Therefore, with mixed feelings. Miss Lillian Canfield boarded the post chaise on Monday, five days later. Mottisbury was two days by coach from Rochester, Kent. Horsemen had done the journey, carrying missives back and forth, in less time than that, but a governess could not ride breakneck across country.
Her fellow passengers quickly dispersed. Loving husbands were embraced by wives and children. An old man walked off arm in arm with his equally aged wife. Friends greeted one another with joyous cries. Lillian had no alternative but to follow her baggage across the dusty street and into the posting inn.
The landlord’s lady showed her into a quiet room when she learned the lone girl was the new governess at the castle. “No doubt someone will be along to fetch you up before long, miss. You wait in here and I’ll bring a goodly glass of lemonade as soon as I find a minute.”
‘Thank you. It was a hot and dusty trip.”
“Aye, there’s been little enough rain this spring.” The landlady bustled off.
After brushing off her pelisse, Lillian looked out the window. She saw a green and peaceful garden walled off from the busy marketplace. If there’d been little rain, one would not know it by this oasis. Red and yellow turk’s caps nodded on long stems amidst dense green foliage. The grass plot was ringed with brick paving stones, and birds splashed playfully in a small fountain. Lillian felt she would like to find the way into the garden, to cool herself while waiting to go to the castle.
Just then, however, she saw someone move. A pretty girl in a white apron stepped out onto the grass. She looked back over her shoulder and smiled. Lillian could not hear through the glass, but felt certain the girl giggled. A young man followed, his rough clothing covered by a leather apron such as ostlers wore. For a moment, the girl stood pensively, trailing her fingers in the water. Then she flicked her fingertips at the young man. Dodging away from his teasing grabs, she at last fell into his arms. Their kiss was long. Then the boy raised his head, listening. Quickly, the two parted, though not without a backward glance.
Lillian felt ashamed of herself for spying on these clandestine lovers. Yet, even as she berated herself, she sighed. In her heart, she knew that love was not for such as she. Her heart had never leapt at a man’s approach, nor had her cheek ever grown pale or flamed into rose when some gentleman spoke. Not even for Alaric Reyne, an earl of undoubted attractions.
Twenty days ago she’d understood in a flash what lay between Alaric and Sarah East. She had correctly interpreted, as they had not, the expression in his eyes when he’d looked upon the golden beauty of the other girl. Lillian had not felt jealousy then, but she felt it now. Jealous, not of Alaric, for she’d not loved him. Jealous, rather, of those who had felt the king of emotions take command of their heart.
She leaned her hot forehead against the cool glass and felt tears burn her eyes. Her heavy traveling dress, borrowed from her maid, was uncomfortably tight in the bodice. The door opened, but Lillian did not turn. It would just be the landlady with the lemonade. She’d welcome a cooling drink.
“Miss Cole?” a strong male voice said from behind her. “Are you Miss Cole?”
With a start, she recalled that was the
nom de guerre
Lady Pritchard had chosen for her. “Oh! Yes,” Lillian said, as her hand stole up to touch her cheek. She was relieved to find it dry. With a bright smile she turned and then reached for the wall behind her as her knees surrendered their support.
“How do you do, Miss Cole. I’m Everard of Mottisbury Castle.” She could see what Paulina had meant about his pride, but the other woman had not mentioned the excellent reason he had for it.
“How—how—” Lillian stuttered.
“Are you quite well?” His eyes, the rich green of a sunlit sea, narrowed as he surveyed her, beginning with her disarranged locks and ending with the round toes of her boots peeking from beneath her bedraggled hem.
Lillian straightened up under that penetrating gaze. “I’m perfectly well, Mr. Everard. The coach was very hot.”
“I’ve come to take you up to the castle, but I will wait until you’ve taken some refreshment. I heard a reference to lemonade?”
The landlady hustled in, a sweating earthenware jug and two mugs on a tray in one hand. Lillian watched but saw no undue reaction on the lady’s features. Perhaps she was used to seeing Mr. Everard in town and the impact was lessened. It seemed unthinkable to Lillian.
A man had no right to look like this. Or, if he must be splendid, he certainly had no right to surprise a woman without warning. Such a paragon should be equipped from birth with a herald to go before him and announce to the female kind that a dream walked among them.
Her hand shook as she lifted the cup. “Very good,” she said after drinking.
“Have another,” Mr. Everard said. “We’ve plenty of time. I shan’t hurry you. You seemed rather flushed just now, when I came in.”
Lillian blushed all the brighter. She was not used to personal comments, at least not to such unflattering ones. And it was a wonder she’d only turned red. A more susceptible woman, she imagined, would have dropped down in a dead faint.
“The young lady must be rattled half to death, the way those big coaches sway,” the landlady said sympathetically as she left the room.
“There is no reason to be concerned,” Lillian answered. “I’m entirely at your disposal, Mr. Everard. I cannot wait to meet my pupil.” That seemed to be the sort of thing she remembered her own governess saying, when new. Perhaps this pretense would be as easy as Lady Pritchard had predicted.
She took up her pelisse and stood waiting. Surely he’d not be able to resist one swift glance in the mirror above the fireplace before they left the inn. She’d met many a handsome man in London, and she knew what they were like—more in love with their own reflection than with the living face of any woman. Looking at Mr. Everard’s thick black hair, she decided he must have spent a good hour before the glass arranging it to lie in those rich waves.
Thorpe Everard put his mug on the table next to hers. “Very well. I know Addy has been beside herself all day waiting for you.” A grimace twisted the line of his firm mouth a moment. He ran his hand over his cheek and chin. She could hear the rustle of afternoon whiskers. Then his big brown hand lifted to his head and he raked his fingers through his hair, leaving it even more attractive than before.
“I confess. Miss Cole, my daughter has never yet had a governess. My grandmother has had sole charge of Addy almost since her birth. Are you tactful?”
“Tactful?”
A warm smile came to his face. Lillian had to drop her eyes. It really wasn’t fair. He had a tremendous natural advantage in any conversation. He said, “I’m afraid I’ve never acquired the knack of saying one thing when I mean another. I hope you have the talent for smoothing down hackles, or you may not last in my house, Miss Cole. As she never had a governess in her youth, my grandmother is of the opinion that governesses are unnecessary. I didn’t tell her you were coming. Neither she nor Addy may take the notion of a resident teacher with equanimity.”
“I’m sure I shall manage,” Lillian said with a lift of her chin. A challenge of this sort was precisely what she needed to take her mind off her deception. Lady Pritchard had never managed to remember Thorpe’s daughter’s name, so Lillian was glad to have that piece of information. “Addy’s a charming name.”
“It’s an abbreviation of Adrienne. When she was small, she couldn’t pronounce it. Now she won’t answer to it.” Lillian saw a gleam of pride in green eyes unveiled by thick dark lashes.
“Lady .. . Mrs. Garnet said your daughter is six. Does she know her letters?” Oh, dear, she’d have to be more careful. He didn’t seem to notice the slip, however.
“I think so. I’m not quite sure. My grandmother thanks no one for interference. Not even me. Especially not me. Men, in her opinion, are as unnecessary as governesses. Is this yours?” At her nod, he lifted her valise without effort. “You did not bring very many things, Miss Cole.” How wicked of nature to give him the facility of lifting one black brow without troubling any of the other muscles of his lean face.
“I was not sure what I would need. I can send for the rest of my belongings as I require them.”
“Such foresight. Or perhaps wisdom. You may yet run screaming out the front door.”
“You make the castle sound like something from
Otranto,”
she said, following him through the inn. “I trust you have no resident monsters.” It would be too bad, she thought, if this magnificent-looking man is henpecked, but she could not expect a paragon to be strong willed.
“Grandmother’s a ... no, she’s not as bad as all that. Merely used to being in command. I don’t mind, as long as she doesn’t try to rule me. That is a battle she will not win. Take my advice and stand up to her.”
“I shall.” She returned his gaze with great firmness, ignoring the strange quiverings of her knees. The corners of his mouth lifted in a smile of great charm, showing front teeth that overlapped the tiniest amount. Rather than diminishing his great good looks, this insignificant flaw brought everything else into perspective. Despite the strange quivering rising into her midsection, Lillian did not look away.
Thorpe chuckled. “I believe you could do it. But you’re rather young. And small. Those Garnet girls are nearly grown, aren’t they? How ever did you manage them at your age?”
“I am older than I look.”
“You’d have to be.” He stowed the valise in an exquisitely sprung curricle with a gleaming black body. “You’ll want to hold on to your bag, lest it jounce out onto the road,” he said. He held out his hand to help her to mount.
On an average day in London, she might require the assistance of a gentleman fifteen or twenty times. A glove was usually sufficient to prevent the contact from affecting her. But a cricket player’s leather would not have saved her from the warmth of Thorpe Everard’s touch. It seemed to reach through all barriers and take her over.
“Ready?” he asked with another of his devastating smiles.
Dear heaven, there was a dimple in his left cheek, the length of the tip of her forefinger. She could just imagine touching his face so that her finger fit into the impression made for it.
She sat silently beside him as he flicked the reins over the horses’ backs. She was silent now because she was striving for control. This was ridiculous, this riot in her body and mind. All the more so, she scolded, when it is obvious that he is completely unmoved by my presence. Perhaps he wasn’t even aware that he had this effect on women. Perhaps it wasn’t him at all.
The sun was certainly very hot, and she’d stepped out of the dark coach into the bright sunshine without a moment between the two. It was sunstroke, she decided. Let her lie down in a cool, dark place and this fancy would leave her.
Driving by a field, Lillian turned her head to observe the people working diligently among the rows. As they passed, all the women, young or old, came racing forward to wave and smile at the curricle.
“People in Mottisbury are very friendly,” Mr. Everard said. He briefly saluted the massed women with his whip. Something like a sigh passed through them, though it might have only been the breeze.
“Indeed, I can see that.” She could also see that the men in the field leaned sullen faced on their implements until the curricle had gone past. Looking behind her, Lillian saw that some girls returned to their work, but many stood staring after the man in the vehicle.
Apparently, Lillian thought, I am only one of many. No wonder Paulina wants to marry him. Oh, well, at least I shall be spending most of my time with the little girl. In ten days, I shall say we do not suit and go back. Paulina will simply have to believe that I could not find anything out. And I shan’t, not if I have anything to say about it.
Thorpe Everard was an excellent whip. His hands held the reins with great strength but also gentleness. He made no hasty jerks with the leathers, encouraging the animals to their best efforts without ever forcing their compliance.
“What... what fine horses,” Lillian said.
“You appreciate horseflesh?” he asked with a quick flick of a look in her direction.
“Oh, yes! I often—” Lillian remembered the role she was supposed to play and stammered out, ‘That is, I admire smart horses very much. But until now, only from a distance.”
“If you ride, I will be happy to offer you a mount from my stables. I think we can find some docile mare for you.”
“That’s very kind of you, Mr. Everard. I enjoy taking exercise.”
“I know from your references that you are used to teaching older children. I think you’ll find watching over a six-year-old to be exercise enough. All the same, there’s nothing like a good gallop to shake out the megrims.”
He turned the horses into a lane marked by imposing gates, hanging open from massive stone pillars. No coat of arms proclaimed the owners of the land, simply the word
EVERARD
carved deeply enough to last until the stones themselves crumbled.
“Have you a large estate, Mr. Everard?” Lillian asked, and then wished she hadn’t. She did not want to pry even into such innocuous details.
“The village is on my property as is this road, and the road you were on for half an hour before reaching Mottisbury.”
“Then you have a large estate.”
“You are right. I could have just said ‘Yes, Miss Cole. My estate is tolerably large.’ I stand corrected.”
“I did not mean ...” She must fight to recall the limits her imposture forced upon her. How much she would have enjoyed sharing with him a knowledgeable conversation about horses or any other subject he cared to raise.
Thorpe looked at her and gave her a sidelong grin. She realized he was teasing. Feeling very warm, despite the breeze of their passage, Lillian turned her head aside, searching for some object to prompt a cool comment.
The gently undulating land was decorated with clumps of trees, even as a drawing room’s furniture might be carefully orchestrated to harmonize with the features of a room. Some landscape architect, in the time of Mr. Everard’s great-grandparents, must have come to Mottisbury Castle and worked his will upon the land. It was easy to imagine a velvet-coated gentleman squinting through his fingers at a group of seedlings, forecasting the existence of these enormous oaks and the shifting effect of their light and shade on his scheme of natural beauty.