The Earl's Runaway Governess. Catherine Tinley

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ lady eyed her assessingly. ‘Come with me.’

      Trying to maintain a dignified expression, and hoping that her shaking hands were not obvious, Marianne followed her into the inner chamber and closed the door.

      ‘Please sit, Miss Bolton.’

      Marianne complied, watching as the registry lady took her own seat behind an imposing rosewood desk. So much depended on the next few moments and this woman’s decision!

      ‘I am Mrs Gray.’

      She was a stern-looking lady in her later years, with iron-grey hair, dark skin, piercing dark eyes and deep lines etched into her face. She wore a plain, high-necked gown in sombre grey and no jewellery. Despite this, it was clear that she was a person of authority. It was something about the way she carried herself, how still she was, the way those dark eyes seem to pierce right through Marianne’s flimsy defences.

      ‘I see that you are seeking a position as a governess,’ she stated, ‘but you have come with no recommendation. Tell me about your situation and why you are here.’

      Mrs Gray’s tone was flat, expressionless. Marianne could feel her heart thumping in her chest.

      Haltingly, then with increasing fluency, Marianne told the tale she had concocted. Mrs Gray listened impassively, giving no indication whether she believed any of it. Doubt flooded through Marianne. Perhaps she should not have pretended that her father was a lawyer and that he had left her with little money and no connections. What if Mrs Gray asked for some proof? Her heart fluttered as anxiety rose within her.

      ‘When did your father die?’

      ‘Six months ago.’ Marianne’s throat tightened as it always did when she thought about Papa.

      Mrs Gray’s eyes narrowed. ‘And your mother?’

      ‘Also dead.’ Marianne swallowed. Her hands clenched into fists as she fought the wave of grief that threatened to overwhelm her.

      Mrs Gray’s gaze flicked briefly to Marianne’s hands, then she leaned back slightly in her chair. ‘Tell me about your education, Miss Bolton. What are your talents?’ Mrs Gray spoke bluntly, giving no clue as to whether she would favour Marianne.

      Hesitantly, Marianne spoke of drawing and painting, of her musical skills, her ability to sew and to converse in French and Italian—

      ‘And what do you know of Mathematics, Logic and Latin?’

      Marianne blinked. Mrs Gray had asked the question in perfect Italian! ‘I have studied the main disciplines of Mathematics,’ she replied, also in Italian.

      Mrs Gray quizzed her on these, then switched to French, followed by Latin, to discuss the finer details of Marianne’s knowledge of Logic, improving texts and the Classics.

      Thankfully Marianne’s expensive education had equipped her well. She had been an apt student and had enjoyed her studies. Was that, she wondered, a glimmer of approval in Mrs Gray’s eye?

      The woman paused.

      Marianne forced herself to sit still. Please, she was thinking, please. If she could not gain a position as a governess she had no idea what she would do. Returning home was not an option. That door was closed in her mind. She had no home. So everything depended on Mrs Gray.

      * * *

      This house is freezing, thought Ash, stepping towards the fireplace in John’s study. Hopefully he could be on his way quickly—the last thing he needed was a prolonged encounter with the grieving widow.

      He paused, holding out his hands to the pathetic fire, but there was little heat to be had. The door opened and closed, sending smoke billowing into the room. Ash coughed and stepped away from the fire.

       Have the dashed chimneys ever been cleaned?

      He had not been in Ledbury House for many years, but he could not remember it looking so dilapidated.

      ‘Lord Kingswood, thank you for coming.’ The lawyer, a bespectacled gentleman in his middle years, bowed formally. ‘My name is Richardson.’

      Ash nodded his head. ‘I received your note asking me to come to the house after the funeral. I understand you wish to read the will immediately.’

      He kept his tone polite, despite his impatience with the entire situation. Every moment he spent here meant a later arrival in London.

      ‘I am required to outline the extent of your inheritance, plus a number of other matters added by the Fourth Earl to his will.’ The lawyer pushed his spectacles up his nose, where they balanced precariously. He went behind John’s desk and began taking papers out of a small case.

      Ash stood there, wishing for nothing more than to leave and never return. Every part of him was fighting the notion that he was now Earl of Kingswood. The last thing he needed was ‘other matters’ complicating his life further.

      ‘What other matters? And why did John—my cousin—see fit to add to the responsibilities of the Earldom?’

      Mr Richardson sniffed. ‘That is not for me to say. My role is simply to see that the requirements of the will are carried out.’ He arranged the papers methodically on John’s desk.

      ‘I see.’

      But he didn’t. Not at all. Why had John added to his burdens, knowing how much he would hate it? Particularly when they had not been intimate friends for fourteen years?

      John had settled into life as a country earl, staying in this rundown mausoleum of a house with his wife and daughter and rarely visiting the capital. Ash, on the other hand, barely left London, unless it was to attend a house party. Life in the country was intolerably tedious.

      Perhaps, Ash mused, John has left me a memento—something from our childhood or youth.

      Still, if he was forced to stay for the reading of the will it meant that he would not be able to avoid running into—

      ‘Mr Richardson! Thank you so much for being here in our time of need.’

      Ash turned to see Fanny glide into the room, followed by a girl who must be her daughter.

      Fanny had always known how to make an entrance. Her black gown was of the finest silk, with self-covered buttons and black lace detail at the sleeves. Her blonde hair was artlessly arranged in an elegant style, and her matron’s cap did nothing to dim the beauty of her glorious features. The cornflower-blue eyes, cupid’s bow lips and the angelic dimples that had driven him mad with desire all those years ago were all still there. If anyone could make mourning garb look attractive it was Fanny.

      Despite himself he felt a wave of recognition and remembered longing which almost floored him. For a moment he felt eighteen again.

      She stopped, as if noticing him for the first time. ‘Why, Ash! I did not know you were here already.’

      She was lying. The servants would have told her of his arrival—and the fact that he and the lawyer were in the library for the reading of the will.

      He СКАЧАТЬ