A Governess of Discretion (The Governess Bureau Book 2) Page 3

  This was not what he expected. The governesses from his youth, from what he could remember, were vague, floaty things who drew flowers on their days off and got upset when he refused to complete his sums.

  He laughed, despite himself. Well, a change was as good as a rest, wasn’t that what they said? “You are very direct, Miss Gilbert.”

  “I like to be,” she said with a brief smile that disappeared. “Were you expecting someone a little more demure?”

  It was on the tip of his tongue to say that he had. Someone quiet, willing to do whatever he ordered merely because he was her master. Wasn’t that how servants worked?

  Timothy could not remember the last time he had actually earned someone’s trust. Beyond his parents, and even then that was debatable. Mrs. Seton, maybe? Dewey had never questioned him.

  Miss Gilbert cleared her throat. It could not be more obvious she was waiting for his reply. It was damned rude, damned forward.

  “I have no wish to speak about anything,” he snapped.

  And that was the end of it. Or at least, it would have been with anyone else. Anyone else would have heard the tone in his voice, seen the warning signs Timothy was all too self-conscious of, the flared nostrils, the way he immediately folded his arms across his chest.

  But Miss Gilbert did not know them––that, or she simply refused to see them.

  “Are you sure?” she asked lightly. “There appears to be much on your mind, my lord, if you do not mind me saying so. Sometimes a conversation, even with a stranger, is the best way to get it out.”

  “You are very sure of yourself, speaking to me like that,” said Timothy. He had not intended to berate her so directly, but really. Who spoke to an earl like that!

  Miss Gilbert smiled. It was only then he noticed a difference between her and Louise. No dimple on the left cheek.

  “Perhaps I am,” came the reply. It was not radical, not rude, but it was clear and unwavering, with no embarrassment. Miss Gilbert’s smile grew. “I am a naturally curious person, and I speak as I find. You will have to become accustomed to me, my lord, as I grow accustomed to you.”

  A curl of doubt crept around Timothy’s heart. Discretion was what he wanted, what he had hired her for. There had been several other governesses in that Bureau of Clarke’s, but Miss Gilbert had been his choice for her self-declared and quite evident discretion.

  “I said, I do not know what he means.”

  He had almost laughed himself silly when she had said that. Do not know what he means? Everyone knew about the earl and his mistress, everyone. Why she had bothered to hide it, he did not know.

  But she had, and that was the point.

  Now to discover a streak of curiosity within her…well, that could be a disaster. Clarcton Castle held many secrets, some of them even he did not know. The last thing he needed was someone worming their way in, discovering all that could disgrace him.

  Timothy examined her more critically. She had a sensible head, or she would not be a governess. He just had to hope she knew when to leave well alone, or…

  It would be a disaster. She certainly wouldn’t be permitted to stay.

  Silence fell between them as Timothy sought for the right response to her words. How could he impress upon her the necessity for discretion? Nay, for her curiosity to be left in this carriage when they arrived at the castle, for it would do her no good in her home?

  All his carefully worded phrases were lost, however, as the carriage rumbled over a bump in the road.

  “What rattle-headed, pocked-marked fool built this road!”

  Miss Gilbert had not yet returned her book to her hands, and so this time Timothy was privy to the expression on her face when he cursed. It almost made him swear again.

  “I…I must apologize,” he said, discomfort stirring in his stomach, forcing the apology. “I am unaccustomed to a lady’s presence.”

  Which was a damned foolish thing to say, he thought in hindsight. Why not just tell her the whole damn secret now?

  But Miss Gilbert did not look offended; she laughed. “Oh, my lord, please do not concern yourself! My father use to swear like a trooper and though it surprises me from a gentleman such as yourself, it does not offend me.”

  This was an intriguing statement indeed. “I suppose he was in the army then, or the navy? ’Tis difficult to tell which is the more ill-tongued.”

  “Neither,” she said cheerfully. “No, my father was a gentleman.”

  This was becoming a far more interesting conversation than expected. Timothy knew many gentlemen, even considered a few of them his friends. None of them swore to the extent Miss Gilbert was suggesting.

  “Yes, well you may wonder,” said Miss Gilbert, reading his mind. “He liked florid language I suppose, there was very little anger in it. It made my brother absolutely awful to live with when he reached his majority, I can tell you.”

  Timothy nodded. This was starting to seep into chatter, a type of conversation he loathed. Chatter was only found where a lady was present, and it managed to communicate almost nothing in triple the number of syllables actually required.

  Besides, he could not trust her. Not yet. Conversing in this fashion would lead to him speaking openly before her, and that would not bode well.

  He had to trust her. He had to know she was trustworthy. It did not take long to ascertain whether a person was worthy of his confidence, and he had only been wrong once.

  “I suppose I should enquire about my charge, or charges.”

  Miss Gilbert’s voice cut through his thoughts, and Timothy looked in surprise. “Did your Miss Clarke not tell you?”

  “I am sure she would have done,” said Miss Gilbert serenely, pleasant despite the unpleasantness of his tone. “But unfortunately I was instructed to leave town immediately and had little time for the typical briefing that I would have expected.”

  She spoke with no hint of accusation or censure, a smile dancing on her lips as though she had told a joke only they two would understand.

  Timothy did not smile. Yes, he had hurried her out of London; but he had good reason for it. The last thing he needed was for her to stay in that place any longer. It was only a matter of time before the rumors would reach her ears, and if they had, there was a real chance she would have rescinded her agreement.

  “I suppose that is my fault,” he said testily.

  “You were the cause, certainly,” Miss Gilbert countered with no heat in her voice, “but I would not term it a fault.”

  Timothy nodded, despite himself. It was well said. He had not imagined a governess of her age––or any governess, in truth––to be that quick.

  A little of the ice around his heart melted. She did not think ill of him, then, for his desire to quickly leave London. It was quite marvelous how a person’s refusal to dislike one person could endear them to the other.

  Yet he must remain aloof, taciturn, even. There had to be distance between them, not merely due to their stations, but because that would protect her. Protect himself.

  “You’ll know all you need to know when you meet her,” he said stiffly.

  Miss Gilbert did not appear convinced. “I am not so sure. I now know there is a singular charge and that she is a girl, but I need to know her age, interests, previous schooling.”

  Timothy raised an eyebrow as the carriage rattled along. “You do, do you?”

  “I do,” said Miss Gilbert, her gaze meeting his. “It is vital information that will permit me to do what is best for my charge. I am sure you understand that, my lord. I am sure you want what is best for her.”

  There was something about the way she spoke, something reassuring and yet threatening. As though Miss Gilbert, young as she was, naïve as she certainly had to be in the ways of the world, already knew the damage that could be wielded against a young woman.

  Timothy’s jaw tightened. Frances had already suffered so much. More than she knew. The last thing he would ever want for her is to suffer again.

  He sighed heavily, looking out of the window at the gray gloomy skies rather than at the woman who had bested him once again.

  She was right; but still, it was most irritating, to be so spoken to by a woman he only met a few days ago and had spent the rest of the time in relative silence.

  It was only because he was tired, Timothy told himself. It was because he had not slept well since…

  Since that night.

  But that was hardly Miss Gilbert’s fault. If he was going to maintain the façade that everything was quite well at Clarcton Castle, he would need to put in a little more effort.

  Timothy sighed. Short and sweet. “I have one daughter. Frances.”

  Why was it impossible to speak her name without his heart breaking?

  “Frances,” repeated Miss Gilbert. “A pretty name.”

  “A pretty child,” he said, with a wry smile. “She has just turned four years of age, and I now require someone more competent to take care of her, to see to her education and manners. She has grown beyond a nursemaid.”

  Miss Gilbert nodded, and Timothy saw with interest that there was no jesting look in her eye or smile dancing around her lips. She was genuinely interested.

  “Bold, or shy?”

  Timothy blinked. “Shy? I suppose.”

  He heard the uncertainty in his voice and hated it. He should know his charge better, but since…it had been difficult, spending time with her. She was so much Louise’s daughter.

  “And does Lady Frances know her numbers, her letters, that sort of thing?”

  Miss Gilbert’s tone was brisk, rather than accusatory, but Timothy could not help but hear the implied criticism within.

  “I really don’t know,” he said, as airily as he could. “I…I have not spent as much
time with her as I ought. As I intend.”

  It was a statement that would invite judgement, but Miss Gilbert merely nodded.

  Perhaps she was used to this, he thought. Perhaps most fathers have either little interest or little time with their daughters.

  “And the rest of the household,” continued Miss Gilbert, as though running through a list of questions in her mind. “You have a large one, I assume?”

  “Oh, the normal array of servants,” said Timothy dismissively. “Watch out for Mrs. Seton, I doubt she will like you.”

  The words were out of his mouth before he realized, and warmth spread across his chest. Blast it, he would speak that thought aloud. Everyone knew Mrs. Seton was not looking forward to having ‘another woman in the house,’ as she put it, but really!

  “I just mean she does not like anyone,” he added hastily.

  He would undoubtedly pay for it later, Timothy thought ruefully. The worst thing was he knew the most important facts had been entirely left out.

  His wife.

  He should tell her. He knew that, yet his desire to keep the secret just a few more days overwhelmed him. He could not go back now, would not. If the wild idea that had seeded itself in his mind could work, if it was even close to that…

  “You have neglected to tell me more about your family,” said Miss Gilbert pleasantly.

  Timothy examined her. She was clever. He would have to be careful. “Yes, I have.”

  She waited as though expecting him to continue, but the earl just stared until she picked up her book and disappeared behind it. It was clear that their interview, for want of a better word, was over.

  Timothy closed his eyes. Well, the guilt of keeping the secret for another day would weigh heavily on him, but he knew the burden of telling her would have been far worse.

  Not today. Not yet.

  Chapter Three

  3 November 1812

  Anne had never been particularly accomplished at hiding a yawn.

  Her mother, always desperately attempting to raise the family back to where they should have been if her husband had not…well…had always pointed this out her particular failure.

  “Keep your mouth shut,” she would say, usually with a screaming child in one hand. “Please, Anne, for goodness’ sake!”

  And she had tried. She had tried as a child, and she tried now as an adult, sitting in the swaying carriage that felt more ship than coach, on the last day of their journey to Clarcton.

  Raising a hand elegantly she hoped, as she turned a page of her book, she delicately hid the tremendous yawn that simply would not be forced down.

  Ye gods, this was tiring.

  Who was it who first discovered traveling sucked [the “was” didn’t make sense, so I suggest “drained” lol] all the energy from oneself? Anne had never noticed if before, but this was her longest journey.

  The Earldom of Clarcton was not far from London; in the summer, it was probably only a day’s ride or carriage at best.

  Now however, in chilly, muddy November, it was difficult going. The driver, a pleasant enough young man, had been good enough to attempt to keep Anne’s leather shoes out of as much mud as possible, but he was no miracle worker.

  Her feet ached. How could her feet ache? She had barely taken more than one hundred steps the last few days, yet every muscle in her feet and shoulders cried out for relief.

  His lordship had paid for the best rooms at the inns where they had stopped, she could not begrudge him that, but there was something about sleeping in a bed which had been occupied by another the night before…

  Anne curled up her nose at the very thought. She was more than ready to arrive.

  Another yawn threatened to surface, and Anne turned another page, despite the fact her eyes had not yet reached the bottom, to cover her rudeness. She had completed this book twice on this journey alone, and she knew precisely what was going to happen in each chapter.

  Anne’s gaze slipped past the edge of the book and affixed on her journey’s companion.

  Timothy Lexington, Earl of Clarcton.

  There was a power in that name. The longer she spent with him, the more she saw it, coiled like a spring within him. He did not use it, chose to keep it deep within himself, as though he was afeard of its power.

  Despite his limited conversation, it could not be clearer that the man had little time for governesses in general, and herself in particular.

  Anne smiled, and returned to the page. Well, she was not here to be liked. It was irritating, true, but that was not her purpose. She was here to care for a child; a child who, by the sounds of it, had little attention and no devotion.

  Her heart panged for the girl. Four years old, and her father did not even know whether she knew her numbers and letters?

  The carriage jolted.

  “Curses to all men who build roads!”

  Anne smiled again. Thirty-six. The poor man really needed to find a hobby.

  She considered asking the earl just how much longer he believed they would be on the road. Her heart sank at the thought of another night at an inn, but he had made it perfectly clear over the last few days that she had but two roles during this journey.

  To remain quiet, and not to ask questions.

  Anne turned a page, more for something to do than anything else. Questions; that was something the earl was quite nervous about, she could tell. No mention of the household, really, besides the tidbit that the housekeeper would not like her––charming!––and no reference to his wife whatsoever.

  It was a sad state of affairs, but not a unique one. Anne had met plenty of gentlemen while in the charge of the Earl of Allun, who could not accurately name all of their children, let alone give insight into their characters.

  Gentlemen, society said, just had to father them. Once sired, the children were the province of the mother.

  Anne could see the logic in this, at least at first. Whether wetnurse or mother, it was a feminine domain. But once the child was weaned, surely there was a role for the father?

  “And does Lady Frances know her numbers, her letters, that sort of thing?”

  “I really don’t know. I…I have not spent as much time with her as I ought. As I intend.”

  What that could do a child, Anne did not know, but certainly not something good.

  At least the earl had the good sense to be embarrassed when he revealed his ignorance. Something had occurred, Anne was sure, between him and his wife. There was a disconnect there, almost the taste of an estrangement.

  It was a story oft-told in the upper echelons of society, Anne knew. Now she thought on it, in all her dealings with the family, friends, and acquaintances of the Alluns, she could not recall a single couple just as in love as when they had met. If they had ever loved at all.

  The Countess of Clarcton. Anne found her thoughts meandered to her as the carriage brought them ever closer to her.

  What was she like? Was she tall, short, loud, inquisitive? Would she be authoritarian with her first governess, hover over her as Anne had seen before, prevent her from teaching Lady Frances anything of use?

  Anne sighed as the carriage jostled her to the left, and the pitter patter of gentle raindrops started their rhythm on the roof. November weather. It was a wonder anyone bothered to go to town for the Season, if they had to travel in this.

  The Countess of Clarcton would remain a mystery until she arrived at her destination, and then Anne would be able to observe her. She hoped she was close to the child. Perhaps that was why she had decided to remain at home, with her child, yet it was just as likely the opposite was true; that she was just as aloof as her husband. What child deserved such unloving––

  “Finally!”

  The earl’s explosive syllables made Anne jump, but she covered her surprise well and genteelly lowered her book to her lap.

  “Finally?” she repeated, in a calm voice.

  The gentleman glared. “Yes, finally.”

  His gaze shifted immediately to the window and Anne followed suit, just in time to see some impressive wrought iron gates open slowly to admit them, past a lodge house made of dark grey stone. The carriage immediately smoothed out onto a drive.

  Anne tried to hide a smile. The earl’s driveway, of course, was elegantly cared for. It could not be more apparent where his priorities were—driveway, not daughter.