Seducing the Governess (4 page)

Georgia had kept a haughty housekeeper as well, and the woman had resigned the day after Nash sacked the nurse. She’d called his men “barbarians and plunderers,” and Nash had not been sorry to see the back of her, either.

To be sure, it was unconventional to staff a noble household with former military men, but the group of men Nash had brought to Ashby had nowhere else to go and were willing to work for their keep. They only needed some direction, not that Nash knew how to run a household, much less an estate.

Or a child. Emmaline stood still, her pale eyes turned to the direction of the fire. And Nash was reminded again of his unsightly injury. He couldn’t very well blame Emmaline for not wanting to look at him.

“How do you do, Lady Emmaline?” Miss Franklin said, coming to stand before the child. She suddenly dropped down to one knee and took the girl’s hand. “I am very pleased to meet you, finally.”

Emmaline’s eyes flickered away from the fire and came to rest upon the hand Miss Franklin held. “Hello,” she said in such a quiet tone Nash could barely hear her.

“Would you like to show me the nursery?”

Emmaline appeared uncertain, but her throat moved as she swallowed and gave a slow, tentative nod.

“Good,” said Miss Franklin, rising to her feet. She kept Emmaline’s hand in her own and flashed a quick look at Nash. “If that is all, my lord?”

He gave a brief nod and she started out of the library.

“Allow me to escort you, Miss Franklin,” Lowell said, leaving with her. “The nursery and governess’s quarters are in the north wing.”

Chapter 6

M
ercy was finally able to breathe normally once she left Lord Ashby’s presence. It was clear that Emmaline was going to be a challenge, but at least Mercy would not need to have many more dealings with the girl’s uncle. She’d gleaned as much as she could about the occupation she was about to embark upon from Claire’s letters. What she knew was hardly enough, but Claire had mentioned that children and their nurses and governesses generally kept out of the way of the adults of the household. Holding Emmaline’s hand, they returned through the great hall, past a dreary drawing room, to a wide stone staircase that led to a gallery above.

“Shall we go up?” Mercy asked.

“This way,” said Mr. Lowell from behind. Mercy had nearly forgotten he had come along, for she had trained her complete attention on her young charge. The child was as thin as a waif, and abnormally subdued. Mercy could not help but wonder if this had always been her way or perhaps she still grieved the loss of her parents.

Mercy knew how that felt. Even though her feelings for the Franklins were mixed with confusion now, the sense of being entirely alone was daunting.

The upstairs gallery was wide, but encased in shadows, so Mercy could barely see the heavily framed paintings that hung at intervals on the cold, gray walls. There were groupings of tables and stiff-backed chairs, but Mercy had the distinct sense that they had been unused for quite some time. She hoped the nursery was not quite so cheerless.

“I apologize for the darkness up here. We should have lit the sconces.”

“I’m sure that would help,” Mercy said, but she doubted it. As she walked down the long, wide gallery, she could almost feel the weight of the dreary old house settling onto her shoulders. She did not know how she would be able to tolerate living within these medieval walls with a handful of rowdy soldiers to keep it running, and the smoldering perusal of Lord Ashby every time he looked at her. Of course, she’d seen his scars, but it was horribly rude of him to mention them to her the way he’d done. It wasn’t as if they detracted from the man’s appeal. If anything, they made him even more interesting than . . .

The thought of contacting Andrew Vale returned with a vengeance.

But Mercy wondered how awkward it would be if Mr. Vale had wed someone in the months since he’d visited St. Martin’s and proposed to her. If that were the case, she did not think a letter suggesting a renewal of their courtship would be quite welcome. Perhaps she could write without directly suggesting that he renew his suit. She did not know if he was aware of her parents’ deaths, so she could inform him of the drastic change in her life. And if he was still unwed, he could act upon that knowledge.

Or not.

Mercy did not want to think of that possibility, not when she could see no other option than remaining here in this run-down, isolated, uncivilized Hall.

“The original Hall was built in the fourteenth century by the first Earl of Ashby,” said Mr. Lowell. “But additions have been built over the centuries. And a few modernizations.”

“It’s a very old earldom, then,” Mercy replied. She wondered if Mr. Lowell was trying to impress her with the longevity of Ashby since it clearly had no other claim to distinguish itself.

They went around a corner and down another long corridor, finally reaching an open door halfway down. Inside was a wide bank of mullioned windows that provided light for the room, dreary as the day might be. At least the furniture was not as antique as what Mercy had seen in the rest of the mansion, but had been furnished fairly recently, perhaps by Emmaline’s mother.

Mercy wondered what had happened to her, but did not want to ask Mr. Lowell while Emmaline was present. She had very little knowledge of Emmaline’s parents—only that the girl had been orphaned and left in the care of her beguiling but oblivious uncle and his men. She needed more information.

Glancing about the classroom, Mercy found it clean, with everything neat and orderly. Far more neat and orderly than Emmaline herself. The child wore a pair of hose that might have been white at one time, but were gray and dingy, and stained. Her pale blue gown was soiled at the bodice and cuffs, as though no one in this house had ever heard of a laundry tub. Mercy was going to have to see about acquiring a nurse for Emmaline, for there was far more to do for the young girl than just academic instruction.

She turned to Mr. Lowell. “Thank you for escorting us here, sir. I believe we’ll manage just fine on our own now.”

“Are you sure, Miss Franklin?” he asked, seeming inclined to linger. “It seems so very . . . abrupt.”

“Yes, we’ll be fine. Thank you, Mr. Lowell.” She turned the tables and escorted him back to the door, shutting it after him. Then she returned her attention to her young charge.

“Well,” she said, silently vowing to do something about Emmaline’s appearance in spite of the absence of a nurse. The Franklins had not been wealthy people. Mercy had done plenty of sewing, and had helped with the daily housework. She’d assisted with the laundry hundreds of times, and knew what needed to be done to improve Emmaline’s wardrobe. “This is an excellent room for our lessons. Where do you sleep?”

Emmaline pointed to an adjoining door, and Mercy went to it. She pushed it open and saw that the room beyond was completely tidy, appearing almost as though no one occupied it, certainly not a little girl. There was an abandoned little dressing table, and Emmaline’s narrow bed had been made up tightly and had a plain brown blanket folded neatly across its foot. Opposite the bed was a low bookcase that stood against the wall. It contained a perfectly even row of books, meticulously arranged from tallest to shortest, including a number of volumes Mercy had not been allowed to read as a youngster. Several dolls were lined up on top of the shelf, evenly spaced and sitting at attention.

But for the beautiful framed watercolors hanging on the walls, the room seemed a far too sterile, too barren environment for a little girl. Even Mercy’s bedchamber in her parents’ austere home had displayed more embellishments than this room. Mercy could not imagine what Lord Ashby had been thinking in assigning his men to the care of his niece.

Nor did she know quite where to begin with the little girl who stood so still and quiet. Surely such reserve was not natural.

“Does your uncle call you Emmaline?” Mercy asked.

The little girl looked up at Mercy as if she’d grown wings and was about to fly away.

“What about your parents? Did they always call you Emmaline?”

“My papa called me Emmy.”

“Would you mind very much if I called you Emmy?”

Her rigid stance seemed to melt a little and she nodded.

“You have a great number of books, Emmy,” Mercy said in an attempt to further engage her.

Emmaline nodded.

“Do you have a favorite?”

Emmaline knelt down and picked out a large book with sturdy covers that appeared to have been made by hand. She handed it carefully to Mercy, who knelt beside her to look at the book.

“This is beautiful,” she said as she turned the pages, admiring the delightfully detailed watercolors and the stories written in a clear but fanciful script on the pages opposite the pictures. She turned to the first leaf and saw an inscription that warmed her heart.

“For my darling Emmy ∼ May there always be magic in your life. From your most devoted Mother.”

Mercy guessed Emmaline’s mother had painted the pictures in the book as well as those on the walls. “ ’Tis lovely, Emmy. I can see why it’s your favorite.”

Emmaline nodded and took the book from Mercy’s hands. Very carefully, she closed it and put it back on the shelf. Mercy wondered how long Emmaline’s mother had been dead, and what had happened to her father. But it was clearly not appropriate to ask the child, who seemed so delicate she might break with the first untoward word.

The child was not exactly skittish, but withdrawn. There was no light of curiosity or delight in her beautiful blue eyes. She kept them downcast as much as possible.

“Have you ever had a governess?” Mercy asked.

“No,” Emmaline replied softly.

“And I have never been a governess before,” Mercy said with a smile, hoping to get past some of Emmaline’s shyness. “You will have to help me do a good job.”

Emmaline looked at her sharply, and Mercy suppressed a smile at the girl’s sudden flare of interest.

Now that she had some idea of how to engage Emmaline, she glanced around. “Where do you suppose my room is? Can you show me?”

They stood, and Emmaline took Mercy’s hand. Leaving the nursery, Emmaline took her across the corridor into a stale chamber with a narrow bed and a dusty wardrobe. It had obviously been unused for quite some time, but there were large windows similar to the ones in the nursery that looked out over a grove of tall beech trees that were just beginning to bud. Beyond it were the tall fells and the path she’d traversed to reach her destination here.

With a thorough cleaning, the room would do. And yet Emmaline would not. As a vicar’s daughter, Mercy had come into contact with the parish children, and yet none was as quiet and reserved as Emmaline.

Presumptuous or not, she needed to ask Lord Ashby a few questions about little Lady Emmaline.

As soon as his niece and her governess quit the room, Nash turned his attention to his injured ankle. As inconvenient as that was, it was far better than thinking about Emmaline’s sad eyes or Miss Franklin’s enticing ones. He neither needed nor wanted any new entanglements.

Yet it had been amusing to tease the girl when she’d stopped to help him in the road. He’d been surprisingly engaged by Miss Franklin, half drowned as she was with her soaked bonnet plastered over her hair. The situation had been absurd, but the delicate outline of Mercy Franklin’s face had compelled him, with her high cheekbones and daintily pointed chin. Nash considered that her eyes had to be the clearest green of any he’d ever seen, and they’d watched him warily, even critically.

But it was her plush mouth that had captured his attention. That, and the lushly feminine form that had been patently obvious in spite of her prim coat.

Who would have thought such sharp words could have emanated from those enticing lips? Who would have thought Nash would feel such acute arousal for a young woman who had accused him—to his face!—of being foolhardy.

He almost laughed aloud. She had been so busy scolding him, it seemed she had not even noticed the damaged side of his face or his filmy eye, despite the fact that he had done naught to hide them.

Nash turned to look at the fire. Miss Franklin was a puzzle he had no intention of solving. He needed answers to several far more important other questions, which had been the purpose of his visit to Keswick’s magistrate earlier in the afternoon.

He wanted to know who had been present when his eldest brother, Hoyt, had been shot and killed. He wanted to know what Hoyt’s relationship was with each of the men who’d gone deer stalking with him that day, and if there had been any reason one of them would have wanted him dead.

Lowell had not been present for the day’s deer stalking, but there had been an inquest, of course. And Arthur had written Nash to say that the investigation had been conducted with all due consideration. With so many hunters spread out in the wooded land north of the Hall, it had been impossible to know who had fired the fatal shot. And since no one but Arthur stood to gain from Hoyt’s death, the death had been ruled accidental.

After more than a decade in the army, Nash knew it was possible for a stray shot to kill someone. But it was also possible for a man with a grudge to misfire, or to shoot wild, “accidentally” injuring the man he despised. Nash had seen it happen.

Yet he’d never known Hoyt to have an enemy in the world, unlike Arthur, who’d been a toplofty prig all through his youth and beyond. Hoyt had been a gentle, good-natured sort who’d lost his wife three years earlier. His few letters after Joanna’s death indicated he had not yet recovered from her loss. He seemed to think he never would, which surprised Nash, since theirs had not been a love match. Clearly, Hoyt had developed a strong attachment to Joanna.

Unfortunately, Nash’s trip into Keswick that afternoon had yielded naught but a nastily bruised ankle and the beginnings of a wicked headache. Keswick’s magistrate, Mr. Peter Wardlow, had offered nothing new about Hoyt’s death, even though he’d been present at the hunting party that day.

Nor could he say much about the accident that had killed Arthur and Georgia. The magistrate had investigated their deaths, of course, and found only that the ground he’d traveled on the high road to Braithwaite had given way under their carriage wheels.

Nash remembered the stretch well. It was a dangerous piece of narrow road, but a careful—a
sane
—driver would never have driven too close to the edge of the cliff. Nor would he have taken it too fast.

Mr. Wardlow’s report had mentioned heavy rains in the days before the accident. And Philip Lowell had spoken of Arthur’s stubborn insistence on traveling to a local baron’s house party at Braithwaite in spite of the poor road conditions. Nash could easily believe it of his brother. Arthur had never changed from the headstrong youth who refused all sorts of advice—even their father’s.

The three brothers had been close, each of them with his own particular strengths, and perhaps his own weaknesses. Hoyt had been far too mild-mannered, but he was as kindhearted as a man could be. Arthur was by far the most intelligent of the three brothers, but he was laughably stubborn. Nash had more physical prowess than either of his brothers, and his father had dressed him down more than once for frightening his mother with his dangerous feats of daring. But the three Farris brothers had stood for one another in their boyhood scrapes and backed each other up at school.

Life at Ashby Hall was painfully hollow without his brothers.

Philip Lowell returned to the library and stood across from Nash. He bore a familiar expression—of a man whose interest had been piqued by a woman.