he said.
Lizzie jumped down. Her hair was a mess, flopping around her face, her expression held defiance and there were tear stains on her face. He frowned. ‘What happened to you, Lizzie?’
‘Janey said it was my fault Lady Marguerite isn’t coming today. I said it was her fault. She pulled my hair, so I slapped her.’
Janey looked up. ‘I punched her back.’ She buried her face.
‘This will not do,’ he said. ‘Ladies do not brawl, they, they—’
Lizzie folded her arms across her chest. ‘They turn the other cheek. That’s what Nanny said. Well, that is not fair. And it’s not my fault Lady Marguerite didn’t come today, just because I said I didn’t want to draw silly circles and squares...’
He frowned. ‘Is that what you said?’
Lizzie shrugged. ‘I wanted to draw a horse.’
‘Circles and squares make a horsey,’ Janey said, though her voice was muffled by Nanny’s ample skirts. ‘Lady Marguerite showed us.’
‘Lizzie, if you were rude to Lady Marguerite, you will apologise,’ Jack said in his fiercest Father voice.
Lizzie’s shoulders drooped. ‘I want to draw a real horse.’
Perhaps this drawing-teacher notion of his was not such a good idea after all. Indeed, it had thoroughly disrupted his household.
‘She said she would come today,’ Lizzie said. ‘So, it cannot be my fault she is not here.’
Jack recalled the rather stiff words he had had with Lady Marguerite last evening. Was it possible that was what had made her decide not to come? If so, it was rather unfair on the children.
‘Did you say something rude to her, Papa?’ Lizzie asked.
Jack winced. The child was far too observant. ‘I don’t believe so.’
‘You did,’ Lizzie said. She poked her tongue out at Janey. ‘See. It wasn’t me. Now you need to apologise.’
Dash it all. Hoist by his own petard. ‘If I said something Lady Marguerite did not find appropriate, I will certainly apologise. However, I don’t believe—’
‘My lord,’ Laughton said, ‘a note from Lady Marguerite. Peter brought it, just now.’
Jack opened the note. ‘She is not feeling well. She has a headache. She will come next week.’
Neither of them needed to apologise.
‘People say they have a headache when they do not wish to speak to someone.’
Heaven help him. ‘Where did you learn such a thing?’
Lizzie frowned. ‘Mama used to say it all the time. When people came to call who she did not like.’
He recoiled. His wife had said that to him on a couple of occasions, also. He had always taken her at her word. Did this mean that also had been a lie?
With difficulty, he controlled his rising temper. ‘Nonsense. If Lady Marguerite did not have a headache, she would be here,’ he said with more confidence than he felt.
‘What if she never comes again?’ Janey said, looking up from her refuge, her lower lip trembling.
Dash it all, he had paid the woman in advance. She ought to be here. And if she was ill, she was now alone.
The note did not indicate the extent of her illness. Well, he would damned well see for himself. He marched off to the stables. Having instructed Peter to return to Westram when he had eaten and rested from his long walk, Jack set off to discover the truth for himself.
* * *
Since the pain in her head was gradually abating, Marguerite made her way to the kitchen. Why she had headaches when it stormed she did not know, but they hurt so badly sometimes she could barely see. It was at times like this that she really missed Petra. Her sister always knew when she had a headache coming and provided the tea and the cool cloths for her forehead.
Well, now she just had to manage alone.
She poured water into the basin from the jug Peter had filled before he went to present her apologies to Lord Compton. She dipped a handkerchief in the water and wrung it out. With the storm long gone and the curtains in the parlour closed against daylight, she should feel better in an hour or two.
Would Lord Compton accept her excuse? Or would he dismiss her out of hand and ask for his money back? Her head throbbed a warning. She forced herself not to think. Thinking only made things worse. She took her cold compress back to the living room, placed the compress over her eyes and gratefully dozed.
* * *
A loud rapping sound jerked her awake. She removed the compress. What was the time? She sat up slowly. Her head no longer hurt, thank heavens.
The rapping noise came again. It was not in her head or her dreams. Someone was at the door. Slowly she got to her feet. Yes, she did indeed feel better. She parted the curtains to see who was at her front door.
Lord Compton?
She put a hand to her hair. Her cap was askew with her hair a wild mess. Bother. Should she simply ignore him? She glanced out to the lane and saw no sign of a carriage or horse. He must have left his mode of transport at the inn. But any moment now someone was sure to see him knocking on her front door. If they had not done so already.
He knocked yet again. Clearly, he was not going to go away until she had spoken to him. What did he want? Perhaps he was the sort of employer who needed to assess for himself the extent of an employee’s illness.
Clearly, having paid her in advance, the man didn’t trust her to keep her side of the bargain. She wished she had never met the man. Never agreed to teach his children.
She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. People were not exactly knocking her door down, seeking drawing lessons. No, she needed this employment. She had no choice but to speak to him.
The cap she tossed aside. She threw a shawl over the worn frock she had put on this morning in order to give Peter a note for Lord Compton and shuffled to the front door. Hopefully, she could convince him that she would be there next Wednesday and make him go away.
She eased the door open a fraction. ‘How may I be of assistance, Lord Compton?’
He stared at her open-mouthed.
She remembered her hair. The colour of it, dark auburn, and its tendency to curl, often caused that sort of shock to anyone who saw it unpinned. She forced herself not to make a futile attempt to tame it into some sort of order. It never worked. Instead, she lifted her eyebrows in enquiry.
‘I...er... When I received your note, I thought I should see if I could be of assistance.’
Did he really expect her to believe that? ‘No, thank you. I have everything I need.’ She made to close the door.
He put out a hand, holding it open. ‘May I send for a doctor?’
‘I do not need a doctor.’ She needed peace and quiet. And besides, even if she did need one, she could not afford to pay him. ‘I shall be perfectly well by tomorrow.’
He frowned and stared at her hand.
She had forgotten about the sodden handkerchief she had used for a cold compress.
‘Your note said you had a headache.’
He sounded accusatory.
She stiffened. ‘I do.’
‘Then it is willow bark you need. Let me make you some tea.’
She blinked, stunned by his offer. ‘I can make my own tea.’
His expression became thunderous. ‘If you could make it yourself, you would have done