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

Chapter 12

CHAPTER TWELVE

“What will signify all the learning in the world, if you are wanting in generosity, in kindness, in good nature?”

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

Elizabeth Appleton. 1815.

Christmas Day.

T he bells rang loud as the gleeful congregation around him gushed from St Anne’s Church like the Stock Ghyll beck after the autumn rains, babbling and dashing, joyous and eager.

Overnight, further snow had cloaked the town and now lads hurled snowballs, girls shrieked with delight, and ladies tottered with muffs the size of Herdwick Hogget sheep.

Christmas.

And Marcus was here with them all, feeling jubilant and at ease, with an excited Dinah on one arm and his beloved Charlotte upon the other.

There could, he knew, be no doubt amongst the townsfolk as to his intentions towards her and many had nudged one another or waggled an eyebrow.

With a wink, Mr Wordsworth doffed his hat and Marcus returned a sheepish smile.

Their stroll followed the flock down the lane into town, and they breathed in the chill air, absorbing the anticipation of the day.

Rather a racket was ensuing outside Ambleside Bakery, and they turned their heads to observe Kitty and Fred embracing to whoops and cries from an assemblage of well-wishers.

Marcus merely raised a brow. “Bit raucous for Christmas Day, no?”

“I heard in church from their neighbour Mrs Whidley,” said Charlotte, “that Fred discovered a purse full of guineas beneath their door this morning.”

“Really?” said Marcus with eyes wide. “Do you think old Grimslee has seen the error of his ways?”

Dinah sniggered.

“No.” Charlotte swatted his arm. “I think the spirit of Christmas has been engaging in dawn visits to local tenants as I also heard that Widow Brockbank has been offered work in the stillroom of Shawdale Manor which means she may remain rent-free in her cottage.”

“Has she?” Marcus widened his eyes further. “I wouldn’t know. Though I was led to believe Widow Brockbank has a formidable pride and would not stay in the cottage rent-free without paying some dues.”

Charlotte tutted. “Next you’ll be kissing the foreheads of babes.”

He leaned down, lips close. “Oh no,” he murmured. “The sole person I shall be kissing is you, Charlotte. Who has brought such warmth and joy back into my life.”

“Oh, such romance.” Dinah broke her hold to clasp her hands together and sigh. “You told me, Miss Webster, that a governess’ life was just lessons. That she never attended grand dinners or glamorous balls or had time for romance. Now my novel can include them all.”

His beloved laughed and how it filled his soul.

And Marcus made a new vow to replace the one he’d made as a young man on his knees that misty dawn in London.

A vow that every Christmas would be thus – a time for merriment, feasting, thankfulness and love.

With Charlotte by his side.

Quite content, Marmaduke sat by the fireside, warming his toes.

It had been quite a day.

Just this afternoon, the thoughtful young duke next door had invited him to this manor house, taken him to his study and asked him for permission to marry Charlotte.

He’d had to ponder a while as his sister, Mary, had been here only yesterday, but the duke had shown him a miniature of Charlotte from when she’d been a tot and, of course, he remembered her.

Lovely girl.

And without a shadow of a doubt, she should wed him. After all, Charlotte had always been besotted with that boy next door.

Marmaduke himself would also move into this manor house which had caused him some consternation as he disliked change, but then the duke had reminded him of the rose garden. He could look for Martha whenever he wished. And young Miss Dinah Lovecott had said she would help him.

Smiling, he waggled his stockinged toes in the warmth from the flames and–

“Uncle Marmaduke?”

He peered up into bright joyous eyes. “Yes, Mary?”

“I had a thought last night. So…” A wicker basket was placed in his lap. “Merry Christmas, Uncle.”

“What on earth is this?” For the basket had a will of its own as it waggled and wiggled. He flung open the lid and saw…

“Martha!” And he brought forth the mewling black kitten. “Where did you find her?”

She kneeled at his side. “This is Martha then, Uncle?” she whispered.

“Well, of course.” The little kitten squirmed in his arms but appeared to like his woollen blanket best. “Rescued her from a river in India and brought her back with me. Always hid amongst the rose bushes in the maharaja’s palace.”

“Oh, Uncle.” And he was enveloped in a fearsome hug.

He returned her embrace, and in that moment, a brume lifted and all was clarity. This was Charlotte. Who worked so hard for them all.

“Thank you, my niece,” he murmured, “for all that you do for me.”

She swiped her cheek of a tear and nodded before turning to his nurse, Hannah, and presenting her with a gift also.

Marmaduke cuddled and cosseted the kitten who purred and kneaded the blanket on his lap with her paws, marking time. A time that he now knew never moved constant and true. It wound and weaved, sometimes ending up right back where you started.

“Hmm,” he said as the kitten clawed her way up his scarf to sniff his cheek. “If you had a collar like in India, you wouldn’t get lost again. And I have one…somewhere…” With one hand, he felt around in his jacket pockets and at last found the pouch that had been there for so long.

Waiting for Martha.

The kitten sniffed at it while Marmaduke’s fumbling thumbs loosened the ribbon bow and upended the pouch.

A collar tumbled out, a plethora of sparkles set within the leather shimmering in the firelight.

“Well, damn me,” he muttered. “That’s where I put those blasted diamonds.”

He peered over his shoulder to tell Charlotte about them but she was now sat upon the sofa, softly smiling at that thoughtful duke from next door, their hands gripped tight together.

Marmaduke didn’t think she’d have much need of them now.

So with a frown, he swivelled.

Mrs Munro was admiring her gift of a new woollen cloak. His nurse was such a cheerful woman who’d only ever treated him kindly. She worked all hours without complaint and hadn’t minded that the roof leaked in her bedchamber.

“Mrs Munro?” he enquired. “Have I ever asked you if you like cats?”

“I adore them, Mr Wainwright.” Her rotund face lit with a smile. “I have one named Boots, and since I lost my Mr Munro, he keeps me such company.”

“Well, I think Puss in Boots deserves a little present too, do you not think?” And he placed the diamond-studded collar into her lap. “Merry Christmas, Mrs Munro.”

She gasped and stuttered but Marmaduke winked at her and then returned his gaze to the fire, waggled his toes and reached for a glass of the young duke’s exceedingly fine claret.

He snuggled Martha in his scarf and within the flames watched time itself leap and curl. Past Christmases melded and scattered as memories rearranged themselves, but in their midst, some of life’s finest moments held fast and forever…

A couple in love, whispering to one another.

A young vibrant girl with dreams and life ahead of her.

A cheerful woman with naught but kindness in her heart.

An infant kitten mewling in wonder at the world.

He raised his glass.

“Merry Christmas,” he whispered, “to one and all.”