The Game and the Governess (17 page)

He could easily use the hours at the dining table to contemplate the governess. How would he go about wooing her? Maybe spend his energies on the children to garner her interest? Of course, he was not terribly comfortable with children. What about during her free time? Did governesses have free time? An afternoon off? Could he wait that long to perchance meet with her?

While he would have been happy to use his time thus, unluckily, Ned was seated at Sir Nathan’s left, forcing at least a modicum of conversation.

And as expected, that conversation was entirely about the business of bathing.

“It will be grander than anything Bath has! Bigger than Brighton’s Carlton House!”

Sir Nathan had managed to keep his enthusiasm in check for most of the evening, but as the meal went on and the wine flowed, he became more and more expansive, especially about the consortium’s plans for the bathing retreat.

“Fennick could explain the whole thing—Mr. McLeavey is the one who sold the town on the idea. Straight from his pulpit.” Sir Nathan waved his fork in the air, his ecstasy causing food to go flying.

Now that their plates of mutton were being taken away, dessert was being served. And one could only hope Sir Nathan could make it through the meal with
out promising the king himself in attendance at the bathing retreat’s opening ceremonies.

“And since the inn in Hollyhock will be inadequate for the illustrious guests we attract—dukes and duchesses will come to us!—so I have devised a plan to build a number of quaint cottages on the town side of Puffington Arms, to be let during the bathing season.”

“And I get to design them!” Lady Widcoate added from the other end of the table. “Cottages for dukes! Can you imagine? Oh, my lord, I hope you enjoy tonight’s dessert—Cook made it especially. Blackberry tarts. I hope you don’t mind, but we took the blackberries from the brambles on your mother’s property.” Her eyes fell on Ned, and she gave him a surprisingly anticipatory look. “And you as well, Mr. Turner. I hope you especially enjoy it.”

“My wife’s designs for tarts almost outmatch her designs for cottages.” Sir Nathan winked at his wife, causing her to giggle before returning her attention to Turner and the countess on her opposites sides.

The evidence of Lady Widcoate’s design schemes all around them (the dining room in particular featured a fireplace so large and covered with cherubs, it took up an entire wall in the relatively small space, and seemed to be very difficult for the servers to maneuver around), Ned was vaguely concerned about the ornateness of the impending tart.

But, in the past twenty-four hours or so, he had learned enough to bite his tongue and turn the topic of conversation. Besides, he did not want to invite the wrath of Lady W, who seemed to be at peace with him, warnings to the contrary aside.

“There’s a bathing season?” Ned asked Sir Nathan.

“But of course!” he replied. “Brighton, Lyme—they all have seasons.”

His tart was placed in front of him. He was pleased to see that it relied on the structural simplicity of blackberries, sugar, and crust. Indeed, it smelled delicious, and faintly of memory.

“Yes, but those are sea-bathing establishments. They are beholden to the weather,” he went on, lifting his fork. Seeing Sir Nathan’s blank stare, he continued, remembering to be kinder about it, “Forgive me, but wouldn’t a bathing retreat built from mineral springs have the baths indoors?”

Sir Nathan turned a bit pink at that, but it could be that he was chewing too hard on his blackberry tart. When he swallowed, he waved his fork in the air dismissively. “People visit Bath more at certain times than others. It’s all in the proposal, Mr. Turner.” Then his eyes shot up from his plate. “You
have
read the proposal, haven’t you?”

Ned hesitated, his first bite of tart only inches from his mouth. “Of course . . .” he began. But then, for the second time that evening, he was rescued by an unexpected person.

“Mr. Turner has read the proposal, and is apparently pointing out some issues with it,” Turner said imperiously from the other end of the table.

“What possible issues could he have?” Sir Nathan growled. “It’s a huge boon to the area, and to you, if he allows it to be.”

Sir Nathan turned his bright, bloodshot eyes on Ned. “And it’s to his benefit to allow it to be.”

Ned’s vision started turning red around the edges. How dare Sir Nathan try to bully him? Why, just last night, he was trying to bribe him!

He would show him who he was dealing with . . .

“Don’t worry, Sir Nathan,” Turner soothed, reading the red on his host’s face more properly than Ned had previously. “Mr. Turner is my right-hand man—I assure you that he is going to review the proposal with all the care he puts into every aspect of his life.” Turner sent Ned a smirk, reminding Ned how much “care” he’d put into his performance for the past few days.

“Well, I should think that a good amount of time and care should and will be put into this decision. After all, we arranged to stay for a fortnight, so the earl would not be swayed unduly,” Ned said carefully.

“And so you can attend the town’s festival,” Lady Widcoate added, smugly.

Ned and Turner shared a glance. “The town festival?” Turner asked.

“Don’t you remember, my lord?” Lady Widcoate replied with a laugh. “Hollyhock’s summer festival is the biggest event in the county!”

“Forgive me, Lady Widcoate,” Ned said cautiously, “but if I recall—er, from our correspondence—the festival is not until much later in the summer.”

“Yes, well”—Lady Widcoate sniffed—“we moved it forward this year. At the consortium’s suggestion.”

And likely at their expense too. Of course they moved it forward. Nothing was too much to impress the Earl of Ashby. Now perhaps Turner would have a greater appreciation for why Ned preferred town.

But Lady Widcoate was still talking. “. . . farmers bring out their best livestock and crops, which everyone has been looking forward to. And you are to be the master of ceremonies!”

“I am?” Turner asked, aghast.

“You were voted unanimously. It will be the perfect way for the town to show you their enthusiasm.”

“I . . . saw their enthusiasm. There was plenty on display today.” Turner’s voice came out a bit strangled.

No, forget strangled. Turner looked positively apoplectic. Good God, did the idea of being lauded at the town festival really fill him with that much dread?

Unlike Turner, Ned actually did remember the Hollyhock town festival. Now, of course, he knew it for what it was—a rather ordinary, small-town or village-type celebration of their general smallness. But back when he was a child . . .

It had been something to get excited about. He wasn’t given any chores on festival days. He was given a sixpence to spend on cakes or apples or games.

But no . . . Ned shook his head, shook off those memories. No time for such silliness. Besides, now he had the vision of Turner’s being forced into ceremonial duties to look forward to. He would have to cut the ribbon, make a speech, and if he recalled correctly . . .

“You get to lead the dance, my lord!” Miss Henrietta piped up, her eyes shining with the deliciousness of this news.

“The dance?”

“The Summer Ball! The Master of the Festival leads out the first dance. And whomever he picks to dance with is the Summer Lady!” Henrietta supplied.
When Minnie shot her a questioning look, she sniffed and explained, “Lady Widcoate told us yesterday. You were too busy trying to get us to play bowls again to listen.”

“Well, I’m certain it will be great fun,” Ned supplied, shooting Henrietta a smile. She, to her credit, smiled kindly at him, before seeing Mrs. Rye’s harsh look and shying away.

“The earl is an excellent dancer.” Ned smiled down at Turner. Among many other more refined talents, dancing was one that Turner decidedly lacked.

“Whom do you think you’ll choose, my lord?” Miss Benson asked, breathless. “Of course, you don’t
have
to choose now . . .”

“I’m sure he’ll choose wisely, Miss Benson,” Ned added, turning her attention back to him. He puffed up with smug pride. “The earl has never made a bad decision as long as I’ve known him.”

“Indeed,” Turner added, his eyes narrowing, “and the best decision I ever made was to hire Mr. Turner.”

Apparently, two could play this game.

“It was?” Countess Churzy asked with polite interest. “How very complimentary.”

“I could not be happier in my position, my lady,” Ned said innocently. “After all, I owe the earl my life.”

“Do you?” the countess said with happy intrigue. “Oh, but this is a story we must hear.”

“I don’t think . . .” Turner tried to demur, but the countess turned her big dark eyes to him and gave him their full force.

“Please? We ladies enjoy a story of derring-do. Don’t we?” She pouted gorgeously. Ned was again tempted to
forget that she was as smart as she was lovely, and had an agenda. And her expression wasn’t even directed at him.

Turner didn’t stand a chance with her.

“Oh, please, let us hear it!” came the chorus from the three younger ladies. And even Mrs. Rye notably brooked no opposition.

Oh, well, he thought with relish. His blackberry tart could wait.

“It was on the battlefield in Brussels,” Ned began, enjoying himself for the first time all evening. “I—er, that is, the earl—was a very young officer and new to the regiment, and I was then Captain Turner. We were trying to hold a flank and taking fire, and were desperate for our runner to return with necessary ammunition—”

“No, Mr. Turner,” Turner interrupted, his face a hard line. “Allow me to tell the story, my friend.”

Ned’s eyebrow went up, betraying his slight shock at the interruption. But Turner was the earl tonight, so he acquiesced to him.

“Mr. Turner and I were in the same regiment—I arrived only after the majority of the fighting was done, having only just come of age and selfishly run away from my obligations to my great-uncle and joining the army. Indeed, two days after I joined up, Napoleon surrendered.”

Ned’s brow creased in confusion. Turner
seemed
to be telling the story correctly . . .

“My experience with war was marching in lines and cleaning my Baker rifle, and talking about how if
I
had the chance to be in battle, I would take on ten Frenchmen at once. I imagine I was insufferable, but, to my
captain’s credit, he never told me so.” Turner smirked ruefully, and all the ladies gave a little laugh at his supposed self-deprecation.

“Then, of course, Napoleon escaped Elba, and set us all on a course to that field in Belgium. I jumped with excitement at the idea of finally being in battle, but the truth is, I was scared. As scared as I’d ever been in my life. But I hid it with bravado, and good humor, and playing cards with Turner here and our other friend Dr. Gray, and that took my mind off the drills and maneuvers, and let me think only of the present. Which was a great gift.” Turner couldn’t help smiling. “I also won all their rations.”

Minnie Rye laughed at that, and she leaned forward on her elbow, enraptured by the tale. Ned looked around the table. They all were. Including him.

“The battle began in the morning, and lasted all day. Our regiment—one of hundreds—was out on a far flank, and our orders were to hold that flank, no matter what. But when ammunition became low, holding the flank became . . . more difficult.

“We had a runner—a boy no more than fourteen. I don’t know how he managed to lie his way into a uniform, but we needed every man. He was the fastest runner this side of Marathon. Mr. Turner—Captain Turner—sent him running back to get more ammunition, and honestly, he must have thought it was the safer job. A child shouldn’t have been facing direct fire. But he must have gotten lost or turned around in the madness, because suddenly, I spotted the boy in the middle of the field. Our ammunition, our saving grace, strapped across his chest.”

Ned could feel himself getting sick, and grave. His stomach roiled, smoke filling up his mind, and the image of the boy lying in a heap, his gangly limbs twisted awkwardly, his eye—the one that hadn’t been blown away—staring right at him.

“I spotted him first. I must have, I was closest to him. Pointed, but couldn’t yell. I didn’t have any breath.” Turner continued. “I was frozen on the edge of the field, a pile of dirt protecting me from fire. If we didn’t get that ammunition, we would have to run out into the field and begin using our bayonets against their bullets. But I couldn’t move. Then I felt a hand on my shoulder.”

Ned’s eyes met Turner’s. Everyone else in the room fell away, and they were standing again on that battlefield. Madness on every side.

“It was Captain Turner, and he didn’t hesitate like I had. He ran out into the field. He yelled at me to cover him, and it snapped me out of it. I did my best . . .
we
did our best, and Turner reached the boy quickly. He was obviously dead, there was no saving him. But if he could get the ammunition and bring it back, he could save the rest of us.

“He cut the boy’s satchel off of him, tugged it free. Then, on his way back to the safety of the line, a ball went through his thigh, felling him to the ground.”

Turner took a moment, a sip of wine. You could hear a pin drop in the room. He subconsciously began rubbing his leg . . . but luckily, Ned was the only one who noticed. Everyone else was lost in the story—their starry eyes gone grave and large, their fear palpable.

“Then, somehow, I had the fortitude—or the
stupidity—to run out from behind my position of relative safety and make for Turner. He was limping to his feet, trying to drag his way up. But even though he was fueled by his fear, he was slowed by his wound. I came up to his side and took the satchel off of him. I was shaking so hard, tears in my eyes, I almost forgot to bring back Turner too!

“But he leaned on me, and together we managed to crab-walk our way back. I couldn’t see straight, so Turner had to direct me. My eyes, his legs . . . and bullets dogging our feet every step. And somehow, that was the luckiest bit. The dust that rose from those bullets hitting the ground gave us enough cover to get back to the line. Get back to fighting.”