The Earl's Runaway Governess, page 18
His tastes were otherwise.
She sniffed. ‘That is not what I meant at all!’
Tired of the subject, Ash turned to Cecily, who had also been unusually quiet this evening. ‘How do you, Cecily?’
‘I am well, thank you,’ she responded dutifully, but he saw how her shoulders drooped, and how she struggled to summon a smile.
He felt a pang of sympathy. She, too, was missing Marianne. ‘I am sure your mama will find another governess whom you will admire just as much as your previous one.’
She looked up at him and he saw tears welling in her eyes. ‘I do hope so.’
She did not believe it. Nor did he.
Abruptly he rose, and bowed to them both. ‘If you will excuse me, I shall retire early tonight. I have a slight headache, and I have much to do in the morning.’
They replied with polite ‘Goodnights,’ but the last thing he saw as he turned to leave was Cecily’s sympathetic expression. They both knew what ailed him, and it was not a headache.
* * *
Marianne had not slept well. She had tossed and turned for an age, desperately trying to quiet her mind, which persisted in showing her images of the day’s events: Ash’s angry, disappointed face; Henry standing in front of her in the inn yard at Netherton; Henry again, with his fist raised.
And, as if that was not sufficient to prevent her from having any rest, her mind also created a series of plays and stories which were not true and had not happened, yet which seemed as real as if they were happening in that instant. Chief among these was one in which she tried to escape this house and was inevitably caught, and another in which Ash berated her remorselessly for being false to him.
The dawn had already broken by the time Marianne at last fell into an exhausted doze, and soon she woke suddenly as the same housemaid from last night entered her room, opened the curtains wide, and informed her that breakfast would be served in twenty minutes.
Marianne’s body went instantly from exhausted sleep to full, fearful alertness.
‘Where is my brother?’ she asked, unable to prevent a slight tremor in her voice.
‘The master does not rise before noon,’ was the response. ‘However, he has instructed that you are to follow a set pattern while you are here.’
While you are here. What did that mean? She remembered that yesterday Henry had said he had plans for her. She shuddered to think of what wicked scheme he had in mind.
She rose, and washed, and allowed the disagreeable housemaid to help her into her second-best black dress. She descended to the middle floor and endured a solitary breakfast in a room that would otherwise have been quite pleasant. The food tasted like sawdust to her, but she knew she must eat, so forced herself to have tea and porridge.
Afterwards, knowing that Henry was still asleep on the top floor somewhere, she decided to explore the middle and ground-floor rooms—it was a small act of rebellion, but she was determined to find small ways in which she could exercise a measure of control over her world.
The house contained a pleasant collection of drawing rooms, parlours, a dining room, a library and even a modest ballroom. If she had been here as a house guest she would have found it delightful. It was surely the most comfortable jail in England.
All the while she was conscious of the staff. There was a footman on duty by the front door at all times, it seemed. This was not particularly unusual, but when she tested the situation by walking dangerously close to the door the footman rose and blocked her way.
‘Sorry, miss,’ he said grimly, and it was clear that he was determined to follow his master’s orders.
A little shaken, Marianne retreated, but it did not deter her. Somehow she would find a way to get out!
The garden was surprisingly large, with a pleasant walkway bordered by shrubs and a few young trees here and there. There was no gate, and it was surrounded by high walls. No escape this way.
As she neared the bottom of the garden she surprised an elderly gardener, who was diligently digging out a bed for planting.
‘Oh, sorry, miss, I did not see you there!’
He eyed her warily. She saw his jaw drop as he took in the bruising on her face. His gaze slid away.
She lifted her chin. ‘I am Miss Grant.’ How strange it was to be able to say her real name again. But, oh, how I loved being Miss Bolton! ‘What is your name?’
He scrambled to his feet and removed his cap. ‘Ben Forshaw, miss. At your service.’
Marianne indicated the bedding plants, sitting in a neat row of pots. ‘What are these? I have never seen them before.’
‘Them’s called lobelia, miss. They’ll add some nice colour here and here.’ He indicated the places where he intended to plant them.
‘May I help?’
Suddenly Marianne knew that to do some gardening would help her cope with her imprisonment.
Ben assented—well, what else could he do?—and soon Marianne was kneeling at the edge of the path, her hands gloriously soiled. The sun gently warmed her back, the smell of rich earth filled her nostrils, and briefly she almost forgot her troubles. Had it been only yesterday that she had been tending to her garden at Ledbury House and waiting for Ash’s return?
All too soon the task was done, and Marianne had to go back inside. She looked at the stairs down to the servants’ quarters, wishing she had the confidence to go to the kitchens to wash her grimy hands, but she dared not. The house servants seemed universally hostile. At least the gardener, Ben, had been civil to her—a small kindness that had made her day more bearable.
Giving up on the idea of going to the servants’ quarters, she climbed all the way up to her room on the top floor and washed her hands and face carefully there. She then moved the chair to the window and sat, hands folded in her lap, watching all of London, it seemed, go by.
She saw servants going about their business, families pass by, perhaps on their way to the park, and a young couple laughing together in the sunshine. Silent tears streamed down her face. Her heart was breaking, she was a prisoner in a gilded cage, and she had absolutely no idea what was to become of her.
She waited.
An hour passed, then another. She half dozed in the chair, her head nodding, then jerking upright. Finally, soon after the small clock on her mantel had struck two, she was summoned.
‘Miss Grant.’ It was the disagreeable housemaid. ‘The master would like to see you in the library.’
The maid waited, clearly expecting Marianne to accompany her immediately.
‘I shall be downstairs directly.’
The maid’s lips tightened, but she did not argue.
When she had gone Marianne took a few deep breaths and checked her appearance in the mirror. Her hair was neatly contained in its pins, her dress was reasonably clean and tidy—and the lump on the side of her head made her look as though she had been involved in a prize fight.
She peered at her reflection, gingerly touching the soft swelling above her left ear. It distorted her face, somehow, made her look strange. It hurt still—really hurt—and she was glad that her parents were not here to see what Henry truly was...what he had done to her. Ironic, since he was only able to have such power over her because they were gone.
Actually, that was not quite right. It was Papa’s death that was key. If Mama had not also died in the same carriage accident Henry might have allowed her to live with Mama and not bothered her. Papa’s will—from what Marianne understood—gave Marianne no choice whatsoever. Papa had made Henry her guardian in all circumstances.
Marianne did not know the detail of Papa’s will, as she had collapsed before the lawyer had read to the end. Not for the first time Marianne wished she had been more alert in those early days after her parents’ death.
She descended the staircase slowly, her heart pounding and her palms damp. ‘Ash...’ she murmured to herself, and immediately felt a little better. Even the thought of him, the shape of his name in her mouth, gave her strength.
She entered the room without knocking.
Henry was seated behind the writing desk, a cluster of papers in front of him. When she entered he shoved them all into the desk drawer on the right-hand side and closed it firmly. He then took a small silver key out of his pocket and locked the desk drawer. Looking up at her finally, he visibly recoiled at her appearance.
‘For goodness’ sake, Marianne, you look a mess! Did that maid not treat your head last night? That lump is disgusting!’
She would not accept this. ‘If I look a mess, it is because you hit me! Or have you forgotten so soon?’
‘I only retaliated after you hit me!’
There it was, the sulky tone. She remembered it of old.
‘You must learn not to provoke me,’ he said.
The injustice of this was immediately apparent to her, but before she could respond, he spoke again.
‘You have caused no end of trouble by running away as you did.’
‘And what would you have had me do? Stay at home for you to—to—’ She would not complete the sentence.
He laughed. ‘Your months as Lord Kingswood’s trollop have made you no less a prude, I see! Yes, you should have stayed at home and allowed me into your bed. You achieved nothing by running away, apart from making life difficult for me.’
Oh, but I did, she thought. I learned that I am strong, and capable, and resourceful. I travelled on the stage by myself and conquered my fear of London. I won a position in a genteel household. I was a good governess, and I learned about farming and estate management. I looked after myself without a maid, and I met some wonderful people.
Aloud, she said, ‘How did it make your life difficult? I thought you would not care that I was gone.’
‘In truth,’ he said, ‘I did not, at first. But then ill-natured people began to spread foul stories about me. They questioned my character and my good name.’
Marianne was confused. ‘Why? How did our—our quarrel affect your reputation?’
‘Some of my—I hesitate to call them friends... Two or three of the men I had invited that weekend turned out to be false friends. Naturally I have cut them off—I am no longer willing to give them the benefit of my company. They actually accused me of cheating at cards, and of not paying debts they said I owed them! Absolute nonsense, of course.’
Biting back a sceptical retort which might, if uttered, earn her a second blow to the head, Marianne decided to keep him on track. ‘But what has that got to do with me?’
‘As part of the lies they are circulating about me, they suggested that I was ill-treating you by keeping you in the country. Which, of course, is a total falsehood!’
Marianne was conscious of a feeling of bewilderment. Had he no self-awareness? No sense of irony? Here she was, standing in his presence with a swelling to her head and a broken lip which he had inflicted, and he was maintaining that he did not ill-treat her!
This time, she could not help but emit a small bark of cynical laughter.
He had the grace to flush. ‘Yes, well, you know that I have never raised a hand to you before—not since we were children, I mean. And we both know that what happened yesterday was your fault.’
Marianne was barely listening. She now understood why he had needed her to return—and that she had more power here than she had realised. ‘So what is it that you require from me?’ She wanted him to admit it.
‘Not much,’ he said, though he was avoiding her gaze. ‘I will take you about a little...introduce you to people. Perhaps hold a dinner party here. That will silence the naysayers.’ He glanced at her head. ‘Not yet, though.’
‘I should think not!’ she retorted. ‘There is something else, though. Something you are not telling me. What is it?’
‘Nothing—nothing at all,’ he responded as his gaze slid away.
He was clearly lying, but at this moment she had no way of getting the rest of the truth from him. Still, at least she knew what he wanted. And could use it to negotiate with him.
‘I shall need new clothes,’ she said. ‘We are out of mourning and it would not be appropriate to have your stepsister going about in two well-worn black dresses.’
He eyed her dress with disfavour. ‘Agreed,’ he said. ‘You do me no credit, looking like that. But if you think that visiting dressmakers will give you the chance to run away again you can forget the notion. You will be accompanied everywhere by your personal maid and by my most loyal footman. They will be acting on my direct orders to watch you at all times.’
Dash it! That had been exactly what she was planning.
He smiled cruelly. ‘Your thoughts are so evident, Marianne! Now, go and do something. I have things to attend to.’ He put the silver key back in the drawer. ‘Go!’
She went.
Chapter Nineteen
One week later
‘Such a pleasure to meet you, Miss Grant.’
As he spoke, the man’s gaze swept over Marianne insolently, lingering on her bosom. She withdrew her hand from his and nodded coolly. She would not lie by pretending the pleasure was in any way mutual.
‘Grant!’ he bellowed, without removing his gaze from Marianne. ‘I take it back. You do have a sister, and a comely one at that.’
It was Henry’s dinner party, and Marianne was acting as hostess. She had put it off as long as she could but had finally run out of excuses. Her new wardrobe had arrived—Henry had been surprisingly generous, and she had been able to order a range of beautiful dresses, petticoats, shoes and hats, as well as spencers, pelisses and a new cloak.
Bluntly, he had reminded her that the only reason he was spending money on what he called ‘fripperies’ was because he wanted society to understand that he was looking after her well.
As per his orders, the servants had ensured that she was closely watched each time she left the house for a dress-fitting, and she had had no opportunity to slip away into the bustling London crowds. Her head had now healed completely—she had tested earlier for any trace of the painful swelling, but it was gone. Inside, though, the scars would take much longer to heal.
While she no longer believed herself to be in immediate physical danger from Henry, she despaired at times, wondering what his plan was for her after she had sufficiently repaired his reputation. At best, she would be banished to their old home in the country. At worst, he would retain her as his hostess, and her own reputation—and her innocence—would gradually be lost through exposure to Henry’s rakehell friends.
Like this one.
The man raised his quizzing glass to one eye which, as Marianne looked at it, became magnified to a monstrous degree. ‘A fine-looking girl, indeed, Grant. Doesn’t look much like you, though!’
He guffawed at his own joke, while Henry looked put out.
‘Henry is my stepbrother,’ Marianne said firmly. ‘My own father died, and my mother’s second marriage was to Henry’s father.’
It was strange to remember that dear Papa had not actually been her natural father, so caring had he been towards her—his wife’s child from her previous marriage.
‘Oh, that explains it.’ Henry’s friend chuckled. ‘Might have guessed you weren’t related by blood. Fine-looking girl,’ he repeated.
‘Yes, well...’ said Henry distractedly. ‘Shall we go through for dinner?’
Thankfully, Henry’s lecherous friend was seated midway down the table, so Marianne was not forced to engage with him during what felt like the longest dinner she had ever experienced. She was, naturally, at the foot of the table, and divided her conversation between the two young gentlemen on either side of her—one of whom was more interested in the food than in conversation, and the other whose focus, seemingly, was in seeing how much wine he could imbibe without seeming rude. He had two glasses in the time that others drank one, and kept nodding at the footman to refill his glass each time he drained it.
Marianne, needing her wits about her, was taking impossibly small sips from her own glass.
She glanced down the table. Beyond the young men were two widowed ladies, neither of whom seemed to be as refined as Marianne would have liked. In addition there were a number of men and women whom she had never met before, but who did not look like the sort of people she would wish to become better acquainted with.
She ate her food and engaged in just enough conversation for politeness. And so it was that she was easily able to hear the conversation between one of the widows and the man beside her when, to her shock, the name Kingswood was mentioned.
‘Yes, recently widowed and on the catch for the new Lord Kingswood, they say. She had the Fourth Earl, and now she will have the Fifth!’
The man murmured something in response, and the widow tittered in delight.
‘Indeed! And just when we had all quite given up on the notion of the new Lord Kingswood ever marrying! The Earldom needs an heir, no doubt. They say she was his childhood sweetheart, you know... No—no date as yet, but Lady Kingswood has been dropping the broadest hints. She is still in mourning for her husband, so they will likely wait a few months. Though why she would wish to give up her widow’s weeds, I know not. I find it perfectly agreeable to be a widow!’
Marianne remained frozen, her fork gripped tightly in her hand. Ash was to marry Lady Kingswood? It could not be true!
She could almost hear the crack as her heart split open. As if it was not enough that she had had to leave him. That he felt anger and disdain towards her. That she had never been able to tell him her true name.
Despair and impotent frustration washed over her. He would marry and she would never again enjoy his company, nor see his smile, nor feel that leap of her heart when she saw him.
