Born to Scandal. Diane Gaston

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      Anna sat in a chair opposite them. ‘Lord Cal was very clever to learn of my arrival and to figure out who I was.’

      A look of anxiety flashed through the boy’s eyes.

      She faced him directly. ‘I greatly admire cleverness.’

      She thought she saw surprise replace the anxiety in his eyes. Eppy had not been exaggerating about him being very quiet. Up close he appeared to be a miniature version of his father. The same eyes that bore into you. The sensitive mouth. The nearly imperceptible cleft in his chin.

      The same austere expression.

      She smiled at him. ‘Lord Cal. You look a great deal like your father.’

      He glanced away.

      ‘Do you know our father?’ Dory asked, eyes wide again. She acted as if her father was some mysterious legend she’d only heard about.

      Anna turned to her. ‘It was your father who decided that I should be your governess.’

      The girl’s eyes grew even wider. ‘He did?’

      ‘He did,’ Anna said firmly. She pointed to their breakfast plates with remnants of bread crusts and jam. ‘I see you are finishing your breakfast. I have not yet eaten my breakfast. I wanted to come meet you right away.’ She also needed a tour of the house and grounds. ‘I will leave you for a little while, but I have an idea, if you both should like it.’

      Dory leaned forwards, all curiosity. Cal at least turned his gaze back to her.

      ‘I must have a tour of the house and grounds and I wondered if you would come with me. I would love to see this lovely place with you.’

      Dory popped up. ‘We would!’ She thought to check with her brother. ‘Wouldn’t we, Cal?’

      The boy apparently gave his sister his approval, although its communication was imperceptible to Anna.

      Proud of herself for thinking of bringing the children on the tour with her, Anna left them to go in search of her breakfast and the waiting Mrs Tippen.

      The footman in the hall directed her to a parlour with a sideboard filled with food. Although the parlour had the same wainscoted walls as the rest of the house she had seen, it had a large window facing east. The room was aglow with sunshine. She selected an egg and bread and cheese, and poured herself a cup of tea.

      No sooner had she started eating when a scowling Mrs Tippen entered the room. ‘I expected you earlier.’

      Mrs Tippen’s disapproval continued, apparently. What could be the source of such antipathy? The woman did not even know her.

      Anna understood the servant hierarchy in country houses, having grown up in one. She knew a housekeeper would consider herself second only to the butler in overseeing the servants, but a governess would not be under her control. Was that what Mrs Tippen resented?

      Anna lifted her chin. ‘Good morning, Mrs Tippen,’ she said in as mild a tone as she could manage. ‘If there was an urgency about touring the house, I was not informed of it. In any event, my duties are to the children. I needed to meet them right away.’

      The woman sniffed. ‘I have many responsibilities. I will not be kept waiting by a governess.’

      Anna gave her a steady gaze. ‘I grew up in a house much like this one and I am well aware of the housekeeper’s responsibilities. I did not ask you to wait for me, however. It matters not to me when I see the house and grounds. Name me a time convenient to you—’

      ‘A half-hour ago was convenient for me,’ Mrs Tippen snapped.

      Anna held up a hand. ‘You will address me respectfully, Mrs Tippen. As I will address you.’ Goodness. She sounded exactly like Lady Lawton reprimanding a servant. ‘I will be ready in an hour for the house tour. If that will not do, name a time and I will accommodate you. We are done discussing this, however.’

      Mrs Tippen turned on her heel and left the room.

      Anna took a sip of tea and fought to dampen her anger. The last thing she desired was to be engaged in a battle. She was no threat to a housekeeper. She was no threat to anyone.

      An hour later Anna and the children waited in the entrance hall. Anna half-hoped Mrs Tippen would not show. In that event, Anna had already decided she’d ask the children to show her the house. She wished she’d thought of that earlier. It would certainly be more enjoyable than enduring Mrs Tippen’s company.

      It was Mr Tippen, the butler, who presented himself, which was hardly better than his wife. Mr Tippen reminded Anna of an engraving she had once seen of Matthew Hopkins, the witch-hunter. Mr Tippen resembled him, with his long, narrow face and pointed chin. Put him in a capotain hat, cover his chin with a beard and the picture would be complete.

      He frowned down on the children.

      Anna spoke up in their defence. ‘The children will accompany me on the tour, Mr Tippen.’

      His nose rose higher. ‘The marchioness preferred the children to stay in their wing.’

      ‘The marchioness?’ Anna was confused.

      ‘Lady Brentmore.’

      But Lady Brentmore was dead. How insensitive of him to mention her in front of the children.

      Anna straightened. ‘I am in complete charge of the children now, am I not?’

      One corner of his mouth twitched. ‘So Mr Parker informed us.’

      ‘Well, then.’ She smiled. ‘Shall we get started?’

      Lord Cal stared at the floor, looking as if he wished it would open up and swallow him.

      Dory took Anna’s hand and pulled her down to whisper in her ear. ‘You were insolent to Mr Tippen!’

      She whispered back, ‘Not insolent.’ What a big word for a five-year-old. ‘I am in charge of you. Your father said so.’

      Cal’s head snapped up.

      The little girl’s eyes grew wide. ‘He did?’

      ‘He did,’ Anna repeated.

      Mr Tippen began the tour in the formal parlour where hung a portrait of the late marchioness, fair like her daughter, and beautiful, as Mr Parker had said. She looked regal and aloof, and also as if she could step out of the canvas and give them all a noble dressing down.

      The children, poor dears, barely looked at the portrait.

      Anna directed their attention to a portrait of their father on the opposite wall.

      ‘This looks very like your father!’ she exclaimed, mostly because their late mother’s image obviously upset them. Lord Brentmore’s portrait, though of him younger and leaner, perfectly conveyed his sternness, but there was also a sad yearning in his eyes that tugged at her heart. His son’s eyes carried that same sadness, she realised, but the boy looked as if he’d given up yearning for anything. СКАЧАТЬ