The Game and the Governess (11 page)

And from where he stood, Turner was the cause.

She was not hiding her displeasure with Turner very well. At least not from Ned. But then again, he was the only one watching. Everyone else had their eyes on Rose and Henry, being presented in front of their father.

They did not hide their nerves very well either.

“Now, children!” the blustery Sir Nathan began in what he likely thought was good humor, but his exclamation was accompanied by a fierce scowl—and therefore no good humor got through.

Goodness, where had all these observations come from?

“What have you learned today?” their father asked, too large and imposing.

“I did a drawing,” Henry said bravely and stepped forward to present the page to his father.

“Drawing, Miss Baker?” Lady Widcoate said suspiciously. “Is drawing the best use of my son’s time?”

“Henry drew some insects he found interesting, Lady Widcoate,” Miss Baker said smoothly. “As a scientific study.”

“Yes,” Henry agreed. “That is a dung beetle. And that one is a grasshopper. And that is—”

“Oh, bugs! How horrid!” Countess Churzy said with a smile. “Just like a boy to bring beetles into the drawing room.”

The room gave an appreciative hum of laughter, and Lady Widcoate sighed.

“I suppose that is sufficient.” Then she turned a smile to Rose. “And you, my darling? Have you a drawing for us too?”

“I . . . uh . . . no,” Rose began, beginning to tap her toe against the ground in nervousness.

“Well, girl? Come off it—have you learned anything today?” Sir Nathan growled. “Or did you spend all your time traipsing in a field?” He glanced up at Miss Baker, who had smoothed her features back into something like kind compliance.

Rose looked back at Miss Baker, but that only prompted Lady Widcoate to join the fray. “Rose, stop tapping your feet and face your father!”

“Yes, Rose,” Countess Churzy spoke up. “If you can find him under that huge bushy mustache.”

It would have been a rebuke if not spoken so sweetly, and not received with a smile and bark of laughter from her brother-in-law. That did seem to cut the tension, and Rose was able to answer.

“I know my times tables!”

“Times tables?” her father answered, trying to muster some enthusiasm and failing. “Well, now, that’s a bit of a boast.”

“Yes,” Miss Baker provided, nodding at Rose. “All the single digits.”

“Well, then—what is seven times four?”

“Twenty-eight,” Rose answered proudly.

“Six times nine?”

“Fifty-four.”

“Ten times ten?”

“One hundred!”

Sir Nathan smiled indulgently while Lady Widcoate still bristled.

“Again, Miss Baker, I must question the subjects you choose. Shouldn’t little girls be learning sewing and art instead?”

“Come now, Fanny,” Countess Churzy interrupted. “I was always horrid at painting, and found it a fairly useless skill. But when Rose is grown and has a house of her own, she will have to manage it—which is much easier with mathematics, I’m told.”

Lady Widcoate shot her sister a hot glare but seemed
mollified. Mrs. Rye could be heard saying under her breath, “She would know.” A statement Ned found interesting—and informative.

Rose’s relief at passing inspection was visible, and she was just about to curtsy, when Turner spoke up.

“What about eleven times eleven?” he asked. “Or twelve times twelve. Or better yet, thirteen times thirteen?”

Rose looked up at him, dumbfounded.

“Now, if you are to truly use mathematics to their greater purpose, you should be able to do all the numbers, not just the easy ones,” Turner said, bending down to meet Rose’s eye.

All the ladies looked up at Turner with their hearts in their eyes. They saw a man of learning, a man of inspiration, a man with the worldly experience to know the usefulness of mathematics.

Meanwhile, Ned saw Turner being his normal stick-in-the-mud self. And it seemed like it was going to be up to Ned to make everyone else see it as well.

While Rose trembled in terror, trying to think of the answer, Sir Nathan began to peer queerly at her. “Well? What’s the answer? Thirteen times thirteen. You can do it. Now, don’t make a fool of yourself—and don’t make a fool of me!”

It was mere seconds before Lady Widcoate joined the fray, with no small amount of strain, as she tried to urge her daughter on. “Now, Rose, it’s not hard. Just think. I’m sure Miss Baker instructed you on this.” Her abrupt change on the subject of girls and maths happened in a blink of potential embarrassment. She glared hard at Miss Baker.

“Just answer his lordship’s question!” Sir Nathan’s face flushed red, making the bristles of his beard stand out like fury. “It’s easy!”

“Then what’s the answer?” Ned found himself asking the room at large. Every stunned gaze came up to meet his. “Do you know it, Sir Nathan?”

“I . . .”

“Do you know it,
my
lord
?” Ned asked, turning his attention to Turner.

Turner blinked at him twice, and then answered, “I don’t have to. I have you for the numbers, Mr. Turner. Do you know the answer?”

The corner of his mouth went up. “Do I? Do I?”

“Yes, do you?” Turner asked drolly.

“Well . . . of course I do.” Oh God, time to do some quick maths. Never his strong suit—hence the reason he had employed Turner. If twelve times twelve was a gross, he just had to add—

“One hundred sixty-nine!”

The answer came from Rose, still standing at the center of the room.

“Oh!” cried Lady Widcoate. “Well done, Rosie! Well done!” She proceeded to take Rose into her bosom and smother her with kisses in a manner that was neither attractive to the room nor seemingly enjoyable to the child.

But while she did, Ned could not help but see two more of those
looks
. The looks he had thought he’d quashed forever this afternoon. The first being a look from Lady Widcoate, over the shoulder of her embraced child. It was . . . not friendly. As if she saw him as something to be scraped off her shoe.

That was unfamiliar enough. But then he also caught a look from the governess, Miss Baker. Her look was direct, unequivocal. She took in his full gaze with her back straight, considering. Then, ever so slightly, she gave the barest of nods.

And then, a fraction of a second later, she turned away.

      7

Putting all one’s chips on the first hand is the act of a fool.

I
f the before-dinner gathering had an unpleasant tension about it, then dinner itself was, in the overdramatic Miss Henrietta Benson’s words, an unmitigated disaster.

Once the formal inspection of children was over, Miss Baker was about to take her charges out of the room, when Sir Nathan called her back.

“Miss Baker, have them ready to entertain us tomorrow as well,” that gentleman said, leaning down so his wife could whisper in his ear again. “And make sure they know the multiplication tables to twenty. Or else.”

Ned was about to ask what the “or else” was, but the bone-thin governess seemed unconcerned, simply nodding and giving a quiet “Good night” to the assembled party.

That done, they were free to move into the dining room. And Ned was free to move into the next phase of charming the ladies.

Seeing as the table was so uneven—there were only three men to the six women in the room, after all—Ned thought he would be given the pleasure of escorting at least one of the girls in. But they all ignored him and traipsed after Turner, who, as was custom, took Lady Widcoate in.

And then, when they sat down to the table, something else terribly odd occurred. He was seated across from Mrs. Rye, a perfect place to engage her in conversation, with Miss Henrietta at his left and Miss Minnie at his right. Clara, poor thing, was on the other side of the earl in a place of pride, and shaking like a leaf. She could barely bring the spoon to her lips with any soup left in it.

But that wasn’t the odd thing. No, the odd thing was when he leaned forward and asked Mrs. Rye a perfectly benign question.

“So, Mrs. Rye—have you or the girls found any good walks or rides in Hollyhock? I dearly enjoy a good bit of exercise.”

“I am not from Hollyhock, so I do not know, Mr. Turner.” She smiled at him in that syrupy manner. But before he could recommend to either of the girls that they do some exploring, Mrs. Rye turned away from him and gave her full attention to the man two seats away. “What is that you said, my lord?”

If Ned was a betting man—and he was—he would put Mrs. Rye in the category of widow.

So, three maids and two widows, all here for the Earl of Ashby’s pleasure. Marvelous.

But instead of being taken aback by the interjection, Turner smiled at Mrs. Rye and gave her his attention.

“Mrs. Rye, we have been talking of Rose and Henry and their education. You have raised children,” he began.

“Yes. Yes, I have.” Mrs. Rye’s face remained a plastered smile. “But I married so very young. Just sixteen!” she trilled, and then let her voice go husky with invitation. “Why, I can’t be that much older than the countess here.”

“Indeed,” the countess replied. “One reason we got along so well in Bath. I had the remarkable luck to find friends in both you and your daughter. She such a mature young lady and you so . . . youth-seeking.”

Mrs. Rye’s smile hardened so much Ned thought it would crack.

“I daresay your husband approves of such vitality,” the countess continued. “He is one of vitality’s chief supporters, especially among females.”

Ah. So not widowed. Just unhappily married. And willing to risk her daughter’s and niece’s chance at an earl to kill a bit of the unhappiness. Ned could almost feel sorry for her.

But more than that, it was something he could work with.

After all, they had never stipulated that the woman he wooed into loving him had to be unmarried. Just that she not be a village girl or a housemaid. That left
endless
opportunities.

And out of all the ladies in the house, Mrs. Rye, at this very moment, seemed the most willing to play the game.

Oh, he could try to cajole one of the younger ladies into enjoying his attentions, but they were all so
young
,
and so timid—each in her own way. Miss Clara would likely shake to pieces if he spoke to her directly, while Miss Henrietta would be taking notes. Miss Minnie might be able to be engaged, if he could get her mind off sport for a few moments . . . but there would be an awful lot of effort involved.

Mrs. Rye might need only the barest amount of notice. If it was the right notice, that is.

If given the option, winning the easy way was always preferable to the laborious way.

“Lady Widcoate told me that Puffington Arms has some of the most lovely walks in the county. She has even put in some most romantic follies along the paths. Do you walk, my lord?” Mrs. Rye was asking—and inadvertently taking over the topic of conversation he had tried out not minutes before.

“Yes, my lord,” Countess Churzy interjected. “Do you walk? Have you this stunning ability?”

“I do have the ability, Countess,” Turner replied, drolly. Then, with all graciousness, “And yes, Mrs. Rye, I enjoy nature walks.”

“You didn’t when you were a boy,” Lady Widcoate piped up. “Or at least that’s what your mother said.”

“Really?” Turner asked the question Ned couldn’t. “How so?”

“She said you dawdled in the woods too much to be walking. That you must have been crawling, you would take so long.”

Turner laughed at that—throwing his head back. The rest of the room erupted with him. “That sounds very like me.”

Meanwhile, Ned was left to think,
No, that doesn’t sound like me at all, thank you very much
, and
When did Turner learn to enjoy a joke? Was that a joke?
Also, he was left with that queer hollow sensation that always accompanied any thought of his mother. But he squashed it down, back to a place where he could feel jovial and comfortable.

“Well, we should explore some of those walks while we are here,” Mrs. Rye tried again.

“I like walking!” Minnie piped up.

“As do I!” Clara ventured, her voice a mere squeak. “Although not nearly as much as Minnie.”

“Yes, all us Rye ladies are so fond of exercise and the outdoors.” Mrs. Rye smiled, pulling attention back to herself again. “And Henrietta too!”

“No, I don’t,” Henrietta replied, pouting. “I should much rather be in town than the country. There’s so much more to see.”

“A girl after my heart, then,” Ned said, unthinking. “Nothing so boring as the country.”

“Indeed,” Lady Widcoate said stiffly. “Well, I am sorry that our country air and walks do not appeal to you, Mr. Turner. We shall not force such hardships upon you.”

“Excuse me, I—” Ned began automatically and imperiously, his tone an echo of his title. Luckily for him, Turner cleared his throat and interrupted, saving him from revealing himself—and possibly losing five thousand pounds in the offing.

“You’ll have to excuse Mr. Turner—country life only reminds him of our time during the war, marching across fields day in and day out. However,” he continued, before the ladies at the table, young and old, could begin their sighs over the idea of military service, “I am happy
to partake of any walks or rambles Puffington Arms has to offer. Unfortunately, though, tomorrow will be spent in Hollyhock, looking over the cottage property.”