Diane Gaston - A Lady Becomes A Governess

Lady Agnes was the perfect choice, his advisors assured him. He agreed. She was the daughter of the Earl of Trowbridge. She was polished, pleasant, accomplished and beautiful. She’d be the perfect hostess. There was absolutely nothing to object to in Lady Agnes.

Except Miss Tilson pulled more emotion from him than Lady Agnes ever had.

He stepped towards the governess and reached for her small bag. ‘You look fatigued. I will arrange a room for you and have a meal sent up to you.’

She gave him a stricken look that he did not understand, but he took her bag and she fell in step with him to the door of the inn.

When they entered the hall, the innkeeper’s eyes darted between them. ‘Welcome. A room for you, sir?’ His tone was uncertain.

‘Two rooms,’ Garret replied. ‘The lady will require a maid and a meal in her room.’

‘Very good, sir.’ The innkeeper bowed.

‘No!’ Miss Tilson broke in, her voice sharp. She immediately modified it. ‘No, please. I would prefer to eat my meal in the tavern.’

The innkeeper’s brows rose, as did Garret’s. She wished to expose herself in a public tavern? What sort of governess was she?

Garret frowned. ‘As you wish.’

The innkeeper cleared his throat. ‘Let me show you to your rooms.’

Garret followed behind the man and Miss Tilson as he led them up two flights of stairs and down a long hallway.

‘These two.’ The innkeeper gestured to two rooms across the hallway from each other. He opened each of the rooms and handed them their keys. ‘Shall I send a maid up now, ma’am?’ he asked Miss Tilson.

‘Not now,’ she replied. ‘Later. Perhaps nine or ten?’

‘Very good, ma’am.’ He bowed and left.

Garret placed his valise inside his room and his hat and gloves on a table, but he did not move from the doorway.

Neither did Miss Tilson.

She lifted her chin. ‘Lord Brookmore, I am of a mind you disapprove of my not eating in my room. If you wish it, I will do so.’

He folded his arms across his chest. ‘A public room can be a rowdy place, Miss Tilson. Not suitable for an unaccompanied woman.’ Not suitable for his nieces’ governess, he meant.

She lowered her gaze. ‘I did not think of that. I thought only to have people around me. To not be alone.’ Her voice cracked on her last word.

His insides twisted at her emotion.

She raised her eyes again. ‘When I am alone, the shipwreck comes back to me.’

The shipwreck. Of course she would be reliving the shipwreck. Before yesterday she’d been too feverish to become accustomed to the memories.

‘Would you accompany me to the tavern, then?’ she asked. ‘I would not require you to make conversation. Simply being among people—even rowdy people—would—would—distract me.’

How often after a battle did he seek the companionship of his fellow officers? To be alone with one’s thoughts simply repeated the agony. Companionship, drink and carousing kept memories at bay. He ought to have realised this young woman would feel such a need, as well.

Truth be told, he was trying not to think of her that deeply.

Her lips thinned. ‘Forgive me. It was wrong of me to ask.’ She turned to enter her room. ‘Have my dinner sent up. That will suffice.’

He crossed the hallway and seized her arm, dropping it as soon as she turned back, looking alarmed.

He straightened. ‘If you do not wish to dine alone, I will not compel you to do so. I will request a private dining room and you will be my guest.’

Her expression relaxed into a relieved smile. ‘Oh, thank you, my lord.’

He closed his door. ‘I will arrange it immediately.’

She touched his arm this time. ‘May I go with you?’

Her need for company was that strong? He nodded. ‘In that case,’ he said, ‘allow me a few minutes to rid myself of the dust of the road and we can seek a meal right away.’

Her smile grew. ‘Thank you, my lord.’

He washed his face and hands and brushed off his clothes. A glance in the mirror made him rub his chin, debating whether to take the time to shave. He decided against it. This was not a London drawing room and Miss Tilson was eager to be free of her solitude.

When he opened his door, she awaited him in the hallway. They walked together down the stairs through the hall to the tavern room.

The tavern room was everything Garret feared it would be. Loud voices, talking, laughing mingled with the clatter of dishes, tankards and cutlery. The air reeked of hops, cooked meat and male sweat. Men of all classes gulped from tankards of ale. Some enjoyed the company of the few women who shared booths with them. Serving girls threaded their way through the crowd.

Garret sought out the publican. ‘We seek a private dining room,’ he yelled over the din of the crowd.

The man’s bald pate gleamed with perspiration. His white apron covered a swelled girth. ‘This way, sir!’

Garret held Miss Tilson’s arm as he followed the publican through the room. Men definitely glanced her way, their expressions curious, appreciative or licentious. He pulled her a little closer, feeling protective. Had he ever felt protective of Agnes?

Unfair comparison. He’d never walked Lady Agnes through a rowdy tavern and he could not imagine ever doing so.

Miss Tilson trembled beneath his touch.

He released her as soon as they reached the private room, hoping she had not thought his actions too forward. He’d felt protective. Nothing more.

The private dining room was simply furnished with a table, four chairs and a sideboard. There was a window with brown curtains and a small fireplace with a few pieces of coal glowing on the grate. The walls were bare.

‘What drink do you desire?’ the publican asked as he lit two lamps from a taper. ‘I’ll have the serving girl bring them directly.’

‘Ale for me,’ Garret said. Not a drink for a viscount, but he was parched. ‘Miss Tilson?’

She gave him a sideways glance. ‘Claret?’

He turned to the publican. ‘A decanter of claret for the lady.’

The man rubbed his hands. ‘And food? We have char fish and a mutton stew and pigeon...’

‘Not fish!’ Miss Tilson cried.

The publican eyed her with a surprised look.

Garret turned to her. ‘Stew, then?’

She nodded.

He addressed the publican again. ‘We will both have the stew. And bring some bread and cheese, as well.’

‘Very good, sir.’ The man bowed and left the room.

When he closed the door behind him, Miss Tilson lowered herself into a chair at the table. She expelled a nervous breath.

Garret inclined his head towards the door. ‘You see why you could not come alone.’

She took another breath, pressing her hand against her chest. ‘It was so odd. The voices. All the men. Walking through that room I thought I was on the deck of the ship again. I actually saw it.’ She looked up at him, her forehead creased. ‘Now you will think me mad.’ She pressed her temples. ‘I think myself mad.’

He settled in the chair adjacent to her. ‘Some soldiers relive a battle after it is all done. As if they were there.’

She frowned. ‘I don’t understand.’

‘They hear the sounds of the battle again. Even think they see the battle.’

Her puzzled eyes turned hopeful. ‘Do you think it could be the same?’

‘It could be.’ He looked away and drummed his fingers on the table.

Seated this close, under the lamplight, her eyes—their irises thin brown rims circled in green—had captivated him, created a yearning inside him. Perhaps it was the changing emotion he saw in those eyes. Perhaps he was drawn to her because she’d suffered and she knew what it was like to survive when so many others died.