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When the clock rang out the hour of two o’clock and then fifteen minutes past the hour and then the half-hour and Lady Marguerite had still not arrived, he began to worry. A cold dark place opened up in his chest. A sense of impending doom.
He fought it off. The woman was late, that was all. Ladies were often late. They made a point of it. And it wasn’t as if she was travelling alone.
The butler poked his head around the door. ‘My lord?’
‘What is it, Laughton?’
‘Nanny James, my lord. She asked if you would visit the nursery. It seems there is a bit of a contretemps.’
Nanny had promised to once more have Lizzie and Janey in their best bibs and tuckers to await the arrival of Lady Marguerite. They would be getting restless. And when they were restless, they got up to mischief. With a sigh, he headed upstairs.
His oldest child knelt on the window seat, looking out. Janey was crying with her face in Nanny’s lap. Nanny gave him a look of appeal.
‘Ladies,’ he said.
Lizzie jumped down. Her hair was a mess, flopping around her face, her expression held defiance and there were tear stains on her face. He frowned. ‘What happened to you, Lizzie?’
‘Janey said it was my fault Lady Marguerite isn’t coming today. I said it was her fault. She pulled my hair, so I slapped her.’
Janey looked up. ‘I punched her back.’ She buried her face.
‘This will not do,’ he said. ‘Ladies do not brawl, they, they—’
Lizzie folded her arms across her chest. ‘They turn the other cheek. That’s what Nanny said. Well, that is not fair. And it’s not my fault Lady Marguerite didn’t come today, just because I said I didn’t want to draw silly circles and squares...’
He frowned. ‘Is that what you said?’
Lizzie shrugged. ‘I wanted to draw a horse.’
‘Circles and squares make a horsey,’ Janey said, though her voice was muffled by Nanny’s ample skirts. ‘Lady Marguerite showed us.’
‘Lizzie, if you were rude to Lady Marguerite, you will apologise,’ Jack said in his fiercest Father voice.
Lizzie’s shoulders drooped. ‘I want to draw a real horse.’
Perhaps this drawing-teacher notion of his was not such a good idea after all. Indeed, it had thoroughly disrupted his household.
‘She said she would come today,’ Lizzie said. ‘So, it cannot be my fault she is not here.’
Jack recalled the rather stiff words he had had with Lady Marguerite last evening. Was it possible that was what had made her decide not to come? If so, it was rather unfair on the children.
‘Did you say something rude to her, Papa?’ Lizzie asked.
Jack winced. The child was far too observant. ‘I don’t believe so.’
‘You did,’ Lizzie said. She poked her tongue out at Janey. ‘See. It wasn’t me. Now you need to apologise.’
Dash it all. Hoist by his own petard. ‘If I said something Lady Marguerite did not find appropriate, I will certainly apologise. However, I don’t believe—’
‘My lord,’ Laughton said, ‘a note from Lady Marguerite. Peter brought it, just now.’
Jack opened the note. ‘She is not feeling well. She has a headache. She will come next week.’
Neither of them needed to apologise.
‘People say they have a headache when they do not wish to speak to someone.’
Heaven help him. ‘Where did you learn such a thing?’
Lizzie frowned. ‘Mama used to say it all the time. When people came to call who she did not like.’
He recoiled. His wife had said that to him on a couple of occasions, also. He had always taken her at her word. Did this mean that also had been a lie?
With difficulty, he controlled his rising temper. ‘Nonsense. If Lady Marguerite did not have a headache, she would be here,’ he said with more confidence than he felt.
‘What if she never comes again?’ Janey said, looking up from her refuge, her lower lip trembling.
Dash it all, he had paid the woman in advance. She ought to be here. And if she was ill, she was now alone.
The note did not indicate the extent of her illness. Well, he would damned well see for himself. He marched off to the stables. Having instructed Peter to return to Westram when he had eaten and rested from his long walk, Jack set off to discover the truth for himself.
* * *
Since the pain in her head was gradually abating, Marguerite made her way to the kitchen. Why she had headaches when it stormed she did not know, but they hurt so badly sometimes she could barely see. It was at times like this that she really missed Petra. Her sister always knew when she had a headache coming and provided the tea and the cool cloths for her forehead.
Well, now she just had to manage alone.
She poured water into the basin from the jug Peter had filled before he went to present her apologies to Lord Compton. She dipped a handkerchief in the water and wrung it out. With the storm long gone and the curtains in the parlour closed against daylight, she should feel better in an hour or two.
Would Lord Compton accept her excuse? Or would he dismiss her out of hand and ask for his money back? Her head throbbed a warning. She forced herself not to think. Thinking only made things worse. She took her cold compress back to the living room, placed the compress over her eyes and gratefully dozed.
* * *
A loud rapping sound jerked her awake. She removed the compress. What was the time? She sat up slowly. Her head no longer hurt, thank heavens.
The rapping noise came again. It was not in her head or her dreams. Someone was at the door. Slowly she got to her feet. Yes, she did indeed feel better. She parted the curtains to see who was at her front door.
Lord Compton?
She put a hand to her hair. Her cap was askew with her hair a wild mess. Bother. Should she simply ignore him? She glanced out to the lane and saw no sign of a carriage or horse. He must have left his mode of transport at the inn. But any moment now someone was sure to see him knocking on her front door. If they had not done so already.
He knocked yet again. Clearly, he was not going to go away until she had spoken to him. What did he want? Perhaps he was the sort of employer who needed to assess for himself the extent of an employee’s illness.
Clearly, having paid her in advance, the man didn’t trust her to keep her side of the bargain. She wished she had never met the man. Never agreed to teach his children.
She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. People were not exactly knocking her door down, seeking drawing lessons. No, she needed this employment. She had no choice but to speak to him.
The cap she tossed aside. She threw a shawl over the worn frock she had put on this morning in order to give Peter a note for Lord Compton and shuffled to the front door. Hopefully, she could convince him that she would be there next Wednesday and make him go away.
She eased the door open a fraction. ‘How may I be of assistance, Lord Compton?’
He stared at her open-mouthed.
She remembered her hair. The colour of it, dark auburn, and its tendency to curl, often caused that sort of shock to anyone who saw it unpinned. She forced herself not to make a futile attempt to tame it into some sort of order. It never worked. Instead, she lifted her eyebrows in enquiry.
‘I...er... When I received your note, I thought I should see if I could be of assistance.’
Did he really expect her to believe that? ‘No, thank you. I have everything I need.’ She made to close the door.
He put out a hand, holding it open. ‘May I send for a doctor?’
‘I do not need a doctor.’ She needed peace and quiet. And besides, even if she did need one, she could not afford to pay him. ‘I shall be perfectly well by tomorrow.’
He frowned and stared at her hand.
She had forgotten about the sodden handkerchief she had used for a cold compress.
‘Your note said you had a headache.’
He sounded accusatory.
She stiffened. ‘I do.’
‘Then it is willow bark you need. Let me make you some tea.’
She blinked, stunned by his offer. ‘I can make my own tea.’
His expression became thunderous. ‘If you could make it yourself, you would have done so by now. Please, allow me to perform this small service.’
Why could he not leave her alone? Dash it all, she did not want her neighbours seeing them having an argument on her front step.
She drew back. ‘Do as you please.’
Oh, dear, was that rude?
Warmth emanated from his large body as he passed her in the hallway. For some reason she felt the strangest urge to lean against him. To absorb his warmth and bathe in the lovely scent of his cologne made from pine and something lighter and sweeter. She must be even more unwell than she thought.
‘Lay down on the sofa. I will bring the tea to you.’
‘Lord Compton, really—’
‘Do not “really” me. I was married. I do know what a lady needs when she has the headache. I also know you are alone here. Allow me to assist you, if you please.’
Unable to find the strength to argue, she returned to the parlour and leaned back against the cushions. The sooner she drank his tea, the sooner he would be gone. She closed her eyes. A gentle hand on her shoulder startled her to full wakefulness.
‘Lady Marguerite, your tea.’
She straightened and took the cup and saucer. The first sip was heaven. He had laced it with honey to take away the bitter taste of the willow. ‘Thank you.’
‘You are welcome.’ He reached behind her and rearranged the cushions so they supported her head and to her surprise she found it much more comfortable.
‘I occasionally suffer from a headache when the weather is stormy.’ She owed him that much of an explanation. She had also noticed that they came more often when she was worried.
‘Ah,’ he said. ‘Some sort of megrim.’
‘Indeed. It is not so severe that I need help, I assure you, though I do thank you for the tea.’
He grimaced. ‘My daughter Elizabeth was concerned that her behaviour might not have been exemplary and that you might have decided not to return. I assume that is not the case.’
‘It is not. I will come on Wednesday as promised. I will of course apply the payment for today to Wednesday’s lesson.’
‘Never mind that. You can tack an extra lesson on at the end of the six weeks we agreed upon.
Relief almost overwhelmed her. She had been worried that she might not be able to pay her blackmailer being short of the money for one lesson this week. She realised he was watching her closely. Did he realise how desperately she needed that money? She hoped not.
‘Peter will return later today,’ he said and moved to the window to look out.
‘There is no need, I assure you. I am able to manage perfectly well.’
‘If Peter had not been here to bring your note, I would not have known you were ill and might have thought you had taken my money and absconded.’
While the words were harsh, there was a teasing note to his voice.
‘Would you indeed have thought such a monstrous thing?’
He turned, smiling slightly. ‘Likely not. I have the sense that you are an honourable woman.’
Surprised, she stared at him. ‘I appreciate your confidence.’
‘Good. And my daughters appreciate your lessons. Lizzie has promised to do as instructed.’
She inclined her head. ‘Then I shall see you on Wednesday.’
To her relief, he bowed and left. What a strange man. Dictatorial one minute and smiling conspiratorially the next. She would have to make sure not to miss any future lessons with his children. She did not want him arriving on her doorstep thinking he could order her about, the way he did with the rest of his household. It was bad enough that he insisted she accept the services of his stable boy, no matter that it was to suit his convenience rather than hers.
* * *
The following Friday afternoon, a downpour of rain forced Jack to abandon his plan to inspect a barn on the far side of the estate and return home. He hoped Lady Marguerite had not ventured out in such inclement weather, though he was glad it was only rain and not a thunderstorm.
He had not seen her when she had come to teach the children on Wednesday. He had made a point of it. He had the feeling that his presence made the woman uncomfortable.
Hell, her presence made him uncomfortable. He could not stop thinking about that glorious mane of hair when she had opened the door to him, or how the gown she had been wearing clung to her slender figure. Once more, he pushed those images aside and got on with dismounting and leading his horse into the stable to be cared for by a groom.
Peter came forward to take his horse. He frowned. Lady Marguerite must have come after all. ‘Did you get a soaking, lad?’
The boy touched his forelock. ‘It were barely spitting when we left Westram, my lord, and as Lady Marguerite said, a drop of water won’t melt us. We b’ain’t made of sugar.’ The lad grinned, showing a gap in his front teeth.
A person might not melt, but they might end up with the ague and it didn’t look as if the downpour would end any time soon.
He went indoors and changed into dry clothes. He found himself pleased to have an excuse to have a conversation with Lady Marguerite, which was nonsense, of course. He had been pleased when Nanny had reported that Lizzie had been co-operative with her teacher on the previous Wednesday and that Janey had followed Lady Marguerite around like a little shadow.
When he entered the schoolroom, the girls were not in evidence. Their teacher was cleaning off the blackboard.
‘Good day, Lady Marguerite.’
She turned with a smile and inclined her head. ‘Lord Compton. The girls are with Nanny having their afternoon snack.’
Ah, yes. He should have realised it was that time. He nodded. ‘How is everything going?’
A crease formed in her forehead and her smile disappeared. ‘Very well.’
‘Good. Good.’
She hesitated.
‘Was there something you needed?’ he asked.
‘I know we spoke of this previously, but at the risk of being repetitious, I would like to request that you permit the girls to spend some time outdoors each week.’ She smiled. ‘Provided it is not raining, of course.’
A cold chill entered his chest. ‘We did speak about this before and my answer has not changed.’
She huffed out a sigh. ‘I think you are doing them a great disservice. Yes, they are behaving themselves during their lessons, but they are listless. I am sure it is from being confined indoors every day with little to do and no exercise.’
Anger rose within him. How could she think he would endanger his girls by letting them roam around outside? And as for being listless, he had seen no sign of it. ‘If they feel the need for exercise, they have the long gallery. That is its intended purpose.’
‘That is what Nanny told me.’ She shot him a black look. ‘Have you set foot in that room recently?’
He had not. His wife used to perambulate there when she was enceinte. He had walked with her before the birth of each of the girls. Of course, they had been hoping for a son. He still needed a son. But he was in no rush. ‘I have not been up there since my wife died.’
She winced. ‘Perhaps you would be willing to accompany me for an inspection?’
No, he wasn’t willing, but he could see she was not going to take no for an answer. Besides, if there was something wrong with it, he would have it fixed.
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