Chapter Six

G enevieve sat on one side of the coach with Frances beside her. Lord Emory sat across from them, his gaze alternately on his daughter and the passing landscape. She hadn’t wanted the man to accompany them, but now she was glad he had. She needed to make more opportunities for him to spend time with his daughter. The little girl was charming him quite unwittingly. She’d need him to remember these sweet, happy moments when Frances was next in a temper and told him she hated him or tried to kick him.

It would take Genevieve more than a couple of days to curb that sort of behavior. What she didn’t tell Lord Emory was that she didn’t intend to curb it completely. A bit of spirit was healthy in a young lady.

Genevieve looked out the window herself, enjoying the feel of the soft velvet cushions of the coach. She’d never been in a carriage this luxurious. She barely felt the jolts as they raced along the roads. “There’s the tree I told you about,” she said to Frances. “It’s just a mile to my mother’s cottage now.”

“What are those animals in that field?” Frances asked, pointing at a flock of sheep.

“Those are sheep. Surely you have seen them before.”

Frances nodded, squinting at the sheep. Genevieve had seen her squint at objects in the distance several times in the last day. They passed another field, and Genevieve pointed at two horses in the pasture with several cows. “Do you see the cows, Frances?” she asked.

“Yes. Right there.” She placed her hand on the window, leaving fingerprints.

“What other animals are in the pasture with the cows?”

Lord Emory looked at Genevieve and then at the pasture.

“Just cows,” said Frances.

Now Lord Emory looked at Frances then back to Genevieve. Genevieve raised her brows at him. “What about those brown animals?”

Frances squinted. “They aren’t cows?”

“No,” Lord Emory said.

Frances stared hard and then put her fingers to her eyes and tugged the corners toward her temples. “Are they horses?”

“That’s right,” Genevieve said. “Horses. Do you see them, my lord?”

“Yes.” But his gaze stayed on Genevieve. He was an intelligent man. She could only assume he understood the problem as well as she. His eyes, that lovely brandy color, held hers for just a moment too long, and she shifted her gaze away, suddenly feeling far too warm. The carriage, which had seemed spacious a few minutes ago, now felt too small for the three of them.

“Ah, there it is now,” she said, pointing to a small cottage on a square of land surrounded by trees and with a garden in the back whose blooms were visible even from the front drive. The coachman slowed the horses and stopped the carriage at the door. Then the outriders jumped down, lowered the steps, and opened the door. Lord Emory descended first then held his hand out for his daughter. Genevieve knew he expected the child to take his hand so he might help her down. Instead, she said, “Catch me!” and jumped.

Genevieve had known what was about to happen, but she still gasped. Fortunately, Lord Emory had quick reflexes. He caught the child with both hands. And then, to Genevieve’s surprise, he tossed the little girl into the air. This surprised Frances too, for she squealed and laughed. “Again, Papa!” she cried. He obliged her, which was also quite a surprise, then set her down and held out a hand for Genevieve.

Still smiling at Frances’s joy, she reached out, and her hand was engulfed by Lord Emory’s. They both wore gloves, but she swore she could feel the heat of his skin through the material. She glanced up at him, meeting his eyes in that second before he handed her down and released her. It only took a second for something to pass between them. Genevieve couldn’t say what it was, but it caused her belly to contract in a not-altogether-unpleasant manner. And then he was stepping away, and she was wishing she had brought a fan, as the day seemed warmer than she’d anticipated.

The door to her mother’s home opened, and Mrs. Brooking stepped out, smiling sweetly. Genevieve knew her well enough to see that she was a bit flustered to be visited by such a grand carriage and the son of a duke unexpectedly. “Mama,” Genevieve said, stepping forward. “I do hope you will forgive us for stopping by unexpectedly.”

She took her mother’s hand, and Mrs. Brooking squeezed her own hand in reassurance, showing she had already forgiven Genevieve. Genevieve turned to Lord Emory, hoping she remembered how to properly conduct these introductions. One always introduced a lady to a gentleman, but what if the gentleman ranked far higher than the lady and the lady was just a missus and not really a lady? Oh, drat it all. What did she always teach little boys? Chivalry. That meant she would introduce Lord Emory to her mother. Both were looking at her expectantly now.

“Mama, may I introduce Lord Emory Lumlee? Lord Emory, this is my mother, Mrs. Cecilia Brooking.”

Her mother made a very graceful curtsey, and Lord Emory bowed quite low, which had the effect of making Genevieve like him a little bit more. “A pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Brooking. I see where Miss Brooking acquired her green eyes.”

Genevieve blinked, not having realized Lord Emory even noticed her eyes, much less enough to note their color. She did have her mother’s eyes—and her mother’s figure, which was a bit like a vase that was straight at the top and heavier at the bottom, as Genevieve’s hips were wider than her bosom. Still, her older sister Georgiana had no hips and no bosom, so Genevieve would take what she’d been given. Other than her eyes and the figure, Genevieve and her mother did not look alike. Her mother had dark brown hair, where Genevieve had her father’s bright red, curly hair. Her mother also had a small, pert nose and thin lips, whereas Genevieve had a long, straight nose and fuller lips.

And freckles. One couldn’t forget those, no matter how much one tried.

Her mother gave Lord Emory a real smile. “She does have my eyes, though the rest of her face came from her father.”

“Mama, might I also introduce my friend, Miss Frances Lumlee, and her special friend Harriet.” Genevieve nodded at Frances, who stepped forward and gave a clumsy curtsey.

“Was that right?” she asked Genevieve in a whisper.

“That was perfect,” Genevieve whispered back.

Mrs. Brooking curtseyed to Frances. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Miss Lumlee. Won’t you all come inside?”

“Thank you, Mama.” Genevieve linked her arm with her mother’s as they stepped inside the house. “We have come to collect Marcella for a tea party. Do you know where she is?”

“In your trunk, if I’m not mistaken. The footman you sent yesterday arrived on horseback, so I could only send a few things. Now that you have the carriage, you should bring your trunk.” She leaned close to Genevieve. “That is, if this position is long term.”

“That remains to be seen, but I will take the trunk. Thank you, Mama.”

“He’s handsome,” she said in a whisper.

Genevieve poked her mother then turned to their guests. “Would you like some refreshment?”

“I’ll get it, dear. You collect Marcella and your things.”

“Thank you, Mama.”

“Can I come with you?” Frances asked. Genevieve cast a look at Lord Emory, but he made a motion for her to go ahead. So she held out her hand and escorted Frances to her small bedchamber.

*

Frances followed Miss Genevieve to what she called a chamber. It was very small, more of a closet in Frances’s opinion. She said so, and Miss Genevieve laughed and said it was plenty big enough for her. But the entire house was small. She picked at some peeling paper and scuffed her boot on the worn carpet. She hadn’t ever considered that people lived in places other than the large houses she had always occupied.

“Did you always live here?” she asked her governess.

“Yes. I grew up here. My sister Georgiana and I used to share this room, and my brother Charles slept upstairs in the attic.”

“What about your mama and papa?”

“They have their own room, though my papa passed away when I was about fourteen.”

Frances sat on the bed, which squeaked. “What does pass away mean?”

Miss Genevieve, who had knelt in front of her trunk, looked up. “It means he died.”

“Oh.” Frances felt her chest tighten and her cheeks grow hot. “I shouldn’t have made you talk about it.”

Miss Genevieve stood up and came to sit beside her, making the bed squeak again. “You didn’t make me talk about him. I actually like talking about my papa. He was a wonderful man, and I loved him very much.”

Frances frowned at her. “I thought after someone…passed away, you weren’t supposed to talk about them.”

Miss Genevieve opened her mouth then closed it again. “Some people don’t like to talk about the people they’ve lost. It makes them sad. But others do want to talk about them. I like to talk about my father. It keeps him alive in my heart.”

Frances stared at Miss Genevieve’s chest. “He’s in your heart?”

The governess laughed. Frances liked that she had a deep laugh. “Not like you think. It just means that it helps me to remember him.”

“Oh.” That was good. Frances didn’t want to think of Miss Genevieve’s papa made small and shoved into her chest. She stared down at her fingers, pleating and smoothing her black dress. “My mama passed away.”

“I know.”

Frances waited for her to change the subject or to say let’s not talk about that now , but she didn’t. She simply sat beside Frances, who looked up at her. “I want to remember her, but I’m starting to forget.” Tears sprang to her eyes when she said it. She’d been holding that in for weeks. Before, when she’d thought of her mother, Mama’s face came instantly to her mind. But now it was harder to picture her.

“It’s normal to forget some details,” Miss Genevieve said. Frances looked up at her, expecting to see some sort of censure in her eyes. After all, what sort of little girl forgot what her mother looked like? But Miss Genevieve smiled. “I have forgotten some details about my papa as well, but I remember some things very well.”

“Like what?”

“The way he smelled. He smoked a pipe, and he always smelled a bit of tobacco. And how he was like a big bear when he hugged me before I went to bed. What do you remember about your mama?”

Frances thought for a moment. “Her hair. It was so pretty, like gold. I liked to stroke it and twirl it. It was soft.”

“That’s a lovely memory. What else?”

“She smelled… I don’t know what the words are. But she had a spray, and when she put it on, it meant she was leaving the house. It smelled nice.”

“It was probably perfume. Maybe we can find out what perfume she liked and get you a bottle. Then you can spray it and think of her.”

Frances gaped at her governess. “You can do that?”

“I can ask your father.”

Frances shook her head. “He doesn’t know. He was never at home. I never even saw him until they put her in the ground.”

“Oh. Well, I can still ask, yes?”

Frances stopped pleating and gripped the dress. “He might not want to talk about her.”

“We’ll see. You can always talk to me about her. I think you should write down what you remember as well. You can practice your penmanship and make a record.”

Frances nodded. “Can I see Marcella now?”

“Of course.” Miss Genevieve stood up, making the bed squeak again. She pulled a doll from her trunk, and Frances smiled. This doll was about the same size as Harriet, but her face had almost no paint left. She did have a beautiful dress on, and Miss Genevieve pulled out several items of clothing and told her that Harriet was welcome to try them on when they returned to Lilacfall Abbey.

“What happened to Marcella’s face?” Frances asked.

“Georgiana and I loved her so much, we kissed off the paint. You can see a bit of her eye here and her mouth. Perhaps there is paint at your home, and we might repaint her face. Georgiana and I did that once, though we couldn’t wait to play with her again and smeared it before it was dry.”

Frances looked up at Miss Genevieve. “You were impatient?” Frances was always being told to be patient. She’d never considered that any of the adults she knew had been impatient when they were children.

“I was, and I was naughty sometimes too. Just like you.”

“You’re not naughty now.”

“That’s because my mama corrected me when I was being naughty, just like I will with you.”

“What about your governess?”

“I didn’t have one.”

“Why not?”

“Most children don’t have governesses or servants. Your father is an important man, and you are so fortunate to have everything that you do.”

Frances nodded, but she thought about Miss Genevieve living in this small house with her mama and her siblings, and wondered if she was truly the fortunate one.

*

Rory had almost forgotten how to make idle chitchat. He’d spent far too much time these past months in dark taverns with the inebriated sons of minor peers discussing the merits of this wench or how much to wager on that wrestling match. He could not discuss wrestling or horse breeding with Mrs. Brooking, so he turned to the safe topic of the weather. “The weather has been surprisingly mild this year,” he said. “My lilacs are still blooming.”

“Are they really?” she said, glancing at him. She bustled about the kitchen to take the kettle from the hearth and steep tea. She had offered him a seat at the table, which was in the kitchen, the cottage being small and having only one room that served as dining room, kitchen, and parlor. “Most of my flowers are still blooming as well. Strange for this late in the season. I imagine your lilacs are beautiful.”

“They are, yes. Have you been to Lilacfall Abbey?”

“Not inside, no, but everyone in these parts knows the place and you, my lord.”

“I’m sorry if I don’t recall—have we met before, Mrs. Brooking?

She poured him a cup of tea. “No, my lord. No reason for our paths to cross.”

“Is it just you and Miss Brooking?”

“It is now. My husband passed away sixteen years ago.”

“I’m so very sorry.” And he meant it. It couldn’t be easy for a wife with children to care for to lose her husband.

“Thank you, my lord, but we made do. Genevieve was fourteen and her sister fifteen. My son Charles was almost eighteen, and he joined the army. Now he has moved up in the ranks, and Georgiana is a governess like Genevieve. It’s a rare thing when all three of my children are home.” She stepped away for a moment, producing a handkerchief and coughing into it.

Rory stood, somewhat alarmed at the racking sound and the way her cough seemed to shake her entire body. “Do sit, Mrs. Brooking. You are not well.”

She waved a hand. “I am fine. Still recovering, but Genevieve nursed me back to health.”

“Miss Brooking nursed you?”

She did sit and took a breath. “Yes…she left her…last position to come home and care for me…when the ague I had went into my lungs.” She took a deeper breath and seemed able to inhale more deeply now. “She was thrilled to find you were looking for a governess. I think she wants to stay close and keep an eye on me, even though I told her I’m fine.”

“Mama, I heard you coughing,” Miss Brooking said, coming down the stairs with Frances right behind her. “Are you feeling ill?”

“Just a cough. I’m fine.” Mrs. Brooking stood and placed a smaller-than-average teacup painted with flowers on the table. “Miss Lumlee, would you care for some tea? This is the cup Genevieve used when she was your age.”

Genevieve gasped. “Mama! You still have that?”

“Of course.”

Frances set the two dolls she’d been carrying onto the table and lifted the teacup very carefully. “It’s so small.”

“But perfect for your dainty hand,” Mrs. Brooking said. “Do you want tea?”

“Yes, please.” Frances glanced at Miss Brooking, who nodded, obviously approving of his daughter’s use of please . “May I have sugar too?”

Rory opened his mouth to object. Sugar was dear, and he did not want to use this widow’s small store.

“Of course,” Mrs. Brooking said before he could speak. “You must have at least two spoonfuls, for a sweet girl like you needs sweet tea.”

“Oh, Mama,” Miss Brooking said, frowning.

Her mother waved her away. “Why don’t you take Lord Emory to see the gardens? Miss Lumlee and I are having tea.”

Miss Brooking looked at him with a question in her eyes. Rory extended a hand to the door. “After you, Miss Brooking.”

She led him outside and around to the back of the cottage, where a small garden bloomed. It was obviously lovingly tended, as the roses were pruned, the beds weeded, and the paths swept clean. He didn’t know the names of the flowers other than the roses, and there were plenty of those in every color he could think of.

“This must take a great deal of time to maintain,” he said.

“My mother enjoys it, and it’s a source of income as well. Those pink roses—do you see them?”

He saw any number of pink roses, but he thought he spotted the ones she referred to.

“Those won best in show at the Sidmouth Horticultural Exhibition.”

“That’s impressive.” Rory had never been to a horticultural exhibition, but he had lived amongst the ton and visited enough great estates of friends and acquaintances to know that gardeners took their blooms very seriously.

“She can sell the seeds and cut flowers as well.”

“And did you care for the garden when she was ill? She said you left your previous position to come home and tend her.”

Miss Brooking glanced at him then back at the prize-winning roses. “It was no great hardship. The boys were of an age where they would go to Eton this fall. They wouldn’t have needed me much longer, and my mother did need me. As you can see, she’s feeling much better now.”

“You must ask Mrs. Mann for time to visit her if she needs you.”

She looked at him and smiled. “I have one day off a week, and I will visit her then.”

“A full day?” Rory raised his brows.

“Your fault, my lord. You said you would give me whatever I wanted. So in addition to my salary of ten thousand pounds, I asked for extra time off.”

“Ten thousand—” But he saw her smile and knew she was hoaxing him. “Very amusing, Miss Brooking.” He made a note to ask Mrs. Mann what her actual salary might be.

“While we are alone, I wanted to mention something about Miss Lumlee I think you have also noticed.”

“Her eyesight?”

“Yes, my lord. I observed that she does not see distances very well, and today’s carriage ride confirmed it. I believe she needs spectacles.”

“That won’t be necessary. She seems to have no trouble seeing things that are close. As long as she can read and sew, draw and play piano, that’s all that’s required of her.”

Clearly, this was the wrong thing to say, as Miss Brooking’s mouth dropped into a lovely, round O.

Apparently, he needed to expound further. “Furthermore, she is a female. Females with spectacles do not attract husbands.”

Miss Brooking closed her mouth into a tight line. “She is seven, my lord. She is not looking for a husband.”

Rory flinched inwardly. Perhaps he might have made his point more elegantly. Still, surely Miss Brooking understood he had Harriet’s best interests in mind. “She will be on the Marriage Mart in ten years or so, and it’s best if she’s not wearing spectacles then.”

She stared at him, her mouth working but no words coming forth. Finally, she let out what sounded like a cry of frustration and walked away from him, her long strides eating up the path.