kissed her—and her insides still melted at the memory—but it had probably meant nothing.
Ash was a young buck, like Henry and his friends, although he was a few years older. He lived the same lifestyle as they did. He acknowledged Henry as an acquaintance—although Marianne recalled that at the time of the accident he had not seemed to know Henry particularly well.
Perhaps, she thought, that is how they behave in the gentlemen’s clubs and social circles they mix in. Perhaps ‘friendship,’ as I understand it, is unknown to them.
What she did know was how Henry and his coterie behaved towards women. They acted as if they were entitled to kiss whomever they wished, to speak to servant women in whatever manner they wished, and certainly Henry had no qualms about attacking women—both she and Jane had experienced that ordeal.
With Henry the signs were there, in terms of how he spoke about women when they were not present. He seemed to hold women in general in disdain. And Marianne had heard both him and his friends make rude and coarse comments about women during their raucous revelries.
Of course Henry was polite and respectful in polite mixed company, and any ladies of his acquaintance would think him a perfectly amiable young man. Knowing what he truly was, Marianne felt that made his behaviour in private even more reprehensible.
The question was, how alike were Henry and Ash? Just because they followed the same fashions and enjoyed the same pastimes—boxing, gambling, horses and drinking parties—that did not mean they were the same.
Certainly during the last two months she had felt as though she had come to really know Ash. She could read his moods, could sometimes almost see his thoughts flash across his mind like ripples in a pool. And he behaved—usually—perfectly well with her.
Amiable. He seemed amiable. Actually, she realised, he reminded her more of Papa than of Henry.
Until he had kissed her and changed everything.
Not like the intrusive, disgusting embrace she might have expected from Henry or his remorseless friends. No, Ash’s kiss had been compelling, passionate and intense. It had felt real, and Marianne relived it in her memory every night on retiring, and every morning when she woke up. It had been, quite simply, one of the most wonderful experiences of her life.
But what did it mean? Ash was a London buck and, for all Marianne knew, kissing governesses might be acceptable within their set. She must not read anything into it. Even though her instincts were telling her to submit to allowing herself deeper feelings for him, imploring her to tell him the truth.
For a moment she considered it. She pictured herself trying to tell him about the true nature of his acquaintance Henry.
She would not be believed. Why, no one could believe it—it seemed impossible even to her!
Then, imagining his reaction when he found out she had been lying to him, she shook her head. No, she could not risk trusting him. Too much was at stake. She must be on her guard.
* * *
Ash jumped down from the carriage, his valet following. Pausing to scan the outside of the house, he was pleased to see a new neatness to the place. If he had thought about it he would have remarked upon the gleaming windows, new roof tiles and the paring back of the previously overgrown bushes that lined the beds below the ground-floor windows. Not being used to noticing such details, he was nevertheless impressed by the sense of care that the house now gave.
The impression was reinforced when he stepped into the hall. Two lines of servants waited to greet him—Mr Cronin on one side, with the new footman, and the female servants on the other, headed by Mrs Bailey. He went through the ritual of greetings and introductions, nodding his head genially to each of them. Once done, he made for the library, calling on Cronin to accompany him and requesting tea.
Inside him, impatience was building. Where was Miss Bolton? Why had she not been there to greet him? And where were Fanny and Cecily?
‘Where are the ladies, Cronin?’ he asked bluntly.
‘Lady Kingswood and Lady Cecily are resting, my lord, as they usually do at this time. We had not expected you so soon today. Miss Bolton, if I am not mistaken, is in the side garden, negotiating with some particularly stubborn rose bushes.’ He paused. ‘It is good to have her back—Miss Bolton, I mean. She brings a vivacity that affects the whole household.’
