A Lady's Point of View (16 page)

“Not at all,” declared Miss
Geraint. “Been cooped up in a carriage with my parents for the better part of
two days, and that’s more than one can properly bear. I need to be out and
about.”

Meg felt awkward, changing her
clothes in front of a veritable stranger, but the other woman’s friendly
chatter soon put her at ease. “Difficult children, are they?” Germaine asked as
Meg splashed herself with water from the ewer. “Good thing we’ve got you with
us, then.”

Meg seized the moment to inform
Miss Geraint of her forthcoming departure to aid her mother. The woman clucked
sympathetically. “Ill, is she? We’ve got an old woman in our village can cure
most anything, or so people say. Wouldn’t know myself—I’ve never been sick a
day.”

Meg could well imagine. What
illness would dare assault this woman?

As soon as the governess was
restored, Germaine insisted on going up to visit the children. “Little
spitfires, eh?” she asked as they mounted toward the nursery. “Chip off the old
block, I’ll wager.”

“They’re really very dear,” Meg
admitted. “I’ve grown quite attached to them during my few weeks here.”

“What? You’ve only just come?
What a pity you must leave so soon!” Germaine spoke almost entirely in
exclamations. “A few weeks—that’s hardly a proper visit, let alone employment.
Are you certain you can’t bring your mother here?”

Such a possibility had never been
broached before, and Meg was caught off guard. “There’s my younger sister,
also—”

“Oh, bring her, too, by all
means.” Fortunately Germaine was distracted when they entered the nursery and
witnessed two rebellious small faces peering out from their beds.

“Put to sleep early, are you?”
said Miss Geraint. “Given everyone a difficult day, and you deserve it.”

“We didn’t do anything bad,” said
Vanessa, pouting. “We were only playing dress-up with Miss Linley’s clothes.”

“And frightened Bertha half to
death by pretending to be ghosts,” Meg scolded.

“Ghosts?” Germaine stared at the
children with admiration. “That’s a new one. When I was a child, I got rid of
nurses by putting a mouse down their skirts.”

“Terror lives over there.” Meg
pointed at the box and, comprehension dawning, Germaine reached in and lifted
out the squeaking rodent.

“He’s a lively pup,” she
declared, holding the mouse in one hand and stroking his back with a finger.
“This Bertha sounds like a weak dish of tea.”

“She is!” Tom bounced up and down
on his bed. “We were left with her all day. I think it was wrong of Miss Linley
to go into town with Mrs. Franklin, when she’s going to be leaving us so soon.”

“The world doesn’t revolve around
you, young man.” Germaine fixed him with a stern eye.

“Are you to be our mother?” asked
Vanessa. “I don’t like your clothes.”

Meg suppressed an urge to rebuke
the child. In fact, Miss Geraint’s gown was a skillfully cut fine grey muslin,
though it hung awkwardly on her large-boned frame.

“Clothes ain’t all that
important,” the future Lady Bryn replied amiably. “You’ve a lot to learn about
life, young miss. Were you put to bed without supper?”

“Yes!” cried Vanessa.

“No,” Tom corrected in a small
voice. “Jenny gave us bread and milk.”

“More than you deserve!”
Chuckling, Germaine swept out of the room with the governess in her wake.
She
likes them, and they’re going to adore her,
Meg thought, wishing she didn’t
feel a pang of envy.

To the servants’ amazement, Miss Geraint insisted
that Meg join them at dinner that night. “I’ve taken a liking to her,” she
said.

Lord Bryn acquiesced. “As you
wish.” His eyes swept past Meg without appearing to see her. She felt as though
she’d become invisible.

Would they ever have that
conversation they’d planned? She wished she knew what he had intended to say,
and how he would have responded to the truth about her. Perhaps it was just as
well that they part on neutral terms.

Or was it? Meg wondered as they
sat down to simple country fare of roast mutton and duck, green beans, and
salad. She loved him so much that her heart felt near cracking at the prospect
of her departure.

She could not imagine ever
responding to another man this way, her skin tingling in his presence, her soul
filling with strange yearnings, her lips longing to touch his. If it were true
that only one man in the world had been created for her, then this must be he.

But it was too late now. His
intended—albeit no engagement had yet been formally announced—was here with
them, and Meg liked her very much. Further, she could see that with such an
unorthodox temperament, Germaine might never find another husband. It would be
the height of villainy to supplant her.

At dinner, Miss Geraint kept them
royally entertained. With her colourful way of speaking, she could hold an
audience transfixed, describing a rabbit that nearly dashed out its life under
the wheels of their carriage, or telling of a fox hunt in which two horses
barely avoided tumbling down one atop the other through the clumsiness of their
riders.

Meg wished she had known her
under other circumstances, so that they might have become friends. She sneaked
a glance at Lord Bryn. Surely he must admire her, as well.

He wore a pleasant expression and
attended Miss Geraint with interest. Yet, in spite of herself, Meg was relieved
to see no sign of anything more than a mild affection.

She knew so little of marriage.
Perhaps those quiverings in her body when Lord Bryn embraced her had been the
sensations of a lost soul, a secret wanton. Perhaps such response was
unsuitable in a wife.

After dinner, when the women
retired to the drawing room, Meg excused herself and went upstairs. She would
have enjoyed more of Germaine’s company, but Mrs. Geraint appeared fiercely put
out at having to hobnob with a mere servant.

Meg’s mind was troubled. Would
her presence sully Angela? Was she unfit for polite society? Did Lord Bryn
sense how she felt, and was he offended by it? And how would she get through
the days and nights of her life without him?

It was useless to refine on
matters she could not resolve. Instead, Meg had to confront a more immediate
issue, the need to advise Helen Cockerell of her return without admitting the
circumstances under which she had been living.

Or perhaps she did not have to
keep up a pretence with her closest friend. Surely Helen would guess something
was amiss. It might be courting disaster to reveal to others that she had
paraded as a governess, but Helen could be trusted. She would tell no one; she
might even think it a lark.

London. Meg closed her eyes and
it came back to her: the heavy perfumes of the
ton
, the sneers upon
their lips, the crushes as one entered a ball, the sound of laughter behind
one’s back. Oh, Lord, was she really going back?

Gowns! She had not even a dress
suitable to wear in society, now that hers had been redone for Angela.

Meg hesitated to appeal to Helen.
True, her friend possessed an enormous wardrobe and disliked wearing the same
gown more than two or three times, and the girls were close to the same size.
Helen would likely not mind at all providing some gowns to be made over for
Meg, but to make such a request, Meg must reveal the truly difficult state of
their finances.

Well, Helen would scarcely be
surprised. She was likely perceptive enough to have guessed the facts already.

With a frown, Meg picked up her
pen and set to the difficult task of outlining her escapades and her poverty to
the only person outside her family whom she dared trust.

On Friday morning, Lord Bryn and
Miss Geraint went riding together. Standing in the schoolroom window, Meg
watched them go.

However gawky the impression she
made when on the ground, Germaine’s horsemanship more than compensated. She
rode as if born to the saddle, Meg noted as the figures galloped across a rise
side by side.

Her own poor vision would never
permit such activity. Until now, Meg had believed the marquis and his future
wife singularly ill-suited, but she was beginning to realise her error. Lord
Bryn had chosen the life of a country gentlemen, and Germaine clearly was in
accord with him. It mattered not that Meg liked country life also, despite the
fact she missed her mother and sister. Feeling wretched, she returned to
supervising the children.

Meg managed to keep her restless
thoughts in check for the next few hours, but the sense of unease returned
during her free hour, while the children and the houseguests napped. She had
heard Lord Bryn go into his study some time ago, and felt she could safely walk
about the grounds without risking an encounter.

There was nothing approaching a
formal garden here. Rolling fields, thick with buttercups, surrounded the great
house. Farther away, cattle moved across the grassy slopes. Meg paused to drink
in the warm summer air and the rich earthy smell, and to wonder where she belonged.
She would never have imagined, having taken such unwanted leave of her family
in London, that she would feel pain at having to go back again.

Suddenly she needed to be alone,
not wishing anyone to come out and witness her distress. Meg began walking almost
aimlessly, until she reached a wooded ridge that afforded shelter from view.
Here she sank onto a fallen trunk and wrapped her arms around her knees.

Was this really love she felt for
the marquis? The poets wrote about such things in flowery terms, yet what Meg
felt was far from flowery. It was confusing, painful, exciting, and terrifying.
It made sense of the stories she had heard, of people doing foolish things,
casting away their friends and reputations. But she could never go so far, not
while her mother’s and sister’s futures hung in the balance.

“Are you ill?” She hadn’t heard
so much as a footstep, but he stood over her like some giant from a legend, his
voice thick with concern. “May I help?”

“Oh, no.” Meg’s throat cramped
against the words. “I was merely wool-gathering, my lord.”

He sat beside her, folding his
long legs easily. Although they did not touch, Meg felt the log vibrate with
his strength and energy. “We shall miss you here.” His words carried none of
the accustomed guardedness.

“And I shall miss all of you.”
She rested her cheek against the top of her knees like a young girl. Being in
his presence felt so natural that it was hard to remember the difference in
their stations. “Miss Geraint is a fine woman. I admire her greatly.”

“Of course.” He passed over the
topic without interest. “Do you get about much in London? I’m wondering if it
has changed much during my absence.”

“Tell me what it was like, and
I’ll tell you if it has changed,” she said, “although I doubt I know any of
your acquaintances.”

“It isn’t the individuals who
matter, is it?” The dark brooding look had returned. “Only the frenzied chase
of whatever is fashionable at the moment, the love of gossip, the waste of
money and lives.”

“Surely not everyone is so
shallow.” He had given a good description of the
ton
, but as Meg knew,
dear faces and kind souls could be found in the most stylish circles.

“So shallow? Oh, no, some fancy
themselves deep and glorious.” Bitterness coloured Lord Bryn’s words, and she
wondered at his intensity. “They dream of doing great deeds, of seeing their
names writ in the history books.”

“Is that a fault?” Nearby a bird
twittered lazily in the summer air.

The marquis seemed to awaken from
a momentary trance. “Real courage is no flaw, my dear, but vanity is a much
underrated vice.”

He seemed not to notice that he
had spoken an endearment, and Meg pretended not to have heard, but in her heart
she cherished it. “Do you speak of yourself, my lord?”

To her amazement the marquis
buried his face in his hands, though only for a moment. When he lifted his
head, his lips where white with strain. “Yes, I was such a peacock. I went off
to war determined to make myself a hero. But it was someone else who paid the
price, a devoted servant. Killed through my own carelessness in neglecting to
send him to safety. I know my friends thought little of it— he was only a
valet. But he was a man, the same as I. And he loved me dearly, a love I did
not deserve.”

Meg fought back the impulse to
console him, and tried instead to imagine her own feelings if Karen had died
due to her carelessness. She shivered. “If one only had some way to atone.”

His hand closed over hers. It was
a large hand, with a scar across the back, but very gentle. “I have learned to
live with my guilt. That seems the best I can do.”

They sat together in silence,
inhaling the sweetness of the earth’s bounty. Meg felt closer to him even than
when they had kissed. She knew that, though she never saw him again, he would
always be a part of her.

“I’m sorry if I’ve been careless
of your reputation. Yet I cannot regret my actions.” His grip tightened on her
hand. “I had hoped, had the Geraints not come so early—” He stopped, perhaps
realizing that propriety forbade him to confide further.

“You have done nothing wrong.”
With her last small reservoir of strength, Meg forced herself to rise and move
away. “I must go and see to the children.”

He stood also. “And I have
accounts to tend.”

“Wait.” She caught her skirts in
her hand. “We must not walk together. It wouldn’t be seemly.” Within her, a
small voice shouted to throw away propriety, to beg him to keep her close
always, to declare that she would never leave. What worlds they would shatter
if they dared behave so outrageously! In the end, Meg knew with painful clarity,
such selfishness could only come back on them and wreak a vengeance of its own.
“Good day, my lord.”