A Family For The Widowed Governess

Two days later, and after another foray into a bog closer to home, Marguerite could not get the sight of those dejected little girls out of her mind. Nor the way their father loomed over them. He’d been terrifying. Dark haired, broad shouldered, tall and ruggedly handsome. Handsome? Well and so he might be, but looks meant nothing. It was actions. He was clearly a brute.

She had wanted to say more on the matter of punishment, but she also knew that sometimes arguing with angry males only made them worse. She could only hope that he had calmed down before he decided on a punishment. He had seemed to listen to her words, even if he had seemed shocked by her temerity at speaking up.

She had quickly learned not to argue with Neville or he would find some way to hurt her: a pinch on her arm, a slap to the back of her head, places where no one would see the marks. But Neville was gone and she was dashed if she would remain silent while another man did things she did not like.

Marguerite stared at the dissected flower on the table. She needed to stop thinking about the broodingly handsome Lord Compton and his children and concentrate on drawing this plant. She only had this one to complete and she would have completed her contract and she could send them away. If all was approved, she should get her payment within two weeks.

Lord knew she needed it.

Instead of worrying about those two little girls she should be worrying about what was in the pantry for dinner. But that would have to come later, when she had finished this sketch. She picked up her ruler and measured each yellow petal.

* * *

When next she raised her gaze, she realised what had been troubling her for the past half-hour. She rubbed her eyes. It was almost too dark to see. With the light rapidly fading, she would have to finish the work tomorrow. She got up, stretched and lit two candles. Not enough to work by, but enough that she would not fall over the furniture.

She went down to the kitchen. Bread and cheese would have to do for this evening.

A scrap of paper sticking out from beneath her door caught her eye. Her stomach fell away. It could not be... He had given her a month to get the money together. She snatched up the paper and took it over to the table, where the light was better.

Five pounds. A week hence. To be deducted from the final payment.

She dropped her head in her hands. How on earth could she get five pounds in a week? She would have to meet him and explain.

Oh, what an idiot she had been to draw that picture. A thirteen-year-old idiot who had had the mad idea she would become famous and admired for her talent. Famous artist? What a joke. Yes, she was good at copying things exactly, but it had come as a rude awakening when she had discovered she did not have the skill required to bring her paintings to life. Technically good, the drawing master had said, but no flair. Peeved by the comments, she had launched herself into a furious caricature of her teacher. Her brothers and sister roared with laughter at her depiction. Encouraged, she had drawn their neighbours and friends, highlighting their foibles with what she thought was wit. Her siblings’ laughter and admiration had been heady, but, as they say, pride went before a fall. Drawing a very unflattering and lewd picture of the Prince of Wales with his mistress was the worst mistake she had ever made. What an idiot she had been to sign that dreadful sketch.

But hers wasn’t the only blame. Even she’d had the sense not to show anyone that particular sketch. She should have burned it. Of course, Neville, when he found it, had to show his horrid friends. Embarrassment rose in her in a hot, horrible tide. They had all seen it and laughed about it like nasty little boys. But once the novelty wore off, she’d been sure he’d destroyed it. He’d said so. She swallowed bile. Trusting anything he said had been the height of stupidity.

If it did get published with her name on it, her family would be so ashamed. And if they tried to support her, they would likely also be ostracised from society. She could not let that happen. She had to get it back and destroy it. And since she didn’t know the identity of the man who had approached her at Petra’s wedding and had no way to contact him, she would just have to find a way to get the money. She had begged him to wait until she could gather enough money to pay him what he was asking. Twenty-five pounds was a fortune, but with her next payment from the publisher, and using the money she had saved for next quarter’s rent, she could do it.

She bit her lip. Perhaps she should ask her brother Red, the Earl of Westram, for money, but knowing Red he would insist on knowing why she needed it and likely insist she live with him. Unfortunately, he was about to marry a woman who she really did not like. She had no trouble imagining how miserable she would be under that woman’s thumb. It would be nearly as bad as being married to Neville. Red’s future wife did not approve of independent women. Or artists. Or life in general. How on earth could Red—?

She cut the thought off. He had offered for Miss Featherstone and she had accepted and that was all there was to it. But one thing was certain: Marguerite was not going to move into their home.

If only Petra and Ethan were not away at the moment. She might have gone to them for a loan. Petra would give her whatever she needed. But then again, if Marguerite started to borrow money, where would it end? No. She had insisted on her independence and she was determined to make her own way. It just seemed so unfair that Neville had come back from the grave to ruin everything.

Her head started to ache.

She winced. That was all she needed. A headache. She put the kettle on to boil. A tisane would help and a little willow bark. And then she would figure out a way to earn some extra money.

Chapter Two (#uf1ce8270-9636-5f97-ad77-42d82b180843)

Jack had indeed been rude to Lady Marguerite Saxby. Marguerite. What a pretty name. Every time he spotted daisies in his lawn or on the roadside, which was all the time, he was reminded that he owed her an apology. Which was why, two days after she had brought his girls home, he was here in Westram village, wondering how to visit her in a way that would not get tongues wagging. It would be ideal if he came across her shopping in the village, or even picking flowers in her garden. A chance meeting would allow him to offer his gratitude and move on.

The post office seemed the best place to start his search. Once he’d had a chance to think about things clearly, he’d recalled who she was. He’d come across her name when he’d been called upon to help sort out the local vicar’s wife. For some reason, she had taken to stealing from the villagers and blaming it on a band of gypsies camped nearby. While he had not met Lord Westram’s widowed sisters during the course of his investigation, he’d certainly heard about them.

All three of them had been widowed on the same day. Their husbands had died on the Iberian Peninsula, having gone off together to join the army because of some sort of wager. It had been quite the on dit among the ton. So much so, the story had made its way to his little corner of Kent.

No doubt Lady Marguerite would have learned about his wife’s murder two years before. There had even been some who thought he might have done it, despite he had witnesses to account for his whereabouts. Perhaps that accounted for her hostility towards him.

‘Good day, Lord Compton,’ Mr Barker said. ‘We don’t often see you here in Westram.’ His beady eyes were alight with curiosity. Devil take the man.

‘I was passing through and recalled I was in need of...’ his gaze fell on a stone jar behind the counter ‘...snuff.’

Barker looked shocked. ‘My lord, I do not think that what I have is in any way up to your refined taste.’

In other words, why on earth would a man of his stature want to buy cheap snuff? ‘Oh, ’tis not for me, but for my children’s nanny.’

Barker instantly cheered. He took down the jar and began weighing. ‘An ounce is enough, my lord?’

‘Perfect,’ Jack said. The noticeboard caught his eyes, or rather a very artfully drawn poster. Drawing teacher willing to provide lessons, it proclaimed.

‘Notice went up yesterday,’ Barker said. ‘Lady Marguerite, looking for students.’ He shook his head in a ‘what is the world coming to’ sort of way.

How very...fortuitous. ‘I see.’ He tipped his head as if considering the matter. ‘My daughters could benefit from some drawing lessons. The older one has some talent, I think.’

‘Lady Marguerite would be the right sort of person for your daughters, my lord. Very nice in her taste, she is. You’ll find her at Westram Cottage, should you wish to enquire.’

He could not have found a better excuse to visit the widowed Lady Marguerite. He nodded. ‘Thank you, Barker. How much do I owe you for the snuff?’ He paid with the coin he had in his pocket and left the shop with a more purposeful step than when he had entered.

* * *

Westram Cottage lay at the far end of the village. A pretty little place, with yellow roses growing in the garden and over a trellis around the front door.

Did he really want to give in to this unusual impulse to hire a drawing teacher?

What he really needed was a governess for his daughters. She would teach them drawing. So, was this about his daughters, or about his interest in the lady? Because he could not seem to get her out of his head.

Nonsense. Nanny was right. He owed her an apology. The fact that she was looking for paid employment was also a puzzle. A widow living alone was usually of independent means. Now, puzzles interested him. He liked solving mysteries. Therefore, it was not the lady herself that had him intrigued, but her circumstances. For example, what had she been doing tramping around the countryside by herself? And looking delightfully dishevelled to boot?

He pushed that thought away. Nanny James was right, he really did owe her a thank-you.

He knocked on the door. Silence. No footsteps coming to the door. No sounds of occupation coming from inside. He stepped back and looked up. No smoke coming from any of the chimneys either. Clearly the lady was not home. Nor were any of her servants.

He pulled his card from his pocket, intending to write a promise to call on her the next day, when he heard a scraping sound from the rear of the house. Likely a groom working in the stables. Someone he could ask about the lady’s whereabouts and expected hour of return. He followed the path around the side of the house to a small stable at the end of a well-cared-for garden.

He entered the stable and gaped at the sight of Lady Marguerite, mucking out in a pair of men’s breeches and boots. He should leave.

Too late! As if sensing his presence, the woman looked up, pushed a lock of hair behind her ear and gaped back at him. ‘Lord Compton,’ she said. She glanced down at herself and winced.

She straightened, holding her shovel before her like a shield. It did nothing to hide her lovely figure. ‘To what do I owe the pleasure?’

Devil take it. The woman must be one of those freethinking sorts. No wonder she had seemed so odd the day before. Was she really the sort of person he wanted teaching his girls?

‘I...er...’ He still held his calling card in his hand. He held it out.

She made no move to take it.

He cast around wildly for something to say and decided, as usual, that the truth was best. ‘I apologise for my interruption. Having received no answer at the front door and hearing sounds of activity, I came to enquire when you might be expected home.’