Читать книгу The Governess's Convenient Marriage - Amanda McCabe, Amanda McCabe - Страница 8

Prologue

Scotland—1882

Lady Alexandra Mannerly hurried down the back stairs of her father’s hunting lodge, trying to tiptoe so no one would see she had escaped her governess. Even in Scotland, where life was much more free than London or at her father’s ducal seat in Kent, she was supposed to have lessons in the mornings. But she did not want lessons. She was nearly thirteen now. Surely she deserved to be free? At least for a little while?

And besides—she knew exactly where she wanted to go now. Who she wanted to see.

She could hear the clatter of the kitchens, the cook shouting for more salmon to make mousse for dinner, the maids dropping pans, her brother, Charles, begging for cakes. Her father was out shooting for the day, as he always did in Scotland, and her mother was locked in her chamber with a tisane for her headache, as she always did in Scotland. Alex knew her governess would like a free hour to flirt with the butler, so Alex was free for a little while.

She slipped out through the back door unseen and ran through the kitchen garden to the gate. The brisk, cool wind, smelling of the green hills, caught at her loose, slippery pale curls and the skirts of her blue-muslin dress, biting through her jacket, but she didn’t care. She could run now, run and run with no one to stop her!

The weeks they spent in Scotland every early autumn were her favourite of all the year. In England, she always felt so shy, so nervous of everything, so sure she was not being a proper duke’s daughter. That was what her mother lectured her about all the time—what a duke’s daughter should do.

In Scotland, no one was looking at her. She was just Alex, especially when she escaped to run outside and make her own friends. One friend in particular.

She pushed the gate closed behind her and ran through the thicket of woods. She could hear the wind whistling through the branches, rustling the drying leaves. From far off, she could hear the bang of the guns, but she knew they wouldn’t come near. Her father wouldn’t be home for hours, when there would be dinner, bagpipes and dancing, which she and Charles would spy on from above-stairs.

Beyond the woods wound the river, rushing fast over the rocks, a silvery tumble that made its own music, flowing down icy-cold from the heather-purple hills above.

And waiting for her was just the person she sought so eagerly. Malcolm Gordston.

Well—maybe he wasn’t waiting, not for her anyway. He was fishing, as he did nearly every day from the same large, flat rock, casting his line into the water and coming up with salmon for the cook’s mousse.

Alex stood very still for a moment, hidden behind a tree, and watched him. He was older than her by several years and thus quite ancient, yet he fascinated her. The son of one of the crofters on her father’s estate, he was unlike anyone she had ever met. So handsome, tall and strong, with dark gold hair that was too long for any London fashion and features as sternly carved as the rocks around the river. His rough, working clothes never seemed to matter; he was too much like some long-ago king, even in patched trousers and old boots.

And he was always kind to her when they met. He spoke to her as if she was herself, Alex, not Lady Alexandra. Not a child who couldn’t understand anything. She especially liked it when he told her old stories, legends of the Scottish hills, which his grandmother had once told him.

She ran towards the rock and he waved at her with a smile. ‘My lady,’ he called. ‘Come for another fishing lesson?’

‘Oh, yes,’ Alex answered eagerly. ‘I’m sure I can do better this time.’ Last week she had only caught a tiny sparling, fit just for throwing back. She wanted to do more in front of him, see pride in his icy pale blue eyes.

‘I’m sure you can.’ He handed her his extra rod and the bucket of cut bait, small strips of slimy herring. She knew just what to do, thanks to his lessons, and threaded the slippery bit on to her hook.

He gave her an approving nod. ‘You’re no squeamish lass afraid to get her hands dirty.’

Alex laughed. ‘Faint heart never caught fat salmon, right, Malcolm?’

She cast her line into the water and for a long time they sat together in silence, the peace of the hills and the river wrapped around them. She felt so close to him then, so comfortable. She never felt that way anywhere else.

‘How is your father this week, Malcolm?’ she asked. She knew from listening to the maids’ gossip that Mr Gordston was not well, had not been well since his wife died last year. Alex felt terrible about it for Malcolm, worried about his family woes, but he always kept such emotions at a distance.

His jaw tightened. ‘He’s getting better, I think. The cooler weather affects his chest right now and he misses my mam. But we get the work done.’

‘Should I bring him one of our cook’s herbal tisanes?’ Alex asked. ‘My mother is ailing whenever we come to Scotland and she says they do her good.’

Malcolm gave a strange, wry smile. ‘You’re a kind lass, my lady. But some herbal concoction can’t help what ails my father now.’

Alex was worried by his tone and wanted to ask more, but she felt a sharp tug on her line. ‘I’ve got a bite, Malcolm!’ she cried.

He grinned at her. ‘Don’t jerk hard on it, my lady. Reel him in easy-like, see. Nice and smooth. Don’t let him wriggle free.’

She followed his instructions and pulled up a lovely, fat salmon, her first real catch. And Malcolm had seen her do it! ‘Look! Malcolm, I did it!’

‘Of course you did, my lady,’ he said with a laugh. He so rarely laughed and it was a wonderful sound, deep and merry. She wished she could hear it again and again.

She was so overcome with joy at the perfect moment, so wonderfully giddy just with being so close to him, that she bounced up on her toes and kissed his cheek. It felt slightly rough under her lips and he smelled wonderful, of fresh air and crisp greenery and just like—himself.

‘Oh, Malcolm,’ she gasped. ‘I do hope we can be together here, just like this, always!’

She knew as soon as the words escaped that she should not have said them. His face went pale and he frowned, his earlier sunny laughter completely vanished. He drew back, his hands gentle as he held her away. Alex shivered, suddenly cold, wishing with all her might she could call back the last few minutes. Change it all.

‘I—I just…’ she stammered, feeling so very unsure. She longed to run away, but her feet seemed frozen to the earth.

Malcolm ran his hand through his hair. ‘Lady Alexandra—you are the daughter of a duke. I can certainly help you learn how to fish…’

‘But you cannot be my friend,’ she answered quietly.

‘You are a very kind young lady,’ he said, in that terribly quiet, sweet tone people used far too often to placate her. She couldn’t bear it from him, as well. Especially not him. ‘One day soon you will take your proper place in the world and you won’t want to waste time with a ghillie’s son like me.’

Alex knew, deep down in her most secret heart, that was not true. She knew what was expected of her as a duke’s daughter—her mother spoke of little else. Her governess drilled it into her. She was to bring honour to her family name, to marry well, lead society. But the thought of that made her feel terrified. She wanted to be free, to sit on the bank of a river just like this one, be part of nature, no one looking at her, expecting things she could not give.

To talk to Malcolm for as long as she wanted. For ever. He was the only one who seemed to just see her. And yet he did not, not really. To him, just like everyone else, she was the Duke’s daughter.

She hugged Malcolm again, even tighter, afraid it was the last time. The thought that she might never see him again, at least not like this, alone, easy and fun, made her want to sob. Malcolm hugged her back.

‘Let go of my daughter at once, you dirty cur!’ A sudden shout, as loud and shocking as the crack of a whip, shattered the perfect moment.

Alex jumped back to see her father looming on the rise of the bank above them. He was tall, the capes of his tweed greatcoat flapping like an ominous bird, his face bright scarlet. She couldn’t stop shaking with fear.

‘Papa!’ she cried. Malcolm moved away from her, sweeping his cap into his hand.

The Duke strode towards them and grabbed her arm, barely glancing at Malcolm. His hand was painful on her skin, bruising, yet she was so frozen she could barely feel it. ‘Come with me right now, young lady. Your behaviour is disgraceful.’

Through her fear, she felt a flash of burning anger. ‘It is not like that!’ she protested. She glanced back at Malcolm, who gave her a small shake of his head.

‘Your Grace, Lady Alexandra is not to blame…’ he began.

The Duke whirled around on him, his face turning even more red. His eyes bulged, almost as if they would pop free. Alex had to stifle a hysterical giggle. ‘You are just lucky that I do not thrash you where you stand! If I did not have to take my silly daughter home, believe me, I would. And I shall if I ever see you near her again. As it is, you should go home now and see to your worthless father.’

Alex had one more glimpse of Malcolm’s face, his handsome features twisted with fury, before her father dragged her away. A cart waited on the lane just beyond the rise and he pushed her up into it roughly.

Alex couldn’t hold back the tears any longer. They burst from her in rough sobs and she buried her face in her hands. Her father ignored her, of course, steering the horse towards their house, but she couldn’t stop crying. That last, terrible sight of Malcolm, the fear of what he would think of her now—it made her want to sink into the earth and vanish.

The house was silent when they arrived, as if even the stones and glass knew she was in disgrace. That she had lost her friend. The hall, all cold flagstone floors, animal heads staring down glassily from the walls, echoed with heartless carelessness. She glimpsed a maid peeking over the balustrade from the top floor, a tea tray meant for Alex’s mother in her hands, but then she vanished. Alex’s brother was hiding in the attics, as usual, her mother resting with a headache.

‘Go to your chamber, Alexandra,’ her father said tightly. He tossed his coat on to a tall wooden chair and strode away.

But Alex had to try once more. ‘Papa, you must not blame Malcolm! He was only—’

The Duke whirled on her, his eyes burning. He pointed one long, shaking finger at her, making her fall a step back. ‘You know what is expected of you, Alexandra, how the family name must never be disgraced. Your cavorting with a farm boy will bring gossip and it must end. Now. Besides, his family is not respectable. They will soon be gone. If I hear of you seeing him again, the consequences for you both will be even more severe, I promise you.’

Alex’s eyes ached and she was determined not to let him see her cry again. He would never see her cry again, would never know what she was really feeling. She ran up the stairs, past the rows of silent closed doors, to her chamber. Once she had loved that room; it was small, but in the corner of the old stone hunting lodge so boasting windows on two sides to let in the rolling countryside. Her white bed, draped in yellow tulle, her dolls stacked in the corner, her little white dressing table with its antique mirror, she had loved it all, found it a sanctuary from her family’s silence. Today it was only another prison.

She threw herself on the bed and buried her head in the pillows, trying not to howl. She remembered the sun-splashed river, Malcolm’s smile, the touch of his hand. He had been a good friend to her, maybe her only real friend. She couldn’t leave things the way they were. She had to see him, to say she was sorry, if only she could sneak past her father.

She quickly wiped at her eyes and went to peer out the window. The sun was starting to sink in the sky, the familiar purple, dull-pink Scottish sunset gathering in. Her father would be in his library for hours, until dinner. She would have to hurry if she wanted to find Malcolm and apologise to him. See him one more time.

She wrapped herself up in a long, dark cloak and crept out of her room, praying she would not be seen.

* * *

The croft was silent as Malcolm approached it, no smoke curling from the chimney, no one working in the small kitchen garden to gather the last of the vegetables. It was just as he had left it that morning, yet he had hoped, as he always foolishly hoped, that something would change.

The Duke’s words, that he had to see to his own house now, echoed in his mind, ominous and chilling. He had long known that the Duke, not a soft or kind man, would be patient no longer, but he hadn’t expected that moment to come just then. Because of Lady Alexandra.

Malcolm shook his head as he studied the overgrown path of weeds that had once been a vegetable garden. Alexandra was a lovely girl, pretty and kind, eager to learn all kinds of new things around her, full of questions. At first, when he met her trying hopelessly to fish and offered to teach her, it had been out of pity. Yet he came to look forward to their afternoons together, to enjoy their conversations, hearing her laughter and chatter. She was extraordinary, entirely unworthy of her father. Surely she would do wonderful things in her future.

But now that friendship had brought trouble to his door. He only wished he could have protected her, kept her that sweet innocent he adored so much.

Malcolm shook his head and sighed. She would have to learn of the real world soon enough; everyone was forced to it sooner or later.

He took off his muddy old boots and left them with the basket of fish near the door. Despite his own efforts, he could see all the signs of neglect on the cottage. The peeling paint, the loose shutters, the tangled garden.

When his mother had been alive, it had always been bright and clean and welcoming. How Malcolm tried his best to keep it up, to keep his father from being evicted by the Duke. It was the only way Malcolm could escape, if his father was all right. The only way he could take the apprenticeship he had been promised as a draper’s assistant in the city. He could be more than a farmer, if he worked hard there. Could win Mairie’s hand at last. Only if his father could recover.

Mairie. Some of the glow from his afternoon with her faded as he looked up at the loose tiles on the roof. Her father would never give her to a poor crofter’s son; she would never so give herself. And Malcolm wanted more for himself, as well. The vicar who had been teaching him for years said he was smart and quick, and could build his own business if he wanted. Maybe one day he and Mairie could make something together. They both had their own interests at heart, the interests of moving forward in the world, which was all that really mattered in a relationship.

He thought of that morning, fishing with Lady Alexandra, so quiet and sweet and clean. He wanted to build a life like that, a life where everything could be fine and good. A life just like her. He knew he shouldn’t think that way; Mairie was more appropriate for him, was within his reach, only just. Someone like Alexandra, never. The terrible ending to their fishing meeting showed him that so clearly.

He pushed open the front door, loose on its hinges. Inside the small room, it smelled of smoke and mildew, of old whisky. When his mother was there, the floor was always swept, the furniture dusted, the air smelling of fresh herbs. He remembered when his father would come home in the evening, the way he would catch his mother up in his arms and kiss her until she laughed.

His parents had loved each other so much. Too much. His father had lost his way without her. Malcolm vowed never to love anyone like that, never to lose so much. He would never be helpless like that, never live his parents’ mistakes.

‘Pa?’ he called. There was no answer.

He found his father up in the loft, sprawled across his bed. Still wearing yesterday’s stained clothes, reeking of cheap whisky, his skin greyish and clammy, his jaw unshaven. An empty bottle had fallen to the dusty floor.

None of that was unusual any more. What was strange was the crumpled paper that lay next to the bottle. Malcolm scooped it up and read it quickly, anger burning higher and higher inside of him.

It was an eviction notice. Signed by the Duke of Waverton.

Malcolm remembered the sting of going last week to see the Duke, his hat in hand, to beg for time for his father. Time to gather the rent money. The Duke had only watched him, stony-faced, and said he would do what he could, but he could not help those who would not help themselves for very long.

Now, he had tossed Malcolm’s father out. Now, at their family’s most vulnerable moment.

One day, Malcolm vowed as he tucked the blankets around his father, the shoe would be on the other foot and the Duke would beg him for help. And Malcolm would never give it.

* * *

Near the gate that led to one of the tenants’ farms, Alex was surprised to see a glimpse of bright red against the grey-green of the fields. She looked closer and saw it was Mairie McGregor, the daughter of one of the shopkeepers in the village, perched on the gate. Alex always rather envied Mairie, for her beautiful, long dark hair and velvety-brown eyes, so different from Alex’s own pale looks.

Today, Mairie’s black hair fell free down her back and she wore a bright blue skirt and red shawl, looped loosely around her shoulders. And she was not alone. A man was beside her, leaning on the gate as he gazed up at her, their hands entwined. Their heads were bent together as they spoke together intently, seriously. Mairie tenderly touched his cheek and he turned his head to kiss her fingers.

It was Malcolm. Malcolm kissing Mairie McGregor.

Shocked, Alex tried to step back, to hide, even though she knew they could not see her. They were obviously much too wrapped up in each other to see anything else. And she felt the sinking, cold ice of disappointment.

Mairie jumped down from the gate and walked away, tossing a strangely angry look back at Malcolm as she left.

Impulsively, Alex called out to Malcolm as he started to follow Mairie.

‘Malcolm!’ she called. ‘Please, just a moment.’

He glanced back at her, but his expression was anything but welcoming. She had never seen him look so cold, so hard, so—so much older. ‘We can’t be seen together, my lady. You’ve already got me in enough trouble.’

‘I—I didn’t mean to, please believe me,’ she said, desperate. ‘I am ever so sorry. I didn’t think my father would see and—’

He cut her off with a wave of his hand. ‘It doesn’t matter. His Grace has done his worst by my family. Now I have to make my own way. And you have to make yours.’

Alex was baffled. ‘What has he done? I can go to him, explain…’ But even she knew her father would never listen. Never care.

‘Just take of yourself now, Lady Alexandra. That’s all any of us can do.’ For just a flashing instant, his hardness seemed to melt. He took her hand in his and squeezed it, holding on to it for one precious moment. ‘Never let them change you, no matter what.’

‘Malcolm!’ Mairie called and that hard mask came over him again. He gave Alex a bow and left her standing there alone in the middle of the road.

Alex tightened her hand over the feeling of his touch and shivered. She knew then she would never see him again.