A Family For The Widowed Governess. Ann Lethbridge
and admired for her talent. Famous artist? What a joke. Yes, she was good at copying things exactly, but it had come as a rude awakening when she had discovered she did not have the skill required to bring her paintings to life. Technically good, the drawing master had said, but no flair. Peeved by the comments, she had launched herself into a furious caricature of her teacher. Her brothers and sister roared with laughter at her depiction. Encouraged, she had drawn their neighbours and friends, highlighting their foibles with what she thought was wit. Her siblings’ laughter and admiration had been heady, but, as they say, pride went before a fall. Drawing a very unflattering and lewd picture of the Prince of Wales with his mistress was the worst mistake she had ever made. What an idiot she had been to sign that dreadful sketch.
But hers wasn’t the only blame. Even she’d had the sense not to show anyone that particular sketch. She should have burned it. Of course, Neville, when he found it, had to show his horrid friends. Embarrassment rose in her in a hot, horrible tide. They had all seen it and laughed about it like nasty little boys. But once the novelty wore off, she’d been sure he’d destroyed it. He’d said so. She swallowed bile. Trusting anything he said had been the height of stupidity.
If it did get published with her name on it, her family would be so ashamed. And if they tried to support her, they would likely also be ostracised from society. She could not let that happen. She had to get it back and destroy it. And since she didn’t know the identity of the man who had approached her at Petra’s wedding and had no way to contact him, she would just have to find a way to get the money. She had begged him to wait until she could gather enough money to pay him what he was asking. Twenty-five pounds was a fortune, but with her next payment from the publisher, and using the money she had saved for next quarter’s rent, she could do it.
She bit her lip. Perhaps she should ask her brother Red, the Earl of Westram, for money, but knowing Red he would insist on knowing why she needed it and likely insist she live with him. Unfortunately, he was about to marry a woman who she really did not like. She had no trouble imagining how miserable she would be under that woman’s thumb. It would be nearly as bad as being married to Neville. Red’s future wife did not approve of independent women. Or artists. Or life in general. How on earth could Red—?
She cut the thought off. He had offered for Miss Featherstone and she had accepted and that was all there was to it. But one thing was certain: Marguerite was not going to move into their home.
If only Petra and Ethan were not away at the moment. She might have gone to them for a loan. Petra would give her whatever she needed. But then again, if Marguerite started to borrow money, where would it end? No. She had insisted on her independence and she was determined to make her own way. It just seemed so unfair that Neville had come back from the grave to ruin everything.
Her head started to ache.
She winced. That was all she needed. A headache. She put the kettle on to boil. A tisane would help and a little willow bark. And then she would figure out a way to earn some extra money.
Jack had indeed been rude to Lady Marguerite Saxby. Marguerite. What a pretty name. Every time he spotted daisies in his lawn or on the roadside, which was all the time, he was reminded that he owed her an apology. Which was why, two days after she had brought his girls home, he was here in Westram village, wondering how to visit her in a way that would not get tongues wagging. It would be ideal if he came across her shopping in the village, or even picking flowers in her garden. A chance meeting would allow him to offer his gratitude and move on.
The post office seemed the best place to start his search. Once he’d had a chance to think about things clearly, he’d recalled who she was. He’d come across her name when he’d been called upon to help sort out the local vicar’s wife. For some reason, she had taken to stealing from the villagers and blaming it on a band of gypsies camped nearby. While he had not met Lord Westram’s widowed sisters during the course of his investigation, he’d certainly heard about them.
All three of them had been widowed on the same day. Their husbands had died on the Iberian Peninsula, having gone off together to join the army because of some sort of wager. It had been quite the on dit among the ton. So much so, the story had made its way to his little corner of Kent.
No doubt Lady Marguerite would have learned about his wife’s murder two years before. There had even been some who thought he might have done it, despite he had witnesses to account for his whereabouts. Perhaps that accounted for her hostility towards him.
‘Good day, Lord Compton,’ Mr Barker said. ‘We don’t often see you here in Westram.’ His beady eyes were alight with curiosity. Devil take the man.
‘I was passing through and recalled I was in need of...’ his gaze fell on a stone jar behind the counter ‘...snuff.’
Barker looked shocked. ‘My lord, I do not think that what I have is in any way up to your refined taste.’
In other words, why on earth would a man of his stature want to buy cheap snuff? ‘Oh, ’tis not for me, but for my children’s nanny.’
Barker instantly cheered. He took down the jar and began weighing. ‘An ounce is enough, my lord?’
‘Perfect,’ Jack said. The noticeboard caught his eyes, or rather a very artfully drawn poster. Drawing teacher willing to provide lessons, it proclaimed.
‘Notice went up yesterday,’ Barker said. ‘Lady Marguerite, looking for students.’ He shook his head in a ‘what is the world coming to’ sort of way.
How very...fortuitous. ‘I see.’ He tipped his head as if considering the matter. ‘My daughters could benefit from some drawing lessons. The older one has some talent, I think.’
‘Lady Marguerite would be the right sort of person for your daughters, my lord. Very nice in her taste, she is. You’ll find her at Westram Cottage, should you wish to enquire.’
He could not have found a better excuse to visit the widowed Lady Marguerite. He nodded. ‘Thank you, Barker. How much do I owe you for the snuff?’ He paid with the coin he had in his pocket and left the shop with a more purposeful step than when he had entered.
* * *
Westram Cottage lay at the far end of the village. A pretty little place, with yellow roses growing in the garden and over a trellis around the front door.
Did he really want to give in to this unusual impulse to hire a drawing teacher?
What he really needed was a governess for his daughters. She would teach them drawing. So, was this about his daughters, or about his interest in the lady? Because he could not seem to get her out of his head.
Nonsense. Nanny was right. He owed her an apology. The fact that she was looking for paid employment was also a puzzle. A widow living alone was usually of independent means. Now, puzzles interested him. He liked solving mysteries. Therefore, it was not the lady herself that had him intrigued, but her circumstances. For example, what had she been doing tramping around the countryside by herself? And looking delightfully dishevelled to boot?
He pushed that thought away. Nanny James was right, he really did owe her a thank-you.
He knocked on the door. Silence. No footsteps coming to the door. No sounds of occupation coming from inside. He stepped back and looked up. No smoke coming from any of the chimneys either. Clearly the lady was not home. Nor were any of her servants.
He pulled his card from his pocket, intending to write a promise to call on her the next day, when he heard a scraping sound from the rear of the house. Likely a groom working in the stables. Someone he could ask about the lady’s whereabouts and expected hour of return. He followed the path around the side of the house to a small stable at the end of a well-cared-for garden.
He entered the stable and gaped at the sight of Lady Marguerite, mucking out in a pair of men’s breeches and boots.