‘Lady Cecily, yes. Lord Kingswood died very recently.’
A flash of pain was briefly visible in his eyes. Interesting. So he was the new Earl and the previous Earl had been Lady Cecily’s father.
‘How old is Lady Cecily, do you know?’
He considered this, speaking almost to himself as he thought it through. ‘John and Fanny were married in ninety-four, and I believe their child was born a year or so after the wedding, so—’ he turned to Marianne ‘—she must be twelve or thirteen.’
‘Twelve or thirteen!’
Marianne had not been expecting this. She had, she realised, been hoping for a younger child, who might be easier to get to know. There was also the fact that a young lady of that age would soon be dispensing with the services of a governess anyway. So this position might not last for more than a few short years, regardless of how she performed in the role.
‘Is that a problem?’
‘Oh, no! Of course not. Just that I had somehow expected her to be younger.’ She waited, but he had nothing to say to this. She tried another angle. ‘Is Lady Cecily a quiet young lady, or rather more spirited?’
He snorted. ‘I have met her exactly once—certainly not long enough to form an impression of her character.’
His tone indicated he was becoming uninterested in the topic, so she let it go.
‘You are not, then, a regular visitor to Ledbury House?’
‘I have been there twice in the past fourteen years—once just before Lord and Lady Kingswood’s wedding, and once this week for Lord Kingswood’s funeral.’ His tone was flat.
‘Oh.’ This was a little confusing. If he had been the heir presumptive, then why was he not close to the family, and why had he so rarely visited?
She stole a glance at him. Gone was the indulgent politeness of the past few moments. In its place was the hard jaw that she had seen before. She sighed inwardly. She had no idea why he was so frustrated, or whether any of it was due to something she had said. Still, it confirmed that she was right to maintain her wariness.
They continued on in silence for a few moments, with Marianne trying to think of something to say, and Lord Kingswood seemingly lost in his own thoughts. The road continued to twist and turn, and Marianne, despite herself, began to relax a little as she saw how deftly the Earl was handling the reins. She would not, it seemed, perish today at the hands of a breakneck driver.
After a particularly neat manoeuvre in which he negotiated a double bend with skill and ease, she could not help exclaiming ‘Oh, well done!’ Immediately she clapped a hand to her mouth. ‘I do apologise! It is not for me to comment on your driving.’ She held her breath as she waited for his response.
His brows arched in surprise. ‘Indeed it is not. However, I shall indulge you, as you seem to have gone from abject terror to trusting my handling of the team.’
She blushed. ‘Oh, dear! Was it so obvious?’
‘Er—you were gripping the side as if your life depended upon it and gasping at every turn in the road. So, yes, it was fairly obvious.’
‘I have never been driven so fast before, and have never sat in a carriage so far above the ground. It all seemed rather frightening. I would not presume to judge your driving skills.’
He threw her a sceptical look. ‘Would you not?’
Her blush deepened. He knew quite well that she had been judging him.
‘Miss Bolton, have you heard of the Four Horse Club, sometimes called the Four-In-Hand Club?’
‘No? What is that?’
‘Never mind.’ He chuckled to himself.
‘Well, I think that you are a very good driver,’ she declared.
For some reason this made him laugh out loud. She could not help appreciating his enjoyment and noting how well laughter became him. Then she realised the direction of her thoughts and put an abrupt halt to them.
‘Miss Bolton,’ he stated, once he had recovered a little, ‘I must admit I am grateful that fate brought you to Netherton today, for you have enlivened a dull journey. The Four Horse Club, by the way, is for those of us who have developed a certain level of skill at carriage driving. Now, here we are.’
He swung the carriage around to the left, entering a driveway via a set of iron gates. Ahead, Marianne could see the house. It was a broad, welcoming, two-storey building with tall windows, a wide front door, and ivy curving lovingly up the right-hand side.
‘What a pretty house!’ she could not help exclaiming.
Lord Kingswood grunted. ‘It may look pretty from afar, but it has seen better times.’
It was true. As they got closer Marianne could see signs of ill-use and lack of care. Some of the windows had not been cleaned in a while, it seemed, and the exterior was littered with autumn leaves and twigs—debris that should have been cleared away long since.
Her heart sank a little. What did this mean for her? Could they afford a governess? Would her existence be uncomfortable? Her pulse increased as she realised she was about to meet Lady Cecily and her mother. What if they disliked her?
Lord Kingswood glanced at her. ‘You are suddenly quiet, and all the vivacity has left you. Do not be worried—I have no doubt that they will be glad of your arrival.’
She gave him a weak smile. ‘I do hope so.’
He pulled the horses up outside the house and jumped down. Immediately he came to her side of the carriage and helped her down. She could feel the warmth of his hand through her glove. It felt strangely reassuring.
She looked up at him, noting the difference in height between them. ‘Thank you,’ she said.
He squeezed her hand reassuringly, then let it go. She felt strangely bereft as he did so.
Turning, Marianne saw that the front door of the house was open and two ladies stood there. Both were dressed in mourning gowns, and one was a young girl of twelve or thirteen. This, then, was the widowed Lady Kingswood and her daughter.
Lord Kingswood strode forward and Marianne deliberately dropped back a pace.
‘Good day, Fanny,’ he said amiably. ‘Good day, Lady Cecily.’
Marianne searched their faces and her heart sank. Neither looked welcoming. In fact both looked decidedly cross. Still, she was taken aback when Lady Kingswood’s voice rang out, addressing Lord Kingswood.
‘And so you have returned, as you threatened to do! I wonder at you showing your face here again after what you have done to us!’ She turned to Marianne. ‘And who are you? One of his ladybirds, no doubt! Well, you shall not be installed in my home, so you should just turn and go back to wherever you came from!’
Marianne’s jaw dropped. What? What is this woman saying? She felt a roaring in her ears as all her hopes for a welcome, security, a safe place, crumbled before her. She stopped walking and simply stood there, desperately trying to fathom what was happening.
Lady Kingswood’s face was twisted with raw fury—mostly, it seemed, directed at Lord Kingswood. Lady Cecily held her mother’s arm, supporting her, and her young face was also set with anger. Both were white-faced, their pallor accentuated by their black gowns. Marianne knew that her own face was similarly pale.
Lord Kingswood kept walking, tension evident in every line of his body.