The Earl's Runaway Governess
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She lay down, quiet now, and Marianne put a soft cushion under her head. ‘Now, Lady Kingswood, should you like a tisane? Or some tea?’ Marianne spoke softly.
‘Tea...’ The voice was faint.
Lady Cecily sat on the edge of the sofa and lifted her mother’s hand. Marianne looked around. Spotting a bell-pull near the fireplace, she gave it a tug.
‘It doesn’t work.’ Cecily rose from the sofa and opened the door. ‘Mrs Cullen! Mrs Cullen!’ Her voice was shockingly loud—and quite inappropriate for a young lady. ‘Some of the bells work, but not this one.’
Oblivious to Marianne’s reaction, the girl returned to her station by her mother’s side. Marianne sat on an armchair near the sofa and took the opportunity to study both of them.
Lady Cecily was a pretty young lady, with blonde hair, a slim figure and distinctive amber eyes. She carried herself well and was clearly very fond of her mama. Lady Kingswood, still prostrate on the sofa, with her hand over her forehead and her eyes closed, was a good-looking woman with fair hair, beautiful blue eyes, and the merest hint of wrinkles at the sides of her mouth. She was, Marianne guessed, in her early thirties. If Cecily was twelve—which seemed correct—then Lady Kingswood must have been married young. Married young and now widowed young.
It was not uncommon, Marianne knew. Why, when she herself had turned seventeen, three years ago, her parents had offered her a London season—which she had declined in horror. Go to London? Where Henry did his drinking and his gambling and his goodness knew what else? She had shuddered at the very idea.
Her parents, themselves more comfortable in the country, had let the matter drop, but had encouraged Marianne to attend the local Assembly Rooms for country balls and musical evenings. These she had enjoyed, and she had struck up mild friendships with some of the young men and women of a similar age. She had received two polite but unexciting marriage proposals, had declined both, and had continued to enjoy her life with her family.
Until the tragedy. That night when she had lost both parents at once.
Immediately a wave of coldness flooded her belly. Lord—not now!
Exerting all the force of her will, she diverted her attention from her own loss to the sympathy she felt for the bereaved woman and child in front of her. Gradually her pulse settled and the coldness settled down.
As she sat there, deliberately forcing her attention back to the present, she wondered where ‘Mrs Cullen’ was, and why she had not yet appeared. Lady Cecily was still sitting patiently, clearly unsurprised at the time it was taking.
Eventually Marianne heard footsteps in the corridor and the door opened, admitting a woman who must be Mrs Cullen. She was a harassed-looking woman in her middle years, with reddish hair and a wide freckled face. She wore the simple grey dress of a servant, covered with a clean white apron. Her arms were uncovered, her hands red and chapped from kitchen work, and there was a trace of flour on her right cheek.
She bobbed a curtsey to Lady Cecily. ‘Yes, miss?’
‘My mother is unwell. Could we have tea, please?’
‘Of course. Right away, miss.’
‘Oh, and Mrs Cullen, this is my new governess. Miss...’ She looked expectantly at Marianne.
‘Miss Bolton. Anne Bolton,’ Marianne said confidently. The lie was coming more easily to her now. That is not a good thing. ‘I arrived a short time ago.’
‘Yes, Thomas said so. Welcome, Miss Bolton.’
Marianne automatically thanked her, then frowned in confusion. Who is Thomas? she wondered.
Mrs Cullen must have noticed her confusion. ‘Oh—Thomas is the groom and the gardener, and I am the cook.’ She flushed a little. ‘I apologise for rattling on. It is nice to meet you, Miss Bolton. Now, I shall go and make that tea.’
She left in a flurry, but Marianne was relieved to feel that at least one person had welcomed her in a perfectly natural way.’
‘Thomas is married to Mrs Cullen’s daughter, Agnes. Agnes is our maid of all work.’ Lady Cecily was speaking shyly to her.
Marianne gave her an encouraging smile. ‘Mrs Cullen... Thomas... Agnes. I shall try to remember all the names. How many others are there?’
‘None. We used to have a housekeeper and a footman, and two housemaids, but they have all gone. And our steward died. He was old—not like Papa.’
‘None?’ Marianne was shocked.
A house of this size, an earl’s home at that, with only three servants?
From the sofa, a low moan emerged.
‘Mama!’ Lady Cecily was all attention.
‘Help me up.’
Assisted by her daughter, Lady Kingswood raised herself into a sitting position. Her face was blotched from her recent tears, but she was still an extremely pretty woman, Marianne thought. She could not help but notice the fine silk dress that Lady Kingswood was wearing. Cecily’s gown looked similarly expensive—the finest fabrics and the expert cut indicated that considerable expense had been laid out on both mourning dresses.
So why, Marianne wondered, have the staff all gone? And why is the house so dilapidated?
Lady Kingswood took a deep breath. ‘Miss Bolton,’ she began, fixing Marianne with a keen eye, ‘while I appreciate the kindness with which you responded to me just now, there are certain questions I must ask you.’
Marianne’s heart sank. ‘Of course.’
‘I contacted a London registry to find a governess, but they sent me no word that they had appointed someone. I had no notion of your arrival.’
‘They appointed me only two days ago, but assured me they would write ahead to let you know I would arrive today.’
‘No letter has been received.’ Her eyes narrowed. ‘So how did you manage to arrive with A—with Lord Kingswood?’
Haltingly, Marianne explained how it had come about. Lady Kingswood listened intently, but Marianne had the feeling that she was not convinced.
‘I assure you,’ she said earnestly, ‘I had never met Lord Kingswood before today.’
‘Hmm...’
Lady Cecily, Marianne noted, was looking from one to the other, her expression one of mild confusion. Lady Kingswood noticed it too.
‘Cecily, please pass me my shawl. It is positively freezing in here!’
It was true, Marianne thought. Still attired in her cloak, bonnet and gloves—and how rude she was to be so—nevertheless could tell that the sitting room was only a little milder than outdoors.
Discreetly, she removed the gloves and stowed them in the pocket hung under her cloak.
Cecily passed an ornate shawl to her mother, commenting as she did so, ‘The fire has not been lit in here, Mama. And Agnes will be helping Mrs Cullen with dinner. We shall have to wait until afterwards for her to set the fire in the parlour again.’
Lady Kingswood looked a little uncomfortable. ‘I should explain,’ she said, addressing Marianne, ‘that we have had to make certain economies during my husband’s illness. Temporary, of course.’
‘Of course.’ What else could she say?
Thankfully, Mrs Cullen then reappeared, with hot tea and delicious-looking crumpets. Marianne, who had eaten nothing since yesterday evening, felt her stomach cry out for the food.
‘Dinner will be ready in about a half-hour, my lady,’ the cook said to her mistress. ‘What with the new Earl and Miss Bolton arriving, I’ve added a few extra vegetables and put a pie in the oven.’ She looked at Marianne. ‘Once you’ve finished your tea I’ll show you your room, if you wish.’
Marianne thanked her, noting that with the mention of Lord Kingswood the tension in the air had increased again.
The Dowager Countess Kingswood served the tea and they all drank and ate in silence. Marianne loved the freshly baked crumpets. If these were any indication, then Mrs Cullen was a fine cook.
‘Mama,’ said Lady Cecily suddenly, ‘can Lord Kingswood really bring whomever he wishes into Ledbury House?’
Lady Kingswood frowned. ‘Yes,’ she said bitterly, ‘and there is nothing that either of us can do about it. The law allows it. He is master here now.’
‘But,’ said Cecily, ‘that is not fair!’
Marianne reflected on this. Like her, they were victims of the law. Men wrote things in wills; women suffered them. As if it was not enough to lose a loved one through death, they then had to be subject to whatever the law said must happen next. In the Kingswood ladies’ case that meant subjecting themselves to the arrogant Lord Kingswood. For Marianne it had meant the arrival of Henry and his friends into her peaceful existence.
She shook her head slightly. Well, she would do all she could for Lady Kingswood and her daughter, as Mrs Bailey had done for her.
* * *
‘This is the room used by Lady Cecily’s previous governesses. As I didn’t know you were coming I haven’t had time to make up the bed or clean the room, but I shall get on to it as soon as I can.’
Mrs Cullen stood back, allowing Marianne to enter first. The room was fairly small, but it had a fireplace, an armoire and a chest of drawers, as well as a solid-looking bed with a clean mattress. The place needed dusting, and the window was grimy, but all in all, it was a pleasant room.
Marianne crossed to the window. The view was delightful—she could see the drive, the overgrown garden and the woods beyond.
‘It is a lovely room. Has Lady Cecily had many governesses?’
‘Oh, well...’ Mrs Cullen flushed a little. ‘We live very quietly here, and rarely go to London, so people sometimes move on to other positions. Not just the governesses.’
‘But you have stayed—and so has your daughter?’
‘Ah, but my mother and father both lived here all their lives. My mother was cook for the old Lord and Lady Kingswood, him being the Third Earl, and then for Master John and his wife—the present Dowager Countess—until I took over. She worked here for over forty years. I was born in this house, and so was my Agnes. This is our home too. We could never leave it, no matter how bad—That is to say we have a fondness for the place, and for the family, and they have always been good to us. Although, now—’ She frowned. ‘But that is of no matter. Now, would you like some warm water for washing?’
Marianne had listened to this rambling speech in some astonishment. Only loyalty to the Earl’s family, Mrs Cullen seemed to suggest, had prevented them from leaving. So why would they think of leaving in the first place? Were they not being paid? Were they badly treated? They certainly seemed to be burdened with overwork.
Mrs Cullen was waiting for her response. ‘Oh, thank you! But I know you are busy preparing dinner. If you will show me where to go, I shall fetch a jug of water myself.’
‘Indeed, you will not!’ Mrs Cullen looked shocked. ‘A gently bred lady such as yourself, fetching and carrying like a scullery maid? No, Aggie will bring it to you directly, for I shall replace her in the kitchen.’
She bustled off, leaving Marianne with much to think about. She was beginning to understand why she had been given this position. Without a character reference she could not afford to be over-particular. And with a high turnover of staff—including, it seemed, governesses—Lady Kingswood could not be over-particular either. Which meant that they were all tied together—herself, the ladies, the staff. And the new Earl Kingswood.
Chapter Five
Marianne ventured downstairs again with some trepidation. Aggie had informed her, when she had brought the water, that dinner would be served in twenty minutes, so Marianne had had a hasty wash, brushed as much dust as she could from her gown, then gone in search of the dining room.
The house was a similar size to her own home, though the layout was different, but she had tried two or three wrong doors before she’d eventually found the correct room. No one was there, but the table was laid for dinner.
In her head she was counting the number of servants they had at home. Seven—and that was just the indoor servants. In contrast Ledbury House, which was probably larger, was surviving on two—hence the dilapidation.
A small fire was burning in the dining room grate, and Marianne crossed to the fireplace to warm her hands. After the cold ride in the carriage she had not as yet warmed up.
Behind her, the door opened and closed, sending smoke from the fire billowing into her face and causing her to cough helplessly.
‘Oh, Miss Bolton—that is the draught! We do not stray too close to the fire unless we know that no one will open the door.’
It was Cecily.
‘The smoke comes into the room and can make you cough if you are too close.’
‘Miss Bolton will soon learn our ways, Cecily.’ Lady Kingswood had followed her daughter into the room. ‘Now, do tidy your hair, child. It is becoming unpinned.’
Obediently, Cecily raised her hands to her hair, which was, in fact, loosening a little at the back.
‘Can I help?’ Marianne, having recovered from her coughing fit, stepped towards her. ‘It is this pin which has become loose—there, now I have fixed it!’
‘Thank you, Miss Bolton,’ said Lady Cecily.
Her mother had already turned away, and now seated herself at the foot of the table. Marianne waited to see which side Lady Cecily would sit, then moved towards the other. That left one place setting—the head of the table where, presumably, Lord Kingswood was expected to sit. Lady Kingswood, noting it, pressed her lips together.
The door opened again, behind Marianne, and she realised from the other ladies’ sudden stiffening that it must be Lord Kingswood. He seemed to pause, then walked silently to his place at the head of the table.
‘Good evening, Fanny, Cecily, Miss Bolton.’
He looked every inch the gentleman, Marianne had to concede. He wore the knee breeches, snowy white shirt and superfine jacket that were currently de rigueur for evening wear. His cravat was tied in a complicated knot and he was fiddling absently with a beautiful pocket watch.
The fashionable clothing showed off his fine, muscular figure to advantage, and Marianne could not help again contrasting his appearance with that of Henry and his friends—some of whom were thin as a lath and others, like Henry, who were inclined to carry extra weight. Lord Kingswood somehow filled his clothes. Their clothing was similar, but there the resemblance ended.
‘Good evening,’ she murmured politely, reminding herself that appearance meant nothing. Lord Kingswood, though a few years older than Henry, was clearly part of the London set. Perhaps he even knew her brother! A wave of fear washed over her at the thought.
Cecily also replied to him, but Lady Kingswood merely inclined her head. Mrs Cullen and Agnes then appeared, with a selection of dishes, and the tension in the air dissipated a little as they all helped themselves to various delicacies.
Feeling she must say something, Marianne managed to engage Lady Cecily in a conversation about foods that she liked and disliked, and as the meal went on she felt Cecily warming to her a little.
The food was delicious—Mrs Cullen was clearly an expert cook. Marianne thanked heaven for small mercies. The house was cold, and rundown, and its occupants were at each other’s throats, but at least there was decent food.
Strange that she had taken her life so much for granted. Until a few days ago she had never had cause to question where her next meal was coming from. Although she had not actually run out of money, she had worried about doing so during the past few days. Now she appreciated the food before her as she never had before. She savoured every bite and was grateful.
‘This is delicious,’ she said aloud. ‘I must compliment Mrs Cullen on the meal.’
‘I agree.’ Lord Kingswood had unexpectedly decided to join in the conversation. ‘I admit I had assumed that with everything else in this house going to rack and ruin the food would be appalling. I admit to being pleasantly surprised.’
Lady Kingswood threw him an angry look. ‘How dare you insult my home?’
‘I was complimenting your cook.’ He eyed her evenly.
Marianne felt the tension rise. Oh, dear! It was all going to start again.
‘Rack and ruin, you said.’ She glared at him.
‘True. I have not been in Ledbury House for many years, and I am saddened to see how run-down it has become.’ His tone was unapologetic.
Oh, why did I compliment the cooking? Marianne thought.
‘Yes, you have not been here for fourteen years. And I wish you had not come now.’
Lady Kingswood’s voice quivered, and she had stopped eating. Cecily was looking anxiously from her mother to Lord Kingswood and back again.
Do something! Marianne was thinking to herself.
‘I have often thought,’ she said, her tone deliberately relaxed, ‘that pretty, comfortable houses remain beautiful through the ages, no matter the ups and downs of the families living within them.’
Is that enough?
Lady Kingswood looked at her. ‘This is a pretty house, isn’t it?’
‘Very pretty.’
Her hostess reached for a dish and spooned some potatoes and leeks onto her plate. At the other end of the table the Earl was glowering, and he seemed to be getting ready to say something. Something unhelpful, Marianne was sure.
She tapped her fingers on the table, considering. Then decisively she raised her hand to her face, hoping to catch his attention. It worked. He glanced at her and she gave him a level stare. She did not look away, but simply maintained the gaze.
His eyebrows flew upwards, then he flushed slightly and broke the contact. But he did not say whatever it was he had been preparing.
Marianne returned to her own meal, feeling that she had at least prevented all-out war at dinner.
* * *
What a managing, impudent young woman! Ash was thinking. How dare she presume to check my behaviour!
He had no doubt that was what Miss Bolton intended. The level stare she had sent him had left him in no doubt as to her meaning. He was to bite back his retort and allow Fanny to continue to play the injured widow.
Well, it will not do!
He no more wanted to be here than Fanny wanted him here. He had never asked to be Earl. John’s father and his own papa had been twin brothers, and his father had constantly talked of the lucky chance of being the younger son.
‘Just think!’ Papa used to say. ‘If I had been born just twenty minutes earlier my life would have been made a prison by the responsibilities of the Earldom! It would have been farms and quarter-days and conscientiousness, with no time to enjoy my life.’
He had instilled in Ash an abhorrence of responsibility, convincing him as a boy that John’s life would be unending dreariness and care. Ash had maintained that conviction, and even now was wary of anything that smacked of responsibility. He relied on himself and nobody depended on him. He was free to come and go as he pleased, and he liked it that way. What was more, he was determined to ensure that the Earldom would not trap him into conventionality or duty.
He might be Earl in name, but he was damned if he would be sucked into spending his time here, in this run-down, isolated house!
Only his obligation to John had ensured Ash’s temporary return. That and the knowledge that if he absented himself or passed responsibility to Fanny the place would be bankrupt within six months.
He had gone through John’s financial affairs with the lawyer, and had seen enough to know that with care and attention and some of his own money he should be able to restore the accounts to good health in a year or two. Only John’s illness—and his inability to manage his affairs as a result—had led to the downturn in fortunes. Wages had not been paid, good staff had left, and everything had gone downhill from there.
Ash had been busy in London these past two days. His valet and coachman were to follow him here tomorrow with his trunks, and he had charged his secretary with finding a good steward. He had found time to visit his closest friends to explain that he would likely be absent for a while. Most of them had thought it a great joke.
‘But, Ash!’ one had said, punching him light-heartedly on the arm. ‘You have never had any cares! I give it a month, then you will tire of this diversion!’
‘I only wish that were true, Barny,’ he had replied, somewhat sadly. ‘But I cannot see a month being long enough to fix this dashed mess!’
Barny had been right about one thing, though. Ash had indeed never carried any responsibility. Nor had he ever wished to. He was blessed with a decent fortune from his mother’s family, which enabled him to live comfortably as a single man. He rented a house near Grosvenor Square, overpaid his servants to ensure he would avoid the inconvenience of hiring and training new ones, and spent his life entirely at his own leisure.
He was at no one’s beck and call, he had no ties and he liked it that way. Responsibility meant limits and not being in charge of one’s own course.
Wistfully, he reflected that if not for John and this confounded mess he would be at White’s right now, enjoying good company and fine wine. Instead of which—
‘We shall retire to the parlour and leave you to your port.’
Belatedly he realised the table had been cleared and the three ladies were departing. Rising swiftly, he nodded politely, then sank back into his chair with relief when they had gone.
Although a favourite with the ladies—one of his tasks in London yesterday had been to bid farewell to the dashing high-flyer whose company he had been enjoying for nigh on two months—he was nevertheless unused to domesticity, families and, frankly, histrionics. His life was normally calm, devoid of drama and well-organised. And he liked it that way.
His mama had died when he was young, leaving her entire fortune in trust for Ash, and when he’d come home from school and university he and Papa would enjoy good food, fine wine and a wide range of male sports. Ash was a skilled horseman, boxer and fencer, and Papa had ensured he had access to all the best clubs.
And always, always, Papa had ribbed his brother, the Third Earl, teasing him about his dullness and domesticity.
John, Ash knew, had been raised from babyhood to be the next Earl Kingswood, and had taken his responsibilities seriously even in childhood. He would obediently leave Ash playing in the woods or fishing to go off with his father and his father’s steward to inspect a broken bridge or visit a tenant farmer, leaving Ash perplexed at John’s dutiful compliance.
Ash had a sneaking suspicion that he would not be up to filling John’s shoes, and that thought scared the hell out of him.
There! He had admitted it.
Remembering that there was no manservant to appear with the alcohol that he suddenly craved, Ash rose and began searching in the rosewood sideboard. Success! Two bottles of port and some dusty glasses. Blowing into a glass to clear the worst of the dust, he then wiped it with his kerchief and filled it with port.
Lifting the glass, he made a toast to his cousin, then sampled the ruby-red liquid.
Not bad, he thought. A pity you aren’t here to share it with me, John.
Not for the first time he thought with regret on the distance between himself and John since his cousin’s marriage. If they had been closer perhaps he could have helped during these last months—prevented John’s home from deteriorating, his financial affairs from spiralling downwards and his family from becoming distressed. Perhaps he could have learned a little about what he was supposed to do.
And you are still adding to his family’s distress, a small voice in his head reminded him.
He sighed. He knew it. Somehow, though, when Fanny was being Fanny his reason went out the window and it seemed he became eighteen again.