The Game and the Governess (46 page)

“I think, if you wished to take the time and reflect upon it, you will find that much of what Ned told you was the truth,” Mr. Turner replied enigmatically. “The important bits, at least.”

Phoebe could make no reply. She was concentrating too intently on not letting the sting in her nose turn to tears on her cheek. Instead, she simply nodded and let her eyes drift to the window, wanting to stare into the distance. But the curtains were drawn.

Mr. Turner coughed and shuffled some papers on the desk, finally finding the ledger he required. “As I said in my letter, it seems the company your father invested in—the Riversold Building Company—is bearing fruit.”

That made her eyes shoot back to his. “It is?” she asked, incredulous.

“Hmm. And the earl would like to purchase your shares. In fact, he is going to purchase the shares of everyone he can locate who invested in the company. And he has sent men to the Continent to look for Mr. Sharp.”

When she simply blinked at him, Turner coughed again. “As I said, this is long overdue.” He took a pen and wrote out a figure on a piece of paper. “This is what we have determined your shares to be worth.”

When he handed her the paper, she nearly dropped it. It was a sum of money that seemed impossible. So much more than the five hundred pounds he had offered when they were in this eerily similar position. So much more than she would ever want or need.

“It’s not really bearing fruit, is it? The company?” she asked. She didn’t need to look up to see his answer. This was not a purchase of property. Nor was it a bribe, like before, to make her go away.

This was atonement.

Her eyes were still on the paper when Mr. Turner leaned into the desk, his voice gruff with kindness.

“I would not blame you for hating him,” he began.

Phoebe’s eyes shot up to his. “I could never hate him. I’ve tried, but I could not . . .”

It was only when Mr. Turner reached into his breast pocket and pulled out a handkerchief, offering it to her, that Phoebe realized she was crying.

She wiped at her tears ruthlessly.

“Before the wager, before you . . . none of this”—he waved his hand over the desk—“would have happened. You changed him. And he is trying to put things right.”

She took two gulping breaths and forced her eyes to meet his.

“How is he?” she asked shakily.

Mr. Turner considered her for a moment. “If you wish to see him, all you have to do is say the word.”

“I . . .” Everything in her begged to see him. She wanted to hold him and slap him and sink into his arms. But that little warning part of her brain, the crack against her heart that he had put there by breaking her trust, swelled angry and red.

Although it was not angry anymore. Now it just hurt.

“I should go. My ship leaves tomorrow. I have many things to do,” she said, rising, her voice catching in her throat.

“Of course,” Mr. Turner replied, his voice downcast. “One of Lord Ashby’s carriages is ready. He will take you to the bank, where we have left instructions for that amount to be transferred to you.”

She nodded blindly, not listening. She just had to get out of there. Out of this strange place that did not seem like
her
Mr. Turner—her Edward, her Ned—but
oddly smelled like him. Then maybe she would be able to think straight, and breathe again.

“Thank you, Mr. Turner, good-bye,” she said, curtsying before moving swiftly to the hall. And then it was all she could do not to break into a run.

“WHAT THE HELL
are you doing?” Turner said as he drew back the curtain to reveal Ned sitting in the window seat.

“That could not possibly have gone worse,” Ned replied, bereft.

“Why are you sitting here?” Turner asked, crossing his arms over his chest. “The plan was for you to come out and
talk
to her. The minute she said she didn’t hate you, you should have burst out from behind the curtain.”

“She didn’t want to see me.” Ned felt as if his rib cage was breaking in half. Turner had asked her point-blank if she wished to see him. And instead, she had left. Practically run out of the room.

“Am I no longer in your employ?” Turner asked.

Ned slowly nodded.

“Then I will say something that has long needed saying.” Turner practically pulled him out of his chair. “You are an idiot.”

“Turner—she didn’t want me. She left the second she had the money in hand, she wants nothing to do with me. What more proof do you need?”

“What more proof do I need? Ned—that she
came here
is the proof. You are the only reason she did. Her entire manner flattened when I told her you were not
here. I was the one who sat across from her, I know. And did you not hear her cry, for God’s sake? Her heart is still as tangled up in you as she is in yours,” Turner exclaimed. “What did you expect her to do, find you in a ballroom like a high-born debutante? This
was
her coming to you. What more proof do you need?”

Ned took all that in, each word cold water to the face, waking him up.

“I don’t know why you didn’t run after her when she left Puffington Arms,” Turner drawled. “I was a bit unconscious at the time. But I know what it’s like to watch the person you want walk away from you. The difference is, I am going to go after mine. I’ll chase her to the ends of the earth. Don’t let her get away, Ned. If you do, you’ll have to change your name to Foolish Ned, because you let the best bit of luck ever to come into your life walk out the door.”

Ned looked at his friend, his heart racing.

“What if she says no?”

Turner shrugged. “That’s the chance you take.”

And in games of chance, Ned had always been lucky.

His face broke out into a grin as he clapped Turner on the shoulder, causing the man to grunt in pain.

“Sorry,” he said quickly as he moved to the door, not pausing to watch Turner wave him away. Once in the hall, he broke into a run.

“Danson!” he called out, making for the front door. “Have a carriage—no, have Abandon readied and brought round, I must leave at on—”

And suddenly, she was there. He’d pulled the door open, and standing on the step, her hand raised to knock, was Phoebe. His own clear-eyed, too-thin, plain,
beautiful governess. Her eyes meeting his, wide with surprise. Her mouth opened, but no sound coming out.

“Phoebe,” he breathed. His eyes searched her face, his own unable to hide the lopsided smile that gave away all the hope that grew inside his chest.

“I . . . I came back because . . .” She fumbled for the words; she tried to school her features into that imperious, governess mask that he knew so well, but her eyes filling with tears gave her away.

“Hello,” she finally said, lowering her hand.

“Hello,” he replied, taking that same hand in his. “Come in.”

“No.” She shook her head. “I . . . I came back because of this.” With her free hand, she held out the piece of paper that bore the amount Turner had written down. “It’s . . . it’s not what I want.”

Ned felt his heart crash down in his chest, flattening him. Of course, her sense of morality would not let her take money from him. From the hated Earl of Ashby.

“It’s what you are owed, Phoebe. No matter how you feel about me, you must take it, it is your future.”

“But it’s not what I want,” she said again, her voice heartbreakingly small.

“Then what do you want?” he asked, unable to stop himself from brushing a curl back behind her ear. “I’ll give you anything you want, just tell me. Tell me how to fix this. Tell me . . . tell me how to convince you to stay. I’m sorry I lied. I’m sorry about the wager. But I can’t be sorry about everything because I would not have known you otherwise.” He held up their clasped hands, his fingers laced between hers. “You make me better, Phoebe. And I make you happy. Admit it. And I’m not
letting you go this time. Not to America, not even down the street. I will stand here and hold your hand until you remember our first kiss in the lane, and dancing under the stars. Until you remember that you know me, the true me, and might even have loved me once.”

He pressed his forehead to hers, held her gently to him, unwilling to let even a breath of space separate them. “We will stand here like this until time itself blows out, if that’s what it takes.”

“That’s what I want,” she sighed, her voice little more than a whisper.

Ned sought her eyes. “What?”

“I don’t want to go to America. I want to stay—” she gulped. “I . . . I want you. Until time itself blows out.”

Ned could hardly believe his ears. In fact, he couldn’t believe it. He simply stood there, trying to work out what she’d just said.

“I couldn’t hate you,” she continued, lifting her eyes to his. “I love you too much.”

His chest, so recently deflated, felt itself swell to near bursting. He leaned down and kissed her—reverent, joyful, the first of millions of kisses to come. When he finally broke free, it was to see tears in her eyes and dimples on her cheeks.

“Well, then . . .” He smiled as he pulled her by their joined hands into his—their—house. “Welcome home.”

From that moment on, and for all the years to come, Ned knew without a doubt that he had truly earned his nickname.

He was indeed lucky.

D
ear Reader,

As a trivia nerd, I thoroughly enjoy the research part of writing. I get to explore fascinating bits of history and minutia and try to find a way to weave a story through it. For
The Game and the Governess,
history got a little . . . unsanitary.

You see, in the nineteenth century bathing was a laborious business. Society had finally caught on, at the end of the eighteenth century, to the idea that being cleaner is likely healthier, but to transport and heat all the water to make a bath required a good fire and a lot of strong servants willing to carry it up and down stairs. Therefore, in a family the size of the Widcoates’, bathing was likely done only once a week. And yes, they shared the water. The head of the house would bathe first, followed by the lady of the house, then the children. Any governesses or servant might have been allowed to use the water after they were done. Having a whole room separate for bathing was a luxury and fad I thought Lady Widcoate might have taken a liking to, in her enthusiastic redecoration.

As for the bathing retreat that Hollyhock is desperate to establish, it existed, in a way. The town of Hollyhock is, of course, a fiction. However, I based the history of the town on a very real place in Leicestershire called Ashby-de-la-Zouch. In 1805, a saline spring was discovered three miles away in the coal-producing Moira Colliery. When the village of Moira couldn’t handle the growing spa, it was decided to pipe the spring to Ashby-de-la-Zouch. There they built the Ivanhoe Baths, named as such because Sir Walter Scott’s 1819 novel
Ivanhoe
had been set in Ashby-de-la-Zouch, and the town traded on that fame. Unfortunately, the baths were demolished in the 1960s.

(And yes, as an homage, I borrowed part of Ashby-de-la-Zouch’s name to use as Ned’s title.)

The Baker rifle was the first flintlock rifle to be standard issue in the British Army. It was used copiously in the Napoleonic Wars and became very popular at home due to its greater range and accuracy than other rifles, including the more ubiquitous Brown Bess. Being as it was the army’s rifle, it certainly would be possible for a former officer like Turner to recognize its sound from yards away.

In fact, when I read about the Baker rifle, I changed my heroine’s last name so I could use it in my plot.

The fact that Turner outranked a gentleman of import like Ned during the wars is uncommon but not unheard of. Ned’s youth and middling funds made it so he could purchase only a smaller commission, of a lower rank such as ensign or lieutenant. Meanwhile, the long wars fought against Napoleon had made it so officers were dying faster than their commissions could be repurchased. Those ranks had to be filled, so an educated man of the merchant class, like Turner, would have been able to take a non-purchase commission, as well as be promoted in the field when a vacancy (sadly) came up.

And remember, Ned joined the war rather late. Turner had been there for some time when Ned showed up. He’d had time to earn his promotion.

So many more interesting tidbits of history went into this story—from what competitive games young ladies would play, to the differences between a surgeon and a physician—but these details are only worthwhile if the central story rings true. And I hope that Ned and Phoebe rang true for you.

Sincerely,

K
ate
N
oble

Read John’s story in the next delightful historical romance in Kate Noble’s Winner Takes All series.