TuesdayNights (11 page)

Chapter 14

Shopping for a Position on a Monday

February 20, 1815

At nearly one-and-twenty, and with apparently no prospects for marriage, Olivia was determined to find a position as a governess. For the past few years, she had been aware of a number of young men around Shipley who seemed to show an interest in her. But then, in the past year, those she knew from her youth began to shun her, avoiding her whilst she shopped or took walks in the village.

She often wondered if Eli Blaylock had warned them off with tales of Michael Cunningham’s fist. Eli hadn’t come near her since that afternoon when she first met the bare knuckle fighter. And neither had any other young men.

Those who were new to the area would bow and introduce themselves, some even asking if they might escort her home from shopping trips to town. But soon, they too, would act as if they hadn’t made her acquaintance, or they would ignore her completely. The cut direct, she considered, wondering if she should feel offended.

Olivia often thought her mahogany hair might be the reason, but she had no freckles to suggest she had the French pox, if indeed, freckles really were a sign of the disease. From her reading, she rather doubted redheads with freckles were
all
afflicted with syphilis.

Perhaps it was her dress. Her gowns were not of the most recent fashion by London standards, but then neither were those of the other girls in the Shipley area. And would boys in Shipley even know the latest fashions? She rather doubted they cared one way or the other.

The only gentleman to show an interest in her was Mr. Cunningham, for he would always make time to converse with her when he stayed at Waterford Hall whilst doing business with her father. Until last year, she secretly hoped he might ask to court her, but it quickly became evident that he wasn’t interested in her in
that
way. If he was, wouldn’t he have asked her father for permission to court her? Her father hadn’t said anything about Mr. Cunningham being the least bit interested in her.

As the second and youngest daughter, Olivia knew that her older sister should be the center of his attention – Michael Cunningham was certainly the center of Eloisa’s during his initial visits – but then Eloisa had left for London the spring before and was already married and widowed!

Olivia was considering all this and more when she was about to step into a draper’s shop in Petworth. A notice in the window caught her eye. Curious, she read the beautifully rendered script on what had to be very fine parchment.

Governess position, Somerset Duchy. Two children. Must have experience or quality education. Send character and qualifications to the Duchess of Somerset.

An address in Wiltshire was printed at the bottom of the parchment.

Staring at the notice for several minutes, Olivia thought about the distance between Wiltshire and Sussex. Wiltshire wasn’t so very far, she considered, but it wasn’t adjacent to Sussex, either.

“Ah, what have we here?” Harold Waterford wondered as he joined Olivia in front of the draper’s window. He held a long package under one arm and dangled a small case from the other. Reading the notice over Olivia’s left shoulder, he gave his daughter a sideways glance. “The very position you’ve been searching for,” he commented lightly, turning to regard his younger daughter’s profile.

Despite the freezing temperatures and occasional snowy conditions, he had allowed Olivia to accompany him on the short trip to Petworth so that he would have someone to talk to whilst on the road. The entire family had been a bit jumpy with the recent raids by the Shipley Gang, the group of thieves on horseback who had been terrorizing the area. Just the week before, the Gang had robbed the Coomber’s house, taking all the food in the pantry and a chicken from their coop. Harold had heard reports of missing sheep from the herds to the east and talk that the Gang were based out of the Southwater Woods.

He knew they had taken to thievery in order to feed their families. Although his businesses had provided jobs to many in Sussex, there were still hundreds of men who were desperate for work.

Perhaps his attempts to provide positions would prevent his household from being a target for the Gang. If they did raid his home, though, Harold intended to protect his family, his hunting gun kept next to the bed stand. He’d had bolts installed on his exterior doors. Although he knew windows could be broken, the mullions in Waterford Hall would make breaking and entering time consuming.

There was another reason to keep Olivia close, though. He had thought to tell her about what he expected would happen in the next month or so. Having confirmed Michael Cunningham’s birth date with the man’s father, Harold was sure Michael would be asking for his daughter’s hand in marriage during his next visit to Waterford Hall. He would have to; if the man didn’t plan to purchase a marriage license, he would have to propose to Olivia so there would enough Sundays before his birthday for the banns to be read.

Although it had been over eight months since his discussion with Michael, there had been no further mention of a proposal, no indication that his business partner had even been courting Olivia. Had Cunningham told Olivia of his plans? Did he expect I would tell her?

Or had Cunningham changed his mind?

If that was the case, then it was certainly reasonable to allow Olivia to think she could apply for the position. What were the chances she would even be considered for the job? Probably next to nil, he thought. “I wonder if you might be able to take the notice from the window?” he whispered.

“I wonder how long it’s been here,” Olivia countered, turning to enter the shop with her father in tow. He conferred with one of the men behind the counter while Olivia admired the lengths of fabric displayed on the walls. When Olivia pointed to one made of yellow lawn, the other clerk pulled down the display and began measuring her order.

“The notice is yours to take,” Harold spoke quietly. “Mr. Hermann says it was put there yesterday by a liveried footman, and he doubts there are any women in Petworth who would be interested in such a post given how far it is to Wiltshire,” he murmured. He pulled out his purse and fished for a few coins to pay for the fabric.

Olivia nodded her understanding. “Thank you, sir,” she said in Mr. Hermann’s direction as she moved to the window and pulled the notice from its perch.

She spent the ride home thinking about how she would word her reply to the advertisement. Her character was already written. As to references, two of her tutors had provided her with glowing reports of her work ethic. She could cite her reading habit ...

The thought brought her back to reality.

Reading.

Olivia often wondered if the local boys thought her a bluestocking. Ever since her sixteenth year, anyone who saw her in Shipley usually did so as she looked over the newest books in the local mercantile. Just the year before that, she might have admitted to staring into the window of the confectioner’s shop in the hopes of being given a piece of hard candy. But once she’d learned where books could take her, either in their fictional tales or their supposedly real-life treatises, Olivia had become quite taken with reading.

Remembering that afternoon when Michael Cunningham escorted her from Shipley, Olivia felt her face blush. They’d spoken of her favorite thing to do – to read books. She had half-expected him to tease her about her reading habit, but he never did.

After his lengthy meetings with her father, Mr. Cunningham usually found her with her nose in a book when he emerged from her father’s study. He probably thinks me a bluestocking, she thought with a bit of frustration. At one time she worried he might think her a wanton for reading books published by Minerva Press. Although, she remembered she had made a comment to him about those books belonging to her sister. Hopefully, Mr. Cunningham took her word for it, she thought just then.

A frisson shot through her body as she remembered that first afternoon, of how they’d met in the inn’s yard, of how he had driven her home in his gig, their conversation so easy they barely noticed the weather or the conveyances that passed by.

And since that day, every time Mr. Cunningham came back to Waterford Hall for meetings with her father, Olivia felt that same frisson, felt the flutterbies in her stomach, the other myriad sensations his very presence in the same room seemed to incite in her. None of the boys in Shipley affected her that way. Which, given they didn’t seem too interested in marrying her, was probably just as well, she considered.

She glanced back down at the notice she held clutched in her gloved hands. Michael Cunningham wasn’t going to ask for her hand in marriage, she decided. Better she see to her own future than to hope for something that wasn’t going to happen.

As she read a book in the coach on the way home, Harold regarded his daughter and almost ... almost mentioned his conversation with Michael. But if the young man had changed his mind about wanting Olivia as his wife ... Harold kept his thoughts to himself and instead turned his attention to the latest newspaper from London

Before she retired to bed that night, Olivia completed her response to the notice and was ready to mail it from Shipley the very next day. Sleep didn’t come easily, though. In making the decision to apply for the position, Olivia also realized something she hadn’t given much thought to in the past. By taking a position as a governess, she probably would never have an opportunity to marry.
I’ll be an old maid,
she thought sadly, as she drifted off to sleep.

A
bluestocking old maid.

Chapter 15

Considering Chits on a Tuesday

Over the course of the nine months following Eloisa’s rescue, Michael Cunningham settled into a regular routine. Every six weeks, he traveled down to Sussex to pay a visit to his parents at Cunningham Park (if they were in residence) and to spend a day or two at Waterford Hall going over business matters with Harold. Most afternoons were spent pouring over reports from his various business interests. At least four days a week, he spent an hour at Gentleman Jackson’s boxing salon sparring with whomever would take him on, and on those occasions when none were willing or able, Jackson himself would be his opponent. Most nights were spent at White’s, reading The Times and enjoying a drink or a few hands of Pontoon or whist. And every Tuesday afternoon, he took a walk with Eloisa before joining her for dinner at her townhouse.

March 21, 1815

“Have you ever considered that Eloisa might want
you
for a husband?” Edward asked one night as they enjoyed a glass of brandy before bed, his lean face displaying concern.

Having just returned from having dinner with Eloisa, Michael took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “I did. For a while. But ..” He paused for a long time, thinking back to when he had realized Eloisa no longer wanted him as a husband. He couldn’t explain exactly what had happened or what had changed to make him realize Olivia’s older sister no longer pined for him, but it had happened. “She changed her mind,” he finally murmured.
And probably because she was embarrassed as hell over what happened at the brothel.
“And I know I should have felt a bit of relief, and I suppose I did, but it’s always a blow to a man’s ego when a woman suddenly becomes .. distant.”

Edward nodded, thinking he understood. He wondered if Anna had changed her mind about him. Her father claimed no knowledge of her whereabouts, but Edward suspected he did so to prevent Edward from finding her. Having spent a good deal of time wandering the shops along Oxford and Bond Street in search of the modiste for which Anna worked, he had so far failed in his attempt to find his childhood sweetheart. He planned to visit the modistes in New Bond Street the following week. “That happened to Faith,” he offered, stifling a yawn.

At the mention of Edward’s sister, Michael’s head popped up. He knew Lady Faith Seward had pined for him, too, for several years, in fact. And then, suddenly, one day she was betrothed to another.

Michael had never felt such relief in his life.

To know a chit wanted him as a husband enough to spurn every suitor until she was three-and-twenty – almost a spinster – and then to suddenly find out she was engaged to another – Michael had actually spent a long night on the town, toasting the impending marriage at White’s and even dancing with Edward’s sister at the next ball.

“I never knew what she saw in you,” Edward commented, rising from the chair and steadying himself before heading toward the sideboard to refill his brandy balloon.

Michael cocked an eyebrow, not taking offense at the statement. “I didn’t, either,” he said with a wave. Edward turned from the sideboard, holding up his glass in a salute. “To chits who don’t know any better!” he called out.

Michael grinned, the first bit of amusement he’d felt all night. “To chits,” he repeated, downing the rest of his glass. “And speaking of chits, I’m off to Sussex and then to Wiltshire on the morrow,” he announced, his grin broadening.

Settling back into his chair, Edward regarded his friend with a grin. “Do tell why,” he replied before taking a sip and once again savoring the brandy.

Taking a deep breath, Michael nodded. “It’s time for my meeting with Waterford, and I owe my sister a visit. Received a letter from her this morning claiming she has good news. Since I haven’t been there in over a year, she’s insisting she will only tell me the good news in person,” he explained. “I was thinking I’m about to become an uncle again, but ...” He shook his head. “There was something
different
about the way she wrote it,” he murmured, thinking of the letter that had arrived by post that morning. What other news could a young duchess have to share?

Edward regarded his friend with a lopsided grin, his head nearly lolling on his neck. “I suppose she expects you to have some good news, too,” he managed to get out before his head hit the back of his chair.

Michael stared at his friend for a very long time. “Good news?” he repeated, wondering what Edward could mean. And he was about to ask, but Edward’s eyes were closed, and a soft snore emanated from him.

Sighing, Michael reached over and eased the half-filled brandy balloon from his friend’s hands, placing it on the pie crust table. “Good night, Edward,” he whispered, draining his own glass before rising to stretch. “Sleep well.”