Ann Lethbridge - A Family For The Widowed Governess

He clearly hadn’t liked apologising to her, or expressing his gratitude. And why on earth had he come around to the back of her house? Any rational gentleman would have simply written a note on his card, stuck it beneath the knocker and left. On the other hand, he was the local magistrate. Perhaps he made a habit of prowling around other people’s property.

In the dim light of the stable, the way he stood looming over her, he looked almost menacing. As if he would arrest her and lock her up in a heartbeat, given the opportunity.

Dash it all. She had had enough of being intimidated by a man. She glared back.

And besides, now she had admitted she had no qualifications to teach his children, he would politely refuse to employ her and go, leaving her to her embarrassment at being found mucking out the stables in a pair of old buskin breeches she had found while she was looking in the attic for rags with which to clean the windows.

The next job on her list.

Dash it, she should be drawing, not undertaking menial tasks. But until she could pay for the return of her sketch, she could not afford to hire anyone to help with the chores.

‘Very well,’ he said.

She looked at him blankly.

‘I will look at your work.’

Relief filled her. ‘If you would give me a moment, I will bring some out.’

He gave her a considering look. ‘Why don’t we go inside? I will make us a cup of tea while you fetch down your portfolio.’

‘Make tea?’ she said, scarcely believing her ears.

‘I used to do so all the time when I was at university. I am sure I have not forgotten the way of it.’ He tipped his head on one side. ‘By the time the kettle boils you will have had a chance to...er...freshen up.’

Her mouth dried. He meant her to change her clothes. Heat scorched her face. The man probably thought her completely harum-scarum. Not at all the right sort of teacher for his children. But if she could convince him to hire her, it would make her life so much easier.

‘I will meet you in the kitchen in ten minutes,’ she said. She left the barn, back straight and head held high, and tried not to imagine him watching her as she marched into the house.

* * *

She was almost finished dressing when she heard the kitchen door open and close. Was he leaving? Had she taken too long? The sound of china rattling set her mind to rest. He must have lingered in the stable to give her time to prepare herself. She had not expected such courtesy from such a dour man.

She glanced in the mirror and pinned a stray lock under her cap. There. That would have to do. She ran down the stairs and into the kitchen.

His Lordship was nowhere to be seen.

‘Lord Compton?’

He emerged from the pantry. ‘I found some biscuits,’ he said and grinned. He looked so startlingly handsome, she stared at him open-mouthed. She’d been saving those biscuits for the next time the vicar came to call. The new vicar was a very pleasant young man. And single. Not that Marguerite had any interest in single gentlemen. But he always looked as if he needed a good meal and always wolfed down her biscuits.

His smile faded. ‘I am sorry, I should not have gone poking around in your pantry.’

She let go a breath. ‘No. It is perfectly all right. I am glad you found them. I like biscuits. They are shortbread, I believe. My favourite.’ Stop. He’d think her a fool for gabbling on like this. Indeed, there was a very odd look on his face. Disapproval, she thought.

She gestured to the table, where cups and saucers and the steaming teapot awaited. ‘Won’t you sit down?’ She set her portfolio away from the teacups and took her seat. He took a chair opposite. She poured the tea and they sipped at it and nibbled on shortbread. This batch had turned out even better than the last, but if she didn’t make some money soon, she would not be able to afford the butter to make more.

‘Let me see your drawings,’ he said after a few moments. She appreciated his getting down to business right away. She was beginning to feel uncomfortable about inviting a gentleman to take tea in her kitchen. It felt far too intimate to be alone with such a very handsome gentleman. One whom she found more attractive that she would have believed possible. As a rule, she preferred to give handsome, charming gentlemen a wide berth. She certainly didn’t want to start tongues wagging in the village. Fortunately, the kitchen was at the back of the house, so passing neighbours were unlikely to know of his presence. Except...

‘Oh, my goodness. What did you do with your carriage?’ Was it parked outside in the lane?

‘I left my horse at the inn,’ he said.

She let go a sigh of relief.

His mouth tightened. ‘The pictures?’

She pulled the portfolio closer, undid the worn blue ribbon and spread out samples of her still-life drawings before him.

After a moment of perusal, he lifted his gaze to meet hers. ‘These are excellent,’ he said.

Not a connoisseur, then. ‘They are accurate depictions of the countryside hereabouts.’

He looked puzzled.

‘I am a technician, my lord. I replicate what I see. I do not bring any great flair to the work.’

He shook his head. ‘If either of my daughters could be taught to draw nearly as well, I would be satisfied indeed.’

Relief flooded through her. ‘I believe I have the skill to pass my knowledge along. I have not forgotten my own lessons.’

‘I have to warn you that my daughters are not the easiest children to teach. They have driven off two governesses in the past year alone.’

She hesitated and saw disappointment enter his gaze. She steeled her spine. ‘I will do the best I can, my lord.’

‘That is all I can ask. I agree to your terms. I will expect you on Wednesday afternoon, if that is convenient, and again on Friday.’

‘That is convenient, my lord.’ Heat travelled through her body. ‘My fee is payable in advance, you will recall.’

‘When you arrive on Wednesday, your fee will await you.’

She would have liked some of it today, but beggars could not be choosers. She nodded her acceptance.

He picked up his hat and left.

Two governesses driven off. What had she let herself in for?

* * *

The following Wednesday, Jack paced his study. At any moment Lady Marguerite was supposed to arrive.

Why the hell had he hired the woman? She had lied to him. A few discreet enquiries and he had the truth of the matter. Initially, there had been three widows living at the cottage. Two of them had wed, leaving Lady Marguerite alone. There were no servants. The maid and manservant who had been employed at the cottage had married and gone elsewhere. The lady had not hired anyone to take their places.

So why lie?

Because he would have disapproved of her lack of servants? Why would she care what he thought?

Because she needed the money from the drawing lessons. What lady would advertise for employment if she wasn’t desperate? Clearly, Lord Westram should take better care of his sister.

Hah. The wry amusement that thought engendered gave him pause. Of course she wouldn’t go to her brother, since the woman obviously valued her independence. Not the sort of influence he wanted for his daughters. But there was no going back since he had already offered her the position, or at least he had offered to give her the opportunity to prove she could do the job. He had also sent over one of his stable lads to take care of her horse and keep an eye on her. It wasn’t right that a lady should live completely alone, mucking out her own stables and carrying her own coal.

If indeed she had any coal.

There had been a good pile of logs at the back door, though. Hopefully, his lad would have the sense to split them when he ran out of work in the stables. Jack went to his desk, looked at the pile of paperwork and then went to the window. It was nearly two in the afternoon. She should be here at any moment. Unless she intended to be fashionably late.