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 a governess she had no idea what she would do. Returning home was not an option. That door was closed in her mind. She had no home. So everything depended on Mrs Gray.
* * *
This house is freezing, thought Ash, stepping towards the fireplace in John’s study. Hopefully he could be on his way quickly—the last thing he needed was a prolonged encounter with the grieving widow.
He paused, holding out his hands to the pathetic fire, but there was little heat to be had. The door opened and closed, sending smoke billowing into the room. Ash coughed and stepped away from the fire.
Have the dashed chimneys ever been cleaned?
He had not been in Ledbury House for many years, but he could not remember it looking so dilapidated.
‘Lord Kingswood, thank you for coming.’ The lawyer, a bespectacled gentleman in his middle years, bowed formally. ‘My name is Richardson.’
Ash nodded his head. ‘I received your note asking me to come to the house after the funeral. I understand you wish to read the will immediately.’
He kept his tone polite, despite his impatience with the entire situation. Every moment he spent here meant a later arrival in London.
‘I am required to outline the extent of your inheritance, plus a number of other matters added by the Fourth Earl to his will.’ The lawyer pushed his spectacles up his nose, where they balanced precariously. He went behind John’s desk and began taking papers out of a small case.
Ash stood there, wishing for nothing more than to leave and never return. Every part of him was fighting the notion that he was now Earl of Kingswood. The last thing he needed was ‘other matters’ complicating his life further.
‘What other matters? And why did John—my cousin—see fit to add to the responsibilities of the Earldom?’
Mr Richardson sniffed. ‘That is not for me to say. My role is simply to see that the requirements of the will are carried out.’ He arranged the papers methodically on John’s desk.
‘I see.’
But he didn’t. Not at all. Why had John added to his burdens, knowing how much he would hate it? Particularly when they had not been intimate friends for fourteen years?
John had settled into life as a country earl, staying in this rundown mausoleum of a house with his wife and daughter and rarely visiting the capital. Ash, on the other hand, barely left London, unless it was to attend a house party. Life in the country was intolerably tedious.
Perhaps, Ash mused, John has left me a memento—something from our childhood or youth.
Still, if he was forced to stay for the reading of the will it meant that he would not be able to avoid running into—
‘Mr Richardson! Thank you so much for being here in our time of need.’
Ash turned to see Fanny glide into the room, followed by a girl who must be her daughter.
Fanny had always known how to make an entrance. Her black gown was of the finest silk, with self-covered buttons and black lace detail at the sleeves. Her blonde hair was artlessly arranged in an elegant style, and her matron’s cap did nothing to dim the beauty of her glorious features. The cornflower-blue eyes, cupid’s bow lips and the angelic dimples that had driven him mad with desire all those years ago were all still there. If anyone could make mourning garb look attractive it was Fanny.
Despite himself he felt a wave of recognition and remembered longing which almost floored him. For a moment he felt eighteen again.
She stopped, as if noticing him for the first time. ‘Why, Ash! I did not know you were here already.’
She was lying. The servants would have told her of his arrival—and the fact that he and the lawyer were in the library for the reading of the will.
He bowed. ‘Hello, Fanny.’ He made no attempt to take her hand. Or kiss it.
‘This is most unexpected,’ she murmured. It was unclear whether she was referring to the immediate reading of the will or to his coming into the title.
‘For me, too.’ Pointedly, he eyed her daughter. ‘And this is—?’
‘My daughter, Cecily.’ The girl, as pretty as her mother—though with John’s hazel eyes—curtseyed politely, then looked quizzically at him.
‘I am an old friend of your father. And I am also his cousin.’
‘We were all friends, Ash.’ Fanny seated herself on a faded sofa and smoothed her skirts, indicating with a gesture that Cecily should sit with her. ‘May I offer you some refreshments? Tea, perhaps?’
‘A brandy would be preferable.’ He would need something stronger than tea if he was to endure the next half-hour.
She pressed her lips together and reached for the bell.
Ash sighed inwardly. Fanny had not changed one iota.
* * *
Mrs Gray had been making notes throughout her quizzing of Marianne, but now she lifted her head to fix Marianne with a steely stare. ‘It is difficult to find a situation for a governess who comes with no reference, no recommendation.’
‘I understand.’ With some difficulty Marianne kept her expression neutral. It would not do to show desperation. ‘But I assure you I will make a good governess. When I lived with my parents I taught our maid to read and to write. I found it enjoyable, and I believe I have an aptitude for it.’
That is mostly true, she thought. I did teach Jane—though the implication that she was our only maid is misleading. Oh, dear—how hard it is to be a liar!
Mrs Gray tapped her finger on the table, considering. ‘There is one possibility. A young girl in need of a governess. Her father died recently, too—indeed, my understanding is that he was to be buried today.’
Marianne felt a pang of sympathy for the unknown girl. She knew exactly how it felt to lose a beloved parent.
Mrs Gray was watching closely, and now she nodded in satisfaction. ‘She lives quietly with her mother in the country.’ She eyed Marianne sharply. ‘You do not mind leaving London and living in some quiet, out-of-the-way place? Will you miss the excitements of the capital?’
Marianne shuddered at the very thought of the ‘excitements’ of London. Since arriving in London last night she had been almost overwhelmed by the noise and the smells and the feeling of danger all around her. It had reinforced her notions of the city, gleaned from second-hand tales of Henry’s activities and from the behaviour of the London bucks he had brought to her home.
‘I have no desire to live in London. I am myself country-bred and will be perfectly content in the country.’