The Earl's Runaway Governess, page 17
Fear, combined with her existing upset at leaving Ledbury House, had left her temporarily vulnerable at the inn. Oh, she had tried to resist him, had called out for help, but no one had heard her and no one had come. Besides, by law he had dominion over her. Even if someone from the tavern had tried to intervene he would have simply told them that she was his runaway sister and she would not have had the strength to deny it.
Within less than a minute he had wrestled her into his closed coach, her bandboxes flung casually into the back, and she had been trapped. The coachman and groom were unknown to her, and they had carefully averted their eyes as Henry had put her inside, then climbed in behind her.
And so here she was, travelling to an unknown destination, all that glorious freedom removed from her. As a child she had accepted her parents’ authority—of course she had—but having had a taste of independence as Miss Bolton she had found that she quite liked it.
The insecurity had been frightening, and worries about being found out had haunted her, but she had loved the feeling of purpose she had known as Miss Bolton. She had felt useful, and had known that she was valued by Lady Cecily, by Mr Cronin, perhaps even by Ash.
Now it was all gone. She was back to where she’d started, desperately needing to protect herself from Henry. Only this time he was angry with her. So angry.
Her left ear was still burning and her head was throbbing, but the dizziness had passed. She blinked hard to prevent her tears from flowing. She refused to show Henry weakness! The independent, confident Miss Bolton might have disappeared today, but part of her lived on in Marianne.
Looking out of the window, as the sky began to don its sunset cloak of glorious red and orange and deep pink, she tried to make a plan—any plan. But her thoughts were all disordered and her mind in turmoil. In her mind’s eye she pictured Ash, walking beside her from the garden to the back door. That was the last moment when all had been well—before he had found her out, before she had run away. Before Henry had found her.
Leaving Ledbury House had been difficult enough. But it was the severing of her connection to Ash that hurt most deeply. She had lost her home, her friends, all sense of belonging. She was truly alone.
* * *
‘Ash? Is that you?’
Fanny’s voice was querulous, high-pitched, demanding. The door to the drawing room was ajar, and Fanny now appeared in the doorway, peering out at him.
Ash sighed, but kept walking down the hallway. ‘Not now, Fanny.’ The last thing he needed was Fanny in a fit of temper or histrionics.
‘But I have questions and I demand answers! Why is Miss Bolton gone? And where have you been?’
Ahead, Cronin and Mrs Bailey appeared at the end of the hallway. They had clearly been awaiting his return. Ash nodded to them to indicate he wished to speak to them.
‘Miss Bolton has left—as she is free to do.’
His tone was flat and emotionless. Good. The last thing he needed was for his own emotions to break through his mask of unconcern.
‘And I have been out on my own business.’
He opened the door to the library and stepped inside. ‘Cronin, Mrs Bailey—I wish to speak to you about some matters of business, if you can spare some time.’
‘Of course, Lord Kingswood.’
‘Yes, Lord Kingswood.’
They both spoke at the same time, exchanged a glance, then followed him into the library and closed the door.
Ash sat in the winged leather armchair beside the fireplace and casually examined the cuffs of his jacket. ‘Cronin,’ he said nonchalantly, ‘tell me what you know of Miss Bolton.’
The steward nodded grimly. ‘I know little of her background, or what she did before she came here. But I know a lot about her.’
‘Go on.’ Ash steepled his fingers together and adopted an air of mild interest.
Inside, he remained all disorder. Why had she gone? What was her real name? Why had she lied to him? Who was she with now? Was she a practised deceiver, manipulating him for some nefarious purpose? Or a wronged and vulnerable young woman? Was she safe?
This last thought threatened to overpower him as the very thought of Miss Bolton in danger played havoc with his stomach and his gut. Perhaps hearing Mrs Bailey’s and Cronin’s perspective would assist him in deciphering the puzzle that was Miss Bolton. Certainly he had come to trust Cronin’s judgement during his time at Ledbury House.
Cronin took a breath. ‘I know her to be kind and clever and accomplished. I know her wit and her serious nature. I know how she became an important part of this household, how interested she was in the improvements you were making. I believe her to be honest and upright and—and a good person.’
Ash simply stared at him blankly. This, he had not expected. Hearing her virtues listed filled him with a sense of loss and confusion, and of abject woe—all at the same time. Never could he remember being so close to losing command of himself.
Carefully, deliberately, he pressed his fingertips together, watching them turn white until he had himself under control again.
Then he looked back at Cronin. ‘And if you discovered that Miss Bolton was not who she said she was? What then?’
Cronin did not flinch. ‘Then I would imagine there to be very good reasons for it. Whatever those reasons are, I believe at heart she did not practise her deceit in order to harm us in any way.’
Ash nodded to indicate that he had heard Cronin. The steward’s acceptance of Miss Bolton’s innocence was understandable, since he wished to believe the same himself. But she had not been close to Cronin in the same way she had been to him. While Cronin and the governess had enjoyed a cordial friendship, Ash’s own relationship with Anne—with Marianne—was much more complicated.
He turned his attention to the housekeeper. ‘Mrs Bailey?
‘Yes, my lord?’
Her face was white and he noticed her hands were trembling. He decided to go straight for the knockout blow.
‘Is Bailey your real name?’
This appeared to surprise her. ‘Oh, yes! My name was Mary Higgins until I married Ned Bailey, nigh on twenty-six years ago, and we had our Jane a year after the wedding. Ned died when she was nine and I have never remarried.’
‘And what is Miss Bolton’s real name?’
He barked the words out and Mrs Bailey’s face crumpled.
‘Oh, my lord, I can’t tell you,’ she said, ‘not even if you see fit to dismiss me! I can’t! I simply can’t!’
Cronin shifted slightly and Ash saw that he was looking at Mrs Bailey with compassion.
Ash was torn. He was desperate to find out more about the elusive Marianne. Bolton was clearly not her surname, so in his mind he refused to use it further. Yet he could see that Mrs Bailey was genuinely distressed.
‘Is there anything you can tell me?’ he asked, admitting defeat.
‘Yes. I can tell you that all the things Mr Cronin said about her are true. She is a good girl, Lord Kingswood, and I’m sure she felt bad not being able to be truthful with you.’ Mrs Bailey’s expression was filled with entreaty. ‘She did have good reason. I can tell you that.’
Not being able to be truthful with you.
Mrs Bailey’s words stayed with him long after she and Cronin had left. That was the nub of it. No one disagreed with the fact that she had lied. What he wanted to know was why she had lied.
Then there was this notion that she had good reason. As far as he knew people generally changed their names to hide from criminal behaviour in their past. Had she committed a crime? A crime so serious that she felt she’d needed a new start?
No references from the registry, and yet Marianne was a good teacher, highly proficient. Her manners and accomplishments proclaimed her a lady—or gentry, at least. He frowned, remembering her tale. She had said her father was a lawyer. Could it be true...? Was it, perhaps, her father who had committed some crime, staining his daughter’s reputation? Embezzlement, perhaps?
Lord! His imagination was running riot. He was, he realised, creating reasons in his mind—reasons that would allow him to forgive her. Yet the anger remained, and with it a strong sense of betrayal. If she had needed assistance why had she not simply told him the truth? If she’d had good reason he would have accepted it.
Yet he acknowledged that she might not have known that. Anger had been his foremost reaction on discovering her lies—and he had dealt with it by galloping over ditches and through fields and returned with a thousand questions. If only she had not left so quickly! He was sure he would have had the forbearance to listen to the truth from her, and to decide for himself whether her reasons were good.
The fact that he had been denied the opportunity was frustrating. She had not trusted him enough. The realisation pierced him.
Stop this! he told himself. She is a governess who was working in your household. She has resigned. Now she is gone. That is all.
If only that were true.
* * *
Marianne awoke with a start. The carriage had stopped its slow swaying and there were noises outside. She opened her eyes and gently touched the side of her head. There was a lump there from Henry’s blow, and she still felt a little sick and dizzy. She could see that it was almost fully dark, and they seemed to have arrived at their destination.
The coachman opened the door and let down the step, and Henry exited the carriage.
‘Welcome to my London townhouse, sister,’ he said. When she did not move, he added, ‘Well, come on then!’
Marianne stood stiffly and followed him out. They were in a well-to-do street, with elegant houses of various sizes and designs on both sides of the road. They had stopped outside a narrow, newish-looking three-storey house, and as Marianne looked at it, the front door opened. Two servants came out and wordlessly took Marianne’s luggage and a trunk that presumably belonged to Henry.
Although unsure exactly where in London she was, or what was happening, Marianne wondered if this might be a chance to escape. She glanced furtively around. Perhaps now, while Henry was distracted—
‘Do not even attempt to leave again, Marianne.’
He was right next to her, speaking quietly in her ear.
‘Next time I will not be so kind.’
Kind? Kind? Her head was still throbbing with pain—she had been half aware of it even as she had dozed in the carriage. If this was Henry being kind, then she dreaded to think what he intended when he wished to be unkind.
Slowly, she went up the steps and into the house.
The door closed behind her.
* * *
The bedchamber was perfectly comfortable, Marianne had to admit. The furniture was of good quality, the hangings were fresh and the whole was pleasing on the eye. But, oh! She would have given anything to be back in her sparse, plain governess’s room in Ledbury House. There she had a place, and friendships, and the chance of seeing Ash, of speaking to him, of experiencing the thrill of being in his company. Here she was incarcerated in a well-decorated prison.
And a prison it was.
Standing in the hallway, Henry had given her clear instructions in front of the servants—a deliberate humiliation. She was to remain in the house at all times, though she could take the air in the garden to the rear of the house if she wished.
He had hired this house and all the staff in it. None were known to her, and all, he’d said, had been instructed to carry out his wishes. The servants all knew that he was her legal guardian, and that she had run away before. They had been instructed to ensure that she did not do so again.
A housemaid had brought her to this room, helped her undress, and tended to her head with soothing cold cloths, ointment—and silence. She was an older lady, with a grim face and stiff demeanour, and Marianne had found her quite alarming. Finally, she’d left, and Marianne had mechanically prepared for bed.
Now, lying in bed in the darkness, Marianne considered how her world had changed in a day. So suddenly and so completely. Last night she had lain in her narrow bed at home, anticipating Ash’s return. Tonight she was under Henry’s control, and would likely never see Ash again.
It was too much.
Finally, hopelessly, she let the tears fall.
Chapter Eighteen
‘You are quiet tonight, Ash.’
Fanny’s words penetrated Ash’s reverie. She had been speaking incessantly this evening. A stream of noisy nothingness had accompanied dinner, and now that Ash had joined Fanny and Cecily in the drawing room the torture had been renewed.
Why can she not just be silent for once?
He shook his head at his own lack of charity. Fanny was John’s widow and should be respected. Yet he needed time, and solitude, for thoughts of Marianne were plaguing him.
What if she was in trouble? Mrs Bailey’s words had impressed him, and he needed to believe that she had had good reason for not confiding in him. Now, though, his mind was filled with conjecture about Marianne’s abrupt departure from the inn. He had not mentioned to anyone that Marianne had gone away with a man. For a start, he did not wish to make it any more obvious that he was taking a particular interest in the governess, and also he was not clear himself what to think or feel.
Confiding in Fanny was out of the question, and to share his worries with the servants would be inappropriate. For the first time he bemoaned the lack of true friendship in his life. Oh, he had dozens of friends, to be sure, but none close enough to confide in. Since John’s marriage to Fanny had created awkwardness and coolness between them he had never again allowed any friend close enough to betray him.
How strange it was that now, with the benefit of nearly fourteen years’ experience, and the trial of having to endure Fanny’s company on a regular basis, he realised that his youthful infatuation—though strongly felt at the time—had in reality been a narrow escape. He and Fanny would have irritated each other no end, and the thought of being leg-shackled to her for life made him shudder. John had been much more phlegmatic and placid in character, and had probably made a better job of tolerating Fanny’s annoying habits.
‘Ash?’ Fanny was persistent.
‘Apologies. I was a hundred miles away. What did you say?’
She looked a little miffed, but straightened, giving him a winsome smile.
‘Just that I love our cosy evenings together—just you, me and Cecily.’ She leaned forward to pat his arm, and her hand lingered for a moment. ‘I know I was not particularly welcoming at first, but I did not then know how amiable you are.’
‘Amiable? Me? You have mistaken me for someone else, I fear.’
She laughed as if he had made a great joke. ‘Oh, Ash, your sense of humour is as dear to me as ever it was.’
He raised a cynical eyebrow. ‘Is there something in particular that you wish to say to me, Fanny?’
She frowned crossly. ‘Oh, you are the most provoking creature! Cannot I speak my heart to you without there being something particular behind it?’
He let this pass, although he was itching to point out that he had apparently gone from ‘amiable’ to ‘provoking’ in less than half a minute.
‘However, now you come to mention it, I do intend to take dear Cecily back to London again next week, once our half-mourning begins. Our new dresses will be ready by then, and I confess I am looking forward to being out a little. No public events or balls, of course, but I wish to widen Cecily’s acquaintance in readiness for her Season in a few years. And I suppose I shall have to hire yet another governess. Why do the wretched women never stay? Why, this last one was only with us for two months! Another ungrateful wretch!’
‘Mama!’ gasped Cecily, greatly daring. ‘We do not know why Miss Bolton had to leave so suddenly, but I am certain it was important. She was quite my favourite.’
Fanny sniffed. ‘That’s as may be, but it is not she who will have all the bother of securing yet another governess. Did Miss Bolton even think about the impact on me? Did she? No, she did not! Such selfishness!’
Cecily subsided, clearly deciding not to argue the point further.
And why should she? thought Ash. Miss Bolton will still be gone, no matter what we all have to say about it.
Fanny smiled at him again. ‘I should hope to borrow your carriage again, Ash, if you will permit?’
So that is it! he thought.
Fanny frowned in concentration. ‘And I must speak to the lawyer about getting more money from my funds.’
Ash’s forehead creased. ‘Go easy on the spending, Fanny. John left you a tidy amount, but you will need to practise economies.’
‘Now you sound just like John. He was forever telling me what I could not have.’ She pursed her lips. ‘I admit it has been surprising to learn just how much it costs to have the little luxuries of life. Why, did you know that one of the milliners charged me half a guinea for that straw bonnet—the one with the ostrich feathers? I was never so shocked when I received the bill. I did not even like it!’
‘Well, if you did not like it, why on earth did you buy it?’ Ash was rapidly losing patience.
She pouted. ‘Perhaps I need to find another husband—one with fortune enough to allow me to live as I ought.’ She eyed him speculatively.
‘I think that a very good idea, Fanny—though if you expect me to introduce you to eligible gentlemen you quite mistake the matter.’
The last thing he needed was to take on the role of matchmaker for Fanny—although without someone to make her practise economies she would likely find herself in dun territory in two years.
Someone as pretty as Fanny would, of course, never end in debtor’s prison. She would marry some unsuspecting fool long before. Ash pitied her as yet unknown future husband. She would remain demanding, verbose, and entirely oblivious to her own selfish nature. But if a man were looking for an expensive, empty-headed, beautiful companion, she would serve perfectly well.
