Читать книгу The Earl's Runaway Governess - Catherine Tinley - Страница 14

Marianne’s jaw dropped. What? What is this woman saying? She felt a roaring in her ears as all her hopes for a welcome, security, a safe place, crumbled before her. She stopped walking and simply stood there, desperately trying to fathom what was happening.

Lady Kingswood’s face was twisted with raw fury—mostly, it seemed, directed at Lord Kingswood. Lady Cecily held her mother’s arm, supporting her, and her young face was also set with anger. Both were white-faced, their pallor accentuated by their black gowns. Marianne knew that her own face was similarly pale.

Lord Kingswood kept walking, tension evident in every line of his body.

‘Oh, for goodness’ sake, Fanny, stop play-acting.’

‘Play-acting? Play-acting?’ Lady Kingswood’s voice became shrill. ‘You think this is some sort of jest, do you? Did you honestly believe that you could simply turn up here, with your lightskirt, and expect us to simply accept it?’ She took a step forward into the centre of the doorway. ‘You are not welcome here, and nor is she!’

‘Dash it all, Fanny, you have become quite tedious. She is the new governess—not a lightskirt. And if you would pause these vapours for one second you would see that.’ His tone was calm, unperturbed. ‘Besides, you know full well that you cannot prevent me from entering Ledbury House. Nor do you have any say in who accompanies me.’

She gasped. ‘That you should speak so to me! If John were here...why, he would—’

‘Yes, but John is not here, is he?’ He marched up to her and stepped inside.

Marianne felt a pang of sympathy for Lady Kingswood. Despite the woman’s erroneous assumptions about her, Lady Kingswood was a recently bereaved woman who was clearly in distress.

The two ladies had turned to follow Lord Kingswood inside, and Marianne could hear the altercation continuing indoors. Behind her, a groom had taken charge of the horses and begun walking them towards the side of the house. The noise of hooves on gravel, combined with the jingling harnesses, prevented Marianne from making out the words, but she could hear Lady Kingswood’s distress, punctuated by Lord Kingswood’s deep tones.

The door was still open, but Marianne remained rooted to the spot. What on earth was she to do now? How would she get back to Netherton? She would have to walk, and some of her precious coins would have to be spent to pay for the next mail coach back to London—probably in the early hours of tomorrow morning.

She hurried after the phaeton and retrieved her bandboxes from the groom. He failed to meet her eyes and was clearly uncomfortable with the entire situation.

Marianne squared her shoulders, turned, and began trudging down the drive. As she walked, she carefully focused her attention on each step.

Don’t think about reality. About the fact that you have no position. That you will be walking for the next hour just to reach the village. That you have no bed to sleep in tonight.

Could she afford to pay for a meal at the coaching inn? Once she had bought her ticket she would count her coins and decide what she must do.

Stop! She was thinking about exactly the things she should not be thinking about. Just walk, she told herself. Just. Walk.

‘Miss Bolton!’

Surprised, she turned. Judging by Lady Kingswood’s distress, she had not expected the argument between her and Lord Kingswood to end so soon. If she had thought about it at all, she would have said that neither of them would remember her existence for at least a half-hour.

Lord Kingswood was marching towards her, his face contorted with wrath. ‘Where the hell do you think you are going?’

‘To Netherton, of course.’

‘Lord preserve me from melodramatic females!’ He raised his eyes to heaven. ‘Give those to me!’

Stupidly, she just stood there, trying to understand what was going on. He took the luggage from her.

‘B-but...’ she stuttered. ‘Lady Kingswood—you surely cannot expect her to accept me as a governess, when she believes—’ She broke off, unwilling to repeat Lady Kingswood’s shocking assumption about her.

‘I can and I shall!’ he said through gritted teeth. ‘Now, Miss Bolton, please come into the house and stop enacting tragedies. The day is too cold to be standing in a garden exchanging nonsense!’

He turned and began walking back to the house. As if tied to her precious bandboxes by an invisible thread Marianne followed, her mind awhirl.

The door was still open. Marianne followed him inside. And there was Lady Kingswood, seated on a dainty chair in the hallway, sobbing vigorously, and being soothed by her daughter, who threw Lord Kingswood a venomous look.

‘Now then, Fanny,’ he said loudly, ‘apologise to the new 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.

‘Cecily, please pass me my shawl. It is positively freezing in here!’

It was true, Marianne thought. Still attired in her cloak, bonnet and gloves—and how rude she was to be so—nevertheless could tell that the sitting room was only a little milder than outdoors.

Discreetly, she removed the gloves and stowed them in the pocket hung under her cloak.

Cecily passed an ornate shawl to her mother, commenting as she did so, ‘The fire has not been lit in here, Mama. And Agnes will be helping Mrs Cullen with dinner. We shall have to wait until afterwards for her to set the fire in the parlour again.’

Lady Kingswood looked a little uncomfortable. ‘I should explain,’ she said, addressing Marianne, ‘that we have had to make certain economies during my husband’s illness. Temporary, of course.’

‘Of course.’ What else could she say?

Thankfully, Mrs Cullen then reappeared, with hot tea and delicious-looking crumpets. Marianne, who had eaten nothing since yesterday evening, felt her stomach cry out for the food.

‘Dinner will be ready in about a half-hour, my lady,’ the cook said to her mistress. ‘What with the new Earl and Miss Bolton arriving, I’ve added a few extra vegetables and put a pie in the oven.’ She looked at Marianne. ‘Once you’ve finished your tea I’ll show you your room, if you wish.’

Marianne thanked her, noting that with the mention of Lord Kingswood the tension in the air had increased again.

The Dowager Countess Kingswood served the tea and they all drank and ate in silence. Marianne loved the freshly baked crumpets. If these were any indication, then Mrs Cullen was a fine cook.

‘Mama,’ said Lady Cecily suddenly, ‘can Lord Kingswood really bring whomever he wishes into Ledbury House?’

Lady Kingswood frowned. ‘Yes,’ she said bitterly, ‘and there is nothing that either of us can do about it. The law allows it. He is master here now.’

‘But,’ said Cecily, ‘that is not fair!’

Marianne reflected on this. Like her, they were victims of the law. Men wrote things in wills; women suffered them. As if it was not enough to lose a loved one through death, they then had to be subject to whatever the law said must happen next. In the Kingswood ladies’ case that meant subjecting themselves to the arrogant Lord Kingswood. For Marianne it had meant the arrival of Henry and his friends into her peaceful existence.

She shook her head slightly. Well, she would do all she could for Lady Kingswood and her daughter, as Mrs Bailey had done for her.

* * *

‘This is the room used by Lady Cecily’s previous governesses. As I didn’t know you were coming I haven’t had time to make up the bed or clean the room, but I shall get on to it as soon as I can.’

Mrs Cullen stood back, allowing Marianne to enter first. The room was fairly small, but it had a fireplace, an armoire and a chest of drawers, as well as a solid-looking bed with a clean mattress. The place needed dusting, and the window was grimy, but all in all, it was a pleasant room.

Marianne crossed to the window. The view was delightful—she could see the drive, the overgrown garden and the woods beyond.

‘It is a lovely room. Has Lady Cecily had many governesses?’

‘Oh, well...’ Mrs Cullen flushed a little. ‘We live very quietly here, and rarely go to London, so people sometimes move on to other positions. Not just the governesses.’

‘But you have stayed—and so has your daughter?’

‘Ah, but my mother and father both lived here all their lives. My mother was cook for the old Lord and Lady Kingswood, him being the Third Earl, and then for Master John and his wife—the present Dowager Countess—until I took over. She worked here for over forty years. I was born in this house, and so was my Agnes. This is our home too. We could never leave it, no matter how bad—That is to say we have a fondness for the place, and for the family, and they have always been good to us. Although, now—’ She frowned. ‘But that is of no matter. Now, would you like some warm water for washing?’

Marianne had listened to this rambling speech in some astonishment. Only loyalty to the Earl’s family, Mrs Cullen seemed to suggest, had prevented them from leaving. So why would they think of leaving in the first place? Were they not being paid? Were they badly treated? They certainly seemed to be burdened with overwork.

Mrs Cullen was waiting for her response. ‘Oh, thank you! But I know you are busy preparing dinner. If you will show me where to go, I shall fetch a jug of water myself.’

‘Indeed, you will not!’ Mrs Cullen looked shocked. ‘A gently bred lady such as yourself, fetching and carrying like a scullery maid? No, Aggie will bring it to you directly, for I shall replace her in the kitchen.’

She bustled off, leaving Marianne with much to think about. She was beginning to understand why she had been given this position. Without a character reference she could not afford to be over-particular. And with a high turnover of staff—including, it seemed, governesses—Lady Kingswood could not be over-particular either. Which meant that they were all tied together—herself, the ladies, the staff. And the new Earl Kingswood.