The Reluctant Governess (16 page)

Sunny was rolling out ginger biscuits with Mrs. Quinn and Eliza felt quite superfluous. Maybe Nicholas had been right from the beginning—his household didn't need her. Now that everyone was recovered from their indisposition, Sunny could learn her maths by measuring ingredients in the kitchen.

That wouldn't serve forever. But the child was not yet five years old and was entitled to enjoy her playtime. There must be a nursery school in the area where she could be sent if the governess quest was not successful.

Eliza looked back on the morning with mortification. Nicholas had sworn he would do his best to make sure her job at the Evensong Agency was secure, and he had. Oliver had rung her up. She didn't have a thing to worry about.

She opened the door that led to the back garden for a breath of fresh air. There was no question of going out the front door—some reporters had returned once the rain had stopped, and the sun was making a feeble attempt to break through the clouds. The air was warm for October but heavy, and Eliza hoped the men were wilting in their woolen suits. So far, no one had breached the private little yard.

Stepping down into the patchy grass, she brushed aside the wet bushes that caught her skirts. The garden had been neglected, which was a shame, for once it must have been lovely. A few straggly mums dared to poke through the weed-filled soil. A brick path to the necessary was just visible under slippery moss. Sunny hated the dark little shed, but it was not often that it was in use. Eliza would like to stick some of the newsmen in it and lock them in.

If this were Eliza's yard, she'd be down on her knees getting everything in order. As a girl she had helped her mother in their small garden before they were forced to move house. Her mother had the vision, and Eliza supplied the brawn to achieve it. Gardening was restful despite the physical exertion. There was satisfaction to ripping up weeds, rather like totaling a set of numbers. Everything had a place, and the geometry of a flower bed was eye-pleasing.

This garden had never seen geometric organization. There was a wildness to it that surpassed informal cottage gardens. Eliza couldn't stop herself from bending over to uproot a tasseled stalk of grass that came to her waist.

She heard the door latch snick behind her and hastily righted herself. No one needed to see her derriere on display.

“I didn't hire you as my gardener,” Nicholas said as he bounced down the steps. He was carrying a blue and white striped hatbox from a Bond Street millinery Eliza could only dream of shopping in.

“You really didn't hire me at all, if I remember correctly. Is that Miss Scully's new hat? I'm not sure bribery will work for her to hold her tongue.” She wiped her damp hands on her dark skirt, her heart beating just a little quickly.

“I'm not wasting this hat on that woman.” Nicholas lifted the lid and a cloud of pale blue tissue paper exploded. “It was all I could do to get this through the gauntlet. They're back again.” He didn't have to say who “they” were.

“Did Miss Scully go to them?”

“Not that I'm aware. There's been another development.”

Eliza didn't want to know. “Don't tell me and spoil the afternoon. Let me see what's inside.”

Nicholas grinned. “Just like Sunny at Christmas. You have to remember Tubby picked it out, so I don't even get the credit.”

He reached in and pulled out a pleated rose-pink velvet hat, trimmed in sage green cording. It looked plain at first sight, until Eliza saw the spray of perfect buds and leaves peeking from under the curled brim that would nestle against one's hair. Intricately braided green velvet ribbons served as ties.

“It's lovely.”

“It's yours. If you'll take it. It's a remarkably staid purchase, for Tubby. He's captured your taste even on such short acquaintance. I was expecting something suitable for the Folies Bergère. Feathers and flimflam. Try it on.”

Eliza couldn't resist. From the heat of her cheeks, she knew she was the color of the hat as Nicholas helped her tie the ribbon.

“You look like you belong in a garden,” he said, his voice husky. “The prettiest bloom in it.”

She wanted to tell him to stop his own flimflam, but her tongue didn't cooperate. He was so near. Mixed with the smell of the damp earth and the fallen leaves was the scent of sandalwood and turpentine. Not an especially seductive aroma, but Eliza was seduced nonetheless.

“Kiss me,” she whispered. She might regret her request later, but later was not now.

His eyebrows knit. “I promised not to.”

“Promises were meant to be broken.” Never before in Eliza's world, but she wasn't there now. Instead she stood in a lush miniature jungle beneath a blue-gray sky, wearing the most beautiful hat she'd ever owned. Anything could happen.

“We need to talk first.”

Bother talking. But Nicholas looked quite serious. He led her to a cedar bench in the rear of the garden and wiped it down with a handkerchief. Their presence would be obscured from any glances out the kitchen window, not that Eliza cared at the moment.

“Footprints?” he questioned.

“Oliver's. He climbed over the wall the other day.” It had been amusing to watch. She arranged her skirts and sat down. Nicholas didn't join her. Instead he wore a hole in the earth with one boot, not meeting her eyes.

“He doesn't like me. Why is that?”

“Oliver is like a brother to me. I'm sure you're mistaken.”

“I don't think so. You haven't asked me what happened at the Evensong Agency.”

Eliza didn't need to. Oliver had been on the telephone to her as soon as Nicholas stepped out the door to Mount Street. He had only a few seconds to speak, but her office job was safe, and she should be over the moon. Why wasn't she?

“I—I spoke to Oliver earlier,” Eliza admitted.

“You can go back at any time. You should go back today.”

Eliza looked up at him. “T-today?”

Nicholas nodded. “It's best for all concerned.”

“What about Sunny?”

“I don't see her out here, do you?”

“She's in the kitchen, but—”

“Just as she was before you came. We'll manage without you. Really, we will. I cannot trust myself around you, Eliza. I look at you, sitting beneath that becoming hat, and I want to toss it to the ground and ravish you. Look what I've made you do already.”

“You didn't make me do anything I wasn't prepared to do!” Eliza said, bristling. “You make me sound like a puppet whose strings you've pulled.”

“You told me you hated me.”

So she had. But she hadn't meant it.

“You confuse me. Frustrate me, but I don't hate you.”

“Well, you should. I'm not good for you, Eliza. You've said as much yourself.”

Eliza didn't like this new penitent Nicholas at all. “What's come over you? I thought you were going to kiss me.”

“And then what?”

“I—I don't understand.”

He ran a hair through his curls. He did that a lot; no wonder he looked so adorably rumpled all the time. “Oh yes you do. You know what happens when we get started. You've satisfied your curiosity by now, I trust.”

Curiosity? Is that how this all began? Eliza couldn't remember the sequence of things. He'd been ill, he'd kissed her—

And then she had kissed him.
Made
him kiss her back. It was she who'd been pulling the strings, and now they were in a tangle.

“You know I'm right,” he continued when she didn't say anything. “You don't belong here.”

Eliza swallowed back her objection. She
didn't
belong here. She wasn't a proper governess even if she had devised strategies to amuse difficult children. Jonathan Hurst had been a handful until he'd come under her purview, and Eliza had made his new governess's life much easier after subduing his terroristic tendencies.

She had received a sweet letter from Jonathan's sister Penelope just last week.

Before Eliza had come to Lindsey Street and lost her mind.

“Are—are you ordering me to go?” Eliza asked.

Nicholas threw up his hands. “I don't order people around, Eliza. That's what my brother Alec does. But I think you should give careful consideration to leaving. A few papers have printed your name. I don't trust Miss Scully, even if Tubby tries to keep her quiet by whatever means necessary. I commissioned him to do that for me this afternoon—he likes to feel useful and throw his money around. Things may get even uglier, though. Phil Cross has escaped from jail. I don't think he's stupid enough to come after me, but he's not the sharpest knife in the drawer. A joke, Eliza. Ha-ha.”

Involuntarily, Eliza looked down at Nicholas's thigh. It was almost time for Dr. Samuelson to remove the stitches. The wound had been perilously close to Nicholas's manhood, of which Eliza so far had only seen mere glimpses.

Which was as it should be. Wasn't it?

Focus, Eliza, focus.

“Are you in danger?”

Nicholas snorted. “Only from you. I appreciate how you held everything together while the household was sick, but we're fine now. Of course we'll miss you, but you really should go back to the Evensong Agency. I'll give you a substantial bonus for your service.”

The thought of money changing hands between them raised Eliza's hackles. But really, how stupid was she being? Of course she expected to be paid—her mother depended on her.

Her mother
. Eliza hadn't seen her since she arrived on Lindsey Street. Their telephone conversations had been unsatisfactory. Suddenly Eliza wanted to go home in the very worst way.

But not for good. She wasn't going to leave Nicholas in the lurch no matter what he said.

“I'll think about it,” Eliza said. “Since you think you can spare me altogether, you shouldn't object to giving me a few hours this afternoon to see my mother. I've worried about her.”

Nicholas looked stricken. “Of course not! We should have arranged time off for you long before now. But why don't you just go for good?”

“Perhaps I will. Let me see what my mother has to say.”

Eliza could hear her mother now, telling her to follow her heart, seize the day, not worry about her—things that Eliza had been heretofore incapable of. She loved her mother and felt responsible for her. Her sense of duty was strong, else she would have put a pillow over little Jonathan Hurst's face a year ago after he dropped the dead moths on her. Eliza liked to finish what she began, tally the numbers, read to “The End.” Life might not be logical, but that didn't mean Eliza wouldn't try to bend it to her will.

Her feelings toward Nicholas Raeburn were most illogical. The man disrupted her thought processes in a way no one ever had, not even Richard Hurst. Eliza was beginning to see she had put the barrister in an ivory tower. She'd never dreamed of being naked in his arms, having him lick—

No. Her mind was wandering off in a treacherous direction, and her mother would take one look at her and call the banns. Eliza didn't want to marry Nicholas. He'd be an unsuitable husband. His wife would never know what mischief he'd be up to next.

But oh—to wake up to him every morning, his long, lean body pressed against hers—

Just stop dreaming, Eliza
, she scolded herself.

There was a considerable hole in the damp ground now. If Nicholas had a valet, the man would be castigating him on the damage to his boot. The rest of him was somewhat rumpled, too. The moisture in the air had made his curls riotous and his tie was askew.

Eliza knew that beneath his gloves, there were traces of oil paint on his long, capable fingers. She remembered where those fingers had been this morning and sighed.

“How are you going to escape? Those bloodsuckers are out front, you know.”

Eliza reluctantly removed her beautiful new hat. “I'm going inside to get my coat, purse, and old hat. Will you give me a boost up over the wall when I come out?”

The flat smelled like apples, which was only right since a big blue bowl of them sat on the kitchen table and a pie was in the oven. They had a part-time housekeeper, but today wasn't one of her days, and Eliza's mother had made the pie herself. Her cheeks were pink, and she bustled about—or what passed for bustling for her with her tricky knees—getting Eliza a cup of tea. She would wait to imbibe until Dr. Samuelson's visit later, she informed Eliza.

Eliza was concerned. “Should you be in bed? I can get my own cup of tea, you know.” There was a bakery around the corner that delivered, too, if only Mrs. Lawrence had bothered to ring them up.

“Oh, it's not a professional visit, dear,” Mrs. Lawrence said, wiping her swollen hands on a checked apron. She eased herself onto a slat-back chair, looking like a flour-dusted angel. She was still such a pretty woman despite the strains of arthritis.

“What do you mean?”

Her mother gave her an arch look. “I mean exactly what you think I mean. I might as well tell you. Dr. Samuelson and I have become good friends. Very good friends. He's taken to coming around after his appointments. For tea. Sometimes supper.”

He had? Since Eliza had moved back home from the Hursts three months ago, she had not found Dr. Samuelson underfoot at the end of the day.

“Mama, is he
courting
you?” Though fit for his age, the doctor was a good two decades older than her mother. He had those very wooly eyebrows, too.

“Would it bother you if I said yes? Marcus is a widower. His son and grandchildren are all the way across the Atlantic in Boston. He's lonely, like I am. When you were a governess for that barrister, we began keeping company. Of course, after you came back home, we thought it best to be discreet and not shock you.”

Eliza knew her mouth was hanging open. Her mother just as much confessed to having an affair with kindly old Dr. Samuelson. No wonder he'd been so diligent with his patients on Lindsey Street. He'd wanted to make a good impression on Eliza.

And she'd asked him to keep an eye on her mother. How he must have been inwardly chuckling.

“Mama!”

Her mother's pink cheeks deepened in color. “Don't judge. I know I've failed at my motherly duties. Of late, you've taken more care of me than I have of you. Even when your father was alive, you ran our household, and ran it wonderfully. Much better than I ever could have, even if I had been well. You're so good with the household accounts. But if I marry Marcus, you can have a life of your own. Give up working in that office and stop worrying about me. Expand your horizons. Travel a bit. You liked Scotland last summer, didn't you? We can give you an allowance. Marcus is rather well off—not so much from his medical practice but from wise investments.”

Unlike Eliza's father. But then he hadn't planned on dying at forty-two.

“I love my job,” Eliza said, wondering to which job she was referring.

“I know you do, dear. You're a modern young woman. But how it would pain your father if he were still alive to know you were forced to earn a living. Wouldn't it be lovely if we could depend on someone else for a change?”

Her mother sounded so reasonable. Eliza didn't want to depend on anyone—one was apt to be disappointed before long.

Eliza had no taste for the tea set in front of her. Her mind was whirling with these unexpected developments. “He's really asked you to marry him?”

Mrs. Lawrence nodded. “Last spring. But I didn't want to be disloyal to your father's memory. Marcus reminded me he had a first love, too, and that we'd always have our pasts to contend with. I told him last week I've reconsidered. It seems silly to wait much longer at our age.”

“You're not so old!” Eliza said.

“No, I suppose not. But Marcus is. He takes good care of himself—I doubt I'll get him to eat more than one piece of my pie—but he's a bit past sixty. He wants to retire soon. In the country. He's looking at property in the Cotswolds.”

Eliza pictured her mother in a small golden stone manor house, with a staff of cheerful servants and a cottage garden.

“There would be a room for you, of course,” her mother continued. “I don't want you to think we're selfish. You come first and always will.”

“Don't be silly, Mama. I'm all grown up—twenty-four, if you recall! A confirmed spinster. I could even support myself here in London, perhaps share a flat with another girl.” Even as she said the words, they curdled on her tongue. There would be woolen stockings drying on racks, mismatched china, faded curtains, tinned food. Possibly a cat. Eliza had no objection to cats per se; in fact she'd always wanted a kitten growing up. Wouldn't Sunny adore something to snuggle up with besides her old bear? She would suggest just that to Nicholas.

Mrs. Lawrence pursed her lips. “I wish you could find a young man.”

“I don't want a young man,” Eliza lied.

“So, do we have your blessing? Marcus has been anxious. He thinks you are a very formidable young woman.”

Dr. Samuelson was
afraid
of her? How could Eliza possibly object to her mother's happiness and security?

“Of course you have my blessing.” Eliza tried to smile. She was happy for her mother; really, she was.

“Well,” her mother said, patting Eliza's hand, “that's one difficult subject put to rest. Now, tell me about Nicholas Raeburn. You have had a time there, haven't you? I've been worried to death. Can you sue those papers?”

Eliza didn't have to ask which ones. Despite Nicholas's order that they not publish her name, several had and made her out to be no better than she ought to be.

“It will all blow over soon.” Eliza raised a hand and crossed her fingers just as she used to as a little girl when every problem could be easily solved. “And Mrs. Evensong said my place at the agency is being held for me.”

“But what about the madman? The escaped convict? I really think you should come home, Eliza.”

“Nicholas isn't concerned.”

“Nicholas?” Her mother pursed her lips again.

“M-Mr. Raeburn. He—he's not a very formal gentleman, and has asked me to call him by his given name. He's absolutely devoted to his daughter and we haven't been able to find anyone yet to replace me.” If Miss Scully went to the papers, they never would.

Lord, vast quantities of cream and pink skin on canvas. Eliza passed out on the couch like a wanton. Nicholas half naked himself. Miss Scully had quite a story to tell.

“I shouldn't wonder. I usually trust your judgment, Eliza—you've always been a levelheaded girl. But the man has a black reputation. The whole family is notorious. Unexplained deaths, chorines and naked models, etcetera. I've read about his brother for years in the gossip pages.”

Lord Raeburn's chorus girl days were definitely over. He was besotted with his new wife.

“It's all undeserved, Mama. The Raeburns are entirely respectable. Lady Raeburn hired me, and I owe her a great deal.”

“You always had an exaggerated sense of responsibility.” Her mother sighed. “Well, as you've stated, you're all grown up. I can't tell you what you should do.”

Eliza would have liked nothing better at this moment than to crawl into her mother's lap and be told precisely what to do. She didn't think her mother would advocate that she go back to Lindsey Street and remove all her clothes. Let Nicholas Raeburn have his wild and wicked way with her. Lose her maidenhead. Immortalize her on a massive, indecent canvas.

Break her heart.

Up until a few days ago, Eliza was untutored about matters of the heart. She realized now her infatuation with Richard Hurst had never really touched that organ. It had been a girlish crush—he'd never given her any reason whatsoever to go weak at the knees or feel a flutter in her lower belly, or worse yet, soak her drawers. Mr. Hurst had been nothing other than vaguely respectful—he'd never thought to steal a kiss or unbutton a blouse.

Nicholas Raeburn had no trouble sparking her violent reactions. Even when he didn't try to influence her, she wanted to throw something at him or tumble him to the ground. He was extremely vexing, and she should go right back to her typewriter and telephone, paste a welcoming smile on her face as clients came to call, see about acquiring a kitten for the flat she didn't have. The quiet Cotswolds held no appeal—Eliza was a London girl.

An
unmarried
London girl, and bound to stay that way. A man like Nicholas Raeburn, no matter how attractive he found her temporarily, would not be satisfied with just one woman. One model. One muse. He'd have countless affairs with women like the glorious Barbara.

Eliza paled in the literal sense by comparison. She was not dark and mysterious and knowing. She didn't have an ounce of flirtation in her, was proper beyond reason.

Except when Nicholas touched her.

It was her mother's hand that came down on hers. “What is it, dear? You're so quiet all of a sudden. Is my news really unwelcome to you?”

“Oh no, Mama! I'm happy for you—really, I am. Dr. Samuelson is a nice man. I've always liked him.”

“He won't try to take the place of your father,” her mother said quietly.

Eliza could use a father right now, someone stern and sensible. Someone who would tell her to buck up, not lose her head.

But she was afraid it was much too late.

The pie came out of the oven. Eliza stayed for it to cool enough to eat a substantial piece, despite having no appetite. Mrs. Quinn would be looking for her, trying to get supper ready without Sunny underfoot in the kitchen.

Eliza looked at her watch. “I need to go, Mama. Give Dr. Samuelson my best.”

“I will. It will be lovely to have everything back to normal. Let me know when you're ready to come back home.”

Eliza definitely would. She had no interest in discovering her mother and the good doctor in an embrace—or worse—on the parlor sofa. How extraordinary that her ordinary mother was carrying on with a man old enough to be her father.

Eliza supposed it should be a comfort to know her mother would be looked after. She felt no special relief, however—she was in too much turmoil, and her stomach was full of unwanted pie. Eliza climbed onto the omnibus, her future uncertain. But whoever could predict what would happen? The omnibus might overturn, and then she'd wish she was wearing her gorgeous new hat for her final breaths.

She'd never owned anything so perfect. So expensive. Even if Sir Thomas had picked it out, it had been at Nicholas's direction. It was much too gorgeous to sit in its box on a shelf, but she hadn't wanted to arouse her mother's suspicions. Hat or no, Mrs. Lawrence was disinclined to approve of Nicholas Raeburn. She would think Eliza's acceptance of the gift completely inappropriate. If she knew of the other inappropriate activities her daughter had engaged in, she was apt to have a fainting spell.

Eliza got off at Kensington High Street, feeling a little faint herself at the thought of breaching a path through the inevitable reporters a few blocks away. She didn't feel equal to climbing over the neighbor's wall again, especially when Nicholas was not there to guide her.

His hands had been firm at her waist earlier. He'd vaulted her over the brick as if she didn't weigh a thing. He'd given her a wink as she hastily pulled down her skirts. As she hoofed it through the side alley leading to the parallel street, she could hear his rueful laughter behind her. Another adventure.

Eliza was dressed in her customary drab coat and hat. In no way did she resemble a femme fatale with designs upon her employer, or the kind of woman who would attract a famous artist's eye. She chewed her lip and kept her head down, sailing into the headwinds.

Lord. She didn't even have a house key with her—hadn't been given one in the confusion that followed her employment. She would have to bang on the kitchen door like an irate tradesman and hope Mrs. Quinn would let her in.

As she rounded the corner, she spotted two men lounging by the lamppost in front of the house. A sleek new Pegasus motor car was idling a few yards away, hiding who knew how many men. Two wasn't such a huge number—there had been at least ten times that when she'd first encountered the press. In her opinion, London had altogether too many daily newspapers. How foolish she'd been to step outside, thinking she could smooth things over. Eliza had made everything worse.

Making missteps like that was unusual for her, but then everything that had happened lately was unusual. Eliza wondered what “back to normal” might mean. Wondered if there was such a thing as normal.

Nothing ventured, nothing gained. By now her chin was on her chest, and she hoped her hat was covering most of her face. She felt herself shrinking like Alice after she'd taken a sip of some potion. Eliza thought of Sunny with her hands over her eyes. Just because she could no longer see the newsmen, they could still see her.

She jerked when she felt the hand at her elbow, but didn't have time to scream before a gloved hand came down on her mouth. She was pulled into the waiting car. The reporters didn't even notice.