The Governess Club: Louisa (18 page)

Blood flew through the air. Louisa saw it in a surreal moment, saw it flying off John’s face and in her direction. The blood arched and began its descent, landing across her face and on her clothing. She couldn’t help it.

Louisa shrieked. Loudly. And high-pitched. Enough to stop the fight and silence the stable. She shrieked out of shock and surprise. Why she had never considered what proximity to the fight might bring was beyond her. Now she stood with a large streak of John’s blood on her. She could feel where it had landed on her face, warm and oozy and beginning to slide down, thanks to gravity.

Even the fighters had stopped. John’s eyes widened when he saw who it was and what had happened. He took a step toward her, one hand outstretched, concern in his one good eye. Blood was dripping out of the fresh wound on his face, but he paid it no heed.

“Louisa?” he asked. “Are you hurt?”

Seeing his face, seeing what his opponent had done to him, was what spurred her on. Looking him dead in the eye, she lifted her chin and shouted, “Two pounds on Johnny Taylor!”

“O
uch!” John winced and jerked away from the cold compress Louisa pressed unceremoniously against his face. “That hurt.”

She gave him a disbelieving look. “You just had a man intentionally hit you in the face more times than I counted and you are complaining that this hurts?”

“I am sensitive,” he said, giving her a sheepish shrug.

“What you are is a big baby.” She pressed the compress back to his face. “Hold this.” He dutifully held the compress while she wiped more blood off the rest of his face. “How you have managed to keep all your teeth and not damaged any facial feature besides your nose is beyond me. That was the most brutal thing I have ever seen.”

He tried to smile at her, but groaned and returned the compress to his face. “But you liked it, didn’t you?”

“Liked seeing a man pummel you with his fists? Liked seeing your blood on his hands and skin? Liked seeing you beat a man—a man who most likely has a mother, a sister, a wife, concerned just like me—beat a man to a near pulp? And all this for a purse of what, ten pounds?”

“Fifty. You were concerned about me?”

“Fifty pounds to beat a man up?”

“Yes.”

“And you won it?”

He grinned, despite the pain. “You saw me get this.” He waved the purse in front of her. She batted his hand away and he tossed it on the bed. He took a long sip from the Scotch sitting on the nightstand.

She fingered the cut on his cheek. “You need stitches. Let me get my needle and thread.”

“Whoa, whoa, wait.” He grabbed her wrist. “You have a needle and thread? I don’t think I trust you with that.”

“What, are you afraid of needles too, you big baby?”

“When they’re in your hand, it’s probably best I am.”

“Be quiet, you big galoot.”

“Mm, you’re talking dirty again.”

“And you must be punch-drunk.” She rummaged through her sewing bag and retrieved her needle and some thread.

“Just drunk on how beautiful you look today.”

“I look beautiful every day.” She said this matter-of-factly as she threaded the needle and swirled it around in his Scotch. “Hold still.” She stood between his legs and dabbed his wound clean, beginning to stitch it shut.

“Have you done this before?” he asked, watching her intently, trying to remain still despite the painful pull of needle through skin.

“No, but I’ve seen doctors do it many times. I was a governess, remember.”

His hands settled on the back of her thighs, his thumbs caressing the cheeks of her bottom. “You were concerned about me?” he asked again.

“Was fifty pounds really worth this?” She avoided his question. “What are you going to do with that money anyway?”

“Can’t a man have some secrets?”

“Not when it involves getting your face bloodied and bruised like this. Tell me what was so important that you had to do this.”

“Well, Christmas is coming up and a man likes to spoil his woman, give her something nice to mark the occasion. I was thinking we could go to Bath for a few days, stay in a nice hotel, eat some Sally buns, perhaps get you a nice dress.”

Her needle stilled and she looked at him for a long moment. He looked disgruntled at having to tell her, but also eager to see her reaction. “I don’t need any of those things.” She fought the warmth spreading in her chest at his thoughtfulness.

“It’s not about what you need, but what I want to give you.”

“Give me a private dining room, John. I don’t want to go to Bath.” She broke off the rest of the thread and dabbed at the stitched wound again.

He moved his face away from her touch. “It’s always about the inn, isn’t it? I bet you were concerned for me because of how my being hurt would affect business, right?”

“And don’t call me your woman,” she snipped. She began to wash the needle in the basin on his vanity.

“Yea gods, Louisa, a man can’t do anything right with you, can he?”

“And I was concerned because I didn’t want to have to see your broken face in bed with me,” she growled.

“What?” he snapped.

“I happen to like the way your face looks, you big galoot, and I don’t like thinking of it being hurt.”

He grabbed her and pulled her close to him. “My face isn’t hurt.”

“Says the man with eight stitches in his cheek, a fat lip and a black eye.”

John shook his head. “I’m too tall for anyone to land decent hits. My face won’t ever be broken.”

She framed his face with her hands. “This looks broken to me and I don’t like it. I thought you were retired.”

“I was a boxer for a decade, kitten. It’s not like I can just turn it off like it was an ale cask.”

She traced his eyebrows. “Do you miss it? Is that why you did this?”

“Do I miss it?” He shrugged. “Like I said, it was ten years of my life and I was good at it, pretty much all I’ve been good at my whole life. And you know why I did it. For you, kitten.”

She took a deep breath through her nose. “I really don’t want to go to Bath, John.”

“Then we’ll figure something else out to do with the money. Just nothing to do with the inn, agreed?”

She nodded. “I can do that.”

“Can we seal this bargain with a kiss?” He grinned at her hopefully.

Louisa grimaced. “I don’t think you understand how your face looks right now when you smile.”

“Kiss me anyway? Make my pain go away, kitten.”

“You truly are a big galoot, Johnny Taylor.” She kissed him anyway.

T
he boxing mill was stupendous for business. Men, young and old, had been arriving since yesterday in anticipation, watching more of the exhibitions that led up to the main fight. The inn was near capacity, all but a few rooms taken. Those rooms Louisa was certain would fill as well, even if not with sportsmen in town for the event. There was a winter storm brewing and stranded travelers would need a place to stay. It was music to her ears, the sound of coins exchanging hands.

Louisa weaved through the tables, carrying two servings of pie to a table, followed by Rose with just as many. They placed them in front of the men who ordered them, who were laughing raucously.

One of them grabbed Louisa’s wrist. “Wait a moment, luv, I’ve a question for you.”

She wrenched herself away from the man, glancing over her shoulder at John behind the bar, pouring drinks. He wasn’t looking her way. “What is it?” she asked, trying to remain civil. The man was a paying customer.

He glanced at his friends with a grin. “What is your opinion of premarital relations?”

“With you? Not a very good one, I am afraid.”

His friends guffawed at that. His face flickered, but he persevered. Rose moved away as she saw to other tables. “What I mean is, luv, we’ve been having a conversation here. Do you think a man, a healthy man, has to marry a girl he’s been sleeping with?”

She frowned. “Does the girl have expectations?”

“Perhaps.” The man shifted uncomfortably. “But in this day and age, a girl should know that a man’s not going to buy the cow when he’s getting the milk for free. Don’t you agree?”

His friends laughed again, pounding the table with their fists and tankards. Their noise added to that already filling the pub. The man looked at her with an expectant smirk.

Louisa shifted her weight to one hip, looking at the man through narrowed eyes. This clearly was the kind of man who preyed on innocents, luring them into a sense of security before ruining them. It left a sour taste in her mouth that men like him existed, even more so that he and his drunken friends had been allowed in her inn. At some point the value of a shilling was not worth the sacrifice.

“Well, luv, what do you say?”

“I agree,” she declared.

He blinked, clearly not expecting that response from her. “I beg your pardon?”

“I agree with premarital relations. After all, a woman should be assured the entire pig is worth it when all she can expect is such a small sausage.”

The table was silent as her words sank in. The man’s face reddened as his friends broke out into more laughter. He opened his mouth to say something when one of the others clapped him on the back. “Don’t be sore, Preston, not when you goaded her.”

Louisa pasted a polite smile on her face. “Enjoy your pies, gentlemen. If you need anything else, Mr. Packard or Mr. Taylor behind the bar will see to it.” As she walked away, she made a mental note to tell Rose and Fanny to avoid that man for the rest of his stay.

“Louisa.” John forestalled her retreat into the kitchen and gestured for her to come to the bar. “Are you all right?” His eyes were on the table she had just served.

“Yes, it was just some men who thought alcohol made them humorous.”

The door banged open and they both looked at a young lady with two blond children. She looked around and saw John and Louisa watching them. She took the children by the hand and approached the bar, ensuring she kept the girls from the more rowdy tables.

“Are you the proprietor?” The young brunette asked as the small group stopped at the bar. She spoke in the cultured tones of the nobility. “Please tell me you have a room. The last two my husband and I stopped at were full and the snow is getting worse.”

John nodded. “I am Mr. Taylor and this is Mrs. Brock. We are the owners.”

“We do have a room available,” Louisa said. “It is large enough to accommodate your family. Two large beds.”

Relief washed over the young lady’s face. “Thank goodness. My husband is just seeing to the coach and horses.”

“Why don’t you have a seat here while you wait?” Louisa gestured to a nearby empty table. “I will have one of our maids ensure the room is ready and have a tea tray sent up for you. You and your daughters must be cold and tired from your traveling.”

“Mama,” the eldest girl whispered not-so-quietly, “she looks like the lady in the portrait. Like Grandmama.”

The young lady smiled sheepishly at Louisa. “I apologize. You do bear a resemblance to my late mother-in-law.”

“Think nothing of it,” Louisa assured her. She smiled at the girl. “I am sure I would know if I were related to such lovely young girls.” Her comment made them both turn shyly into their mother’s skirts. “I will just see to your room and tea tray.”

“Is there perchance a private dining room available?” the lady asked. She cast a wary glance around at the men well on their way to drunkenness.

Louisa shot A Look at John, who said, “Not yet, but none will bother you here. I will see to it.”

“Thank you,” she said, the conversation drifting away as Louisa headed into the kitchen.

“Maisie, we need a tea tray,” Louisa said. The cook was already putting together several more pies and looked flustered.

“We’re running out of dinner pies, Mrs. Brock,” she said. “We’ve enough for twenty more, but that’s it.”

“That’s a good thing,” Louisa smiled. “If you can, save one for Mr. Taylor and me. But we can eat something else later. Timothy, how about that tea tray? Four settings, please. I’m going to check on the rooms.” She went up the back stairs and let herself into the room she promised to the new arrivals.

Her practiced eye scanned the room, taking note of how prepared it was. It was set up for two, recently cleaned and dusted, new linens on the beds, pillows neatly plumped, washstand ready for fresh water and use. She grabbed the pitcher and hurried downstairs, filled it with the pot of warmed water from the back hob and returned it to the room. She stepped back into the corridor and headed for the linen closet, fetching several more towels; the additional young guests would likely need them.

She closed the linen closet and headed back to the room, her arms full of towels. Just as she was passing another door, it opened and someone stepped out, crashing into her and sending her towels scattering on the floor. A firm hand grasped her elbow when she was teetering, steadying her.

She opened her eyes and looked into the bluest, coldest eyes she had ever seen. Blond hair fell across his forehead, but the boyish look did nothing to reduce the effect of his eyes. She unconsciously fought to suppress a shiver.

“My apologies,” he spoke in a deep, cultured voice. “I did not mean to step into you, Miss—”

“Brock. Mrs. Brock,” Louisa said. She bent down to retrieve the towels, refolding them to stack neatly.

He bent down with her, one hand holding on to a black cane with a golden wolf’s head. The creature was in a frozen snarl, making her wonder about the man who held it. “Our proprietress, from what I understand. Mr. Taylor informed us you were around somewhere.”

“Yes, I oversee the maids and the kitchen. The boxing mill and weather are stretching our staff thin, so I am helping where I can.” She took a towel from his offered hand and folded it, adding it to the stack.

“An employer who does not mind getting her hands dirty. Most admirable.” He straightened with her, offering his hand to assist her up, which she did not take.

“Are you here with your wife, Mr.—”

“Grant. And no, I am betrothed but not yet married. I travel with two companions who are waiting for me below stairs to dine. It has been a long day and the kitchen smells promising.”