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Authors: Jacqueline Diamond

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“Miss Lindsay!” Vanessa dashed
across the drive and flung herself at the woman without the least care for what
damage her dirty hands might wreak. “I’m Vanessa, and this is Tom, and that’s
Uncle Andrew. We’re so-o-o-o glad you’re here. Aren’t we, Tom?” This last
remark was accompanied by a conspiratorial poke.

The governess gave no sign of
being discomfited by this assault. “I’m pleased to make your acquaintance,” she
said with a hint of a twinkle. “Miss Vanessa, is it? And Master Tom. My name is
Miss Linley, not Lindsay.”

Vanessa and Tom executed their
well-rehearsed curtsey and bow respectively, only their giggles spoiling the
effect.

“This be Lord Bryn,” said the
coachman as Andrew approached.

A startled expression flashed
across the chit’s face. “Lord Bryn?” she said.

Far too pretty for a governess,
he thought sternly. Light brown curls peeped out of her bonnet, and her
features were entirely too fine. Well, it didn’t signify here in the country;
the house had no mistress to be jealous, and no nearly grown son to go all
cow-eyed over her.

Unaccountably, the marquis found
himself disconcerted as the girl took in his grimy appearance. “It is not my
custom to greet new arrivals in this condition,” his lordship apologized,
willing to extend his politeness beyond the customary level due a member of
one’s staff. He devoutly hoped to induce the woman to stay on, at least until
he took a wife. “However, the children and I were, er, having a bit of an
adventure.”

“That sounds delightful.” The
woman eyed him in a peculiar manner, as if she were trying to puzzle something
out, or perhaps to make up her mind about some matter.

“I assure you, they’re ordinarily
well-behaved.” The marquis hoped this slight untruth might be forgiven, for it
would be unkind to frighten the woman. Still, she didn’t look the sort who
panicked easily.

Miss Linley—deuced careless of
Standish to get her name wrong—glanced at the eager, dirty faces staring up at
him. “I should be surprised if they were too well-behaved,” she said. “It isn’t
in the nature of children.”

“No doubt you know best in that
regard,” agreed the marquis, determined to be affable. “Standish assures me you
have excellent references.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“As a governess.” What was wrong
with the girl? Perhaps it was the strain of travel; he could only hope so. A
nitwit wouldn’t last five minutes with these little ruffians.

“Ah. A governess.” She nodded, as
if to herself.

“You are Myra Lindsay—excuse me,
Linley—are you not?” inquired the marquis.

“Actually, my name is Margaret,”
replied the young woman. “And you are quite certain that you are Lord Bryn?”

No doubt she meant to be
humorous. A peculiar method of going on for a woman of her station. “So my
servants tell me,” he responded in kind.

The marquis noted with relief the
approach of the butler and housekeeper. “Mrs. Franklin, be so good as to show
Miss Linley to her room. And then have Bertha—no, not Bertha—someone give these
urchins a bath.”

“Yes, my lord. Shall I bring tea
to your study?”

“That would be splendid.”

Ensconced in his study with a
hearty tea of sandwiches and fresh-baked scones, Lord Bryn reflected on the
peculiar demeanour of the new governess.

A bit of a quiz, indeed. He could
have sworn he’d seen a squint, although she’d unscrewed her face as soon as he
drew near. Standish hadn’t said anything about weak eyes.

No matter. She liked the
children, and they appeared to share her sentiment. Temporarily, at least. He
had no illusions on that score.

How did she feel about small
animals, particularly mice and frogs? Hardly the sort of question one’s man of
affairs was likely to have posed, but she did seem the matter-of-fact sort, not
easily frightened off.

Why, he wondered, would a girl as
pretty as that be content to work as a governess? Why had she agreed to come
here to Cheshire? Although the salary he offered was ample, it was scarcely
enough to compensate for the charms of a beau.

Well, the private lives of the
staff were none of his affair, reflected the marquis, relaxing at last. The
girl’s manners were impeccable, and her appearance unexceptionable.

She would do. Indeed, she would
have to do.

He did wish, however, that his
thoughts wouldn’t keep drifting to that up-tilted chin, the lively expression
on her face, and the hint of merriment in her voice. Dangerous territory for a
man about to get himself leg-shackled. Moreover, Lord Bryn despised those
craven fellows who inflicted themselves upon helpless female servants.

Not that Miss Linley struck him
as helpless. She appeared thoroughly capable of dealing with bounders and cads.

The marquis chuckled at the
notion. Yes, his new governess possessed the starch that Standish had
described. She would suit the position admirably.

 

 

 

 

Chapter Five

 

 

A governess!

Untying the strings of her
bonnet, Meg sank onto the bed in a fit of laughter. Lord Bryn had mistaken her
for a governess!

Why hadn’t she corrected his
misapprehension at once? she asked herself. Pure as
ton
ishment, perhaps.
And what on earth had happened to the real Myra Lindsay?

Oh, dear. That poor woman at the
posting inn. Could that have been she? It would explain why a carriage had been
sent. But surely she would write to explain her change of heart. Still, it
might be days, even weeks before she got round to it. The woman’s distress had
been severe enough for her to require a lengthy recuperation.

Part of the reason she hadn’t
revealed the mistake at once, Meg admitted to herself, was the children. How
dear they were, although she suspected they would display a mischievous side on
closer acquaintance. At home in Derby, she had played often with the servants’
children, and knew how changeable they could be—friends one moment, fierce
enemies the next, and whimpering babies an instant later. It took all one’s
patience to deal with them, but the annoyance was quickly forgotten when they
threw their arms around one and held tight.

A tap at the door announced the
tea tray, and Meg greeted the maid with suitably restrained politeness. The
girl stayed longer than necessary, fussing with the tray; unquestionably so as
to have a few details of the new arrival to carry back to eager ears in the
kitchen.

Well, now what am I going to do?
Meg asked herself. Lord Bryn will have to let me stay the night, and then I
shall be packed off to Derby.

The prospect of joining the
Barkers struck her as less and less appealing after the events of the past few
days. How tedious it would be, listening to them prose on about sin and
corruption, sitting by the fireside evening after evening with a bit of
embroidery in her lap and a yawn dutifully suppressed.

She did love Derby, with its
beautiful churches, parks, and fine new Georgian houses. But in recent years,
as her vision weakened, Meg had been unable any longer to take so much pleasure
as formerly in her walks, nor did the state of her purse allow for many
purchases of the city’s exquisite silks.

Indeed, even had there been
social occasions to which she might be invited, the Barkers would never agree
to chaperone her. There would be no calling cards left, and no gentleman asking
to take her driving, as had occurred from time to time in London.

Briefly, as she changed from her
dusty travel clothes into a dark bombazine gown suitable for dinner in the
country, Meg allowed herself to wonder what it would be like to be courted by
Lord Bryn.

Now, why should the idea of him
quicken her pulse? He was said to be all but promised to Germaine Geraint,
Helen Cockerell’s cousin. Certainly the man had given no sign of attraction to
a mere governess.

Yet there was something about the
way he’d looked at her. In all honesty, Meg was forced to admit she had never
seen a man quite so handsome—dark, yet not intimidating, courteous yet not
obsequious. She had immediately liked the honesty in his face, and the masculine
set to his shoulders made her wonder how it would feel to be held in those
strong arms.

Stuff and nonsense. She’d never
been given to excessive daydreaming. And of all men, the reclusive Lord Bryn
was far beyond her reach. She would be best to guard her musings, and her
heart.

Still fighting the memory of
those grave, gentle eyes, Meg pinned up her locks with more skill than most
women of her station could have managed, for the Linleys’ lack of funds made a
hairdresser a rare luxury. It struck her that, with her practical turn, she
might serve well as a governess, if such a thing did not prove an embarrassment
to her mother.

Such musings were neither here
nor there. She was not a governess, nor was she the woman who had been expected
today. As soon as possible, she must tell the marquis the truth.

Ruefully Meg reflected on how to
accomplish that. What could she say? Excuse me, sir, I am a lady with weak
eyesight, who entered your carriage by mistake. Indeed, I am the fool who set
all London a-twitter by my bumblings. Pray excuse me and send me home.

But the real governess had turned
back. Who would care for the children? Meg knew enough of the usual manner of
treating staff to recognize that his lordship’s politeness toward her betrayed
a growing desperation with his young charges.

Those berry-stained faces! She
chuckled softly, remembering them. They might need a firm hand, but at heart
they were good youngsters. If only she could have such children someday.

If I am not to marry, I shall
never have children at all.

The thought was too painful to be
borne. Swiftly Meg rose and slipped on the sensible shoes from her trunk. The
clothes she’d brought were plain enough for a governess, that much was true.

Another knock at the door
admitted the housekeeper, Mrs. Franklin. “Is everything to your satisfaction,
Miss Linley?” she inquired.

“Yes, thank you,” she said.

“It’s an excellent room,” the
woman continued. “Have you noticed the view from the windows? In the daylight,
one can see halfway across Cheshire.”

“Indeed?” Courtesy obliged Meg to
join Mrs. Franklin by the curtains, but the deepening twilight revealed only
indistinct shapes. “I fear I misplaced my spectacles on the journey. My eyes
are a bit weak.”

“Oh, my, what a shame, and you so
young!” declared the housekeeper. “Now let me think. The late Lady Bryn, Lord
Andrew’s mother, had spectacles. Perhaps I could find them if you like. I doubt
his lordship would object.”

“Could you?” This turn of events
was an unexpected blessing. “I’d be most grateful.”

“Certainly.” Mrs. Franklin smiled
warmly, and Meg began to wish she really were the governess and could stay in
this hospitable place for a time. “Now, would you care to see the nursery and
the schoolroom before dinner?”

“Yes, indeed.” Much as she hated
to deceive the kindly woman, Meg considered it improper to confide in her
before revealing the truth to the marquis.

“His lordship is expecting you
for dinner,” added Mrs. Franklin as the two women climbed to the second floor
together.

Meg nodded. Some households, particularly
in the country, included the governess as one of the family for informal
occasions, although she would never have been invited to dine with guests.

From the musty smell of the
schoolroom, it had not been used for some time. “When did the last governess
leave?” she asked.

“Two months ago,” replied the
housekeeper.

“May I ask why?”

“Peculiar woman.” Mrs. Franklin
led the way back into the hall. “Declared she heard ghosts walking at night. I
cannot imagine what made her think so. Brynwood has never been haunted.”

“Except perhaps by children,”
murmured Meg.

They proceeded into the nursery,
where the youngsters were dining at a small table. As soon as they entered, Tom
jumped to his feet and ran toward Meg. “Miss Linley! May I show you my
collection of bugs? I’ve pressed them so neatly—”

“Enough o’ that, Master Tom.” A
beefy serving woman caught the youngster deftly by the collar and hauled him
back into place.

“Thank you, Jenny,” said Mrs.
Franklin.

The children hurriedly finished
eating and came to sit beside Meg on a padded bench. “We’ll leave you for a few
minutes, then,” said the housekeeper, and Jenny followed her out.

“Would you like to see my bugs?”
asked Tommy.

“Oh, yes. I adore bugs.” Meg
forced herself not to flinch as he produced a wooden box filled with dried
flattened specimens. “You must tell me all their names.”

“I dunno their names,” he said.
“Do you?”

“That is a six-legged
bug-opterus,” Meg improvised, pointing, but not able to bring herself to
actually touch the crusty thing. “And that is a hard-shelled thing-a-ma-bob.”

Tommy regarded her sceptically.
“You don’t act much like a governess.”

“What makes you so certain I am
one?” Meg replied with equal gravity.

“Well, of course you are!” said
Vanessa. “What else would you be?”

“Perhaps a lady of fashion,” Meg
suggested.

“Then what would you be doing
here?” the girl demanded.

“Well—” Meg pretended to rack her
brains “—perhaps I was on a journey when your coachman mistook me for the real
governess, and I mistook him for a hired post chaise driver.”

“What fun!” cried Tom, stuffing
the box of bugs back into the toy chest.

“Oh, don’t be a goose,” snapped
his sister. “Everyone knows ladies don’t travel alone. And no one would be such
a nodcock as to mistake uncle’s carriage for a post chaise.”

Meg smiled ruefully. “I’m sure
you’re right.”

BOOK: A Lady's Point of View
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