The Game and the Governess (32 page)

Phoebe’s words were caught in her throat. A dance? But she had not danced in years. And then it had been partnered with other girls in her class at Mrs. Beveridge’s. But she had loved it. Loved moving in time to music, loved the delightful possibilities that existed only for young ladies in their first ballroom. All that hope, tied together with ribbon.

And she would be attending the dance with him. With Mr. Turner. This confusing man, who had in a matter of days gone from a boor to repentant to someone she felt herself trusting. And it had been so long since she trusted anyone.

She did still have a few of her gowns from her old life. But would they even fit? She had not tried them on in years, and she had changed so much since then.

But apparently, she had not changed nearly as much as she thought, because she found herself nodding slowly.

And saying, “Yes. I will go to the Summer Ball with you.”

He grinned wide, and brought her hand to his lips. “Brilliant,” he breathed. “Marvelous.”

      19

Preparations for deep play are as important as the cards themselves.

T
he next few days were a flurry of activity at Puffington Arms. Every single member of the household had preparations to make, to be ready in time for the festival.

As the local gentry, Sir and Lady Widcoate had the honor of playing host at the Summer Ball, which was held at the assembly rooms in Hollyhock, as the ballroom at Puffington Arms was simply too small to host the entire town. Lady Widcoate would proudly inform anyone who asked, and many who didn’t, that she’d suggested the Doric columns on the exterior to the builder when the assembly rooms were first being constructed. Of course, when faced with her sister’s logic that the building had been standing since the previous century, Lady Widcoate simply sniffed and said, “Well, I would have done.”

As it was, the assembly rooms in Hollyhock needed
a thorough cleaning and decorating, and as the stated hosts of the affair, the Widcoates sent out a bevy of chambermaids to scrub the place from top to bottom. That the caretaker of the assembly rooms cleaned them on a weekly basis did not matter. This was a matter of pride.

As was the decorating. A task to which Lady Widcoate had set every other lady in the house. The Countess, Mrs. Rye, and all three girls were conscripted into her army. They were forced inside (a huge loss to Minnie, who was honing her archery skills) and to the work of sewing bunting, choosing objets d’art that Lady Widcoate decided should cover every available surface in her desire to impress, and deciding on the best of all possible flower arrangements.

Apparently, the argument that broke out over the merits of peonies was to go down in the annals of Puffington Arms history. Rumor had it that the disagreement had been augmented by a letter Mrs. Rye received from Bath.

“And then he said—” Henrietta had been saying as dozens of different flowers were brought before them. But as always, Minnie interrupted her, chafing against the confines of being a lady.

“I can’t look at another flower,” she whined. “I think they are making my nose run.”

Such an idea obviously had come into her head when the countess had declared that the bouquets were making her sneeze, and thus excused herself. Lady Widcoate, never having hidden her preference for her sister’s company to that of her guests, had followed suit, thus leaving the Ryes and Miss Benson in charge of all flower decisions.

“If that were the case, you would not be so eager to go outside,” Mrs. Rye snapped. Her eyes were on the letter in her hand. When she finished, she looked up to find the eyes of all three of her charges on her.

“Mr. Rye has requested that we return to Bath,” Mrs. Rye said by way of explanation, trying to sound breezy, but failing. Instead, her hands shook with anger. “But of course, we cannot return yet. Not when Clara has made such friends with the earl.”

Henrietta’s eyebrows went up, but she wisely said nothing. Apparently, Mr. Rye’s enjoyment of other women and the circumstances of Mrs. Rye’s removal to the country had not escaped Henrietta. And, judging by the look she exchanged with Minnie, it had not escaped the older girl either.

Clara, however, seemed oblivious, scoffing at her mother’s declaration. “Mother, Lord Ashby wants nothing to do with me.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Clara. Of course he does,” Mrs. Rye replied hotly.

“Mother, Lord Ashby has twice called me Minnie.
Today.
He’s half in love with the countess and he’s probably twice my age. He has no interest in me,” Clara declared. “Besides, I’m sure Father misses us.”

“You father misses being considered respectable,” Mrs. Rye scowled. But then, remembering herself, “But that does not mean you should not make a go of it with Lord Ashby.”

“Mother, I—”

“You have to
try
, Clara. Not just be a frightened little twig!” The whole room flinched at the words.

But for once, Clara was not silenced.

“I don’t want to!” she cried, her bottom lip shaking.

“I don’t care! You are going to work at attracting Lord Ashby—and . . . and we are staying here until you do!”

Just then, one of the kitchen girls brought in a large vase of lurid pink peonies from the greenhouse.

“And absolutely no peonies!” she screeched, before knocking the girl over on her way out the door—leaving the floral decisions for the Summer Ball to a group of teenage girls.

Everyone, it seems, was feeling pressured.

The reasoning for Mrs. Rye’s dislike of peonies would remain unknown, but the other members of the house went along in their festival preparations without as much dramatic intrigue, and a great deal more labor.

The cook had been permitted to bake and sell some pastries during the festival. Thus she set to work making tray upon tray of thankfully not-poisoned blackberry tarts.

Kevin the groom was put to the task of cleaning and polishing the carriage, so its lacquered finish would gleam bright in everyone’s eyes.

Ned was himself frequently in the stables, putting the children through their paces. Rose had set herself a goal of riding into town the day of the festival on the back of Turner’s mare. Ned agreed to the scheme, as long as he walked beside the horse. Henry, it seemed, was more than happy to ride in the carriage and let his sister take the lead.

When he was not instructing the children, Ned was busy making arrangements to take Phoebe to her first ball. Nanny was persuaded, with only a moderate
bribe—an affection for Phoebe tempering any extravagance—to make certain there were no nursery obstacles. But making sure Lady Widcoate did not have a problem with her children’s governess dancing with a secretary required more maneuvering.

He finally hit upon a solution, when he offered to forgo the “commission” Sir Nathan kept promising for turning the Earl of Ashby toward agreeing to the town’s proposal, in exchange for Sir Nathan’s smoothing the whole thing over with his wife.

Sir Nathan agreed with a hearty clink of his pint of ale.

Sir Nathan, now that the town’s future as a bathing retreat was secured, no longer felt such pressure to impress his houseguests. For him, this meant he would go shooting with his fellow consortium members, even though it was not hunting season. Or perhaps he would go into Hollyhock and stop by the pub for a chat, and be home in time for supper. Invariably, it did not much alter how he had been acting before—he simply felt less guilty about it.

Meanwhile, another person who should have been as relaxed as Sir Nathan was instead the reverse. Mr. Fennick—as the representative of the Hollyhock Bathing Consortium—had made the trip to Puffington Arms multiple times with the intention of stabilizing the agreement with the earl, only to be put off multiple times. As a man of the law, he only felt safe once things were put in writing. He asked so many questions, demanded so much time—his eagerness was grating, as was affirmed by the whole party (Sir Nathan remaining markedly silent when it was brought up at dinner),
and all declared that the earl was right to avoid him and simply enjoy the time he had left visiting the country.

Mr. Fennick kept a wide smile on his face, making sure to not let anyone see it falter. No one could know of his worry that the deal was too good to be true.

And “too good to be true” was exactly what Miss Phoebe Baker felt about the Summer Ball. Or rather, about her apparent attendance. Somehow, her Mr. Turner had removed every obstacle to it. And in doing so, he also removed the obstacles she had placed in her own mind.

Governesses don’t dance.
Well, apparently, this one would.

Governesses cannot walk out in public with a man
. But at the Summer Ball, she could.

Governesses should not have suitors
. Should or not, that was what seemed to be happening. And it made Phoebe feel like her insides were aglow with excitement.

There was, of course, the issue of distraction. And this wonderful, shining ball waiting for her in the distance was a compelling distraction. Phoebe found herself thinking about dancing, while giving lessons. She thought about her old blue silk dress, altering it in the wee hours between dinner and sleep so it would fit her thinner frame.

Over and over again, she thought about that moment in the lane, just before his lips touched hers . . . and the sunlit kiss just outside her bedroom door, when his hand had cupped the side of her face, and it shot fire to her belly.

Governesses are not romantic.
And yet . . . every beat of her heart, every wayward thought proved this wrong.

Was this her adventurous heart breaking free from her practical shell? Someone in her position could not afford to be imprudent. She knew that. She had known that for five years, and kept those words at the forefront of her mind. She had her goal, after all. Two more years, and then America. But now, with Mr. Turner . . . it was something new. Something stronger than prudence. Something worth savoring.

It was at that moment that a knock came to the schoolroom door, snapping her out of her reverie.

“Goodness, what’s happened?” she said, shaking her head free of the cobwebs.

“You were reading aloud,” Rose said. “About different horse breeds? And then you just . . . stopped.”

“And someone’s at the door!” Henry piped up, running to answer.

“Henry, remember your manners, if you please!” Phoebe tried, but he was already at the door, swinging it open to reveal Nanny.

“Hullo, children. Time for luncheon,” she said, flashing a smile at the young master. While Phoebe was in charge of the education, Nanny was in charge of the schedule, and anytime it called for feeding was considered a celebration.

Henry whooped and took off down the hall, Rose close on his heels.

“Do not run. The food is not going away!” Phoebe admonished.

“You’d had them late five minutes,” Nanny said, watching the children go off toward the nursery. “And you picked a bad day to do it. Lady Widcoate wants you in the drawing room.”

“Me?” Phoebe asked, surprised.

“She actually
came into the nursery
to find you,” Nanny warned. “And I bet I know what it’s about too. But don’t let her bully you, Miss Baker. No reason you can’t go dancing with your Mr. Turner, as far as she’s concerned.”

Phoebe moved with trepidation to the drawing room, but kept her head high. She could not help but worry about what Lady Widcoate might want—seeing as she was not given to involving herself in the affairs of her children—but her mind kept echoing something Nanny had said.

Her
Mr. Turner. Nanny was not the first person to say it—Danson had made that observation much earlier. But Danson seemed more privy to Mr. Turner’s affairs than Nanny ever was to Phoebe’s. Had their association become . . . obvious?

And, more important—was he
her
Mr. Turner?

Such ruminations were quickly put aside as Phoebe knocked on the door to the drawing room, and a feminine but direct “Come in!” gave her entrance.

“Ah, Miss Baker,” the Countess Churzy said graciously, her impeccable manners, as always, in place. “Do join us.”

A sharp look to her sister had Lady Widcoate joining in. “Yes. Please join us. We have a matter to discuss.”

“We do?” Phoebe asked. “Forgive me, is there something amiss with Rose or Henry?”

“No,” the countess answered before her sister could. “Not at all. They have been so engaging when they are presented before dinner. You have done well.”

“Thank you,” Phoebe replied simply. And yet she knew there was more to that sentence.

“The issue is with you,” Lady Widcoate interjected.

“Me?”

“You are attracting attention to yourself in a manner that is most unseemly,” Lady Widcoate sniffed.

“I am?”

“Well, obviously, if that Mr. Turner is requesting to escort you to the Summer Ball!” Lady Widcoate huffed. “You have not been in good company lately, so I’ll have you know that man is nothing of the sort! Teaching Rose to ride—she will fall and break her neck and Henry will follow suit!”

“Now, Fanny . . .” the countess tried, but Lady Widcoate was on a tear and enjoying it.