Lady Midnight (4 page)

Jane Lindley, the Dowager Countess of Darcy (and she never let anyone forget the title!), laughed and shook an admonishing finger. "Oh, Michael, how you do love to tease! I think you are laughing at your poor mother. But this is serious. Do you not wish to know what my news is?"

Michael reached for the platter of eggs a footman had left conveniently near. "You obviously want to tell me, Mother, and I do hate to curtail any of your pleasures. So why don't you go ahead and tell me?"

"A letter came this morning from the agency in London. They have found us a governess for Christina and Amelia. At last! I thought no one who was suitable would ever be willing to come all the way to Yorkshire. I do think that they—"

"Good morning, Mother! Michael!"

Whatever his mother was going to say was cut off by the noisy arrival of Michael's younger sister, Christina. She
burst
into the breakfast room, as she did into every room she ever entered. Obviously, she had been ambling about outdoors again. Her light brown curls, the same color as Michael's own hair, fell in an untidy tangle down her back, and the hem of her dress was inches deep with mud. She had also obviously left her dirty boots at the door, because her feet were encased only in thick lisle stockings.

She was fifteen now, a young lady, but anyone would have thought she was no older than Amelia with the wild way she behaved.

"Sorry I'm late," Christina said, plopping into her chair and reaching for the rack of toast. "I went out for a bit of a stroll and quite lost track of time."

Jane silently poured out a cup of tea and passed it to her daughter. The thin, pinched line of her lips was the only outward sign of her long-suffering exasperation. After a long moment when the silence was broken only by the sound of Christina's loud munching and a footman bringing in fresh eggs, Jane said, "Your brother and I were just speaking of a letter I received from London."

Christina took a gulp of tea. "Oh? From Charles, then? What are he and Mary up to?" Charles was their eldest brother, the Earl of Darcy, who lived an active political life with his glamorous wife, a daughter of the late Duke of Salton.

The beauteous Mary was one of the reasons their mother elected to make her home with her younger son and keep house for him. There was room for only one grande dame under each roof.

"No, indeed. Not from Charles. We always hear from him on Thursdays, and this is Monday," Jane answered, delicately buttering her toast. "The agency has at last found us a governess."

There was a sharp gasp, and then a horrible choking noise as Christina coughed on her tea. Michael obligingly reached over and pounded her on the back.

She turned wide, appalled green eyes toward him, her mouth inelegantly agape. "A
governess?"

He gave her a wry smile—poor comfort, he knew. The subject of a governess had been a sore one at Thorn Hill for a long time, with Christina protesting at every turn. She had been at her freedom ever since her last governess left almost two years ago, and she took full advantage of it. There were great deluges of tears and shouts whenever their mother brought up the topic. Jane, of course, just used the tantrums as one of the foremost reasons there
must
be a governess.

As the weeks went on, and no governess could be found who would make her home in the wilds of Yorkshire, a tentative quiet returned to Thorn Hill. Now the storm was breaking over them again.

"Mother! No!" Christina wailed. "I told you I do not need a governess. I am too old! And she would surely make me give up my walks, my nature experiments, and tell me I should sit in the drawing room and—and
stitch
away my days!"

Jane sighed with patient resignation. "I do not see what would be wrong with that. It would be very nice if you spent more time on the art of needlework, and other ladylike pursuits, and less time bringing dirty plants into the house."

"Those dirty plants are rare botanical specimens!" Christina huffed indignantly.

Sometimes these quarrels burned themselves out quickly without Michael's interference. But he saw this time he would have to step in, or these old arguments would go on all morning. "Mother, Christina, please." Michael took his sister's hand in a firm clasp. "This lady will be more a governess for Amelia than you, Tina. You must agree it's past time for your niece to begin her education."

"Of course," Christina answered. "Amelia is nearly seven. But why must I take lessons?"

"Because you are behaving like a—" Jane began sternly, but subsided when Michael threw her a quick glance.

He turned back to Christina. "You need not take lessons—per se. But you
are
fifteen now. In a couple of years, you will be ready for your first Season. Perhaps this new governess could help you learn all the niceties that young ladies must know when they make their bows in Society. If we are going to be paying her anyway, we might as well get our money's worth. Eh, Tina?" He gave her a wink.

Christina smiled reluctantly. Her chin, though, still had a most mutinous set. Michael had his work cut out for him to jolly
her
out of her bad mood today. His mother, too, looked most unhappy, and he also had his work out in the fields today. He was going with the bailiff to inspect the plots being readied for spring planting, which was coming upon them quickly.

His old leg wound gave another warning twinge, and he flexed it secretly under the table. If his mother or sister had even a tiny suspicion that his leg ached, they would overwhelm him with fussing.
That
would be even worse than their bickering.

He took a deep swallow of his coffee and said, "All right, Mother, why don't you tell us about this governess the agency found?"

"She is probably a dry old stick," Christina muttered.

"On the contrary, my dear." Jane picked up the letter from beside her plate. "She is not old at all. In fact, she's rather young for such a position—just twenty-two. But she's a widow. An Italian lady who married an Englishman. She is well versed in music, languages, deportment, embroidery, the use of globes. Just what we are looking for."

Christina brightened a bit and sat up straighter in her chair. Michael doubted it was the lady's adeptness with globes she was interested in. His suspicions immediately sharpened. "She is
Italian
?" Christina said.

"Yes." A frown wrinkled Jane's brow beneath the edge of her cap. "That is unfortunate. A
foreign
governess. But, other than that, she appears quite suitable."

"What is her name?" Christina asked.

Jane glanced again at the letter. "Mrs. Kate Brown."

"That does not sound Italian at all!" Christina pouted. "I thought it would be something more—exotic."

"My dear Christina, you really must..." And Jane went on, talking to her daughter of suitability and proper behavior and what the neighbors might think. Michael heard her voice, but not the words, as he finished up his cooling coffee. He had heard it all before, and the twinges in his leg were growing more insistent.

As soon as his mother's voice paused, he said, "Well, then. If you fine ladies will excuse me, I have some accounts I must go over in the library before I go riding out."

"Oh, yes, of course, Michael, dear," his mother said, appropriately distracted. "I must be going up to dress. I told Lady Ross I would come into the village today to help her arrange flowers at the church." Her faded green eyes took on a calculating light. Lady Ross was her only rival for social leadership in the neighborhood, and every encounter with this nemesis took minute planning. It was like what watching Wellington at Aranjuez must have been like. "Christina, you will come with me, of course. Lady Ross's daughters will be there, and I know they would enjoy seeing you."

Before Christina could shout out a protest, Michael pushed himself up from his chair and said hastily, "Excellent! I am sure you ladies will have a jolly morning, then." He kissed his mother's and sister's cheeks, and managed to make his way to the library with scarcely a limp.

Once there, in his inner sanctuary where the ladies seldom appeared, he dropped into one of the overstuffed chairs by the fireplace. The ache in his leg eased a bit when he stretched it out on the footstool, rubbing at the knotted muscle over the ill-healed thighbone.

After the crash, the doctors said at first that he would lose the leg. Then that he would never walk again. But he determined to prove them wrong. He was Amelia's only parent now, and he had to be strong and whole for her, even when his spirit longed to sink into black grief. So he worked hard, secretly at night in his lonely room, doing leg lifts and sit-ups and lunges until he wanted to shout out with the sweating agony of it all. Then he walked, across the bedroom, out the door, down the stairs. By the time they came to Thorn Hill, he could ride and run and even wield a scythe in the fields like a peasant farmer.

His leg never had fully healed, though, and still sometimes sent out obnoxious reminders of that fact. It had been paining him more of late, but he always managed to hide it well enough in their small family group.

But would he always be able to when Mrs. Brown came into their midst?

Mrs. Kate Brown.
He sat back in his chair and closed his eyes, thinking about the Italian lady with the resolutely English name. A young widow, well versed in languages. She sounded rather—intriguing.

Not like Christina's last governess, the dry, gray-haired Miss Primm, who so admirably lived up to her name. He wondered what Mrs. Brown looked like. Dark-eyed, like the Italian signorinas he had met in Florence as a young man? Small, slim, with fire in their hearts and high, sweet bosoms that swelled from their silken bodices...

Michael laughed at himself and his wild fantasies. Mrs. Brown could be as plain as a mud hen or as glorious as Helen of Troy—it would make no difference. He was no longer the wild youth who drank rough red wine in Florence tavernas and made love to ebony-haired courtesans on rooftops overlooking the Arno. He was a respectable country gentleman, a father. No signorina would look twice at him now. And Mrs. Brown was not coming to Thorn Hill to be anything to him. She was coming to help his family, and for that he would be grateful to her.

Grateful—no more. No female servant had ever had to fear his advances beneath his roof, and he would not start now. Even if this Mrs. Brown turned out to hold all the languorous warmth of the Italian sun in her eyes.

A soft knock sounded at the library door, bringing him abruptly back to the present moment.

"Come in," he called, sitting up straight in his chair. He carefully swung his leg back to the floor, trying his damnedest to seem casual and relaxed.

Christina came into the room, Michael's tweed riding coat folded over her arm. Her hair was brushed and tied back neatly with a green ribbon that matched her eyes, but she still wore the gown with the muddy hem.

Michael smiled at her, thinking how very pretty she had become. And how wild and reckless, wandering the moors at all hours. Hopefully, this Mrs. Brown
could
help her. London Society would eat her alive if she kept on as she had.

She perched on the arm of his chair. "I brought your warm coat, Michael. It is a bit windy out there this morning. I also brought this." She pulled out a small, clear glass jar, filled with some murky yellow green substance. "It is an herbal salve I've been experimenting with, using herbs I dug up on the moors. Mrs. Sowerby says they do wonders. I thought you might try it on your leg, just as part of my experiment."

Michael squeezed her hand in his, grateful for this unpitying sympathy. Christina
could
be a wild, muddy hoyden, but she could also be patient and kind. She had a good heart. She went on social calls with their mother, even though she found them excruciating. She played games with Amelia by the hour and never tired of her niece's childish prattle.

She noticed when Michael's leg was bothering him, and helped him however she could. With salves and warm coats.

"Thank you, Tina," he said. "Perhaps you'll help me into my coat?"

"Of course." She tightened her hand on his as he stood, her fingers rough from all the digging she did outdoors. She held the coat for him to slip on, and smoothed the warm tweed folds over his shoulders. "There! You will be the handsomest man in the neighborhood when you go riding out."

He laughed. "More handsome than young Henry Haigh-Wood? I hear all the ladies swoon when he walks into assemblies."

Christina wrinkled her freckled nose. "You are a hundred times more handsome than Henry Haigh-Wood. Only
silly
ladies swoon over his foppish gold curls and pink waistcoats!"

"I doubt Louisa Ross would agree with you. Mother says they're betrothed."

"Then Louisa Ross is only the silliest lady in the neighborhood. All the ladies sigh over
you,
Michael. They weep that you never dance at assemblies, and they are stuck with only Henry Haigh-Wood."

Michael grinned at her. "You are a good sister indeed to flatter your old brother, Tina. Did Mother entreat you to say that? Has she enlisted you in her cause to see me marry again?" Unconsciously, his hand drifted to his left cheek, to the long scar that sliced from his temple across his cheekbone into his hair. The ridge was hard beneath his touch.

Christina caught his hand, pulling it down. "Michael. Your scar is not nearly so great as you think. It has quite faded away. And Mother did not bribe me—the ladies
do
watch you. Emmeline Ross in particular. And she is slightly less silly than her sister." Her smile turned mischievous, elfish. "Mother says you should marry Emmeline."