Chapter Five

“S hh!” The hushing was followed by a giggle. Genevieve turned over in the small bed in the nursery and squeezed her eyes closed. A man’s low voice came through the closed door, and Genevieve sat. She’d been asleep until about an hour ago, when Lord Emory and his friend had returned, bringing what sounded like half the tavern with them. Now, it sounded as though the party had moved upstairs and outside the nursery.

Genevieve peered through the darkness at Frances. The child was on her back, arms flung over her head, sleeping soundly. Thank goodness for that.

The sound of a woman’s giggle came from outside the doorway, and then a thud, and Genevieve finally gave a huff of annoyance, tossed back the covers, and donned her dressing gown. She was fortunate her mother’s house was so close. Mrs. Mann had been more than willing to send a footman to fetch Genevieve’s things if it meant she would accept the position straight away and not leave Frances in the care of the housekeeper.

Genevieve felt for her slippers in the dark.

“Shh!” came from the hallway again. It was louder than ever. Giving up searching for her footwear, Genevieve went to the door, opened it, and stepped out, closing it behind her. Mr. Notley and his companion didn’t even notice her. They were too busy becoming better acquainted.

Genevieve cleared her throat. Neither of them turned around. She tried again, and the effort was equally unsuccessful. Finally, she stepped forward, tapped Mr. Notley on the shoulder, and waited.

He broke off his kiss, turned, and stared at her. “Hello, love,” he said. At least, she thought that was what he said. His words were terribly slurred.

“Mr. Notley,” she whispered. “Your room is that way.” She pointed to the other wing of the floor.

“Is it?” he asked, his voice far too loud.

“Yes.”

“Who’s this?” asked the woman leaning against the wall. Her voice was not as loud as Notley’s, but it wasn’t quiet either.

“I am the governess,” Genevieve whispered.

“What?”

She closed her eyes and, summoning all her patience, gestured for the couple to follow her. They stumbled after her, and once she had them away from the nursery door, she said, “I am the governess. The nursery is that way,” she said, pointing. “Your chamber is that way.” She pointed again.

“Ah, much obliged to you, love,” Notley said.

“It’s Miss Brooking,” she corrected him. “Goodnight.”

The couple stumbled off in the direction of the family bedchambers, and Genevieve considered returning to the nursery. But she could still hear the noise downstairs. She wouldn’t be able to sleep anytime soon. If Frances was like every other child, she’d be up with the sun, and Genevieve would be expected to chase after her on only half a night’s sleep. She didn’t usually chastise her employers, but then, they didn’t usually allow drunk men to bring their evening’s entertainment right outside the nursery. Lord Emory hadn’t won any accolades as a father in her mind before, and now, as she descended the stairs, she knocked him down another notch.

One man was lying in the vestibule sleeping, a puddle of vomit beside his head. A woman was leaning against a wall, listlessly drinking from a crystal glass. The rest of the party appeared to be in the dining room. The door was ajar, and Genevieve moved past the drinking woman in the vestibule and pushed the door wide. Her gaze landed on Lord Emory immediately. He was sitting at the head of the table, one woman on his lap and another standing behind him, rubbing his shoulders. Two men were angrily discussing some matter related to horses, and one woman stood across from them, listening intently.

Everyone in the group looked up when she entered. Silence descended.

Lord Emory stared at her for a long moment, then dislodged the woman on his lap and stood.

“Miss, er—”

“Brooking,” she supplied after he continued to flounder.

“Right. Is it time for breakfast already?” He pulled his watch from the pocket and squinted at it.

“Might we have a word, my lord?” She eyed the others. “In private?”

“Of course.”

She led him out of the dining room, heard his exclamation as he spotted the man on the floor, then opened a door across from the dining room and stepped inside. She didn’t know what this room was, and it was dark. She didn’t need light to say what needed saying.

Lord Emory stumbled inside the room, and she stood in the light from the vestibule so he could see her and she him. He smelled of beer, smoke, and perfume, and she made certain they stood a good distance apart.

“We woke you,” he said immediately. She didn’t know him well, but she could see by the heightened color in his face that he was drunk. He didn’t seem as drunk as his friends, however.

“You did, and while you haven’t woken Frances yet, that is only because she was exceedingly tired after the events of the past day.” And from crying her eyes out when you left without even a fare-thee-well. The girl had pretended she was upset about the dirt on her doll, but Genevieve knew better.

“I see. I’ll quiet everyone—”

“Furthermore”—Genevieve was not in the habit of interrupting her employers, but she was quite angry now—“your guest Mr. Notley was becoming better acquainted with his companion right outside the nursery. If I had not intervened, I fear they would have stumbled inside.”

“He must have gotten turned around.”

“Indeed. I set him straight. But I must ask you, is this the sort of environment you wish your daughter to grow up in? A house where she might be awakened in the middle of the night by a drunk couple copulating outside her door?”

Lord Emory drew himself up. “I am still the master here, and you will be careful how you address me.”

Genevieve gave him a long look then made a trifling curtsey. “Yes, my lord,” she said tonelessly. “I’ll go back to my station now before some other lout stumbles in on your sleeping child.”

She probably shouldn’t have tossed her hair as she walked away. That was rather childish, but it certainly felt good. She stomped up the stairs as well as one could in bare feet, then returned to the nursery and silently closed the door.

She tiptoed to Frances’s bed. The child was still sleeping, her breaths deep and even.

Genevieve removed her dressing gown and climbed back into bed, prepared to lie awake and listen to the debauchery below, but to her surprise, she heard only Lord Emory’s voice ordering everyone out. Within five minutes, doors had closed, hoofbeats were heard, and the house was silent.

Genevieve blinked in the dark. Perhaps this situation wasn’t as hopeless as it had seemed. Perhaps Lord Emory would listen to reason.

*

“If she didn’t have a way with the child, I would have dismissed her already.”

Notley lifted his head from the table, groaned, and settled for turning it slightly to the side so he might peer blearily up at Rory, who looked down at him.

“How much did you drink last night?”

“Too much. I should still be in bed, except that the birds are making an awful noise with all their singing. Not to mention the racket and barking of that dog and all the giggling from your daughter. A man can’t rest here in the country.”

Rory was tired himself. He should have gone to bed as soon as he’d sent his friends from the tavern away. Instead, he had lain awake thinking about Miss Brooking’s words— is this the sort of environment you wish your daughter to grow up in?

At one time he’d thought Lilacfall Abbey the perfect environment for his children. He’d imagined filling it with his and Harriet’s offspring, imagined dark-haired boys running around and blonde girls picking flowers. Now he had one child in the graveyard and another unruly, little devil turning his life upside down.

And yet the weight of responsibility for that child was beginning to settle on him. He hadn’t been there for her before. He’d all but abandoned her, and if anyone knew what that felt like, it was Rory. He needed to try to be a parent to Frances now.

That didn’t mean he wanted her governess telling him how to go about it.

No matter how pretty that governess had looked last night. His mouth had gone dry when she’d swept into the dining room, just as regal as you please. Her red hair had been down about her waist, her feet had been bare, and she’d been garbed in only a thin dressing gown. Still, she’d behaved as though she had the authority of the queen.

“I do apologize if I caused you any trouble with your governess.”

Rory’s gaze returned to Notley, whose cheek was still resting on the dining room table.

“She told me you took a wrong turn and almost ended up in the nursery.”

“She set me straight. Rather wished I could have brought her back to my room instead of, er—what was that chit’s name?”

“I told you, Miss Brooking is out of bounds.”

Notley made a sound that was unintelligible.

Just then the door banged open, and Miss Brooking and Frances whirled into the dining room like a cyclone. Rory stood as the child scampered over to the sideboard and Miss Brooking made a feeble attempt at a curtsey. “My lord, Miss Frances has something to ask of you.” She cleared her throat, and his daughter put the scone she had taken a bite of back on the tray and made her own clumsy curtsey.

“Papa?” Frances looked at him then at Miss Brooking. He assumed she wanted confirmation her curtsey had been correct. Miss Brooking nodded.

“Can I have a favor?”

“ May I ask a favor,” Miss Brooking corrected her.

Frances nodded. “What she said.”

“What is it?” Rory asked, charmed despite himself. His daughter still looked nothing like the children he’d seen at the park. She wore black and her hair was still an unruly tangle. Her dress was clean, at least, and her hair was pulled back and away from her face.

And she wasn’t kicking him. That was progress.

“Can we— may we use the carriage to go to Miss Genevieve’s house?”

Rory looked at the governess.

“We’d like to fetch a doll I kept from my childhood. I named her Marcella,” Miss Brooking said, as though this made any more sense.

“Your…doll?”

“For a doll tea party,” Frances clarified. “Harriet and Marcella want to have a tea party together.”

Rory swallowed the lump in his throat. He’d heard the doll’s name before, and it had given him a jolt. It did so again now, only this jolt came with a wrench to the heart. How tragic that his daughter should name her only doll after her dead mother. He shoved the pain that threatened to break through the wall he’d erected back down, and then down again. “Shouldn’t you be learning how to read or do sums or some such thing?” He’d spoken more harshly than he’d intended, and Frances took a step back. He recognized the mutinous look that came over her face. He’d seen it in the mirror enough times.

Miss Brooking obviously saw the look too, because she moved to Frances’s side and put her hand on the girl’s shoulder. “My lord, I assure you I have a full curriculum planned for Miss Lumlee. But I’ve been here twenty-four hours. Frances and I are still getting to know each other.”

Rory didn’t know why the two needed to know each other. He hadn’t known any of his tutors. His father had hired the men, and they’d sat him and his brothers down and begun teaching. If Rory had misbehaved or answered too many questions incorrectly, he’d been cuffed. There had been no tea parties.

“If you have need of the carriage, we could walk,” Miss Brooking said, giving Frances a dubious look. “It might be a bit much for Miss Lumlee—”

“I can do it!” Frances cried. “I’m a good walker.”

“Take the carriage,” Rory said. “I didn’t realize you had a residence so close.”

“It’s my mother’s house,” Miss Brooking said. “I haven’t lived there since I was a girl, which is why my doll is still there, I suppose. I had been visiting my mother when I saw the advertisement for the governess position.”

“Of course. I’ll have John Coachman ready the team. Gables!” he bellowed.

Notley made a sound like a wounded animal.

“What is wrong with him?” Frances whispered to Miss Brooking.

“He has a headache,” Miss Brooking answered in an overloud whisper.

“I can hear you,” Notley mumbled.

Gables entered the dining room.

“Tell John Coachman to ready the carriage. Miss Brooking, Miss Lumlee, and I have need of it.”

Miss Brooking looked at him, eyes wide. “My lord?”

“I hope you don’t mind if I join you.”

He could tell by her expression that she very much did mind if he joined them. Her displeasure was understandable. Her mother was almost certainly a very modest person, and she would not be expecting to entertain the son of a duke this morning. Propriety and common sense dictated that he stay home. After all, what amusements could there be for him in the childhood home of his governess?

But one look at Notley, groaning with his head on the table, and then a look at the bright green eyes and flushed cheeks of Miss Brooking, and the decision was an easy one. He wasn’t altogether selfish in his actions, either. He wanted to spend some time with his daughter now that she was moderately civilized. His own father had been little more than a shadowy figure looming over him for most of Rory’s life. But Rory was beginning to think parent-child relationships didn’t have to be like his own. Harriet and her father had had a close relationship and had since she was a child. He’d always envied her that. Why couldn’t Rory have the same with his own child? That was the sort of father he’d intended to be when he married Harriet…before everything went sour.

“That sounds lovely,” Miss Brooking said with an obviously forced smile. Then she looked at her charge. “Frances, do you want to bring Harriet?”

“Oh, yes!”

“Go fetch her, then.”

“I will!” The little girl scampered away, and Rory frowned as he gestured for Miss Brooking to precede him into the foyer.

“I do wish you would instruct her not to run like a heathen.”

Miss Brooking laughed. “We crawl before we walk, my lord.”

“What does that mean?” He waved a hand. “I understand the concept, but how does that apply to my child? My tutors set expectations the moment they arrived. If I did not meet them, I was punished. Why not admonish her for grabbing a scone from the sideboard or running like a footman?”

Miss Brooking stared straight ahead for a long moment, so long that Rory wondered if she had heard him. Then she turned her head and looked at him in an almost assessing manner. For some odd reason, he felt almost uncomfortable at the way her green eyes seared into him.

“My lord, you hired me very quickly—so quickly, in fact, that you did not have the opportunity to review my letters of reference or discuss my methods. I understand this is the province of the housekeeper, but she was not interested in those topics either. I suspect this is because Miss Lumlee had only just arrived and there hadn’t been a discussion about the sort of governess you wanted for her.”

“The sort of governess? Is there more than one sort?”

“Yes, my lord.” Her eyes crinkled a bit with humor. “I do not want to tell you about your child or suppose too much. You’ve admonished me twice on those grounds.”

“Then step carefully, Miss Brooking.”

“I always do, my lord. This is not my first cow pasture.”

He did not doubt that for a moment.

“With a girl like Miss Lumlee, I prefer to forge a relationship before I teach etiquette and expect focus and progress in the schoolroom. A child like Miss Lumlee needs to feel secure and cared for before she is ready to obey rules she does not like or which go against her natural inclinations. I do admit, those inclinations have not been curbed as much as they should have been in a child of seven, but that is understandable, given the circumstances.”

“You are all but dancing in that cow pasture, Miss Brooking,” Rory said. “I don’t think I like what you are implying.”

“I assure you I mean no disrespect to you, my lord, nor any slight. The child has been through a tragedy, and in my experience, any person of any age who has experienced the sort of loss she has needs security. First, I provide the security. Then I provide the discipline.”

Rory’s head spun. Any person of any age who has experienced the sort of loss she has needs security…

He hadn’t been there for her, hadn’t provided her any security. Rather than taking her in, he had sent her to grandparents she barely knew and disappeared without a word.

Any person of any age who has experienced…loss…

Had she meant that to refer to him? Did she imply he needed security? What he’d needed was to escape. That was why he’d gone to the Continent. He hadn’t wanted to be where he would be reminded of the death of his wife and child. He wanted to be far away from all the people who would look at him with pity in their eyes. He wanted to go where no one knew him or his sad story. He’d sought not security but anonymity.

But perhaps obscurity was security in a sense as well.

“I don’t know if I agree with your methods, Miss Brooking,” Rory said, finally. “But I have always thought of myself as open-minded. I can give you the benefit of the doubt. For the time being.”

“That is all I ask, my lord.”

Frances returned then, stomping down the stairs like a herd of cows in that proverbial pasture. She held her doll close and looked from Miss Brooking to him. “Is the coach ready?” she asked.

“Not yet.” Miss Brooking knelt so she was at eye level with Frances. Rory wondered if that was another of her methods. “May I smooth your hair and tie your ribbon again?”

Frances nodded, and Miss Brooking moved behind her and set to work, quickly putting the child’s unruly hair to rights. While she worked, Frances peeked up at him. Rory tried to think of something to say, but nothing came to mind.

“All done,” Miss Brooking said after what seemed hours of silence.

“Miss Genevieve, I hope Harriet isn’t cold. Her dress is quite thin.”

Still kneeling before the child, Miss Brooking examined the doll as though the toy could actually feel temperature. “Do you have a cloak for her?”

“No.”

“What about a spencer or a pelisse?”

Frances shook her head. “I don’t have any clothes for her, save these.”

“Those are very pretty, but perhaps we could make new clothes. Do you know how to sew?”

“No.”

“I’ll teach you, and we will sew Harriet a beautiful wardrobe. Perhaps we could even learn some embroidery and decorate a pillow for her.”

“Can we do that today? After the tea party?”

“I don’t see why not.”

Rory still had his doubts about her methods, but he couldn’t deny that, if he was not mistaken, she had just convinced the girl to learn embroidery—a staple in a young girl’s education. And she had made it seem like Frances’s idea.

He had best be careful around Miss Brooking. He was no child, but she was certainly an expert at managing people. If he did not watch his back, soon she’d be managing him.

Miss Brooking stood, and Rory caught her eye. She winked. Rory started violently at the gesture. Well-bred ladies did not wink. And yet…he liked it. He liked the intimacy her wink implied. We share a secret, she seemed to say. Isn’t that exciting?

“My lord,” Gables said, entering the foyer. “The carriage is ready.”

“Let’s go.” Frances started forward, taking the hand Miss Brooking held out for her. Then, to Rory’s shock, with her free hand, she clasped his. He didn’t know what to do, so he held on to her and allowed himself to be led to the coach. Her little hand was so small in his and so fragile, but her grip was strong and sure. In that moment, Rory felt his heart give a lurch.

He quickly stacked bricks back in front of it, but they were haphazard and crumbling. Despite his best defenses, and Frances’s attempts to scare him off, he was beginning to love her.