The Earl's Runaway Governess

‘What other matters? And why did John—my cousin—see fit to add to the responsibilities of the Earldom?’

Mr Richardson sniffed. ‘That is not for me to say. My role is simply to see that the requirements of the will are carried out.’ He arranged the papers methodically on John’s desk.

‘I see.’

But he didn’t. Not at all. Why had John added to his burdens, knowing how much he would hate it? Particularly when they had not been intimate friends for fourteen years?

John had settled into life as a country earl, staying in this rundown mausoleum of a house with his wife and daughter and rarely visiting the capital. Ash, on the other hand, barely left London, unless it was to attend a house party. Life in the country was intolerably tedious.

Perhaps, Ash mused, John has left me a memento—something from our childhood or youth.

Still, if he was forced to stay for the reading of the will it meant that he would not be able to avoid running into—

‘Mr Richardson! Thank you so much for being here in our time of need.’

Ash turned to see Fanny glide into the room, followed by a girl who must be her daughter.

Fanny had always known how to make an entrance. Her black gown was of the finest silk, with self-covered buttons and black lace detail at the sleeves. Her blonde hair was artlessly arranged in an elegant style, and her matron’s cap did nothing to dim the beauty of her glorious features. The cornflower-blue eyes, cupid’s bow lips and the angelic dimples that had driven him mad with desire all those years ago were all still there. If anyone could make mourning garb look attractive it was Fanny.

Despite himself he felt a wave of recognition and remembered longing which almost floored him. For a moment he felt eighteen again.

She stopped, as if noticing him for the first time. ‘Why, Ash! I did not know you were here already.’

She was lying. The servants would have told her of his arrival—and the fact that he and the lawyer were in the library for the reading of the will.

He bowed. ‘Hello, Fanny.’ He made no attempt to take her hand. Or kiss it.

‘This is most unexpected,’ she murmured. It was unclear whether she was referring to the immediate reading of the will or to his coming into the title.

‘For me, too.’ Pointedly, he eyed her daughter. ‘And this is—?’

‘My daughter, Cecily.’ The girl, as pretty as her mother—though with John’s hazel eyes—curtseyed politely, then looked quizzically at him.

‘I am an old friend of your father. And I am also his cousin.’

‘We were all friends, Ash.’ Fanny seated herself on a faded sofa and smoothed her skirts, indicating with a gesture that Cecily should sit with her. ‘May I offer you some refreshments? Tea, perhaps?’

‘A brandy would be preferable.’ He would need something stronger than tea if he was to endure the next half-hour.

She pressed her lips together and reached for the bell.

Ash sighed inwardly. Fanny had not changed one iota.

* * *

Mrs Gray had been making notes throughout her quizzing of Marianne, but now she lifted her head to fix Marianne with a steely stare. ‘It is difficult to find a situation for a governess who comes with no reference, no recommendation.’

‘I understand.’ With some difficulty Marianne kept her expression neutral. It would not do to show desperation. ‘But I assure you I will make a good governess. When I lived with my parents I taught our maid to read and to write. I found it enjoyable, and I believe I have an aptitude for it.’

That is mostly true, she thought. I did teach Jane—though the implication that she was our only maid is misleading. Oh, dear—how hard it is to be a liar!

Mrs Gray tapped her finger on the table, considering. ‘There is one possibility. A young girl in need of a governess. Her father died recently, too—indeed, my understanding is that he was to be buried today.’

Marianne felt a pang of sympathy for the unknown girl. She knew exactly how it felt to lose a beloved parent.

Mrs Gray was watching closely, and now she nodded in satisfaction. ‘She lives quietly with her mother in the country.’ She eyed Marianne sharply. ‘You do not mind leaving London and living in some quiet, out-of-the-way place? Will you miss the excitements of the capital?’

Marianne shuddered at the very thought of the ‘excitements’ of London. Since arriving in London last night she had been almost overwhelmed by the noise and the smells and the feeling of danger all around her. It had reinforced her notions of the city, gleaned from second-hand tales of Henry’s activities and from the behaviour of the London bucks he had brought to her home.

‘I have no desire to live in London. I am myself country-bred and will be perfectly content in the country.’

It would also make it harder for Henry to find her. If he even bothered searching for her.

‘I have one further question.’ Mrs Gray eyed her piercingly. ‘Those who come to me for a situation know that I sometimes place those whom other registries will not touch. But I insist on my people being of good character.’

Marianne’s chin went up. No one had ever dared question her character before! ‘I can assure you, Mrs Gray, that my character is blameless.’

‘No need to get hoity-toity with me, Miss—’ she glanced down ‘—Miss Bolton.’

Marianne blushed. Mrs Gray was making her scepticism about the name obvious.

The woman’s dark eyes fixed on Marianne, bored into her. ‘Are you with child?’

Marianne gasped. ‘Of course not! I’ve never—I mean I wouldn’t dream of ever—I mean, no.’ She kept looking at Mrs Gray. ‘It’s impossible.’

‘Very well.’

As if she had not just asked Marianne a perfectly outrageous question, Mrs Gray took a fresh sheet of paper, and began writing.

‘You will receive board and lodging and will be paid a yearly wage and a tea allowance. You will be entitled to two days off per month. Take the Reading stage from the Angel on Thursday and get out at Netherton. I will arrange for someone to meet you there and take you to Ledbury House.’

She looked up.

‘Remember, Lady Kingswood and her daughter, Lady Cecily, are in mourning, so they will live very quietly. I have placed servants and staff there before, who have left because the situation is too remote. I believe it is why Lady Cecily’s last governess left. The child needs someone who is willing to stay for a long time. After losing her father—’

‘I understand.’

Living quietly sounded perfect! Marianne had loved her quiet, easy life with Mama and Papa, visiting neighbours and friends and never aching for the so-called delights of the city.

‘Lady Kingswood had been focused, naturally, on nursing her husband through his last illness, which is why she has entrusted the appointment of a new governess to me.’ Mrs Gray handed her the paper. ‘Do not let me down!’

Marianne assured her that she was to be relied upon, then looked at the document. It gave the address as Ledbury House, Netherton, Berkshire. It also included a summary of Marianne’s terms of employment.

Her hand shook a little as she accepted it. Amid the relief which was coursing through her there was also a sense of unreality. Strange to think that from now on she would no longer be Miss Marianne Grant, a young lady of wealth and status, but instead plain Miss Anne Bolton, governess, orphan, and near-pauper.

She swallowed. The alternative was absolute poverty or—God forbid—returning to Henry. Fear flooded through her at the very thought. She would have to make this work, be careful and, crucially, be effective as a governess. She would also have to learn to respond to the unfamiliar name.

She looked at the page again. The wage she was to be given was shockingly little. It was much less than her allowance—the pin money that she had so carelessly spent each quarter on trinkets, stockings and sweetmeats. She had no idea how to make economies. Now she was expected to make this meagre amount cover all her needs, including her clothes.