Читать книгу The Highlander And The Governess - Michelle Willingham - Страница 12

Frances returned to the house with an empty basket, for the laird had been right. The only blooming flowers were a few brave crocuses pushing through the ground, and daffodil shoots that had emerged. She hadn’t minded the brisk walk, despite the misting rain. It had been wonderful to stroll through the gardens, exploring the beds. She had no doubt that the landscape would be a magnificent rainbow of colours, come the spring.

You won’t be here to see it, a voice reminded her. The thought dimmed her mood, for she adored this castle. She knew that she was treading on dangerous ground already. The laird was a good man, though stubborn. And heavens, he was attractive. When he had drawn so close to her, she had imagined kissing him, pressing her hands against his broad shoulders. The very thought sent a tremor of forbidden desire within her.

Frances shoved it back and locked it away. She could not let herself imagine something that would never be. But she would enjoy every moment of whatever time she had left, even if it was only today. For the next few hours, she could pretend that this was a new life, a new beginning. The grief of the past would fade away, and she would forget it in time.

When she reached the stairs, she saw the footman, Alban, struggling. His leg appeared to be troubling him, and he lifted it to the stair tread before stepping with his other foot.

‘Are you all right, Alban?’ she asked quietly. ‘Is your leg bothering you?’

He reddened, as if he didn’t want to answer. ‘It’s naught of any concern, Miss Goodson.’

‘Is it arthritis?’ she probed. ‘My grandmother suffered badly from it, but one of our maids made a poultice that helped. I could give you the ingredients to try it.’

He stopped and turned back to face her. ‘I’m not needing your help, thank you. I can manage on my own.’

It was his pride talking. She suddenly thought about it and realised that all the laird’s servants were elderly, save herself. And there weren’t very many of them.

‘How many servants are there at Locharr?’ she enquired.

Alban straightened. ‘Eight, Miss Goodson.’

She barely stopped herself from gaping at him. Eight? In a castle of this size? It was little wonder that the footman was struggling up the stairs. The man likely held three positions instead of one. She suddenly realised that the laird’s betrothal was more than simply trying to make a good match. The livelihood of his people depended on it.

‘And how many people live in the village?’ She wondered how many others would be affected by the marriage.

‘Seventy or so,’ Alban admitted. ‘They’ve no’ been able to pay their rents this year. ’twas a hard winter, and the laird hasna asked them for aught.’

She sobered at that. ‘Do they have enough to feed their families?’

‘Barely.’ The footman paused, leaning against the bannister. ‘I dinna think he should be paying you.’

‘He’s not,’ she answered honestly, though she hoped he would change his mind about keeping her. Despite her circumstances, she intended to make the most of each day. Living in this castle quenched her thirst for beauty, and every time she stopped to look around, she caught another detail she hadn’t noticed before.

‘Locharr is already betrothed,’ the footman pointed out. ‘He has no need for a governess to teach him.’

‘I understand that,’ Frances answered. Lowering her voice, she added, ‘But I want the laird to be successful in London. It is nothing like Scotland. His clothes, his manner of speaking, none of it is the same.’

There was a moment of silence before Alban said, ‘He shouldna have to change who he is.’

Frances understood his meaning, but clarified, ‘He doesn’t have to change anything on the inside. He only has to blend in for a few weeks.’ She tried to explain it better. ‘A man like Locharr could terrify some of the younger ladies. He’s strong and fierce, and he takes what he wants. But if he wants to win Lady Regina’s hand in marriage, he needs to…soften his manners like the other gentlemen. And on that note, could you send a tailor to the house in the morning? It must be someone who knows how to sew his lordship a wardrobe fit for London.’