An Unusual Bequest. Mary Nichols
is a child and I doubt she sees any wrong in what she has done and making a mountain out of it will only make her more wilful.’
‘She is not a child.’ He was almost shouting. ‘She is nearly a woman. If you had seen her as I did, coming out of the water, you would know that. Children grow up, you know, they do not remain children just because you would like them to. Had you not noticed that?’
‘Can’t say I had,’ his father said complacently. ‘But I suppose you are right.’
‘Then what am I to do?’
‘Lock her in her room for a few hours, I find that usually does the trick.’
Stacey laughed harshly. ‘Do you suppose locking her bedroom door will contain her? I’ll wager she can get out of the window and down the ivy as easily as I once could.’
‘Could you?’ his mother asked, diverted. ‘I didn’t know that.’
‘Who was the boy?’ the Earl asked.
‘I have no idea and tracking him down will serve no purpose; she is too young to be married off. It is Julia I am concerned with. She will have to go away to be taught how a young lady should behave. Someone, somewhere, must be prepared to take her.’ He turned from them and made for the library just as Julia descended the stairs. She looked demure in pale pink spotted muslin with a deep rose sash, and her hair tied back with a matching ribbon. She held her head high and was followed by Susan Handy, the stout, middle-aged woman who was her governess and who had been his nurse and governess. She had evidently come with her to make sure he did not carry out his threat to thrash her darling.
He smiled grimly. Miss Handy was quite unable to control her charge because she was too indulgent and too fat and breathless to run after her when she escaped. He ought to have done something about her when he first returned home two years before, but he hadn’t had the heart to dismiss her, for where would she go? ‘I do not need you, Miss Handy,’ he said coldly. ‘You may wait for Julia upstairs.’
‘You will not be unkind to her, Master Stacey? I am sure she is very sorry for being naughty and will be good in future.’
‘That we shall see,’ he said coldly, ushering his daughter into the library ahead of him. His red-hot fury had abated and he was now icily calm.
‘Papa…’ she began.
‘You will not speak, you will not say a word until I say you may. I am very angry with you and if I ever get my hands on that young man…’
‘But it was not his fault. I found him bathing in the lake and it looked so inviting…’
‘That’s enough!’ he roared. ‘You will tell me honestly, did he touch you? Did he behave in any way…?’ He did not know how to put into words what he was asking.
‘Of course he did not,’ she said haughtily. ‘He would not dream of laying hands on the granddaughter of an earl.’
He breathed a sigh of relief. ‘Let us be thankful for that. You are going away to school, even if I have to scour the length and breadth of the country to find one that will take you, and nothing you can say or do will make me change my mind.’
She would not cry. He could see her herculean efforts to control her tears in the way she blinked and gulped and lifted her chin even higher and he admired her for it, but he would not weaken. ‘Until I say you may, you will stay in your room, and Miss Handy will find some fitting study for you. A book on ladylike behaviour would be suitable if such a thing is to be found.’
‘Yes, my lord.’
My lord, she called him, just as if they were mere acquaintances and not father and daughter. It cut him to the quick, but he made no comment and waved her away, too choked to speak. He watched her go, wanting to rush after her and hug her, to tell her everything would be all right and he understood, but he could not; she was too much like her dead mother. He had to find an establishment headed by an understanding woman who would make a lady of her without breaking her spirit. And where was such a one to be had?
Charlotte was chasing children along the beach when Stacey first saw her, running round and round and being caught and then setting off again, her arms wide, her bonnet askew, while the children squealed their delight. He reined in his horse to watch. His father had told him of a school in Ipswich that might take Julia and he had decided to ride along the coastal path rather than take the stage. He didn’t know why, except that it might be quieter and more conducive to problem solving than being bumped about in a coach and having to listen to his fellow travellers trying to make conversation. And he could take his time. Why he wanted to delay, he did not know. He strongly suspected it was because he was not sure he was doing the right thing in trying to pack his daughter off to strangers. Wasn’t that abrogating his responsibility? In the meantime she was safe enough at Malcomby Hall; his father had promised to keep a closer eye on her.
He had been deep in thought, clopping slowly along the cliff-top path when the sound of childish laughter brought him up short. How happy they sounded. He had ridden to the edge of the cliff and sat looking down at the beach. How many children were there? Ten, a dozen? Surely they could not all belong to the woman? She was how old? It was difficult to tell at that distance, but surely not old enough to have borne so many? And they were all different: some were dark, others fair, some warmly clad, others dressed in little more than rags. All but the woman were barefoot and a row of little boots and shoes stood sentinel on the side of the steep path that led down from the cliff top to the beach. The woman herself was dressed in a simple black gown and cape. Mourning, perhaps? But should a woman in mourning be laughing so joyfully?
Charlotte stopped suddenly, too out of breath to continue, and the children crowded round her, chattering excitedly. It was then she looked up and saw him. He was astride a big white stallion, dressed in a serviceable riding coat and a big cape. He doffed his tall riding hat and bowed to her. Discomforted, she looked away and began urging the children to gather up the seaweed and shells they had collected, while retying her bonnet, which had slipped down her back on its ribbons. Then she led them up the path towards him. He had not moved. Her first thought had been that it was Cecil who had come to claim his inheritance, but, as she drew nearer, she realised it was not. This man was a stranger and a very handsome one at that. Again, he doffed his hat, his brown eyes alight with amusement. ‘Good day, ma’am.’
‘Good day, sir.’
‘You have a very large family, ma’am.’ She was extraordinarily beautiful, he realised, with a clear unblemished complexion and eyes that were neither green nor blue, but something in between, and they looked him straight in the eye.
She smiled. ‘Yes, haven’t I? But I cannot claim them all for myself. These two are mine…’ She drew Lizzie and Fanny to her. ‘The others are my pupils.’
‘Ah, you are a schoolteacher.’
She opened her mouth to correct him, then changed her mind. Today she was a schoolteacher and perhaps, if Cecil proved not to be amenable, that was all she ever would be. She would try out the role on a stranger.
She loved teaching the little ones of the village; they were so receptive and eager to learn. Their parents had been against the idea at first, demanding to know why they needed an education; they themselves had managed without one and so would their sons and daughters. Charlotte and the Reverend Fuller had persuaded them to agree to send the children to school, so long as they were not needed to help on the farms with which the countryside around was dotted. Picking stones off the fields, scaring crows, watching the sheep, and helping with the harvest would always take precedence, and some were expected to look after younger siblings, but as they were allowed to bring the little ones to the classes, they gathered each afternoon in an unused coach house at the Rectory, which had been converted into a classroom, and here they learned to read and count. The bright ones among them were learning to write and to compose little stories, with particular attention being paid