also spoke about you.’ The vicar’s warm brown eyes bored into Ash’s. ‘I think he regretted the distance between you.’
Ash was feeling extremely uncomfortable. He was unaccustomed to discussing his personal affairs with someone he had just met. In truth, he was unaccustomed to discussing his personal affairs with anyone. He preferred it that way.
Adopting his usual defence in such moments, he maintained an even expression and said nothing.
The vicar made a few more general comments and Ash listened politely. He thanked the man and turned away to where his coachman, Tully, waited with the carriage. If he left now he could be back in London by tonight.
‘Er...’
The vicar. Again.
‘Yes?’ Ash’s patience was beginning to wear thin, but he forced himself to maintain a courteous expression.
‘I was asked to pass this to you.’ He offered Ash a sealed note.
Ash frowned but took the paper. Opening it, he ran his eyes over the contents.
‘Confound it!’ he snapped, causing the vicar to raise an eyebrow. ‘I am requested to go to the house after the funeral. By the family lawyer.’
The vicar looked bewildered at his reaction to what must seem a perfectly reasonable request. They were literally standing together at the Fourth Earl of Kingswood’s funeral, and Ash was now the Fifth Earl.
But he had never expected to accede to the title.
Why, John had been only thirty-two, with plenty of time to sire a son with Fanny. Everyone—including Ash—had assumed that John would eventually have sons, and that he—Ash—would never have to worry about the responsibilities John had carried for so long.
Ash debated it in his mind. Could he ignore the note and leave immediately for London, as planned? He could ask the lawyer to see him there. No. It would look churlish and impolite. Damn. He would have to comply as a courtesy. Which meant possibly seeing her again.
Fanny. John’s wife—John’s widow, he corrected himself. After all these years of successfully avoiding her.
Placing his hat firmly on his head, he bade farewell to the vicar and made for his carriage. If he must face this ordeal, better to get it over with.
Marianne reminded herself to breathe. Her shoulders were tense and she could feel fear prick her spine. She had paid the fee and entered her name into the registry book at the office recommended by Mrs Bailey, and now she waited.
Well, she acknowledged, not her actual name. Her made-up name.
She had decided during the long journey to London that she must not go by her usual name, for fear Henry might look for her. She would use her father’s surname—her real father—as it would give her comfort, and she was confident Henry would not remember or recognise it.
After being known as Marianne Grant for most of her twenty years, she would now go back to the surname she had been given at birth—Bolton. Charles Bolton had given her her dark brown eyes, her dark hair and, according to Mama, her placid nature. The Grants were altogether more fiery.
She was seated in an austere room with a dozen other would-be servants, all patiently awaiting their turn to be called. Among the would-be grooms, scullery maids and footmen she had espied two other young ladies, respectably dressed, who might also be seeking employment as governesses. She had exchanged polite smiles with both of them, but no one had initiated conversation.
It was greatly worrying that on a random Tuesday there were three young ladies of similar social standing all seeking positions at the same time.
The door to the inner office opened and everyone looked up. The young man who had been called a few moments earlier now emerged. His demeanour gave no sign as to whether he had been offered a position or not, but he kept his head down as he left.
I wonder, thought Marianne, if he is a footman?
‘Miss Bolton? Miss Anne Bolton?’
With a start, Marianne realised that it was her turn. The lady in charge—the one who had been calling people in for the past hour—was standing in the doorway. Anne Bolton was, of course, the false name Marianne had written in the registry book, and her ears had not responded when the name had been called.
Blushing, she stood. ‘I am Miss Bolton.’
My first lie. Or is it?
The lady eyed her assessingly. ‘Come with me.’
Trying to maintain a dignified expression, and hoping that her shaking hands were not obvious, Marianne followed her into the inner chamber and closed the door.
‘Please sit, Miss Bolton.’
Marianne complied, watching as the registry lady took her own seat behind an imposing rosewood desk. So much depended on the next few moments and this woman’s decision!
‘I am Mrs Gray.’
She was a stern-looking lady in her later years, with iron-grey hair, dark skin, piercing dark eyes and deep lines etched into her face. She wore a plain, high-necked gown in sombre grey and no jewellery. Despite this, it was clear that she was a person of authority. It was something about the way she carried herself, how still she was, the way those dark eyes seem to pierce right through Marianne’s flimsy defences.
‘I see that you are seeking a position as a governess,’ she stated, ‘but you have come with no recommendation. Tell me about your situation and why you are here.’
Mrs Gray’s tone was flat, expressionless. Marianne could feel her heart thumping in her chest.
Haltingly, then with increasing fluency, Marianne told the tale she had concocted. Mrs Gray listened impassively, giving no indication whether she believed any of it. Doubt flooded through Marianne. Perhaps she should not have pretended that her father was a lawyer and that he had left her with little money and no connections. What if Mrs Gray asked for some proof? Her heart fluttered as anxiety rose within her.
‘When did your father die?’
‘Six months ago.’ Marianne’s throat tightened as it always did when she thought about Papa.
Mrs Gray’s eyes narrowed. ‘And your mother?’
‘Also dead.’ Marianne swallowed. Her hands clenched into fists as she fought the wave of grief that threatened to overwhelm her.
Mrs Gray’s gaze flicked briefly to Marianne’s hands, then she leaned back slightly in her chair. ‘Tell me about your education, Miss Bolton. What are your talents?’ Mrs Gray spoke bluntly, giving no clue as to whether she would favour Marianne.
Hesitantly, Marianne spoke of drawing and painting, of her musical skills, her ability to sew and to converse in French and Italian—
‘And what do you know of Mathematics, Logic and Latin?’
Marianne blinked. Mrs Gray had asked the question in perfect Italian! ‘I have studied the main disciplines of Mathematics,’ she replied, also in Italian.
Mrs Gray quizzed her on these, then switched to French, followed by Latin, to discuss the finer details of Marianne’s knowledge of Logic, improving texts and the Classics.
Thankfully Marianne’s expensive education had equipped her well. She had been an apt student and had enjoyed her studies. Was that, she wondered, a glimmer of approval in Mrs Gray’s eye?
The woman paused.
Marianne forced herself to sit still. Please, she was thinking, please. If she could not gain a position as