The Game and the Governess (15 page)

“Yes, but on horses, it’s basically the shoulder.”

“But then what is the lower joint?” she asked, fascinated. “Er, on the horse’s leg.”

“It’s like the palm of your hand—the joint’s the wrist,” he replied. “Animals are stretched out differently than humans.”

“Miss Baker, you told us we didn’t have to learn any more today,” Rose warned. “This stuff sounds a lot like learning.”

“Well, perhaps it is something
I
wished to learn,” she replied patiently. “Or your brother might like to know it.”

Henry did indeed seem to be listening, patient child that he was, but Rose did not have her brother’s contemplative nature. She had been promised time to admire the horses, and that was exactly what she wanted.

“But our reward!” Rose said.

“Your reward for what, precisely?” Mr. Turner
asked as he handed to a groom both the horses he had walked into the stables. Rose’s eyes followed the earl’s beautiful stallion as he was taken away to be brushed, cleaned, fed. Mr. Turner seemed to have the same affinity for the horse that Rose did, because he called after the groom, “Only oats and carrots for Abandon, if you please!”

He clocked the look the groom gave him—and then the look Phoebe was giving him. “Er—the earl prefers a certain diet for his horse.”

Phoebe nodded. They were saved from having to make any further conversation by Rose’s jumping up and down and answering Mr. Turner’s now twice-asked question.

“We get the afternoon off from lessons because of what a good job I did at the Questioning yesterday!”

“The Questioning?” he replied, his eyes turning to her.

“Before last night’s dinner,” Phoebe supplied. “The children call it a Questioning.”

“I can see why,” Mr. Turner replied stiffly. “You deserve your afternoon off. And how did you know the answer to thirteen times thirteen?”

But Rose just shrugged. “I figured it out.”

“Well,” Mr. Turner said, blinking, “that’s very . . .”

Oh God, what was he going to say? After all, he hadn’t known the answer. Would he be angry at having been shown up by a child? A girl?

“Very clever,” he finished, and this time Phoebe could not contain her relief.

“Thank you.” Rose beamed.

“But if you don’t have to learn anything else this
afternoon, then what are you going to tell your parents at the Questioning tonight?”

Two little faces fell in unison, into confused recollection.

“We’ve already decided what we learned today. Right, children?” Phoebe prodded. “Rose did the multiplication tables to twenty this morning, as requested.” Rose nodded brightly, as if—oh, yes!—she
did
learn something today. “And Henry, what did you learn?”

“That the arm bone is funny.”

Phoebe could only blink at him. Mr. Turner blinked in concert.

“Where did you learn that?” she asked.

“From you—you said it was humorous,” Henry replied. Then, changing topics with the audacious speed of a child, “May Rose and I go watch them brush down the horses?”

She threw a glance to Mr. Turner. Who seemed frozen. His dark eyes sought hers, and with them, a decision.

“All right, but don’t get in Kevin’s way.” The children ran off to the other end of the stables, where the earl’s horse and Mr. Turner’s were enjoying their dinners. “The groom,” she clarified to Mr. Turner.

He nodded his understanding.

“Be careful,” she called after the children. “Guarded! Mindful!”

“Punctilious?” Mr. Turner supplied from beside her.

“Punctilious.” She nodded. “I will have to make use of that one.”

And then . . . silence.

Now that they were left alone by themselves in the
far side of the stables, the awkwardness that had been apparent in Mr. Turner’s interactions with the children now spread to her. What did one say to an earl’s secretary? Particularly the Earl of Ashby’s secretary?

But she was luckily saved from having to start a conversation or to make her excuses and join the children by Mr. Turner jumping into the fray.

“That little girl is quite intelligent. And better at maths than me.”

Phoebe relaxed. “She is smarter than she’s been told. And her brother, too, in a quieter way.”

“How do you know so much about human physiology?” he asked, conversationally. “The humerus bone, and all.”

She started. “I was previously a governess for three young girls in Portsmouth who were interested in the sciences. Or rather, they were interested in the more morbid parts of it.” She looked askance at him. “How do you know so much about horse physiology?”

The corner of his mouth quirked up. She couldn’t help staring at it. For some reason, her heart began to beat just a hair faster upon seeing that oddly charming, lopsided smile.

“I have a friend from the war who is a doctor. I asked him a lot of bored questions while we were waiting to fight. Since I was having no luck learning the Latin names of the bones in the human body, he started teaching me the bones in horses instead.” She must not have been able to hide her true feelings for once, because he immediately tried to explain. “I liked horses—it was easier to learn. And has come in handy on occasion. I made a wager once with the Duke . . .” He paused
for a moment, and coughed. “Er, that is, a duke’s . . . head groom, and I managed to name more horse parts correctly than him. Won myself a few shillings in the bargain.”

“It sounds like you are quite the inveterate gambler,” she said sternly, her mouth getting tight at the corners again.
That
quality was more indicative of a man who would work for the Earl of Ashby, she thought callously. Not this seemingly polite, if awkward, man with the lopsided smile.

“Never more than I can afford to lose,” he replied with a shrug. “And I never lose anyway.”

“Be warned, Mr. Turner,” she said in her best governess voice. “Everyone loses a gamble eventually. And usually when you can least afford the loss.”

She had learned that much from her father.

“Not I,” he replied with a smile. But there was something behind it. Something strange and urgent. As if he were willing himself into believing his statement, and therefore, it would be unequivocally true.

This man, who had smiled so broadly upon their first meeting in the field that she thought his teeth in danger of falling out, had lost his overcertainty. That cheerfulness was now fueled by sheer will.

Perhaps she had spent too long contemplating that smile, staring into his face curiously, because soon enough his eyes turned wary. His smile faltered.

“Is there something in my teeth?” he asked, amazingly without stopping his smile.

And
that
made her want to laugh. Almost.

“No,” she promised. But she couldn’t keep the humor out of her voice. She knew her cheeks were
under enormous pressure to give way and smile and, God forbid, dimple.

Governesses, she was told, did not have dimples.

But it was nice. It was so nice to stand here with someone in an awkward sort of companionable silence. Normally, she stood alone . . . too high for the servants and too low for the family. She was outside of everything.

But then again, so was this odd secretary with the stretched, lopsided smile and the fear that something was in his teeth.

Oh, dear. She could feel herself slipping into smiling again.

“Mr. Turner,” she began, covering her mouth with a cough to hide her discomfort. “Is it always your practice to encourage young children in underhanded practices?”

“Encourage . . . ?” he asked, that frozen smile slipping off his features in confusion.

“You see them with an afternoon of freedom and do nothing about it?” she asked, unable to hide her dry humor. Yes, it was always best to cover any discomfort with humor.

That she had learned from her father as well.

And she was allowed, wasn’t she? After all, he was not a guest per se, he did not seem like a man to go haring off to Lady Widcoate and revealing that the governess had a sense of humor. Or to Lord Ashby.

Bloody hell—she really had to do better at remembering that he was Lord Ashby’s man. But it seemed to slip out of her mind so easily. Suddenly, her quick tongue and archness seemed too much of a risk.

This was suddenly a gamble.

“Oh, that!” Mr. Turner replied, in a thankfully similar arch tone. “Yes, well—I find that if one encourages underhanded practices in the young, it usually helps to make them more despicable when they are older.”

“And you wish to foster despicableness.”

“Of course!” Mr. Turner cried. “The world is in great need of the truly despicable. Think about it. All these decent people, walking around being kind to one another—nothing will ever get done!”

“Yes—sometimes it does take the truly despicable to force society into movement.”

“Precisely. And how fortunate Rose and Henry have you as their governess, who is gifted in the underhanded arts.”

“Perhaps when they outgrow a governess, they should have you as their tutor,” she replied, biting the inside of her cheek to keep from smiling. “You seem to understand their ways quite well.”

“Oh, no”—he shook his head—“I am not . . . er, suited to children. In general.”

She frowned and let her gaze travel to where Rose and Henry watched, from a safe distance, Abandon being brushed down. Kevin the groom seemed to have warned them away, so they stood in the opposite empty stall. But she could tell Rose was just itching to run forward and touch the horse.

“No? You seemed fine with Rose and Henry just now.” But then she remembered how he tensed up when Rose approached him. “If a little stiff.”

“Truth be told, I haven’t spent any time with children since I was a child myself.”

“Honestly?” She turned to him. “They are not that hard. Just shorter people who require naps on occasion. Same as us.”

He laughed at that. A short, appreciative chuckle. “Well, you seem to be a bit better at it than others, Miss Baker.”

Just then, Rose made her break for it. Kevin the groom was occupied with the back end of the horse; Rose ran forward and made to reach for Abandon’s glossy neck.

“Rose!” she called out, her voice shifting from her playful tones into hard governess in an instant. “What did I tell you?”

“You said be careful?” came the mournful voice of a girl trying to get away with something. “And I am?”

But the groom had been alerted by Phoebe’s voice just as Rose had, and came forward, shooing the children further back.

“Miss Baker, you know Lady Widcoate says Rose an’ Henry were too little to be in here,” Kevin said as Phoebe moved quickly forward. “We would both get in trouble . . .”

“Yes, you’re right.” She whipped her head around and was shocked to find Mr. Turner standing next to her. He had followed her to the front of the stables. “Oh—ah, Mr. Turner, you’ll have to forgive us. The new horses, especially Abandon, simply provided too much temptation.”

“Indeed,” he agreed.

“Usually there are only three horses—Sunshine for the cart and the matched chestnuts for the carriage,” she explained. “For Rose, seeing a Thoroughbred stallion in these stables is akin to seeing a unicorn.”

“No one rides?” Mr. Turner asked quizzically.

“Sir Nathan used to love riding, apparently, but he had reached an, ah, age—”

“And by age, you mean girth,” he smirked.

“—when he was no longer comfortable on a horse,” she finished crisply. “Regardless, I think it’s time for my young charges to get ready for the evening.”

Rose and Henry audibly groaned, but they moved toward Miss Baker, their fate decided.

“Yes,” he said with a bow. “I shall see you tonight before dinner, I presume.”

“I imagine so,” she replied.

Phoebe was about to take the children out of the stables, but suddenly she stopped herself. His mention of seeing them before dinner for the Questioning brought to mind last night’s questioning, and what he had done then. The kindness he had done them.

And what the consequences could be now.

“Mr. Turner,” she began, biting her lip. “Might I offer a bit of advice?”

He seemed taken aback, but replied, “Certainly.”

She took a step toward him and pitched her voice low, hoping Rose and Henry wouldn’t hear.

“You should be a bit . . . careful around Lady Widcoate.”

“Now you’re telling me to be careful?” His lip quirked up in that half smile, but then he saw she was serious. “Whatever for?”

“Last night, when you challenged Sir Nathan and . . . and the earl if they knew the answer to the mathmatics problem . . . Lady Widcoate does not like that kind of arrogance. Especially from . . .”

She let her voice trail off, hoping he would infer her meaning.

“I . . . I did not intend to be arrogant.” Mr. Turner’s brow came down. “I will apologize.”

“No! That will only call attention to it and make her think that you think she was affronted.”

“But you’re saying she was.”

“Yes. And I caution you to be wary. She might find a way to seek . . .” She searched for the word. “Retaliation.”

“Why on earth would she do that?” he mused. Then suddenly, his voice becoming hard, “Has she ever done anything like that to you?”

“No,” Phoebe was quick to assure. “But I have been in her employ for a year now. I know what she’s like.”

“And what is she like?”

Phoebe pressed her lips together.

“She is like one of those girls at Mrs. Beveridge’s School—where the slightest criticism from another would result in an all-out war. Some girls never grow up past the dramatics of their youth.”

He cocked his head to one side, considering. But when he finally spoke, it was not about Lady Widcoate, or her warning.

No, it was about something else altogether.

“Mrs. Beveridge’s School. In Surrey?” He shook his head. “Did you teach there?”

“No,” she replied warily. “I was a student.”

A single eyebrow quirked up, and a sudden jolt of fear shot through Phoebe. Oh, God—had she revealed too much?

“In any case, good day, Mr. Turner,” she said, her breath coming out in one great rush. “Come along, chil
dren!” Turning on her heel, she marched rapid-fire out of the stables, Rose and Henry trotting on their short legs to keep up.