My Lady Governess (Zebra Regency Romance) (3 page)

“Best not forget these,” she told herself. “Something to hide behind.”

The butler showed her into the drawing room already occupied by the duchess and one of the most stunningly beautiful women Elinor had ever beheld. She was blond with striking blue eyes. Just like her daughter’s, Elinor thought, for this woman had to be Anne’s mother. Another woman of indeterminable age and modest dress accompanied them.

“Ah, come in, my dear,” the duchess said. “Allow me to introduce my daughter-in-law, the Marchioness of Trenville. And Madame Giroux, her companion. Gabrielle, this is Miss Palmer.”

“Your ladyship. Madame.” Elinor curtsied very slightly.

“Miss Palmer.” The marchioness nodded her greeting. Elinor noticed that the beauty spoke with a marked accent. The companion said nothing, but did acknowledge the newcomer by inclining her head. Madame Giroux was a small mouse of a woman with bright, beady eyes that missed very little.

“Gabrielle and her companion are French,” the duchess said. “Lady Trenville’s family fled the Terror when she was very young. Madame Giroux joined her a few years ago.”

“Maria remains very French, but I am thoroughly English now, I fear.” Gabrielle had a silvery laugh.

“Not too thoroughly English,” Adrian said, entering the room. “Hello, Gabbi.” He greeted his sister-in-law in the French fashion, kissing her on each cheek. “Ladies,” he directed to his mother, Madame Giroux, and Miss Palmer.

Elinor watched with interest as the marchioness seemed to blossom at his attention. The woman was, indeed, a charmer. Fair of face and figure, she was in her early thirties, Elinor conjectured. Without her seeming in any way to command such, the conversation throughout the evening centered on topics of interest to the French woman. She wanted to know all the latest
on dits
from Town and shared similar gossip of the local area.

 

 

Adrian met with his steward the next day and the two of them conducted an inspection tour of the rather vast acreage that constituted his main holding, Whitsun Abbey. As they rode along, Jenkins apprised his lordship of local events of interest.

“Are our nocturnal workers still engaged in their trade?” Adrian asked with exaggerated irony.

“I am afraid so, my lord.” Jenkins shook his head. “Not as much as before the war ended, but as you well know, there are still many who would rather buy and sell their cognac without customs men being involved. And our beaches are convenient.”

“Yes. I am sure that many a bottle in my own cellars came into the country that way,” Adrian admitted ruefully.

“There seem to be only two local gangs operating now. They respect each other’s territory and customers. Stay out of each other’s hair, don’t you know?”

“We know who they are?”

“Oh, yes. The militia hauls a few of them before the magistrate once in a while. A couple of them—really brutal fellows they were—have been transported.”

“I suppose we should crack down harder on the whole lot.” Adrian knew that, as he was the area’s principal landowner, it was up to him to initiate such a move. “I hate to do that in these hard times. There are already far too many men roaming the highways out of work.”

“The way it is, it is easier to keep an eye on the business,” Jenkins offered.

“There is that.”

“Drive them underground and there’s no telling who’s doing what.”

“So, who
is
doing what?” Adrian asked.

“Total of ten, fifteen, maybe more. It varies with the particular job or shipment. Fred Jones from over at Bimford heads one of the gangs.”

“Jones?” Adrian did not recognize the name.

“His folks own an inn in Bimford—Three Sails West it’s called.”

“Oh, yes. And the other?”

The steward glanced obliquely at his employer, cleared his throat, and spoke quietly. “ ’Tis your housekeeper’s son, my lord.”

“Little Bobby Hoskins? You cannot be serious.”

Jenkins laughed. “He’s not so little these days, sir. Big strapping lad, he is, with a wife and babe of his own.”

“All the more reason for him not to be involved in such shady dealings then.”

“Right, my lord. But if you were to acknowledge you knew about the smuggling, you’d have to take formal action, wouldn’t you?”

“Probably. But a word to his mother should suffice as a warning.”

As she climbed into bed the next night, Elinor assured herself the first day had gone well. There had been few actual lessons, but she had become better acquainted with the children—and their beloved puppies and kittens. On their way to the stables, little Bess had shyly placed her small hand in Elinor’s. The gesture signaled the little girl’s acceptance and Elinor was strangely warmed by it. Later in the day, Geoffrey, too, had come around, bringing a special offering, a flutterby he had captured in his cupped hands. Anne was less ready to extend a wholehearted welcome to this new adult in their lives and frequently offered authoritative advice and warnings in a tone obviously borrowed from some adult.

“Children are not allowed in the stables or outbuildings.... Bess, mind you do not get grass stains on your skirt.... Keep to the paths now.... Geoff, do stop racing around like a chicken.”

Elinor tried, without much success, to distract Anne from her officious and domineering attitude.
Perhaps she does not receive sufficient attention,
Elinor mused, though Anne’s uncle had accorded her extraordinary attention the day before and the promised pony did not indicate neglect on his part. However, the child’s mother had not made an appearance with the schoolroom set. Perhaps Anne needed to feel important—and loved. Something to work on.

The following day a pattern was established for the activities of the new governess and her charges. Elinor rose early each morning and took a walk around the grounds before breakfast. Sometimes she then had the sunny family breakfast room all to herself, for the other ladies were not early risers. Occasionally, the marquis was there before her. After an exchange of polite greetings, he would ask penetrating questions about the children’s lessons, even suggesting works from his own library that might be helpful, at least to their teacher. Meanwhile, servants assigned to the care of the children would ready them for the morning’s lessons.

Spending her days with her charges, Elinor welcomed the chance for adult company in the evenings. Although she invariably had fleeting regrets about her limited wardrobe as she changed for dinner, she spent little time lamenting the loss of pretty clothes.

One evening as she entered the drawing room prior to the announcement of dinner, Elinor was pleased to see that Thomas Huntington had joined the group.

“I am surprised to see you so soon, Mr. Huntington. I understood you would be in London at least a week after we left,” she commented after greeting him and the others.

“Actually, it was nearly a week, but I made the journey in less time than you. Of course, I had the advantage of traveling lightly. And alone.” He smiled.

“You must indeed have made good time then.”

“Sealed dispatches from the Foreign Office require the utmost expediency,” he said, adopting a teasingly pompous tone.

“Oh, I see.” She smiled at him.

“Sherry, Miss Palmer?” The marquis offered her a glass.

“Thank you,” she said, briefly looking into his eyes, recognizing the now familiar tingle as their hands touched when he gave her the glass. She quickly lowered her gaze.

Both men were dressed casually, but elegantly. However, Elinor noted to herself, Adrian commanded one’s attention more intensely. She pulled herself up short. Just when did the Marquis of Trenville become “Adrian” to her? She turned to engage the ladies in conversation until dinner was soon announced.

In the drawing room later, Gabrielle entertained them with a practiced, if less than stirring performance on the pianoforte. Both the duchess and Madame Giroux were occupied with needlework as Elinor idly leafed through a copy of
La Belle Assemblee.
Huntington and the marquis seemed content just to listen. Then tea was served and the footman bearing it left the room as the duchess began to pour.

“Come, Thomas.” Gabrielle patted the seat next to her as she moved to the settee, pronouncing his name in her enchanting Gallic accent. “You must share with us the latest
on dits
from Town.”

Elinor put aside her magazine to take the cup the Duchess offered. She glanced at Adrian. He seemed amused at his sister-in-law’s undisguised delight in gossip.

Huntington laughed and took the seat she indicated. “I doubt I have much to offer beyond what the others have already told you,” he said with a nod in the direction of their companions.

“Surely there is something,” she wheedled.

“Hmm. Well, yes, I think there is. Seems Melbourne’s wife has become quite
outre
in her pursuit of the poet, Byron.”

“No! Tell me!” She clasped her hands before her.

“Yes,” he assured her, accepting the cup the duchess handed him. “Dressed herself as a page to gain admittance to a rout he was attending. Stirred quite a furor, I’m told.”

“And how did his lordship react to that?” asked the duchess.

“Which one—Melbourne or Byron?” Huntington responded.

“Both.” Her grace chuckled.

“Melbourne whisked his wife off to the country forthwith and Byron seems to be avoiding company—at least until the gossip dies down.”

“Oh, how rich.” Gabrielle laughed. “What else?”

“Seems an heiress has disappeared,” Huntington said, warming to his task.

Intuitively, Elinor froze, her cup halfway to her mouth. She slowly lowered it, taking care it did not rattle against the saucer. She gripped the saucer tightly.

“Who?” Gabrielle’s voice was a delighted little squeal.

“No one we know,” Huntington said. “Sister to the new Earl of Ostwick, but he is still a schoolboy. They are trying to keep it close as wax, but the guardian was in Town making inquiries.”

“Is foul play suspected?” the marquis asked.

“Apparently not.” Huntington shrugged. “The lady seems to have run away on her own.”

“With a lover?” Gabrielle asked.

“Trust a Frenchwoman to read romantic intrigue into it,” Huntington said, laughing. “Who knows? There was some vague talk of a match, but I forget with whom.”

“Perhaps she disliked the match and ran away with a lover of her own choice,” Gabrielle said.

Elinor tried to look relaxed, though she sat rigidly, unable to look at any of them lest her eyes give her away. Panic gripped her as the marchioness guessed at least half the truth.

“Ostwick,” the duchess mused. “I believe the family name is Richards. What is the lady’s name then?”

“I did not catch it truly,” Huntington said with another shrug. “Helen—or Ellen. Something like that. Melanie, maybe.”

“Well,” the duchess said dismissively, “let us hope she has not been compromised in any way. Caroline Lamb’s antics seem far more serious. Melbourne is an ambitious man.”

Elinor breathed a soft inward sigh of relief as the conversation veered away from the runaway heiress. She set her tea aside and began leafing through the magazine again, but took little note of what she saw.

Presently the marquis’s deep voice caught her attention as he addressed Huntington.

“You are certainly as familiar with this area as I am, Tom. Would you say the smuggling trade has become more marked recently?”

“Mr. Huntington’s father was steward here when my husband was marquis,” the duchess said to Elinor. “Thomas ran freely with my children as they were growing up. His mother still lives in the village.”

“I would not say it is any worse,” Huntington said slowly. “Probably about the same, despite the end of hostilities with the French. Chance for locals to pick up some extra coin occasionally. Why do you ask?”

“Just wondering if I should do something about it,” Adrian said.

“Certain it is that you have the authority to do so,” Huntington responded. “However, I should think it would be easier to keep track of the trade if you did not require them to sneak around any more than they already do.”

Adrian nodded. “That is exactly what Jenkins said.”

“But surely, you cannot condone such activity, my son,” the duchess admonished.

“I am not condoning it, Mother. Merely not making a larger issue of it than need be.”

“Well . . .” She sounded dubious.

“And to that end,” he went on, “before you return to Wallenford on the morrow, I should like you to have a friendly word with Mrs. Hoskins about her son’s evening activities. It would be better coming from another woman, I think.”

“Little Bobby Hoskins?” The duchess was aghast.

Adrian gave a bark of laughter. “That was my reaction, too. Little Bobby Hoskins,” he affirmed. “Now, if you all will excuse me, I must look at those dispatches Thomas brought with him.”

 

 

Sometimes Elinor took the midday meal below with the other adults; sometimes she joined the children. Then, the twins would be put down for naps—not without protest—and Elinor would accompany Anne to the music room to give the girl a lesson on the pianoforte. Anne, of course, had not the training and practice her mother showed, but she had genuine feeling for her music. Anne still treated the new governess with less warmth than the others did, though she had shed a few of her reservations. She was cooperative and actually welcomed the music lessons.

Knowing full well that most men of the
ton
spent as little time with their offspring as possible, Elinor was surprised at the interest shown by the marquis. Indeed, he seemed to guard his regularly scheduled time with his children almost jealously. In the afternoon, when their lessons were finished, he would take the twins out in the gig, driving into the village or about the estate, or perhaps he would take them for a stroll in the gardens.

Sometimes Anne accompanied them, but often this was the time she spent with her mother in that lady’s chambers or in the drawing room. Elinor had learned early on that the presence of the marchioness at the Abbey was rather a “seasonal” event. The beautiful Frenchwoman preferred Town life, though she usually left her daughter at the Abbey “so as not to cause instability in a child’s life.” Elinor was of the opinion that her concern for stability conveniently allowed the marchioness to ignore some of her responsibilities to her daughter. A few idle comments in conversations between the duchess and her daughter-in-law suggested that Gabrielle had been extremely disappointed when she produced a mere girl, instead of the next Marquis of Trenville and eventual heir to a dukedom.

In any event, Elinor thought, Anne must sense her mother’s latent disappointment and indifference. Elinor’s heart went out to this child who was the same age she had been when she lost her mother. How much worse it must be for Anne whose mother was still a presence in her life, but just did not seem to care.

There was only so much a governess could do about this situation, but Elinor resolved to do all in her power to see that Anne was not unduly hurt—at least so long as the child was in her care. Knowing what solace it could offer, she encouraged Anne’s interest in music. She also made a point of praising the girl, both to build Anne’s confidence and to acquaint others, especially the child’s mother, with how worthy she was.

Several days had passed with little substantive communication between the governess and her employer. Then, one morning at breakfast, he required an accounting.

“I trust all goes well with the schoolroom set,” he said, laying aside his reading as she took a seat.

“Quite well, my lord. We are plotting a course to sail around the world.”

“Bess and Geoffrey seem a bit young for advanced levels of geography.”

“I agree. But they are responding well to questions about how children might live in other parts of the world.”

“I see . . .” he said, his voice indicating he did not see at all.

“You know: how other children dress, the games they play, how they live. We can touch on different cultures without too much business of latitude and longitude or prevailing wind patterns.”

“I see.” And this time he did. “Sounds appropriate.”

“We are having great fun—and, I hope, learning in the process. Anne is a help; she is quite eager in researching various locations.”

“You seem to get on well with the three of them.”

“I think so. Bess and Geoffrey are at that eager-to-please stage when the teacher is always a genius.”

“And Anne?”

“Anne is more cautious,” she said hesitantly. “She seems to be waiting—”

“Waiting? For what?”

“I think to see if she should invest her trust.”

“Anne had a difficult time with her last governess. We thought it best that you form your own impression before saying anything of previous problems.”

“She does not hold a very high opinion of governesses in general,” Elinor said with a laugh. “But we are working through that.”

“How?”

“She loves music. I think it is helping her cope with her feelings and anxieties.”

“The last governess described her as bossy, rebellious, and sulky,” Adrian said bluntly.

“She does like to be the one in charge, but I really think ...” Her voice trailed off as—too late—she thought better of sharing her view of the situation. She recalled Harriet Palmer’s warning to her.

“Yes? You really think ... come on, Miss Palmer—out with it,” he commanded.

“I think Anne desperately needs to feel wanted, needed,” she said in a rush.

“I am not sure I know what you mean.” His voice had gone decidedly cool. “She is certainly not neglected. She is included in everything involving my own children.”

“Sometimes a child’s perception of herself or a situation has little to do with reality. It seems to me that Anne’s tendency to direct and control stems from feelings of inadequacy.” Oh, lord. Now she had done it. Why had she not just left the lid on this particular container?

He was quiet for several minutes, apparently mulling over what she had said.

“Hmm. Do you have a remedy then?”