The Earl's Runaway Governess, page 15
Ash’s eyebrows rose. It was unusual for Cronin to make such personal remarks. ‘Why is she working in the garden?’ He had visions of Lady Kingswood forcing Miss Bolton into manual labour on a whim.
‘She chooses to do it, my lord. She says she finds it invigorating.’
Ash rose. ‘The side garden, you say?’
Cronin affirmed it, and Ash stalked out.
This, he had to see.
* * *
‘Oh, you horrible, loathsome, odious creature!’ Marianne addressed the recalcitrant rose bush, which was resisting all attempts to tie it up. The blustery weather was not helping, as each time she tried to stake a few branches the wind would whisk them away again.
‘And I was hoping for a welcome!’ said a deep voice behind her.
Marianne straightened and whipped round, to see Ash standing there, his eyes twinkling with mischief. He looked so tall, and so handsome and so real that her foolish heart immediately began beating a loud tattoo.
‘Well, you are odious, my lord!’ she replied tartly, enjoying the brief flash of surprise in his eyes. ‘Creeping up on me like that! Why, you should not be here for another two hours yet.’
‘I apologise if my early arrival has inconvenienced you,’ he returned, and the twinkle was back.
‘Hrmmph!’ she replied. ‘I should have preferred the opportunity to finish my gardening and then wash my face and hands before you arrived.’
‘But you look charming!’ he offered. ‘Fighting with rose bushes has brought colour to your cheeks and a sparkle to your eyes.’
Marianne ignored this—though her heart, she knew, was storing every word.
‘If you mean that I am weather-beaten and wind-torn, then I fear you are right!’
She tucked a stray strand of hair behind one ear, noticing how intently he was watching her. The colour in her cheeks deepened.
His eyes crinkled at the sides. ‘Weather-beaten? Never! Why, you are so formidable I suspect the winds themselves would obey you!’
‘Not this wind,’ she retorted. ‘It is much too lazy.’
‘Lazy? Why, it is anything but lazy! It is becoming as strong as a storm. In fact, we should go indoors before branches start snapping from the trees.’
‘My mother always called breezes like this “lazy.” The wind is too indolent to go around us, so it simply goes straight through us.’
He laughed, then sobered. ‘She had wit, your mother.’
‘She did.’
Marianne swallowed hard. Do not think of Mama!
‘I shall be happy to go inside, for I am almost done with my gardening for today. But I need to tie up this bush first.’ She eyed him speculatively. ‘Could you perhaps assist me?’
He paused, and she flushed.
‘I apologise—I should not have asked you, my lord.’
For answer, he reached for one of the flailing branches of the rose bush, bringing it into an upright position beside one of the stakes.
‘Well, come on then! Before these thorns prick me, or the wind blows me away or—worst of all—my valet sees me. I honestly do not think my reputation with him would ever recover!’
She giggled, enjoying Ash in this unexpectedly playful mood. ‘Mr Loveday is extremely intimidating—I confess I am quite in awe of him.’
‘I have a similar confession to make,’ he replied in a theatrical whisper. ‘He quite terrifies me!’
They tied up the rose bush together, then walked in companionable conversation towards the rear of the house. Marianne tried to hide her hands, which were grimy with soil, and explained that she always went in through the kitchens when she’d been gardening, so as to wash her hands before going to her room.
‘That makes perfect sense,’ he told her. ‘But then, you are an eminently sensible woman!’
‘Not always,’ she returned dryly, sighing inside at his prosaic compliment. ‘You would not believe how naive and innocent I am! Why, when I went to London—to Mrs Gray’s register office—it was my first time doing anything for myself. I had no clue about finding places, or paying for things, or using the stage. I—’
She broke off, conscious that she had said too much. She was supposed to be playing the part of a woman who had been the daughter of a lawyer. Such a young woman would not have had maids, footmen or chaperons at all times, and she would have had to develop a certain knowledge of the world.
‘Yes? Go on—I should love to hear more of your escapades.’
She shook her head. ‘My parents were very protective, so I did not experience the—the freedoms that some of my friends enjoyed.’
Hopefully that was a reasonable explanation. Lord, she thought, how I hate having to lie all the time!
‘But I assure you I am quite well able to educate Lady Cecily!’ She looked up at him in entreaty.
He stopped walking and looked directly into her eyes, frowning. She faltered, pinned by that intense blue gaze. She waited for him to say something, but after a moment he blinked, made an innocuous comment about the wind, and walked on.
What should I make of this? she wondered. He affects me so deeply. He is only just home and already my thoughts are disordered, my heart and stomach are in turmoil, and my senses are alive to his nearness. I cannot risk trusting him, and I am forced to keep lying to him. Oh, how I wish that things could be different!
She sighed and fell into step beside him.
Chapter Fifteen
Ash could not recall ever feeling so confused in all his adult life. He was normally a person of habit, of ease, of fixed routine. His London lodgings were to his liking, he had jovial and benign friends, and he enjoyed predictable equanimity in all his relationships.
Yet ever since John’s funeral he had felt as though he were clinging on to the back of a runaway horse. He was throwing his own money at a house and estate he had barely remembered a few months ago, he was obsessed with a governess, and—shockingly—his London life was beginning to pall.
He had enjoyed a long and fruitful conversation with Mr Moreton, and had come away with ideas about turnips, fodder, and a four-year rotation cycle rather than three. Moreton had been surprised that Ledbury’s farms were not already using the system for, he’d stated, its use was now widespread, with better-fed animals and more crops from the same land.
Ash was excited—genuinely excited—to share this new knowledge with Cronin and with Miss Bolton. He vaguely remembered Cronin mentioning it before, but their first priority had been to repair the buildings and provide funds for the farmers to start hiring new labourers.
Conscious that Cronin was awaiting them in the library, he nevertheless took his time walking with Miss Bolton.
He sighed inwardly, admitting to himself that he had missed her company. Just walking beside her was creating a swirl of emotions and desires—physical need, overwhelming tenderness and something akin to bliss. It was beautifully terrifying, and he felt like a boat adrift in a storm. He had missed the opportunity to ask her about her friend—Henry Grant’s sister—simply because she had looked at him in such a way that all thoughts had left his brain.
They entered the kitchen through the back door, and Miss Bolton paused to wash her hands at the large sink that stood in the outermost scullery. She was unaware of his gaze, so he took the opportunity to run his eyes over her—her hair, soft and dark, her face in profile...the smooth line of her forehead, straight little nose, lips and chin. Her form, in the same black dress that she always wore—or were there two of them?
He resolved to try to notice the details—though women’s clothing was normally of little interest to him. But everything about Miss Bolton fascinated him. Why did she sometimes tap her fingers on the table when lost in thought? How long had she been in mourning? Where was she from?
These things were of great interest to him. He could not recall ever being so interested in another human being.
The sound of Miss Bolton’s handwashing water sloshing in the sink had attracted attention. The door was ajar, and suddenly an unknown serving woman, wearing the uniform of a housemaid, bounced into the room.
‘Oh, Miss Marianne!’ she declared. ‘There you are! I’m to tell you that the master is returned early! He—’
Catching sight of Ash, she clapped a hand to her mouth, blushed profusely, and began stammering apologies.
‘Think nothing of it!’ he responded genially, half amused. ‘For how could you have expected to discover me in this—’ he indicated the room ‘—this fine scullery?’
As he spoke her words sank in and his brow creased. Marianne? Had the maid said Marianne? But Miss Bolton’s name, he knew, was Anne. He knew it because he had studied the letter from the register office to Lady Kingswood in quite obsessive detail. The name Anne had become etched in his brain ever since.
He glanced at Miss Bolton and his senses sharpened. She was pale and trembling, and looking at the maid with an expression akin to horror. Her eyes flicked to him and then, with a visible effort, she addressed the maid.
‘I have told you before, Jane, to address me as Miss Bolton. Only close family and friends use my given name—which is Anne, not Marianne.’ Her demeanour was stern—most unlike her. ‘As you see, I am already aware that Lord Kingswood is home. Now, go and be about your duties!’
‘Yes, Miss Bolton.’ The maid bobbed a curtsey, sent one final frightened glance towards Ash, then left.
Something was not right here. With a strong feeling of dread Ash knew he had to pursue it.
He glanced around. There were a couple of crude wooden chairs in the corner. Pulling them to the centre of the room, he placed them facing each other.
‘Sit down, please,’ he said.
She complied. He studied her face closely. Her gaze dropped to her hands. She was the picture of guilt.
His jaw clenched. ‘What is your name?’
She lifted her head and looked at him. ‘A-Anne Bolton.’
She was lying. ‘Why did she call you Marianne?’
She shook her head. ‘I—I know not. Perhaps she has confused me with someone else.’
He raised a sceptical eyebrow and she flinched.
‘You called her Jane. Is she Mrs Bailey’s daughter?’
‘Yes.’
Her hands were now holding on to a fold in her dress, twisting the fabric unconsciously. He was reminded of her behaviour at the register office, when Mrs Bailey had first walked in.
‘And how long have you known her?’
‘I met Jane in—in the register office.’ She frowned. ‘No, that is to say I met her mother in the register office. Jane I met when they both came to Grillon’s in order to travel here a few days ago.’
She cannot keep the lies straight in her mind, he thought, somewhat incredulously. But why on earth is she lying to me?
‘She seems remarkably easy in your company.’
She opened her mouth to reply, but no words came out. She eyed him helplessly.
Confound it! he thought angrily. She is persisting with the lies. To me!
Rage built within him. He had trusted her, and she had been lying all this time. Dimly, he was aware that beneath his rage there was hurt. He pushed it away.
‘Perhaps,’ she offered diffidently, ‘that is her manner. Her mother may still be educating her regarding proper behaviour.’
‘Perhaps,’ he agreed shortly. ‘And perhaps I am the King of China!’
She flushed and bowed her head. She closed her eyes briefly, and when she opened them again it was as if she had shuttered herself away.
There was no expression in her voice as she said ‘I shall pack my things immediately.’
No! His instincts cried out against this.
‘You shall do no such thing! You are my employee, and I do not choose to release you. However, I demand that you tell me the truth.’
This fired a response. Her eyes flashed and she sat up straighter.
‘With respect, my lord, you may be my employer, but you are not my jailer. You cannot wish to continue to employ me now, and my troubles—my tales—are my own.’
Her defiance provoked him further. Why can she not simply tell me the truth?
‘Respect? Respect would be shown by your being truthful with me!’
‘You can have nothing further to say to me, my lord.’
She rose, and automatically he stood too.
She took a breath. ‘Goodbye.’
And before he could formulate anything in response she had whirled and gone.
Ash stood there, his breathing ragged and his mind disordered, for quite a number of minutes. His mind was awhirl. He had suspected before that something did not ring true about her, but he had hoped—foolishly hoped—that his mind was being overactive and imagining things that were not real.
Anger was overwhelming all other emotions. He was vaguely aware of a sense of loss—of doom, almost—but he would not look at it. How dared she defy him? Did she think herself his equal? She, a servant? Or almost a servant... Never had he heard or seen such bold disregard for authority!
Fuelling his own self-righteous outrage, he stalked outside and made for the stables.
‘Tully!’ he shouted. ‘Saddle my horse!’
A gallop through the fields was in order. Either that or he risked putting his fist into a wall.
* * *
Marianne reached the refuge of her room and closed the door. Immediately she pulled down her bandboxes from the closet and began throwing her possessions into them haphazardly. There wasn’t much.
To think that she had believed she had found a home here! All was lost! She had been found out and he was angry with her. She could not bear it.
Just for a second she had contemplated trying to tell him the truth. But there would have been no point. He would never have believed her. A gentleman—one of his own acquaintances, at that—importuning an innocent woman who was his stepsister? He could not—would not—think his friend capable of such depravity! Better that she just go. But, oh, how her heart was breaking!
Unreleased tears gathered in her eyes, hurting her throat and creating an enormous weight somewhere in her chest. She must not let them flow. Not yet. She must go. Now!
Her second dress was not there—of course, Jane had it. Jane! The poor girl would be distraught that she had caused Marianne to lose her position.
Sure enough, a few moments later Jane appeared at her door. When she saw that Marianne was packing she dissolved into floods of tears, apologising incoherently through her sobs.
Strangely, her distress helped Marianne settle some of the disorder in her own mind. She put her arms around the girl.
‘Jane, Jane—listen to me! This is not your fault. He would have found out in some way anyway.’
She meant it. Ash noticed things. Perhaps it was better this way rather than living on her nerves for weeks or months. Next time she would hope for an employer with less perspicacity. If there was a next time.
Once Jane had gone to fetch her dress, and to ask Thomas to prepare the gig, Marianne steeled herself and went in search of Lady Kingswood and Cecily. It was safe for now, as—according to Jane—the master had galloped off on his horse with a face like thunder.
Marianne aimed to be gone before his return. The thought of seeing him again—ever—was terrifying. His anger had wounded her deeply, especially since she knew that underneath it there would be disdain. Once his anger cooled he would probably show her contempt, and she would not be able to bear it. His good opinion of her had been one of her most treasured possessions, and now it was lost for ever.
She found the ladies in the drawing room, just awake from their nap, and initially a little bemused at Marianne’s news.
‘Leaving? What do you mean, leaving? Have you been sent on some errand, perhaps?’ Lady Kingswood’s brow creased. ‘I must say it is dreadfully inconvenient! When do you return?’
Marianne repeated her news, and this time it sank in.
Lady Cecily promptly burst into tears and fell upon Marianne’s neck. ‘Oh, Miss Bolton, please don’t go! For you are quite my favourite of all my governesses!’
Gratifying as this was for Marianne, Lady Kingswood seemed unimpressed by this evidence of her daughter’s affection for the governess.
‘That is quite enough, Cecily! I shall remind you that it is unseemly to display such emotion—particularly towards someone who is to all intents and purposes a servant. I remember a similar carry-on when your wet nurse went away.’ She turned to Marianne. ‘If you write to me with your new direction I shall ask Cronin to pay you whatever wages you are due.’
This was a blow. Marianne had been hoping to be paid before she left. Tearing herself away from Cecily—and she felt as if that separation would tear her heart in two—she murmured a polite thank you and left.
Conscious that she must—simply must—get away before Ash’s return, Marianne did not dare take the time to seek out Mr Cronin herself. Besides, taking her leave of the steward, for whom she had developed a sincere fondness, would cause her more sadness, and she needed to be resolute.
So she hurried back to her room and finished her packing.
Mrs Bailey arrived, but her protestations fell on deaf ears. The housekeeper believed Marianne should tell the truth, and that her employer would forgive her! Marianne knew better. Despite Ash’s kindness to her, she could not expect him to judge his own friend and believe her story—which would sound wildly impossible to his ears. In addition, Mrs Bailey had not seen nor felt the force of Ash’s anger.
