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

Chapter 9

CHAPTER NINE

“Young ladies can, now and then, give you their opinions.”

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

Elizabeth Appleton. 1815.

’ T was the day before Christmas Eve and Marcus had packed the majority of his bags.

He was leaving on the morrow.

No doubt at all.

Best for all concerned.

The snow last night had been considerable but nothing a ducal carriage couldn’t overcome, and the townsmen were even now clearing the roads for the mail stagecoach as they did every year. Life and business would not cease for either snow or Christmas.

Stood before his study desk, he gathered documents together but today couldn’t seem to garner any enthusiasm for this canal construction project that would see half the countryside dug up.

So, with folders in hand, he stalked to the window, stared to the peaks painted in white.

“Cousin Marcus?”

He swivelled to his ward hovering in the open doorway. “Yes, Dinah?”

“Did you have a nice evening at Lord Grimslee’s last night? Miss Webster has been most…quiet.”

Marcus pulled at his too-tight cravat. “It was delightful.”

She curved an eyebrow, just like her father used to. “Hmm.” Then twirled her skirts. “Will I see you tomorrow before you leave?”

“For certain.” He’d given permission for Dinah to stay with her friend Lucy for a night, which had seemed to involve her packing for a fortnight. “Where is Miss Webster? Sorting your clothes?”

“Gone walking.”

“What!” He swung back to the window. “It’s bitter out today. And there are perilous drifts of snow.”

“She said she might head up into the fells.”

Marcus strode to the desk and slung the folders down. “Which fells?”

“Erm…east-ish?”

“That bench on Wansfell overlooking town, no doubt.” And he tramped past his ward and into the hall. “Greatcoat,” he ordered. “Boots and scarf. Dinah, until tomorrow.”

She turned and smiled limpidly. “Yes, Cousin Marcus.”

Muttering to himself, he shoved on his outerwear.

Just wait until he caught up with that Miss Charlotte Webster.

“Dinah?”

“Yes, Miss.”

“Do you know where the duke is going?”

From the schoolroom window, Charlotte watched with increasing trepidation as the figure of Marcus stomped off in an easterly direction, fists clenched and greatcoat flapping.

“He seemed a little…upset, Miss Webster.” Dinah joined her to peer out the window also. “Said he was going walking in the fells.”

“What! It’s bitter out today. And there are perilous drifts of snow.”

“I know, Miss.” Dinah sighed deeply. “He appeared most… What was the word you taught me. Perturbed? Yes, perturbed. He also said not to expect him back till late.”

Charlotte slung Miss Appleton’s book to the desk. “Which fells?”

“Er… With a bench overlooking town.”

“Wansfell, no doubt. I’d best follow and ensure he’s safe.”

“A fine idea, Miss Webster. I shall sit here and read until the coach is ready to take me to Lucy’s.”

“Yes. Mr Goldsmith’s Grammar of Geography .”

Her rosebud lips pursed. “Oh.” Nose scrunched. “But I’m still working on my appraisal of Pride and Prejudice and how to include more romance. And an epilogue.”

Charlotte raised a brow but the girl batted those ridiculously long lashes and there was no time for debate. “I shall see you on the morrow, then. We will have a fine Christmas together. Mrs Mossop is baking for a feast of five hundred.”

“Cousin Marcus might still stay.”

Charlotte forced her lips to curve and kneeled by the young girl, clutching her small hand. “It… It is possible but we must not be disappointed if he leaves. It has to be his choice.”

“I suppose,” Dinah replied, before a fierce hug was exchanged.

Charlotte then rose to her feet, crossed to the wall hook for her cloak and then re-laced her sturdy boots. “Until tomorrow, dearest.” And she hastened from the schoolroom.

Just wait until she caught up with that Duke of Shawdale.

Marcus cursed low as the bench he and Charlotte used to sit upon many years ago was occupied by a slender middle-aged gentleman. A notebook lay in his lap, pencil poised.

Once outside, Marcus had realised the snow was not so deep for the most part, and the sun had decided to make an appearance, turning the landscape to a glistening creation of ice and wonder.

Not one trace had been found of Charlotte, not a single boot print in the snow, and he concluded she’d likely returned home, that they’d somehow missed one another.

But just in case…

“Sir? Forgive me. But could I ask you? Have you seen a lady up here? Auburn hair?”

The chap peered up. Long nosed and dark haired, he looked vaguely familiar. “Not I. Solely has nature revealed herself to me this day.”

Marcus smiled. “And ’tis at its best, there is no doubt.”

In accord with his words, Marcus turned and lifted his eyes to take in the vast landscape before them – the fells swaddled in snow, Ambleside nestled within its embrace, the glittering lakes like a cracked shifting mirror to the sky above.

He breathed – crisp and clean.

This land was in his very soul and blood, a part of himself he’d forgotten in the urgent need to refill the estate coffers and regain the Shawdale pride. And how he’d missed the sheer pleasure of stomping along deserted paths, admiring the beauty of nature. It filled one with such a sense of harmony and yet…complete insignificance also.

The fells would be here for all time.

But his time here was short.

And if he worked himself into an early grave, he would miss this essence of life – the beauty, hope and…love.

Marcus twisted. “May I?” And at the gentleman’s nod, he sat on the bench, removing his beaver hat and gloves. “I’d forgotten how…beautiful this can be.”

“Glad to see a younger man who enjoys it,” grumbled the fellow aside him. “Too many wish to cover our countryside with industry. I know progress is essential but I fear a way of life is disappearing.”

Marcus winced and peered at the gent’s notebook. “Are you a writer, Sir?”

“I am. Although on a day such as this, the glory of nature overwhelms me and I find my pencil has stilled.” He turned. “And you are seeking a lady up here, yes? A…friend, perhaps?”

“Er. No. Yes.” He shook his head. “But a fool’s errand as I fear…”

“Hmm?”

“It’s naught.”

“I have known much loss and much love, thus far in life, and never is it naught.” The gent nudged Marcus’ shoulder with his own. “Why not tell me what you fear? Doubt you’ll see me again.”

Marcus debated, drumming his fingers on his hat brim. The gentleman appeared not to know him, and perhaps it would be good to talk to a stranger.

“I…” Marcus breathed deep. “I…I am in love with this lady I seek with all that I am. Yesterday, today and tomorrow. But I fear she does not feel the same. I fear she loved the young man I was, when we grew up together. I fear she cannot love what I am now. I fear she considers me a…friend.”

A man of business might say those fears were absurd. That his most pressing fear ought to be that of bankruptcy. Or falling prey to swindlers once more. Perhaps he should fear losing out on the canal deal.

Yet at this moment, all of those paled in comparison with the fear that Charlotte would never love him.

“What are fears, eh?” the gent declared. “But voices airy? Whispering harm where harm is not–”

“I suppose you’re–”

“Don’t interrupt. I dislike it when people interrupt.” He cleared his throat. “What are fears? But voices airy? Whispering harm where harm is not and deluding the wary till the fatal bolt is shot.”

Marcus smiled. “Never a truer word said, Sir.”

“I know. I wrote it the other day. Although I think it needs some work. But what I’m trying to express is that we should not lose precious time imagining fears that may or not be valid, or they will drive us to Bedlam. You say you love this lady?”

“Yes,” he said simply. And Marcus closed his eyes. Always. He saw her in his mind’s eye – lips smiling, green eyes laughing.

“Well then,” said the gentleman, “you’d best tell her as it appears she is stomping up the path towards us with rather a perturbed expression.”

Marcus’ eyes snapped open and he scrabbled to his feet as Charlotte was indeed stomping the fell towards them, seemingly in a fit of pique, fists balled, head down and muttering.

His companion rose to his boots and slapped him on the back. “Remember this – serene will be our days, and bright and happy will our nature be, when love is an unerring light…”

Marcus nodded, felt the gentleman’s emotive words fill his soul. “You are a man of true poetry, Sir.”

“Some say so.” He plopped his hat upon his head. “Good tidings, Your Grace, and a merry Christmas to you.”

Marcus frowned.

“Good day, Mr Wordsworth,” hailed Charlotte.

“And to you, Miss Webster!” he hailed in return. “Do sit and admire it for a while.” And along with a jovial whistle, the esteemed poet Mr Wordsworth ambled off down the path.

With a groan, Marcus bowed to Charlotte. “I failed to recognise him.”

Auburn eyebrows raised in incredulity. “Where have you been, Marcus?”

He swallowed, let his eyes wander Charlotte’s features – her ruddy nose and red lips.

“Adrift for some while.” Without you. “Come, sit with me.”