Читать книгу A Family For The Widowed Governess - Ann Lethbridge - Страница 11

Lady Marguerite hated the way the ground sank and the water oozed up. A smell of wet mud filled her nostrils. It had taken her all morning to find the right ground conditions for the specimen she needed and she wasn’t going to give up now, even if it did mean getting wet feet.

She slogged on across the meadow, stepping on the highest tussocks. At least, for the first time in a week, it wasn’t raining. Indeed, it was a lovely spring day. Or it would be if she hadn’t had to go specimen hunting in the boggy ground of a water meadow.

There! Finally. The yellow flower she was seeking. Caltha palustris. Or marsh marigold, as she had known it as a child. She picked her way over to the tall plant, aware that the water level here was higher than ever. Now each step created deep puddles that threatened her jean half-boots.

Ugh. She hated this part of her work. Gathering plants in the wild. Petra would have adored it, but Petra was married and gone. The gentleman paying Marguerite to draw plants for his book was supposed to provide her with the specimens, but he’d said they were more prolific in Kent than where he lived and asked her to find one for herself.

She had thought it would be easy. She had seen them everywhere last spring. Unfortunately, she needed one in flower and very few were in bloom yet.

She tugged on the stalk. After a slight resistance, it pulled free of the muddy earth. She inspected it from root to tip. There were more plants, closer to the stream. Should she try for one with more flowers? This one had only two blossoms and one bud.

‘Ouch!’ A high-pitched scream rang out across the field.

Marguerite glanced wildly around. More screams. A child, she thought. At the edge of the field. She picked up her skirts and headed in the direction of the sound.

‘Ooh! Ooh! It hurts. Ouch. Ouch.’

Was someone striking a little girl?

She flung her sample aside and ran, ignoring the water soaking through her boots. Then she saw two little girls, the bigger of them dancing around flapping her hands and making the sounds Marguerite had heard. There was no sign of any menacing presence. Marguerite rushed up to the one who was clearly in pain.

‘What is it?’

‘Ouch. Ouch.’ Tears were running down the child’s face. ‘I was picking flowers and something bit me.’

The younger child came over to stand beside her...sister? They looked alike. Brown hair. Big brown eyes and dressed exactly the same. Where on earth had they come from?

Marguerite grabbed one of the flapping hands and inspected it. Raised bumps with scarlet edges. She knew exactly what had happened. She cast her gaze around until she found what she wanted. Dock leaves. She scrunched up a couple to free their juices, then began rubbing them all over the little girl’s hands.

After a few moments, the little girl’s cries subsided to a whimper and she gazed up at Marguerite, her face sad. ‘Why did the flower bite me?’ She pointed to a little blue cornflower.

Marguerite winced. ‘It didn’t. It is hiding in a bed of stinging nettles. Those tall green plants. That is what hurt you.’

‘Stinging nettles?’ She kicked out at the plant.

Marguerite pulled her back. ‘Careful. They can easily sting through your stockings.’ Hadn’t every child in England learned that the hard way?

The younger child crouched down and peered at the nearest nettle. ‘Nasty flower,’ she said.

Marguerite inspected the older child’s hand. It was still swollen and sore looking. She rubbed some more. ‘You put your hand right into the middle of them.’

The child gazed at her sadly, tears staining her little face. ‘Why do they sting?’

‘To stop you from picking them. Or rather, to stop grazing animals from eating them. It is the way the plant protects itself.’

The little girl pulled her hand from Marguerite’s and inspected the damage. ‘It still hurts. And I wasn’t going to pick it. I was picking the blue one.’

‘It will hurt for a while, I am afraid. And itch.’ She picked more dock leaves. ‘Keep rubbing the sore places with this until it goes away.’

She glanced around. They were a good mile from Ightham village and even further from her home in Westram. ‘Where do you live?’

The smaller child pointed away from Ightham. ‘Over there. In a big house.’ She spread her arms to aid in her description.

Marguerite knew of only one big house in this particular area, though she had never visited it. Good lord. Marguerite had assumed they were children of villagers, or tenants, but now that she had time to look more closely, she could see that their dresses and pinafores were of far too good a quality to be worn by children of common folk. ‘You mean Bedwell Hall. You are Lord Compton’s daughters?’

The older girl left off sucking the back of her hand and nodded.

Marguerite recalled her abandoned specimen with a sigh. She’d have to pick one another day, because these children should not be wandering around in the fields alone. What on earth could Lord Compton be thinking?

‘Come along, ladies. It is time you went home.’

The younger one giggled. ‘Ladies.’

‘You are ladies, are you not?’ Marguerite said.

The older one left off her rubbing. ‘I am Lady Elizabeth and she is Lady Jane. Everyone calls me Lizzie.’

‘I’m Janey,’ the younger one added.

Marguerite took their hands. How tiny they were. And grubby. It made her think of her childhood. When she had been young and innocent. She could scarcely remember it. Mama had died when she was very young and then it seemed as if she had become mother to her siblings, especially to her sister, Petra.

And now Petra had remarried, leaving Marguerite entirely alone. She liked it that way. She really did. Not having to care for anyone else, being able to do exactly as she pleased, when she pleased, was heaven. And if she needed company, she could always call on Petra and her new husband, Ethan, or go for a visit to Carrie and Avery at their home in the north of England.

Right now, Petra and her husband were off visiting Ethan’s elderly relative in Bath. Ethan had thought Petra was looking a little peaky and had thought a change of air would do her good. Bless the man. He really was good to her younger sister.

They climbed a stile and crossed a narrow laneway bounded by a high wall.

‘The gate is that way,’ Lizzie said.

They really were quite a distance from the house. It did not seem right at all. ‘How old are you, Lizzie?’

‘I am eight,’ Lizzie said, ‘and Janey is six.’

Marguerite frowned. ‘Are you supposed to be wandering around the fields on your own?’

‘No,’ Lizzie said. ‘But we ran away.’

A cold chill travelled down Marguerite’s spine. ‘Why?’

‘Because Papa is mean to us,’ Janey said. ‘So we runned away.’

‘Ran,’ Marguerite said. She did not like the sound of this. Not at all. How many times had she, too, had the urge to run away?

In the end, it had been Neville who left her. She never had understood why he, of all people, had gone off to war with her brother and brother-in-law, but of the three of the women left behind to become widows, she must have been the only one who celebrated her husband’s departure with a toast to whatever impulse had sent him off.

She hadn’t wanted his death. But she had been glad to see him go. Unfortunately, she wasn’t yet free of the misery he had imposed on her life from the moment they wed. But she would be. Very soon.

Not far down the lane, a side gate into the Bedwell estate stood ajar.

She frowned at it. This lord did not care very much for the welfare of his children, that much was certain. She ushered the children through and closed it behind them, making sure it was firmly latched. With growing anger for this careless papa, she marched the two girls up the path to the back of a beautiful Palladian mansion. Once, this house had belonged to the Westrams. Back before Oliver Cromwell had turned England upside down.

It would not have looked like this then. It had been vastly improved since its Tudor days.

Not a soul hustled out to meet them. Had no one realised these girls were missing?

* * *

‘My lord?’

Jack Vincent, Earl Compton, glanced up from reviewing his bailiff’s weekly report on several matters relating to the estate. He frowned. Johnson was staring out of the estate office window with a puzzled expression.

‘What is it?’

‘A young woman, my lord. With Lady Elizabeth and Lady Jane in tow.’

Jack shot out of his chair and around the desk to see what Johnson was talking about. Indeed. It was as his bailiff had said. A willowy woman was striding across the stable yard with his daughters dragging their feet as she urged them along.

‘Wait here,’ he commanded. He strode for the kitchen door.

Cook looked up, flustered at his entry. ‘Is there...?’

He opened the door to the courtyard and emerged into the spring sunshine. He blinked against the glare.

‘Lord Compton?’ an imperious, slightly out-of-breath voice asked.

He bowed slightly to the dishevelled woman whose hems were damp and muddy and who had locks of auburn hair dangling from beneath her cap as if she had been pulled through a hedge backwards. ‘Who the devil are you? And what are you doing with my daughters?’

She recoiled and drew herself up straight. ‘We have not met, but I am Lady Marguerite Saxby. I live in Westram.’ Her mouth tightened. ‘As for your other question, I found these ladies wandering in the field outside your walls. Lady Elizabeth has had an unfortunate encounter with a stinging nettle.’

He froze, looked at the tears staining his eldest child’s face and felt anger rising inside him. How had this happened? ‘Why were you outside?’

Lizzie flinched.

Damn it. He hated when she did that. He reached for a modicum of calm.

‘We runned away,’ Janey announced.

‘Ran.’ He and this woman, this Lady Marguerite, spoke at the same time.

He glanced at her. She glared back. As if he was somehow in the wrong.

‘You know you are not allowed to go outside without a maid.’ He sounded gruffer than he intended.

Lizzie lifted her shoulders. ‘Nanny said everyone was busy.’

‘Then you wait.’ He ran his hands through his hair. ‘Look, if you can’t do as you are told, Lizzie, then I’m sorry, but you know the consequences.’

Lizzie burst into tears. ‘Nooooo!’

The woman thrust herself between Lizzie and himself. ‘Leave the poor child alone. She has been punished enough, I should think. Look.’ She gently pulled Lizzie forward and held out her hand for his inspection.

It was covered in white bumps with red edges. His stomach churned. His brain went numb at the sight of the painful swelling. ‘Go,’ he yelled. ‘Upstairs. Get Nanny to put something on it.’

‘I gave her dock leaves,’ Lady Marguerite said. Her voice was beautifully modulated, if a little deeper than most women’s. For some reason it calmed him.

She crouched down. ‘Take the leaves to your nanny, she will know what to do.’ Lizzie nodded and ran off with Janey scurrying behind.

Jack hated to see his children hurt. Could not abide it. Why the devil would they not do as he had instructed and stay indoors with Nanny James?

The young woman rose to her feet. She was almost tall enough to look him in the eye. And delightfully feminine, despite her drab clothing. ‘What on earth are you about, Lord Compton?’

He stared blankly ‘About?’

‘Those children should not be wandering the countryside alone. Anything could happen.’

‘Do you think I don’t know that?’

She blinked.

Damn and blast, he had raised his voice. Again. He lowered his tone. ‘They know better. I have told them time and time again.’

Her finely arched eyebrows, a darker auburn than her hair, lowered. Her pretty green eyes narrowed. ‘The gate to the lane was open. They were a long way from home and you had no idea of it. Children of their age need proper adult supervision.’

Good lord, who was she to come here laying down the law? He was the magistrate. ‘Nonsense. They have proper supervision. Indoors.’

‘I see.’ She looked completely unconvinced.

‘There is a nanny, three footmen and a cook, all there to see that they have whatever their little hearts desire. Is that enough supervision for you, madam?’ Devil take it, why was he explaining himself to this woman? He took a deep breath.

Somehow, she managed to look down her nose at him. ‘Not enough of the right sort of supervision, apparently, and while a punishment is likely in order, I beg that it be denial of some privilege, a story at bedtime, a visit to the village, something that will not cause physical pain.’

Stunned, he stared at her. Pain?

She narrowed her eyes. ‘Good day, Lord Compton.’ She spun around and marched back the way she had come.

How dare she come here and accuse him of not looking after his children? And...and did she think he was going to beat them? Damn her, for judging him so poorly. ‘Johnson, get a chain and a lock and secure the damned gate. And find out who left it open.’

He strode for the nursery. As he expected, his daughters, his little girls, were gathered around Nanny’s chair. They looked so innocent. So sweet. They were the bane of his life.

No. No. That was not true. But somewhere along the line he had lost control. And that would not do. A man needed to be in control of his family or bad things happened. A shudder ran down his spine. The memory of what had happened to his wife when she took it in her head to go visit her scallywag of a brother without his knowledge leapt to the forefront of his mind. If he had been stricter, more in control of his wife, she would be alive today.

‘Elizabeth, what on earth were you thinking?’ He fixed his gaze on his oldest daughter. ‘I have warned you about this sort of thing. This was your last chance, I am afraid. As I said, you must face the consequences.’

‘Now, now, Master Jack,’ Nanny said. ‘What has you in a pelter?’

‘In a pelter?’ He stared at the woman who had been his wife’s nanny. ‘I can assure you I am not in a pelter. I would simply like to be informed why my daughters ignored my orders and went roaming the countryside. That is not too much to ask, is it?’

Elizabeth stared at the carpet and the toe of her shoe traced the pattern on the carpet. ‘No, Papa,’ she whispered.

Now he felt like an ogre. He steeled his resolve. He could not give in. Would not.

‘We wanted to find a frog,’ Janey announced as if that was a perfectly good explanation. ‘Bert told Sam there are frogs in that field over there. He put one in his sister’s bed and made her scream.’

She was talking about two of his grooms. Which meant they had been hanging about the stables. Another thing they were not supposed to do. Horses were dangerous.

Janey’s eyes filled with tears. ‘But we couldn’t catch one. Then I wanted to pick a bouquet for you, but I couldn’t reach the flower and then the weeds bit Lizzie and she screamed. I was frightened.’

He winced. ‘Were you?’

She nodded. ‘Then the nice lady came along.’ She beamed up at him. ‘And here we are.’ Her expression changed. ‘We didn’t mean to be bad, Papa. It won’t happen again.’ Her lower lip trembled. He reached out and she stepped into the circle of his arm.

‘No crying,’ he said. He couldn’t bear it if they cried. He picked her up and held her close to his chest. Unfortunately, they knew their tears troubled him and he was never sure if they were real or if they were simply using them to get their way.

He also did not fancy carrying out his threat. But how could he run his estate if he was always worrying about his girls getting into some sort of scrape? His only option was to send for his spinster aunt Ermintrude. She would keep the girls in order.

He’d been terrified of her as a lad. ‘I am sorry, but I cannot have the rules disregarded in this way. I will write to your great-aunt today.’

Nanny paled. ‘They won’t do it again, dearie.’

Netty climbed on to Nanny’s lap and stuck her thumb in her mouth. Almost three already. He could scarcely believe it was nearly two years since Amanda had been brutally murdered. And still Netty wasn’t talking. Nanny kept telling him there was nothing wrong. That she would talk when she was ready, but Jack was starting to worry.

‘Please, Papa,’ Elizabeth said, clasping her little hands to her chest. ‘We promise we won’t do it again.’

No tears from Elizabeth.

‘You promise?’ he said, suddenly weary. ‘On your word of honour?’

‘Yes. I promise. Cross my heart and hope to die.’

He put Janey down. ‘This really is your very last chance.’

‘Yes, Papa,’ the girls chorused.

Exhaustion rose in him. ‘Very well. But I am holding you to your promise. A Vincent always keep his or her word.’

They hung their heads. ‘Yes, Papa.’

Nanny cocked her head on one side. ‘You did thank the lady, my lord? For bringing the girls home?’

Had he? All he recalled was trying to defend himself from her unwarranted attacks on his character. Damn, no doubt he’d been rude. He usually was these days. He didn’t have time for niceties and walking around on eggshells. ‘I will thank her next time I see her. And I will see you both at bedtime.’

He left before they convinced him to do something else that was against his better judgement. Frogs indeed. Apologies to rude young women. Yet another chance. Was he losing his grip on things?

He pitied the men who married his daughters. They wouldn’t stand a chance.

Not that he had any intention of letting any man within a hundred miles of them before they were at least twenty-five.

Perhaps he should try another governess. The girls had chased two off already. He needed one with a strong character.

* * *

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.