Felicity chuckled. “Whatever did you do to put the girl on her high horse, John?”
Frowning he answered, “I do not believe she was raised to be subservient. She is going to have a difficult time of it as a governess.”
“Ah, but governesses have a difficult time, by definition. They are neither servant nor guest. They all have to find their own path.”
John felt a twinge of sympathy for the redhead. Lady Lindsay was a notable martinet.
“Now, who are you?” he asked of the little blonde-ringleted creature by Felicity’s side. “Lady Emma or Lady Catherine?”
The child let go of her mother’s hand and twisted about shyly. “Cate,” she mumbled.
Bending down, he hoisted his niece up with his good arm just as the carriage from the stables went by. Cate gave a little wave to its occupant. John turned to see Miss Haverley waving back with a smile and a dimple. Perhaps he
had
been too churlish with the governess. Maybe someday he would have the opportunity to apologize.
Hours later, he sat over a glass of port with his brother, Alex, in the dining room following a welcome-home feast that would have pleased even the Prince of Wales.
“Thank you for letting us know so speedily of your survival, John,” Alex said. “The tales of that battle were horrendous. For days, we did not know who had won. Our anxiety over you knew no bounds.”
“My men and I spent most of our time holed up in a strategic farmhouse, firing out the windows. But you are right. When the battle was over, the carnage on both sides was the stuff of nightmares.” He swirled the remaining port in his glass. “I have decided to resign my commission, Alex. I believe Napoleon will stay beaten this time.”
His brother looked into his own glass with a furrowed brow. “Just how bad is your wound? Do you want Felicity to look at it?”
“I think it will be all right. It could probably do with some of her magical honey and a clean bandage, however.”
“We’ll see to it,” Alex said. He was still frowning.
“I do not want to be a burden to you and Felicity,” John said, feeling his ill temper return.
“You would never be a burden, John. You are my brother. Grenville Manor is your home, too. It is only by the grace of Felicity that either of us still has it.”
And there John came up against it: His new abhorrence for the life of a landed gentleman who could not soil his hands with anything resembling work. Their father had nearly lost their estate with his profligate ways, leaving his heir to save it by marrying a fortune.
“I fear a life of leisure will never suit me, Alex. I have had a lot of time to think about our way of life during the past four years. I was fighting to preserve it. So were my men. Even though it offered them nothing, they laid down their lives for it.” He could feel the scowl come over his face. “Most of them will be discharged. Unlike their officers, they have no cozy homes to go back to.”
For a moment, there was silence.
“The war has changed you, John. I fear you have become a Radical.”
John pushed back his chair, got to his feet, and began pacing around the table. “I am tired, Alex. Beastly tired. But I cannot bear the thought of being idle.”
“There is plenty to do here on the estate. My first love and concern is politics, as you know. I have been looking for an estate agent. Would you care for the job?”
John stopped his pacing. “You are serious?”
“Quite.”
“Thank you, Alex. That will do very well until I get my head in order.”
“I am glad to hear it. However, I must insist that you relax for at least a few days and let Felicity see to your arm. You are restless, but the fact is you need rest.”
“I need work, Alex. I need to feel useful.”
Felicity showed him into her small sitting room and unwound the dirty bandage around the shrapnel wound deep in his bicep. She cleaned it with soap and water while he gritted his teeth against the pain of having it touched.
“I am afraid this is seriously inflamed, John, dear. If Anabella’s husband were not so far away in London, I would have him look at it.” She put a hand to his head. “Why, you are burning with fever! Why did you not tell us you were ill?”
“Was Anabella’s husband not the doctor who told you about honey’s curative powers? I am certain if you slap some on the wound and bandage it up, I will be right as rain.”
“The wound has closed. I am not certain it would do any good, but we can try it. You must get to bed. You have your old room. I did not change a thing, so do not worry. You had better get off to it this minute. I will mix up a fever powder and have Alex bring it to you.”
John did as he was told. He felt suddenly sluggish and unable to object. Bed sounded good at the moment. He would worry about his men tomorrow.
During the night, John slipped into delirium. Somewhere in his head, he knew Alex was at his bedside, but the only thing he saw as he tossed and turned and sweated was a redheaded chit looking at him with reproachful green eyes.
{ 2 }
D
elia Haverley made a conscious decision that she would emphasize her status as a member of the gentry by appearing at the front door instead of the service entrance. Lindsay Hall was a very grand gothic structure, but she would not be intimidated. Lord Lindsay was only a viscount, after all. She was the daughter of an earl, though it was true that the Lindsay family was not aware of that fact.
A very superior butler met her at the front door, took her traveling cloak, and immediately showed her into a back parlor overlooking the kitchen garden.
This does not bode well.
Delia did not sit down, but concentrated on lengthening her short spine and telling herself that she was perfectly qualified for this situation. She had a long wait, however. In order to take her mind off the coming meeting, she speculated about the character of Major John Lambeth.
He was certainly a handsome man with his dark hair and square jaw. But it was his light blue eyes with their dark rim that had transfixed her. Set off by his sun-weathered face, they were startling and had seemed to see straight through to her core. Next to his eyes, his voice had intrigued her most—deep and characterized by an odd timbre of sadness which had kept her from being offended by his short temper. Delia confessed to herself that if she were not currently a governess, she would be very interested in getting to know what made the man so melancholy. Had he lost someone close to him in the war? Perhaps a brother or a cousin? Or was there something he was facing when he arrived home that he was dreading?
Was he naturally rude? Or had he disliked her personally? Perhaps it was only the weariness of battle, injury, and a long ride. She was inclined to believe the latter, for she had a soft spot for a soldier. Her brother, the Earl of Sudbury, had been a Lieutenant in Her Majesty’s Army before he had died of an infection from a shrapnel wound. He should not have been serving at all, but he had always dreamed of being a soldier and was not about to let his sudden and early elevation to the peerage keep him from the battlefield. If he
had
returned home, she would not find herself in this predicament. Nor would she have been left to mourn the death of her beloved parents and brother during the space of eighteen months.
She jerked her mind away from that road. She was
Miss Delia Haverley
now. Not Lady Cordelia Frensham. She was a spinster in reduced circumstances, not a young woman of fortune and consequence.
At last, a woman she took to be the Viscountess Lindsay entered the room. She was tall and severe looking, her black hair piled high on her head, making her seem even taller. Delia stretched her backbone once again and set her shoulders.
“I am told you arrived in the Grenville carriage,” Lady Lindsay said by way of greeting.
“Yes, my lady. Your carriage, unfortunately, fell into a ditch. I do not believe it to have been seriously damaged. It should be returned to you shortly.”
“You are very well turned out for a governess,” the viscountess remarked.
Delia thought it best not to reply to this impertinence. Now that she was rid of her dustcoat, her oldest dress, a peacock blue silk two years out of date, was displayed. Perhaps it was a bit bright, but she was not about to apologize for it. In fact, most of her clothing could not be said to suit a governess. Her circumstances had made it impossible for her to have a appropriate wardrobe made.
“I am most anxious to meet my pupils,” she said.
“It is almost time for dinner. You shall take yours in your quarters. There is a small table provided. You will meet my daughters tomorrow morning. My housekeeper, Mrs. Daniels, will be here shortly to show you to your room.”
Delia felt as though a curtsey was expected from her. She refrained, saying only, “Good evening then, Lady Lindsay. My trunk will be arriving with your carriage.”
“Mention it to Mrs. Daniels. She will see that it is delivered to your room.” She looked Delia over once more, from head to toe. “I must go to dress for dinner. Good night.”
Drawing a long breath after her employer left the room, Delia finally allowed herself to sit. She had been awake all the previous night and most of the night before, riding the crowded Mail. It was just as well she would not be facing either a family dinner tonight or her first meeting with her pupils. She was very tired. And from what she had just experienced of the viscountess, she felt that the fewer times they crossed paths, the better.
In comparison to her employer, Mrs. Daniels proved to be a comfortable woman. She was short, though not as short as Delia, and inclined to corpulence. Her hair was gray and worn in a coronet about her head. Upon seeing the new governess, her face creased in a welcoming smile.
“Well, if you are not a little dab of a thing! You must be tired, journeying all this way from Kent. I will show you to your room. I have had a fire lit, so you should be comfortable.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Daniels. You are very kind. I must tell you, I had a mishap on the road. My trunk should be arriving shortly.”
“Oh, me. How did you get here?”
“Major Lambeth came along right after the carriage overturned. He was kind enough to see to my transportation.”
“Oh, he’ll be home from the War? I am sure Miss Lindsay will be glad.” The woman gave a somewhat sly smile. “She features herself married to the man.”
Delia was surprised to feel a spurt of disappointment. She quelled it immediately.
I scarcely met the man! He may have a pair of beautiful eyes, but he thinks me to be a mere governess and I am certain he holds me in dislike.
Her quarters turned out to be scarcely adequate. She was in the attic, tucked away in a small space under the eaves. Her room contained a narrow bed covered with a worn quilt, a table and chair where she would take her meals, a small wardrobe, and a dresser with an old mirror hanging above it. The only good thing about it was the cheerful fire.
She took herself in hand. Her new home might be spare, but at least she was independent. Better this room than any of the spacious rooms in the house of her uncle, the new Earl of Sudbury. And better this employment than marriage to the most notorious womanizer in London.
{ 3 }
J
ohn felt weak as a kitten and had no clear idea of the recent past, or even what day it was. The sawbones he had not seen since he was a child was prodding his wound.
“Well, my boy, it is good to see you open those eyes. I told your brother you were too tough to kill with a little inflammation,” said Dr. Manford.
Alex leaned over him. His face was scruffy, with at least two days’ growth of dark beard, and his eyes were hollow with exhaustion.
“You look like the devil,” John said to his brother.
“That’s the thanks I get for being your ministering angel?” Alex responded. “Let me tell you, you look a bit offish yourself.”
“How long was I under?”
“Two days. I thought you were going to cash in your chips, John. Thank the Lord you’ve made it through.”
“No thanks to that miserable army surgeon,” Dr. Manford said, frowning under his enormous jowls. “He left some shrapnel in the wound. Had to open you up again. Lady Grenville talked me into filling you up with honey. No doubt she will take credit for your recovery.”
“Not Felicity,” said John. “She will give you the credit, I am sure.”
The doctor’s presence was irritating. John wished he would go. But the man was rebandaging his arm in clean linen, retelling the story of setting John’s broken leg when he fell out of the apple tree at the tender age of five.
“If I had not known what I was doing, you would have been lame for life, lad. Never could have gone for a soldier.”
John closed his eyes. His head pounded with headache, and he felt lost in some sort of fog.
“Lady Lindsay and Miss Lindsay have called,” Alex said. “They are below with Felicity. They were most concerned about your condition. Lady Lindsay is just waiting for news of your recovery to send you a basket of peaches from her orchard. She really is being most obliging.” Alex gave the half-smile with which he had teased John all his life. “I wonder why?”
“Perhaps because I rescued her governess,” John said, forcing a small smile.
“Believe me, her governess is the last thing on her mind at the moment.”
“Well, lovely as Miss Lindsay is, I shall not be visiting with her today.”
“Nor for a few more days, if Felicity and I have our way. You shouldn’t have been in such a hurry to ride home. You came a long way with that injury, John.”
“Yes, but if I had not, I would most likely have died in the field hospital with that shrapnel still in my arm.” John took a deep breath, overcome by a familiar blackness of spirit. “Besides, all I could think of was getting home.”