The Governess Club: Louisa (8 page)

He glanced at her and checked her placement of the new shingle. “Make sure you cover as much of the laid shingle as possible. Don’t leave any spaces. What would having different drinks accomplish?”

She fixed the mistakes he indicated. “It would create an exclusivity. We could charge more for the higher-quality drinks. The color of money is all the same, so anyone with coin could purchase it, but the chances of a farmer being able to afford a dram of fine-quality Scotch is rare. It would cater to a higher class of client and keep the inn from being a gin-and-ale-only establishment.”

“You have thought this through.”

Louisa turned her head so he wouldn’t see her blush with pleasure at his comment. “Yes. We could even do the same with the gin and ale. Have different brands and qualities, charging more for the good stuff.”

The bare wood was now out of reach. John moved the nail bag and some shingles over and Louisa followed, hobbling over in her hunched position.

“You might be more comfortable if you kneel.” He indicated his stance.

She shot him a look that said
Don’t be foolish.
“I have no wish to ruin my dress.”

John threw his head back and laughed. “That is such a womanly thing to say.”

She glared at him. “I am a woman, in case you have failed to notice.”

“Aye, that is one thing I noticed about you straightaway.” His voice dropped and when she looked up at him, his eyes had that smolder in them again. Of course her body responded with an ache between her thighs accompanied by a rush of wet heat. He continued. “Getting a little dirty can be pleasurable.”

She turned her attention back to the tar. “There is no excuse for not taking care of one’s clothing, be they male or female. A little caution is a more affordable expense than new clothing.” She deliberately misunderstood his innuendo.

“I would buy you a new dress.”

“No, you would not.”

He fell silent at her quick response and Louisa could feel him looking at her. She kept her attention on the task. When he resumed his painting and spoke, it was something she was not expecting. “Did your husband refuse you new clothes?”

She froze, panic rising up in her.
Dammit.
She had never fully developed the story of her marriage, having never stayed in one place long enough for people to inquire about it. Her mind raced, trying to construct a plausible story.

At her silence, he continued speaking. “I did not mean to distress you by mentioning him. You have never mentioned him, so I am curious. But I would buy you new clothes; I don’t think I would be able to refuse you, were you mine.”

She cleared her throat, focusing on one part of his statement and keeping her eyes on her task. “That is a foolish thing to say. One should not make needless purchases simply because another has stated a desire for it. There are other factors to consider.”

“Like finances.”

“Yes. And need. For instance, if I already had ten dresses, I would hardly need another one, correct?”

“Do you have ten dresses?” The tease was back in his voice. She was beginning to recognize it.

“That is not the point.”

“Just like how the pot was not the point. Do you ever speak directly to the point, or is the extent of your conversation oblique allusions?”

“Oblique allusions? That is quite fancy coming from a prizefighter.”

“I have been known to read a book or two.” He handed her another shingle. “So if you had ten dresses, and the new one you wanted was in a new color, you would not buy it?”

“Not if I could not afford it. And did not need it.”

“Does any woman need ten dresses?”

“It has been many years since I needed or desired more than ten dresses.”

“Were you a governess at one time? You wear a lot of dull colors, green and gray and brown.”

“Can I not simply like them?”

He chuckled. “Not in my experience with women.”

Her hammering paused and John felt he was stepping into unwelcome territory. “You are very inquisitive about my past,” she said.

“We have worked side by side for nearly a month now, Mrs. Brock, two of those weeks as partners. Shouldn’t we know something about each other?”

“Can we not keep our relationship professional?” While she allowed her attraction to him, Louisa did not want him to know too much about her. It would raise awkward questions.

“I knew things about my manager’s personal life and no one doubted our professionalism. You won’t even let me use your Christian name.”

She took another shingle from him and secured it to the roof. She did so with four more shingles before she spoke again. “I was a governess once. It did not last.”

“Was that when you married?”

It was close enough to the truth. She did not invent her late husband until after she left Ridgestone. “Yes.”

“What was his name?”

She shot him a look. “Mr. Brock.”

His look in turn was exasperated. “My late wife’s name was Amanda.”

That made her stop working. “You were married?”

“Yes. She died seven years ago in childbirth.”

Louisa sat back on her heels and looked him directly in the eyes. “I am sorry to hear that.”

John shrugged. “We married because I got her with child. By the time of the birth, we had already acknowledged that we would not suit. She wanted to be with the champion at all times and not the everyday man. I wanted a wife who liked it when I stayed home. More than that, though, I did not want any child of mine to be born a bastard.”

“The child died, I assume.” At least there was none around calling him Father.

He nodded, appreciating her matter-of-fact tone. “That is what I mourned most.”

They stayed silent for several minutes, kneeling on the roof, not quite looking at each other. John had not realized before the comfort of shared silence, how it could soothe. Finally, she took a deep breath, her shoulders rising and falling, and lifted her chin.

“My name is Louisa.”

He looked at her, her raised chin and lips in a firm line. A smile tugged at his lips. “Is that a pity gift?”

She glanced at him. “Whatever do you mean?”

“You feel pity for me, so you are allowing me the use of your name. You’re tossing me crumbs, hoping it will make me feel better.”

Her face showed her exasperation. “You don’t have to use it if you don’t wish to. Hand me a shingle.” She held out her hand.

He held one out to her, not releasing it when she would have laid it on the roof. “It is my pleasure . . . Louisa.”

Was that a blush? He could not quite tell in the fading light. John chuckled as she hammered in the nail. “Let’s hurry it up, Louisa. The light is fading, Louisa. It will be time for dinner soon, Louisa. Maisie needs help preparing the meals, Louisa. I will tend the pub with Packard tonight, Louisa.”

“Oh, would you just stop already!”

His laughter echoed over the yard.

Late October, Ridgestone Manor

J
acob stepped out of the carriage to see Claire, Bonnie and Sara all standing in the drive. Even in the twilight, he could see the anxious look on their faces. Claire pulled her shawl tighter when Stephen and Nathan exited the carriage.

Without Louisa. Their disappointment was palpable.

Grooms and footmen were already seeing to the luggage and Jacob strode to the waiting women. He kissed Claire on the cheek and put his hand on her growing belly. “You should not be outside in such cold weather, sweetheart. Not with just a shawl.”

“You didn’t have any success?” Bonnie asked.

Sir Stephen shook his head, his face grim. “I must echo Jacob’s sentiment, wife. You must take care.”

Bonnie glared at him, even as she accepted his embrace, angling her body to accommodate her large stomach. “I cannot think of such things at this time.”

“You are nearing your time,” her husband pointed out. “You will not have a choice regarding what to think about. Where are the boys?”

“In the nursery, preparing for bed. I was about to go lumbering up when we received word of the carriage. You would not believe how difficult it is to carry all this around.” She rubbed her stomach.

“I will accompany you.” Stephen left his arm around Bonnie, supporting her as she walked.

Sara stood with Nathan’s hand entwined around hers. “You must all be hungry. I will see if Cook has something warm for you.”

She moved to do that, but Nathan tightened his grip on her. “Send a maid.” He nodded at Greaves, the butler, to do so. “I wish to not have my fiancée run away just as I arrive.”

“Is the fire in the drawing room lit?” Jacob asked.

Claire nodded and linked her arm around him, bringing their bodies close as she led them inside. “It is nice and toasty tonight.”

“Your leg is paining you?” Sara asked as Nathan leaned on his cane more after divesting his cloak.

He grimaced. “Just the cramped coach ride. And it is going to snow soon, or so my leg tells me. I will be fine . . .” He leaned in and whispered the rest of his sentence in her ear that had her face turning scarlet.

“I missed you too,” she said softly, fingering the lapels of his coat. “I just wish you had returned with Louisa.”

“As do I. I do not relish leaving you behind as I continue on to Windent.”

Her blush did not lessen. “I am sure we can have a room prepared for you tonight. Claire and Bonnie would serve as chaperones.”

Nathan flashed a grin at her. “They are worse than we are. You hear how they encourage us.”

Sara stopped just outside the drawing room and looked up at him with worry lining her face. “Nathan, I know I said I wished to postpone our wedding until Louisa was found. And—and I thank you for your patience. But if you wish—I mean, if you need—want to, it’s not that import—we could—”

He placed a finger over her mouth. “Stop. We will wait. There is no issue. The purpose of the wedding is to tell the world what we already know: You are mine and I am yours. If your friend is not there, then not all the important people will know.”

Relief flooded through her and she pressed her forehead to his chest. “I am so concerned for her. It has been four months and we still have heard nothing. I feel as though we drove her away, you and I, with what we did. This is a punishment.”

He rubbed her back. “That is foolish thinking. Come into the drawing room and hear our news. It is not encouraging, but the good side of it is that we still have not uncovered anything to indicate she is not enjoying good health. We will resume our search next week once we hear from some inquiries we made.”

He led her into the drawing room to join their friends.

“P
ull your hat down more,” Louisa whispered. “We don’t want to be recognized.”

“I would think my size is revealing enough,” John muttered, obediently tugging his brown cap down as much as possible to hide his bald head. The fake mustache she gave him itched like the devil, but he was glad to have won in not wearing a wig to match it.

She adjusted his clothing, standing so close to him that he could smell the soap she used. Lemon. Tart, just like her, but able to be sweetened with the right ingredients. She said, “I ensured the clothing was purposely large, even on you, to give the impression that you are smaller than you actually are. As I am dressed as your ladybird, I think our disguises are foolproof.”

He glanced down her body. “Your right breast is falling down.”

“Oh good Lord.” He watched in fascination as her hand disappeared down into her bosom to adjust whatever it was she put in her dress to increase the size. The dress itself was a dark blue with lace trim along the hems and bosom and clung to her curves. Her blond hair was arranged in artful disarray, giving the impression of just rising from bed—or coming from a back-alley tup. Her face was heavily adorned with rouge and other coloring, a mole patch placed jauntily below one of her eyes. Seeing her display herself in such a manner, John had to fight the urge to hide her under his coat or, better yet, drag her back to the cart and return to the Beefy Buzzard.

“I thought we were supposed to be making ourselves unremarkable. That”—he indicated her bosom—“is guaranteed to catch every man’s interest.”

Louisa rolled her eyes. “Yes, but they will not be looking at my face, will they?”

He had to give her that. “Yea gods, she will be the death of me,” he said under his breath. Louder, “Remind me again why we can’t just go into the Rose and Crown all normal like.”

She gave an impatient huff. “They are our closest competition for a pub. They don’t offer rooms, so we have the advantage there. But from what I have heard, their ale is superior. I want to find out what they serve. I told you I suspect our brewer is cheating us. Perhaps we can discover something here.”

“But why must we resort to subterfuge? Why can we not just go in as though we are ordinary customers?”

“Because,” she said, as though he were a young child, “we are not ordinary customers. What do you think would happen if word got out that the proprietors of the Beefy Buzzard were frequenting another pub?”

“That we needed a diversion?”

“No, that the quality of our inn is so low we won’t even partake there.”

He frowned. “You don’t drink ale. How do you know it’s bad?”

“Because I serve it. I hear the men making comments about it. And they drink it more slowly the more sober they are.”

“Every man drinks more slowly when he is sober, regardless of the drink.”

“And I see you grimace into your pint every time.”

True, he did that. John heaved a big sigh. “Let’s get this over with then.” He wrapped his arm around her waist and held her close, enjoying the feeling of her soft curves molding into his side.

“I think this part is unnecessary,” she protested.

“No one will believe you are my ladybird if I don’t hold you like this,” he pointed out. “You are too beautiful not to be touched.”

She fought to ignore the blossom of pleasure in her chest at his compliment. “Remember to hunch, make yourself shorter.”

If she didn’t know better, Louisa would have sworn he just huffed like a little girl. They approached The Rose and Crown, the chatter and laughter already spilling out into the street. John swung open the door and led her in, quickly scanning for a table where they could sit as unobtrusively as possible. Finding one, he pushed through the crowd, holding her close to his side. He told himself it was for her protection, but he knew better.