Then her family should take care of her!
That was how it had been for his own mother. Memories slid back. He’d been ten when his father died heavily in debt, old enough to realise his mother’s grief was edged with fear. Fear she had tried to hide from him as she wrote letter after letter to her own family. He had found some of the replies after her death. Offers to house her—in return for her otherwise unpaid services as governess, or companion. None had been prepared to take her child as well.
Only Dominic’s father had offered the widow a home along with her child. Offered to educate his brother’s son and provide for him. As a child Alex had taken it for granted. Now he knew how lucky they had been. Not all families could, or would, provide for an impoverished widow and child.
What would have become of his mother if Uncle David had not taken them in?
Miss Polly ain’t so very welcome at the Manor nowadays.
He could believe that if they’d allowed her to come asking about the position of village schoolmistress!
His kindly uncle had settled a small annuity on his widowed sister-in-law, providing a measure of independence along with a home.
Picking up the pen, he dipped it in the ink and continued, politely enquiring after the bishop’s health and that of his wife. A moment later he laid the pen down, glared at the letter and tore it in two. Mouth set hard, he took another piece of paper, picked up the pen and began, with considerably less care, another letter, this time to his cousin Dominic, Lord Alderley.
He had prayed for the right teacher for the school, and he believed that God always answered prayer. The trick was in recognising an unexpected answer.
* * *
Polly pushed open the door of the village shop, glad to be out of the wind again. It sliced through her old cloak straight to the bone. Mr Filbert popped up from behind the gleaming counter. He stared for a moment, then his gnome’s smile broke.
‘Why, it’s you, Miss Polly!’
She managed a smile. Mr Filbert was someone whose manner towards her hadn’t changed at all. ‘Good day, Mr Filbert. My aunt sent me in for some embroidery silks.’
He blinked. ‘Miss Eliot and Miss Mary were here just a few moments ago buying silks for Lady Eliot,’ he told her. ‘They didn’t say anything about your being with them.’
Probably because she wasn’t. She’d had no idea her cousins had been planning to visit the village. She could only pray they’d seen her neither entering nor leaving the rectory.
‘A misunderstanding,’ she said carefully. ‘Thank you.’
‘They went back to the inn,’ he said helpfully.
The already gloomy morning dimmed a little further. Her cousins had heard their mother set her the errand of walking into the village for new embroidery threads and had said nothing. What would have happened if Mrs Filbert had served her and she’d bought the threads again? She forced the bitter, uncharitable thoughts back. Perhaps they hadn’t decided to come in until after she’d left. They hadn’t passed her on the road, so it wasn’t as if they’d had a chance to offer to take her up.
‘Thank you, Mr Filbert,’ she said. ‘I’m sure I’ll find them.’
She hurried out of the shop and down the street towards the inn, just in time to see the Eliot coach turning out of the inn yard towards the manor.
‘Susan! Mary!’ Probably they hadn’t seen her...ah, John Coachman had. He was slowing the horses. She picked up her pace, hurrying towards the carriage. Susan frowned, leaning forwards, clearly giving an order. John responded, pointing his whip at Polly hurrying to the coach. Susan’s chin lifted, she spoke again, the words indistinct, but her tone sharp... John hesitated, cast Polly an apologetic look and urged the horses on.
Polly slowed to a stunned halt, staring after the departing carriage. Hurt fury welled up, scalding her throat, as she set out for home. The frost had thawed that morning, leaving the lane muddy. By the time she was halfway there, her skirts six inches deep in mud she would have to brush off, she had a new plan. Very well. Her aunt had refused to give her a reference. Mr Martindale had failed her. She braced her shoulders against the biting wind. She would ask Pippa, Lady Alderley, for a reference.
* * *
Polly had reached the manor gates before she heard the rumble of wheels slowing behind her. She didn’t bother looking around even as the gig slowed beside her.
‘Miss Woodrowe. What on earth are you doing?’
The familiar voice sounded furious.
She turned and met Alex Martindale’s scowl. ‘Sir?’
‘What are you doing?’ he repeated.
‘Returning ho—to my uncle’s house,’ she amended. A home was where you felt welcome, where you belonged.
His frown deepened. ‘But...you’re walking!’
‘I can’t fly,’ she pointed out reasonably. ‘An oversight, but there it is.’
For a moment he stared and she cursed her unruly tongue. Would she never learn to curb it? That was something that other Miss Woodrowe, the rich Miss Woodrowe, might have said. In her it would have been amusing, witty. In plain Polly Woodrowe it was impertinence.
Then he laughed and it lit the grey eyes which crinkled at the corners in a way that drew her own smile. ‘Touché. Stupid thing to say. May I at least give you a lift down the drive?’ He held his hand out, still with that lilt to his mouth. She hesitated, even as her heart kicked to a canter, remembering that his smile had always been just that little bit crooked. There was nothing remotely improper in accepting. Mr Martindale was the rector, and it was an open carriage. For the length of the carriage drive. Except...Aunt Eliot would think her designing, and there would be another row, when she still had not found a position—she quelled a shudder. ‘It’s out of your way, sir,’ she excused herself, ignoring the little ache of regret.
He shook his head. ‘Actually, no, it isn’t. After you left, I realised that I needed to speak to your uncle about something.’
‘Oh.’ Oh, dear God. Surely he wasn’t going to complain about her? ‘I’m...I’m sorry if you were offended that I asked for the teaching position.’ Somehow she choked the words out, fought to look suitably chastened. ‘There’s no need to mention it to my uncle. I won’t ask again.’
‘What?’ He stared at her, puzzlement in those grey eyes. She’d always been fascinated by the utterly black rims, and those dark, dark lashes... ‘You thought I was going to complain about you? No, Miss Woodrowe, I was not!’ Now he did sound offended.
She opened her mouth to apologise, but he forestalled her.
‘Don’t,’ he said. ‘Not one word. Do you hear me?’
She nodded, fuming at the autocratic tone.
‘Right. Up you come, then.’ That was an outright command.
Seething, she placed her hand in his, felt the powerful clasp of long fingers as he steadied her and helped her up. The horse stood patiently while he flipped the driving rug off his own legs and over hers.
‘Sir—’
‘Not a word!’
That the Reverend Alex Martindale could sound so angry was a revelation. She sat in silence the length of the carriage drive.
* * *
Polly stood quietly while Aunt Eliot railed at her. Once she had been considered an intimate of the family, permitted to use the more familiar Aunt Aurelia. Once she had been a welcome guest. Not any more. There was quite a difference between the wealthy heiress of a mill owner and the impoverished daughter of trade.
‘The presumption! Calling out in that vulgar fashion,