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

Chapter 8

CHAPTER EIGHT

“At meals, people should be careful to accustom themselves to every delicacy of behaviour.”

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

Elizabeth Appleton. 1815.

A shadowed spectre seemed to hover over the manor house as dusk fell, clouds gathering apace, the air harsh with cold.

Marcus frowned from the carriage window before twisting to Charlotte. “Why the devil are we at old Grimslee’s place?”

“You wished to attend my third event, so this is it.” Her eyes shone bright in the coach’s lantern light. “The Duke of Shawdale, that’s you, and a guest, that’s me, have been invited to dinner. With a few other neighbours.”

“He sends a yearly Christmas invitation which I always refuse. The wine is watered down and the meat unidentifiable – likely the corpses of his servants.”

Charlotte smirked. “Too late to be lily-livered now. You agreed.”

With a growl, Marcus threw himself back into the squabs. “If you’re not careful and I leave here famished, I’ll have my governess for dinner.”

Silence fell as Marcus ruminated on nibbling Charlotte’s nape before the carriage came to an abrupt halt.

He peered through the window once more. The manor was straight out of some Radcliffe novel – not that he’d read them, of course. Nude twisted creeper stems smothered the stonework and the steps looked mossy and dank.

“Did you know,” Charlotte said whilst gathering her cloak about her russet dress, “that Grimslee is Lord Crockett’s second cousin? The man you are to deal with regarding canals.”

“I did. But then everyone seems to be related somehow in this area.”

The coach door opened and a meagre globe of light shone forth.

“Welcome,” declared a rasp, “to Roachford Manor. The master is awaiting you in the parlour.”

Marcus rolled his eyes.

They followed the skeletal butler up the steps, through the front door and down a hallway, dingy as Hades and reeking of mould.

Marcus cast a glance to Charlotte, his emotions a shimmering cascade.

After raking up the past last night, he’d expected to sleep poorly as nightmares still tormented him on occasion – of himself as a callow youth, scared, trembling and facing death.

Yet instead, he’d dreamed of Charlotte, of chasing her over fells trimmed with snow. She’d hoicked her petticoats, flashing her ankles with a laugh, and he’d felt…young again.

Joyful.

Last night, she’d listened. Understood why he’d become the man he was. But he was aware she would need time to assimilate his revelations. In the cold light of day, she might well feel resentment towards him for ruining everything.

The funereal-black parlour door was opened and they paused on the threshold.

In utter silence stood five people, as though attending a wake and not a Christmas dinner – the dour host, his dour wife, the vicar who hoped to save Grimslee’s eternal soul, Sir Edward Spratt who would attend a sacrifice if there were free victuals, and a young Mr Slater who was new to the Lake District having inherited a goodly sum; he looked petrified.

“Shawdale,” crooned Lord Grimslee, gliding forward, a gaunt hand appearing from his dark sleeve. “So pleased you could attend this year. And I hear you are to do business with my cousin Crockett.” His lips formed a line – possibly a smile? “Welcome to the family.” A hacking laugh sprung forth.

It gave Marcus the shivers.

“Grimslee. A…pleasure to be here. And nothing is signed yet. May I introduce my guest, Miss Webster?”

The lord gave a shallow bow and then raised an eyeglass. “Ah, John Webster’s chit. A governess now, I hear?” His magnified eye lingered on her décolletage. “Lucky you, Shawdale, eh?”

Marcus gritted his teeth and stepped forward to–

“No longer a chit, my lord,” replied Charlotte with a pull on Marcus’ coat-tails. “And yes, I am a governess.”

“The best,” interrupted the vicar, rubbing his hands together for warmth. “Miss Webster was governess to my brother’s daughter in Keswick for a year and wrought miracles.”

Charlotte curtseyed with a broad grin. “How pleasant to see you again, Vicar. And Rosie is an adorable girl, just…”

“Has feathers in her head, you can say it, Miss Webster. We all adore Rosie but she just gets in such a fluster.”

“I fear she is quite shy, Vicar, and reacts as such when people focus on her. We sought ways for her to feel calm in company.”

“Pah!” croaked Grimslee. “Sounds like she needs a sound beating and a school for correction.”

The young Mr Slater nervously chuckled. “Oh, goodness, you shouldn’t joke, Lord Grim…” No one else joined in and he cleared his throat. “It wasn’t a joke?”

“No,” said Grimslee, pitch-black eyes narrowing. “I never joke.”

Marcus cleared his throat. He’d once thought nothing could be worse than that carriage journey home to the Lakes after his time in London.

“Your ward?” Grimslee muttered. “Have you a suitor in mind?”

He frowned. “She’s fourteen.”

“Marry her off as soon as you can. My cousin Lord Harris is hunting a wife.”

“He’s in his sixties. And has gout.”

“Your point? Our daughter married Blakley. Fifty-eight years to his name but with two hundred acres to the west and robust loins. Thought you were seeking to expand your own acreage?”

Marcus thought of Dinah’s youth and vibrancy sold off for a couple of fields. “My ward will marry whom she chooses.”

Grimslee’s brow wrinkled. “Crockett must be mistaken about you.”

Silence fell, and Marcus cast a glance at Charlotte who was peering to the cracked ceiling architrave. Her expression appeared innocent enough…until he noticed her lips trembling.

Mercifully, the creaking butler announced the commencement of dinner and they all filed in as if for the reading of a will.

An elbow nudged his side.

“This could have been your future.” Charlotte winked. “In a few years.”

His lip quirked. “I’d never water down my wine.”

Although truth be told, he did have to admit a certain unease within.

Grimslee’s tenant houses were in a state of disrepair and he evicted non-payers within a fortnight. Known to be a miser, everyone loathed him and no one would work for him except the desperate.

Marcus had never been that bad, surely?

Grimacing, he recalled Widow Brockbank whom he’d instructed to vacate her tenant cottage within a month.

They all sat upon non-cushioned chairs, Charlotte opposite, while a soup was brought forth. White and thin with floating…

“Well,” cried the young Mr Slater, joyfully raising his glass. “Here’s to Christmas. I’m so glad to attend an event where I can become better acquainted with my new neighbours. Anyone fond of fishing?”

Lord Grimslee’s lip rippled. “This isn’t about Christmas,” he hissed. “Or being neighbourly. And certainly not fishing. It’s about business. Shawdale is undoubtedly here to discuss the deal he’s negotiating with my cousin. The vicar wishes a contribution to church roof repairs – it’s no, by the way. And you are here because you have a five thousand a year income and want to know where to invest it.”

“Actually,” Marcus found himself saying with glass in hand, “I agree with you, Mr Slater. Here’s to meeting new neighbours. Welcome to the Lakes. I hope you may call upon me soon? We could talk of investment, if you wish to?”

“Oh, oh, yes.”

“Good. And I… I used to pass a pleasant afternoon fishing. Haven’t been in years but I’m sure all the equipment is somewhere. We could try the Rothay River.”

“I would enjoy that.” Mr Slater smiled. “And this inheritance is all rather…daunting, to tell you the truth.”

“I also inherited when young and made more than a few mistakes…” He glanced up to Charlotte’s soft smile. Mr Slater reminded Marcus of himself all those years ago – young and trusting – and Grimslee would doubtless hoodwink the chap into investing too deeply.

Charlotte’s foot reached out to his under the table. He was sure she meant it as a simple gesture of understanding but it caused every muscle to tense in unrelenting desire and want.

“And the church roof doesn’t need repairs,” stated the vicar. “Our congregation raised enough last year.”

“And I’m not here for business,” mumbled Sir Edward Spratt, peering at his empty bowl. “Just the food… Although, is this wine watered down, Grimslee? Hey, butler fellow, hie to my coach, will you, and you’ll find six bottles of Chablis in the box seat.” He pursed his mouth. “I never travel unprepared.”

Charlotte giggled, the vicar grinned and Mr Slater’s young lips wobbled.

Grimslee glowered.

Second course arrived.

Marcus watched as Charlotte sliced into the scraggy meat with gusto, savoured the meagre three carrots as though they were sugared bonbons and sipped Sir Edward Spratt’s wine with a pleasurable sigh.

The candlelight made her skin glow, her hair a soft auburn with strands of fire, and young Slater looked enamoured.

Who could blame him?

She lit any room she stepped into with her joyful nature. She laughed even when matters were dire, kept that smile, that warm flame lit within.

And he envied it.

No longer was he the carefree boy.

The one Charlotte had known and been fond of.

He knew he was a curmudgeon on occasion, dare he say dull with his ledgers. But he also knew he would have to continue to be so, to work all hours for the sake of everyone. Had learned the hard way that the estate did not run itself.

He’d changed. So much.

Overmuch.

Her red-tipped lashes flitted up, eyes catching his.

Every muscle tensed once more.

But Marcus forced his own eyes away.

“Well, that wasn’t quite so bad as I’d feared.” Charlotte tugged her cloak close.

“No.”

“In fact, one could almost call it joyful.”

“Yes.”

“Mr Slater is an asset to the town.”

“Indubitably.”

Oh, good grief.

During dinner, Marcus had been most talkative with the guests, but for some reason, a gloom had descended upon him.

After their farewells had been bid and they’d clambered into the carriage, he’d proceeded to huddle in the corner, tip his hat low and pretend to sleep.

Doubtless he was still haunted by the past.

Perhaps the young Mr Slater had reminded Marcus of himself as a trusting young man? Or…or had Grimslee bestowed a vision of where a focus on guineas alone could lead? She had to confess that had been her original intention but now it pained her.

A sigh escaped, for all she wished was for Marcus to be content. To forgive himself for his youthful folly, allow himself to feel proud of what he had since achieved and start to…live life again.

The carriage rumbled on and in through the wrought-iron gates of the Shawdale estate but as it did so, she snatched his walking cane from the seat and clattered the ceiling. “Stop, please, George. We’ll walk from here.”

“It’s freezing, Charlotte,” the duke muttered beneath his hat. “Don’t be absurd.”

“Stay, if you wish, but I want to walk and enjoy the night. Like we used to.” So after unhooking the lantern from the corner, she opened the door and descended the icy steps that George had unfastened.

It was freezing, but also still and beautiful. She startled but then smiled as an owl flew from a nearby tree, no doubt taking umbrage at her light.

“Drive on, George,” she heard Marcus state but she did not turn.

The door slammed and she watched the carriage trundle on past her towards the house.

How foolish to hope Marcus would–

“Come on then,” a rumble of duke groused, “before I freeze my ballocks off.” Boots tramped to her side. “Hand me the lantern and you’d best hold on to me or you’ll go ars– er…skirts over.”

With a small smile, she hooked an arm through his and glanced up to him, yet his expression was hidden in the weak light.

“Thank you, Marcus.”

For a while, they walked the path to the house without words, and she revelled in the deep quiet that enveloped them. No other mammals scurried and ’twas as if they were the sole two people alive. Their breaths misted and swirled as Jack Frost silently went about his nightly business, anointing the land with his slumbrous but wondrous rime.

The mausoleum of the Shawdale lineage lay just beyond the trees but she sensed no restlessness amongst its inhabitants. Indeed, his mother and all those interred there would rest soundly knowing the estate was in Marcus’ safe hands. “Remember when we buried the stable dog in the mausoleum?”

A ducal grunt.

“You cried.”

“I did not.”

She smiled. “I knew not how to cheer you. You were morose for days.”

“I adored that dog. And you were there at my side. Always there for me. That was all I needed. But…”

“Hmm?”

“How do you stay so…cheerful, Charlotte?” He paused. “You never seem afeared by life’s twists and turns.”

She blinked.

Was he cracked in the head?

“I…I am afeared more times than I can say, Marcus. Being a governess is not easy. Interviews still daunt me. And first days with new pupils. Sitting at dinner tables where I know no one, am not one of them. Overhearing a scathing aside. And one girl bit me.” She shivered. “But I will not be cowed because I’ve also had generous kind employers and adorable pupils whom I’ve not wanted to leave. It is all…part of life, the good and the bad. I suppose it’s just that I prefer to hold onto the good, ’tis all.”

A breath gusted white. “You are a better person than me, Charlotte.”

Yes, he was cracked in the head.

“Marcus, I have no doubt whatsoever that you will pay off your last debts, honouring your vow and the memory of your mother, and go on to bring the estate to full prosperity. Mr Slater wants your advice. Dinah adores you. Don’t be a numbskull.”

They came to the steps of the house and he paused to stare down at her.

His head stooped.

Charlotte stilled.

Dared not move.

Would he–

Cold lips brushed her cheek, soft but fleet.

“Thank you, Charlotte.” He smiled but she sensed it held a sadness. “I will likely still visit Carlisle on Christmas Eve.”

She glanced up as something soft and crystalline drifted, another feathered her cheek in a cold caress.

Snow.

“I understand.”

He drew back, countenance shadowed. “We must not tarry. The weather is worsening.”

Charlotte nodded, clutched his arm and ascended the steps.

Marcus considered her perennially cheerful and full of laughter yet…

She’d not told him of the nights she’d cried over him when he’d returned from London, her girlish yearning for the boy he’d been and her own shattered heart.

And she’d not tell him of her love for him now.

For the man he was today with his strength in adversity and his wry humour, for his protectiveness of Dinah and his unwavering honour.

Marcus was a peer of the realm with all the responsibilities it brought. He could choose any debutante he wished as his duchess. One with a dowry that would ensure the future prosperity of the estate and all those who depended upon it. Depended upon him.

She was just a governess.

Their time had passed.

He considered her a friend.

The butler opened the door but once inside, she did not linger and with a nod of goodnight hastened up the staircase.

While outside in the bleak night, the owl screeched poignant and alone.