The Earl's Runaway Governess

‘Oh, no!’ said Marianne. ‘There’s really no need.’

‘I think there is. Lady Kingswood has jumped to conclusions and insulted both of us. Fanny! Quit that wailing!’

Lady Kingswood sobbed a little louder. Overcome with compassion—for she could see how distressed the lady was—Marianne rushed forward and touched Lady Kingswood’s hand.

‘Oh, please, Lady Kingswood, there is no need! I can see your anguish. Is there something that can be done to aid you?’ She looked at Cecily. ‘Would your mama be more comfortable away from the hall?’

‘Yes,’ said Cecily. ‘Mama, let us go to the sitting room and we shall have some tea.’

Lady Kingswood let it be understood that she was agreeable to this, and Marianne and Cecily helped her up. One on either side, they supported her through the hallway. Her sobs had quietened.

The Earl did not follow, but Marianne could still hear him, muttering under his breath.

Marianne could not help remembering her own grief in the days after her parents’ death. She knew that she had been in a dark place, and that she had at times been so overwhelmed that, like Lady Kingswood, she had not been able to think straight. Whatever was going on between the widow and Lord Kingswood was none of her business. But she could not ignore someone in need.

Lady Cecily opened the first door to their left and they went inside. The pale February sunshine illuminated a room that was—or once had been—cosy. It was in need of a good clean, and perhaps the door could do with a lick of paint, but the sofa that they led Lady Kingswood to was perfectly serviceable.

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.