Andrea Pickens - [Lessons in Love 01] (4 page)

Even as the girls grew up and the gap between their social status stretched more obviously between them, Jane never forgot her friend. The two of them still spent time together, Mary listening raptly to the descriptions of balls, evening gowns and—heaven on heaven—the Assemblies at Almack's.

"Oh, Jane!" replied Mary, as the two friends took a seat on the simple iron bedstead. "I'm up in the boughs. I don't deserve to be so happy!" She shot her friend a guilty look. "I'm sorry about you and your father. Perhaps His Grace..."

"Nonsense." Jane smiled. "Let us not talk of my problems. I have faith that they will prove to be not insurmountable," she said obliquely. "Now, about Martin. I have always liked him. Tell me all about..." And she let her friend chatter on for the better part of half an hour.

"Oh," finished Mary. "I've been a prosy bore, haven't I, rattling on like this? I've kept you far too long."

"Not at all. I've thoroughly enjoyed myself."

Jane got up and began wandering around the neat little whitewashed bedroom that Mary shared with a younger sister. A trunk was half packed in expectation of her friend's coming move and one or two dresses lay draped over a wooden chair.

"Tell me," murmured Jane. "Have you a few simple dresses—preferably grey or mouse brown—that you'd be willing to sell to me?"

Mary looked at her in astonishment. "Why, whatever for?"

Jane sat back down on the bed and threw her arm around her friend's shoulders. "Do you promise not to tell a soul?"

Mary laughed, the scene so reminiscent of countless times before—Jane always instigating some mischief and herself a not too unwilling partner. "Why is it that I sense I should leave the room right now?"

"No, no, it's nothing to be worried about," assured Jane. "There's really nothing for you to do."

Mary rolled her eyes. "How many times have I heard
that
!"

"Truly. Just the dresses and your vow of silence."

"Go on. You know I can't say no to you. And besides, I'm dying of curiosity."

"You are engaged to be governess to the Marquess of Saybrook's ward..."

"
Was
engaged," corrected Mary. "You know very well that Nanna has written my regrets."

"No indeed she hasn't. In fact tomorrow a letter is to be posted informing the housekeeper that Miss Langley will arrive on the twenty-first, as expected."

A look of horror spread across Mary's face as the import of Jane's words dawned on her. "You must be mad! Oh, it would never do.
You
as a governess!"

"It suits perfectly," replied Jane. "I am more than capable of teaching an eight-year-old his lessons. And the situation couldn't be more perfect. The marquess never visits his estate. The only ones there are the housekeeper and the servants, so there is not a chance of running into any houseguests who might recognize me."

"I don't know." Mary shook her head doubtfully. "It doesn't seem right—you, a servant." She looked searchingly at her friend. "Have you really considered what it is like to work for someone?"

Jane returned her gaze. "I have thought about what it would be like to marry someone I don't care for. At least I may quit an employer. Besides, how truly awful can it be? The housekeeper is a friend of one of Nanna's acquaintances and is said to be a kindly woman. It is she whom I'll have to deal with. My biggest complaint will most likely be that things are too dull." She exhaled a sigh. "Truly, I'll manage just fine, so please say you'll help."

Mary nodded reluctantly. "Of course I will. You know I'll not see you forced to act against your will. Now, I have a few gowns that will do. It's lucky that I'm a Long Meg too, though fuller than you around the hips and the bosom. And you'll need other things I'm sure you haven't thought of. You'll not have your abigail to take care of your needs, you know." She began to get in the spirit of things. "I have a list I made for myself. We shall pack a small trunk here. Martin can take it to Luddington next week and send it on by coach to Highwood."

"How clever. I had been wondering how to get my things out of the house," admitted Jane.

"Well, we'll manage." She eyed Jane's blond locks. "We'll have to do something about your hair."

"My hair!" exclaimed Jane.

"I'll give you a walnut leaf wash to dull its color. And spectacles. Yes, that will be a good touch."

It was Jane's turn to look surprised.

"No matter that's it's only a housekeeper instead of the marquess. There will still be other servants and it doesn't do to be too... you know, attractive. Mamma has explained to me how Lords may look upon a governess."

"Oh," breathed Jane. "I hadn't thought of that."

"And no doubt not a good many other practical things. We shall have to sit down and go over what is proper behavior..."

"Not you too," muttered Jane.

"If you are going to pull this off, you cannot act like a duke's daughter," warned Mary.

"You're right of course. I'll be a quick study, never fear." She gave Mary a quick hug. "Thank you. You are the best of friends."

"Just see that this whole scheme doesn't land you in deeper suds than you are already in or I'll never forgive myself."

"Oh, don't worry. What possible consequences can come from a little harmless deception?"

Mary looked doubtful. How many times had she heard similar sentiments being uttered—in complete sincerity—at the start of some madcap adventure?

Late that night, after sitting through another dinner marked by the strained civility that had spring up between her and her father, Jane dismissed her abigail, sat down at her writing desk and took out a sheet of paper. She unfolded Nanna's letter and, copying the familiar looping script, began to write a new one:

Dear Mrs. Fairchild,

I am happy to inform you that Miss Jane Langley will arrive at Highwood on March 21, as expected. I trust she will prove satisfactory.

Jane paused for a moment, then, with a mischievous gleam in her eye, added:

I assure you she is a very biddable and well-behaved young woman, even a trifle shy, and will give you no trouble at all
...

Dawn had not yet broken a few days later when a lone figure clad in a nondescript hooded cloak and carrying a worn valise and reticule slipped out of the kitchen door of Avanlea into the shadows of the shrubbery. Like a ghostly specter, the person passed through the gardens and into the surrounding woods.

The moon scudded in and out of the clouds, offering little light by which to see among the tangle of underbrush and brambles, but Jane was not deterred by the thorns which caught at the rough wool of her garments. She quickly found the path that the gamekeeper used to patrol the upper reaches of the estate and hurried her steps to an even faster pace. After perhaps a mile, she reached a broad meadow where she climbed over the stile and turned left, keeping herself close in the dark shadows of the surrounding stone wall. At the far corner she heard a soft whinny and was relieved to see a rough cart silhouetted against the sky, a solitary young man stroking the horse's head to keep it quiet. At the sound of her footsteps, the man moved forward to take the valise and help her onto the open seat.

"Everything all right, milady?" he whispered.

"Yes. I'm sure no one saw me leave."

The man grunted in reply and scrambled up beside her. "Well then, let's be on our way."

The cart bumped over the rough track as he twitched the reins, urging the horse to as great a speed as he dared. "I'm sorry for the discomfort, Lady Jane," he said. "It will get better when we reach the main road."

"It doesn't matter," smiled Jane as she reached over to pat the driver's arm. "And I can't thank you enough for your help, Martin. I shall never forget it."

Martin returned her smile gamely but she saw how nervous he was. "After all you have done for my Mary, 'tis the least we could do for you."

He looked back over his shoulder into the pale mist rising off of the fields. "The stage arrives at Hinchley at half six and you should be safely away before any of your people are any the wiser. And hopefully no one will take notice of a simple farmer's wife—begging your pardon, milady." He tugged his own hat down low over his brow as he spoke.

"Do not be nervous, Martin. No one will know of your part in this, I swear. I promise that you will not suffer for helping me—and Mary will tell you that I never break a promise."

"Oh, milady, it ain't the duke I'm worried about. It's Mary who will have my head if I don't get you away safely."

Jane laughed softly. "Well, put your mind at ease. All will go well. And now," she added as the cart turned onto the market road," I think you may put us to a trot."

Martin did as she suggested, bucking up his own spirits at the calm assurance in her voice. They rode the rest of the way in silence, arriving at the staging inn with plenty of time to spare. Martin kept to the edge of the stables and reined in behind two other farm carts. There was just one other person awaiting the coach, a short heavy man dressed in a greasy coat, with two equally grubby burlap bags at his feet that moved in a most peculiar fashion. He blew into his stubby fingers to ward off the early morning chill and stamped impatiently in the dirt and chaff, sending up little clouds of debris with each smack of his worn boots.

Jane momentarily blanched at the idea of sharing a coach with such a person, but then chided herself on such weakness of spirit. She had better get used to such things, she reminded herself—from now on, she was no different from that man.

A sharp horn blast punctuated the stable sounds, announcing that the mail coach was fast approaching. Martin helped her down from the cart. She caught him about to bow his respects and threw her arm around his shoulder to forestall any such display.

"None of that, Martin," she whispered in his ear. "You must hug your wife goodbye and hope that her mother's illness passes quickly so she may return to you and the children." She noticed a faint blush spread across his cheeks.

"Lady Jane, I couldn't..." he began, but realizing she was right, he took her arm and walked toward where the mail coach had lumbered to a stop. Raising his voice he announced, "Now off with ye, Mary and here's hoping yer mother recovers soon." He winked broadly at the coachman. "'Course the children will miss ye, as will I."

He tossed the valise to the roof of the coach and helped Jane into its dark interior, giving her a pat on the backside—which would have sent her into a fit of giggles if her throat hadn't felt so constricted. She settled in between the greasy farmer and an older woman who was snoring loudly through an open mouth. The heat of their bodies and the musty smells of unwashed clothing and stale tobacco overwhelmed her senses. She closed her eyes to hide the shine of tears from anyone who might care to notice, hoping she might as easily close out her past life. It was but a small price to pay for her independence.

That thought revived her sagging spirits—how many young ladies of Quality would be corkbrained enough to consider going to work as a governess as freedom? Suppressing a small smile of irony she sank back against the seat and tried to sleep, telling herself not to think too much about what the coming days might bring.

* * *

The coachman knocked on the massive oak door, and from behind his shoulder Jane saw it swing open slowly to reveal an elderly butler, stooped yet still tall, attired in somber clothes.

"Miss Langley has arrived."

"Thank you, William. You may put her valise in the hallway."

Jane was left alone to face the butler. She searched his visage for any reaction to her arrival, but his features were impassive, as was his voice when he finally spoke to her.

"We have been expecting your arrival, Miss Langley. Come inside while I inform Mrs. Fairchild that you are here."

Jane stepped into a capacious entry hall whose polished oak floors and handsome carved paneling and furniture were redolent of beeswax and lemon oil. As she glanced through the open morning room door at the elegant drapes and spotless carpets she noted that although the master of the house might only rarely show his face, the estate was being managed by someone who cared...

Her thoughts were interrupted by the jangling of keys, then the opening of a side door. She turned toward the sound to meet the gaze of a stout woman with rather plain features, no taller than Jane's chin. Her grey hair was pulled back in a simple bun, though some stray strands had loosened themselves from under the white mobcap, giving her the air of someone in perpetual motion. For her ample waist hung the source of the noise—a huge iron ring with all manner of keys silhouetted against a pristine starched apron.

Jane quickly remembered Mary's admonitions about proper behavior and bobbed a graceful curtsy. The woman nodded in approval, Jane noted with relief, and the broad smile that lit up her face was warm and reassuring.

"Welcome to Highwood, Miss Langley. I am Mrs. Fairchild and I manage the household in the marquess's absence. I'm sure you must be exhausted after your journey—I myself cannot abide spending a full day in a coach, I don't know how you manage—so let me show you to your room. When you have refreshed yourself, I hope you will come share a cup of tea and some cakes that Cook has made up for us. And then we can have a chat about your duties her, shall we?"