A Governess Should Never… Wager a Duke (The Governess Chronicles #4.5)

Chapter 6

CHAPTER SIX

“It may be fashionable for a female not to sit with her spouse; but it is not, I apprehend, a very good lesson to instil.”

Private Education: A Practical Plan for the Studies of Young Ladies.

Elizabeth Appleton. 1815.

“ D id you enjoy the ceremony?”

Marcus stretched his arms. “Very moving.”

Charlotte disregarded the somewhat sarcastic tone. “I thought so too. Fred and Kitty are so perfect for one another.”

He yawned. “Delightful.”

With a roll of eye, Charlotte clutched her thin shawl close about her neck. The wedding ceremony had taken place in the cold of St Anne’s Church, with many an askew glance that the duke had deigned to attend.

Now they followed the jubilant procession through town. Children dashed, farmers chatted and even the dogs barked with joy.

A feast was to be provided within The Unicorn inn on North Road, and as the groom’s father was the famed baker of Ambleside’s breads and delicacies, the procession was considerable.

Dinah had been given permission to walk with her new friends which left Charlotte alone with the duke, and although her arm was latched through his, today it was akin to clutching a plank of wood. Indeed, as Marcus was also at his most laconic, a plank of wood could be deemed to have more personality.

Maybe she should…prod a little.

“Have you…never been in love? Like they are?”

The plank of wood creaked. “Perchance…once.”

Was that the reason he’d returned from London so cold, closing his emotions to joy?

“A-and? Did it end badly?”

“I found that…” The plank imperceptibly shivered. “I found I was not worthy.”

Charlotte frowned and nigh tripped over her boots. Not worthy?

What bird-witted goosecap would find Marcus unworthy?

She was about to interrogate further but The Unicorn inn came into view.

Two lines of guests stretched out from the ribbon-strewn door and waited for the bridal couple who’d been obliged to tarry in the church and sign the registry.

Amongst the babble and excitement, she and Marcus joined a line.

Everyone wore their Sunday best: velvet bonnets and beaver hats, finest woollen skirts and worsted waistcoats, although many a sturdy boot could be spied beneath an elegant petticoat trim as the roads were icy.

The duke’s attire was pristine, of course. Top boots were shined to a mirror, fawn buckskins held not a crease, and his cravat was white as frost.

Cheers and applause erupted as the happy couple at last arrived on a hay cart. Soft heather and glossy laurel were tied to the wooden slats and even the stout workhorse had green ribbons twined in his mane.

The groom with his boyish looks descended, cheeks ruddy as he held forth slender arms for his bride.

With brown pretty curls and bright-blue eyes, Kitty tumbled into them with a laugh and a kiss.

Whoops abounded, along with some rather ribald suggestions from the farmhands, so the bride drew away with a blush, keeping a death grip upon her new husband’s hand.

One could tell her dress and coat were patched but the fresh ribbons that curled her hair, the white lace at her cuffs and the sheer jubilation that shone in her eyes meant it mattered not a jot.

The morn sky was a hoary grey but all were in high spirits as the wedded couple embarked down the corridor of beaming well-wishers and old women casting herbs for luck, to arrive at the decorated door, applause heralding their entrance to the inn. Guests followed suit, a lengthy line of stamping feet and empty stomachs.

“I should not be here,” growled the duke. The plank of wood was no longer quite such a plank but more akin to a wind-blown oak as he leaned near. “This is for the townsfolk.”

“There are other gentry here,” assured Charlotte, “and I told townspeople to tell other townspeople to all ignore you. We are merely here to bear witness to the wedded couple’s happiness.”

Removing his hat, he scowled but dipped his head to pass beneath the inn’s lintel before a barmaid showed them to a finely laid table.

“This is not ignoring me,” he groused, as although the wedded couple and family were seated at tables, most of the townsfolk had to make do and stand.

More guests piled in and soon it was chock-full: lads perching on the stairs, Dinah and her friends giggling in the corner, the handful of local gentry discussing horseflesh at the bar.

This inn was said to be the oldest in town, and acorns together with horseshoes to gather luck had been added to the usual dried hops hanging from the low beams.

At the clang of a pan lid by the beaming but exhausted-looking landlady, a host of kitchen lads brought forth the food: game pies with golden crusts curled in perfection; a roast of the local Herdwick Hogget sheep – somewhere between tender lamb and strong-flavoured mutton; a vast curled sausage spiced with pepper and nutmeg; Windermere char fish; thin oat clap-breads; and roasted chestnuts.

A sizeable game pie was placed upon their table, along with roast potatoes and bread sauce.

Charlotte nigh slavered at the sight but felt a nudge to her side.

“The guests are dropping coin into a pot on the newly-weds’ table. What’s that about?”

She frowned. “As in the old Lakes tradition, the couple have asked for money not presents.”

“Hah,” the plank muttered. “And you claimed that glossy guineas mattered not.”

“Don’t be preposterous, Marcus. I meant they should not be…not be what defines us.”

“Well, I say it’s not right of them to take money from relatives and townsfolk and then spend it on hell knows what. Even poor Blind Will has put coin in.”

Charlotte blinked.

Surely he knew?

Marcus helped himself to the Ambleside baker’s magnificent game pie that had never been matched by his London chef, despite the additions of mangetout and herbes de Provence .

Maybe those additions were where he was going awry.

“Your Grace! What a kindly and pleasant deed to grace us with your graceful presence, Your Grace.”

Rising to his boots, Marcus shook the baker’s hand with fervour. “No need for that, Luke. I filched enough of your pies as a cub to rid us of formality.”

“Aye, that you did. I remembered game was your favourite, so made sure Nessy brought the largest one over.”

It was so kind and Marcus felt an absolute curmudgeon that he’d not visited townspeople and tenants for some time, leaving it all to his steward.

He picked up his glass of ale and raised it forth. “I toast your son and his beautiful wife. To many, many years of happiness.”

The baker’s eyes dropped, skittered to Charlotte. “Aye, well, Your Grace. We can only hope. There but for the grace of God, eh…Your Grace?”

Blinking at all those graces and feeling as though he was missing something important, Marcus nodded. “Just so.”

As the rotund baker turned to the next table, Marcus sat and gripped Charlotte’s wrist before it could fork another roast potato into her mouth.

“What are you not telling me?”

“I thought you knew…” She sighed. “You used to be so perceptive, Marcus. Look around. What do you see?”

He perused the inn.

Lads fought over bowls of pork crackling; men propped up the bar and discussed the harvest – it’d been abysmal; women of the town crowded the fireplace, cradling babes; and a hound chomped crusts that a tot was feeding it under a chair.

His eyes shifted to the newly-weds’ table where various children squabbled, an uncle was two sheets to the wind and the bridesmaid was flashing her ankles at the best man.

All in all, a normal wedding.

Then he looked anew.

His gaze fixed on the bride who refused to release her husband’s hand. Then Luke the baker whose mournful eyes flitted back and forth to the couple. The mother of the bride’s lips smiled yet held a tremble…

“It ought to be a scene of elation,” he said quietly. “The groom’s cheeks are glowing more than the bonnie bride’s but…there’s something not quite right. A hint of melancholy.”

“Indeed, Marcus. But that’s not a glow,” she murmured. “Fred has a lung illness. The doctor says he must leave this damp Lakes climate or he won’t live to see next Christmas. The townsfolk are giving money to pay for their travel and board further south. Even then, it might not be enough to help his lungs.”

Marcus felt as though he’d been punched in the gut.

Now he could sense it. See it. The guests laughed and gambolled but with the knowledge that happiness could be too fleet.

“Why didn’t you tell me? This did seem an odd month for a wedding.”

“I thought you knew up until you grumped of the money. Fred is a tenant of yours. As is Luke.”

“I don’t interfere in their private matters,” he bit out. “And how can they be so damn cheerful? Why is Kitty marrying him? She could be a widow in six months, left with child.”

Charlotte stared at him, and he could not look away from the hurt in her green eyes.

“She loves him, Marcus. If Kitty has but a few months with him, then I believe she considers it worth the possible heartbreak. He is worth it. And besides, did not the bard say, ‘What is love? ’Tis not hereafter: Present mirth hath present laughter.’”

With mind awhirl, Marcus stared to his plate, the table stuffed with food, a cost that could contribute towards their travel, and he couldn’t consume a damn morsel.

“I need… I need some air.” He rose and with a curt bow, blundered through the throng and escaped out the side door.

There, he leaned back against an outer stable yard wall, shoving hands through his hair.

What the hell was Charlotte doing to him?

This was why he couldn’t involve himself in the lives of the townsfolk. It affected him overmuch and a detachment was necessary in order to run a profitable estate for everyone’s benefit.

“No!” a girl shouted from within the stable yard. “He’s no skinflint, I tell you.”

“Is so,” a lad retorted. “The steward says he wants Widow Brockbank out her house within a month. Not her fault her eldest broke his leg with that old tiller.”

“I’m sure he just doesn’t know that. He’s not a skinflint, just…just careful.”

Dear heaven, and Marcus closed his eyes as his ward defended him as best she could.

Why did she bother?

He was the curmudgeon who was going to leave Dinah alone for Christmas. Who’d asked his secretary to choose presents for her birthday.

“Pah,” said the lad. “He’s a tightfisted–”

“No! My father said he was the kindest boy at school. One who fought the bully-ruffians and…and–”

“Tightfist. Penny-pincher. Muckworm,” jeered the lad before…

A splash and…

“Oy, yer little bitch, I’m gonna–”

Marcus tore around the corner and hauled the drenched lad from the horse trough before he could lay one finger on Dinah.

“Away with you,” he hissed. “And never use such language with ladies.”

The young lad scowled but Marcus released him and he scarpered.

Dropping one knee to the muddy courtyard in front of Dinah, Marcus patted her ruffled curls and flushed cheeks. “Are you well? Did he touch you?”

“No, Cousin Marcus. I-I didn’t mean to push him in the trough.”

He crushed her into a hug. “I’m not worth it, Dinah,” he whispered into her hair.

“But…but…” She drew back and patted his shoulder. “Papa said you were good and kind, and Papa was always right. But he’s not here anymore so you need someone else to stand up for you.”

Damnation, he felt tears burn at the back of his eyes. “You mustn’t…” He cleared his throat. “I’m not worthy of any…”

“To us you are, Marcus,” came a soft voice from behind. “Come, the both of you, before we miss the special mince pies Luke has baked.” They both twisted to Charlotte who smiled. “Or miss the jug-bitten uncle who’s about to make a speech. Or miss the search for the bridesmaid who’s disappeared…as has the best man. Or miss Fred and Kitty who are to dance their first jig as a wedded couple.”

Marcus got to his feet, breeches besmirched, boots likewise, cravat skew-whiff and hair doubtless at all angles.

But he held out a hand to Dinah. “Shall we, my lady?”

She giggled and lifted her skirt hem, even though it was soiled and sodden, to give a dainty curtsey. Then she reached out to clutch his hand.

Marcus turned and thrust forth his other hand, bare and somewhat soiled also.

Charlotte clasped it and his fingers curled around hers.

“Let us ‘do nothing but eat and make good cheer,’” he said with a smile. “For time is precious and fleet for us all.”

And Marcus led them both from the cold and into the welcoming warmth of the inn.