Chapter 11

Eleven

S tephen was having great difficulty focusing on his duties. It was a preposterous thing. He knew it was. What man in his position would waste even a spare thought towards the thoughts and figure of a woman working as a lady’s maid — a former governess, at that? He was a man of substance and education, a man well-used to his position in society. Yet all that seemed to crumble into the background when he was around her. Nay, it was crumbling even when he wasn’t around her.

When he was out riding, he found his mind drifting to thoughts of Miss Selwyn. When he was reading in the library, he would go over the conversation they shared there. When he passed the pianoforte, his mind would fill with unbidden thoughts of her slender fingers dancing over the keys. And now, sitting in the drawing room and looking over the paper, he found his vision blurring to what was before him and his attention captured entirely by the conversation going on across the room from him — where Miss Selwyn was teasing his aunt about some childhood story or other.

“Did you really believe,” she was saying, her voice full of restrained laughter, “that you would be able to smuggle a pig into a town assembly without being noticed?”

His aunt, her face very grave, answered, “To be quite fair, I was unfamiliar with town assemblies entirely. My father never allowed us girls to go there — seeing as they were places for men of serious business to weigh in on town matters — and so all I knew was that there would be a group of important people present, and I was not allowed.” She shrugged. “I assumed that, since I was but a child of ten, I could slip in unnoticed and leave the pig in the coatroom for my father to stumble upon. It was only him I wanted to shock, after all.”

“But you were caught,” Miss Selwyn prompted.

“I was indeed.” His aunt gave a little laugh in memory. “Or, I should say, Oinker was caught. He was too round to fit in through the coatroom window, and so began to squeal most heartily. I abandoned him, poor pig, to his position, and heard after that the town constable nearly had an attack of dropsy when he came in to find the creature stuffed through the window at eye level.”

Miss Selwyn began laughing, and the sound was so pleasant that Stephen found himself lowering his paper to smile at them both.

“I assume my mother was free from all these shenanigans, being as she was a mere babe at the time,” he interjected.

“She was not guilty in the case of the pig incident,” his aunt answered, her mock sobriety lowering entirely at the memory of another amusing story. “But I really ought to tell you about the time she and I thought to run away with the Roma from the village over. They were such bright people, you know, with freedom and culture and music that we both envied. I, in particular, loved their freedom. I was fourteen at the time, and your mother only six years of age. I thought that the Roma girls were all so beautiful and alive, and they seemed free to do all the things that I longed to do.”

“They have their own hardships,” Stephen interjected, remembering how a group of Roma had been driven off his father’s land when he was but a boy.

“But I didn’t know that as a girl. I thought their life was full of mystery and romance, and I wanted to join them badly. I told your mother to stay behind, but she insisted on following me through the forest to the edge of the clearing.” Aunt Cecelia paused here, smiling in memory. “Until this point, we had been so deluded by manufactured stories of ‘gypsies’ stealing away with children, that we had not paused to think that the Roma would not want us to accompany them.”

Miss Selwyn laughed. “Are you saying they turned you away when you reached their camp?”

“That is precisely what I’m saying.” Aunt Cecelia shook her head. “They entertained us for a short time, gave us a bit of tea, and then sent us on our way. It was a travesty.”

Stephen smiled.

“Did you and Mother have a governess?” he asked, looking to Miss Selwyn.

“I did,” Aunt Cecelia said, “but your mother was so much younger than I that we only shared our governess for a few years. Then I was thrust upon the world, and your mother was left with Miss Pritchard by herself.” She shrugged. “It was probably for the best. I rather hated my education, and found Miss Pritchard to be most unkind in her evaluation of my talents. She would only teach me embroidery and music and other such ladylike pastimes. I didn’t read the classics until James was dead and buried, and I had a chance at his library for the first time.”

Miss Selwyn looked down at her hands. “Perhaps Miss Pritchard wanted to teach you more, but was not permitted to expand her curriculum. It is expected that a governess follow the parents’ wishes quite closely.”

“Do not excuse her,” Aunt Cecelia snapped. “In my opinion, governesses are a whole species unto themselves — wholly without vim or vigor — it is a fortunate thing that I am now free forever from their influence.”

Stephen waited until Miss Selwyn met his gaze and then raised his eyebrows significantly. She looked as though she was going to laugh, likely thinking about how very not free from governess influence his aunt really was. She bit her lip and looked away, focusing her attention back on Aunt Cecelia.

“Do you miss your sister?” she asked.

“I don’t really know her anymore,” his aunt said after a long moment. “I don’t know if you can miss someone you don’t really know.”

Something about the whimsical quality of this statement caused Stephen to remember the two other letters from his parents that lay unopened in his pocket. He patted them gently, and then stood and made his way over to the drawing room desk.

“Keep talking, ladies,” he said, “I forgot I have a bit of correspondence to attend to.”

They both smiled at him and then went back into conversation, chirping quietly behind him like songbirds.

Stephen pulled out the two letters and read them both. The contents were much the same as the other two missives he had already received. Each inquired after the situation at March Manor, and then pressed him to be wise about spending too much time there. The most recent letter, however, was worded with such strength of conviction as to seem most urgent.

My dear son,

I am uncertain why you refuse to respond to our letters, but I can only surmise the situation there is most demanding of your time and attention. Please write with news of my sister’s health at once.

Additionally, if the matter is severe enough, we will send aid. As for you, you have languished there as caretaker for far too long. The Season is beginning. We have spoken to you already about the untenable situation of your current bachelorhood, but I urge you to consider your future and the future of the estate. You must marry, my son, and it must happen soon. The Season offers a chance to find a bride worthy of your title and attention.

You must return at once, and, if you have a reason why you shouldn’t, you should write to tell us what it is. Your silence in this matter is most exasperating.

Sincerely,

Your Mother, Lady Richmond

Stephen felt a pang of guilt as he read the letter. Though his parents had been overbearing in their correspondence, this most recent note from his mother reminded him that he had not yet responded as he ought. He had been so frustrated with his parents’ plans for his future that he’d overlooked their worries about the present.

He pulled out a sheet of paper and dipped his quill, blotting it a moment to be sure of the nib before composing a response.

Mother and Father,

I would like to extend my sincere apologies for my late response. I have been quite taken up with the matter of Aunt Cecelia’s health, and have not taken the time to compose the necessary letter to update you. I see that this has encouraged a state of great consternation, and regret the delay.

He paused, the pen hovering over the paper. Behind him, he heard the sound of Miss Selwyn’s light laughter. He could not tell his parents, much less himself, the real reason why he wanted to linger at March Manor. He knew that lying was wrong, but a fabrication seemed the only solution before him.

The doctor is unsure about Aunt Cecelia’s, progress. He has asked me to stay a little longer, and I cannot deny a man of medicine in a matter of such urgency. Please extend my apologies to any ladies to whom you have promised my presence. I hope the matter may be resolved in time.

I shall write again soon.

Stephen

He dusted the paper with sand and, when assured it was dry, folded it properly and sealed it. He called for Mr. Tylor, afraid that if he dallied too long in the sending of the letter he would second guess the lie and be forced to acquiesce to his parents wishes. The butler took the letter on a silver tray. When it had gone, Stephen turned around and saw Miss Selwyn looking at him, a strange concern knitting her brow.

“What is it, Miss Selwyn?” he asked.

His aunt, who was scanning a book of poetry, seemed not to hear their conversation. Miss Selwyn looked at his aunt and then, in a low voice, answered him, “It is only that you seem perturbed, my Lord. I was wondering what your correspondence said to bring such concern.”

He forced a smile.

“Matters of business, that is all.”

She looked at him for a long moment, and Stephen realized with a start that she did not believe him. Still, she was too kind — or too proper — to press further. Instead, she shrugged and dropped her eyes back to the embroidery in her lap without a further word.

Stephen’s gaze rested gently on her for a moment, treasuring the fact that she was not looking at him to see the way he studied her. He enjoyed her company so much it frightened him. He had only known her a short time, and yet here he found himself lying to his parents to stay with her; catching stolen moments to watch the way the sunlight caught in her golden hair, to hope she would look back up and say something else or give one of her silver laughs.

Aunt Cecelia raised her head suddenly and caught him staring. She said nothing, only looked at him for a long, hard moment, and then dropped her gaze again.