The Ungrateful Governness

15

Jessica was standing in her room at Berkeley Square, looking down at the small trunk and the valise at her feet. She thought she had everything. It had been easy packing her things when she was leaving the Barries. It had been merely a matter of taking with her all the scant belongings in the room. This time it was a little more difficult. There was so much to leave behind: everything, in fact, that the dowager duchess had bought for her. Only what she had brought with her would she take away again.

She looked down rather ruefully at the plain gray woolen dress she wore. She had thought when a maid had hung it with the others at the back of her wardrobe that perhaps she would never wear it again. Indeed, the dowager had urged her to give them all away. But she was very glad now that she had kept them. It would not do for a young lady to board the stagecoach and go in search of employment dressed up in expensive finery.

There seemed to be nothing left to do but pull on her gray cloak and bonnet and her black gloves and leave. Indeed, she must not delay for much longer. There was quite a distance to cover to the stagecoach terminal, and she must not miss the coach.

Jessica felt far more pain in looking around her this time than she had when leaving the Barries' home. She had been happy here. She had been treated well. She had felt loved. Once outside this building and she would be completely on her own again, all her dreams and hopes of the previous weeks finally dead. She would be a governess for the rest of her life, if she were fortunate.

She had said other good-byes much earlier that morning. The faithful Dowager Duchess of Middleburgh had not been content with merely summoning the carriage to bring Jessica from Hendon Park. She had got up to see her on her way. And it had been difficult to say good-bye. Jessica had hugged her very hard, feeling as desolate as if the old lady were her own grandmother. She had been grateful for one thing, at least. The dowager had made no attempt to persuade her to change her mind. Jessica had been somewhat surprised, but very relieved. She had been almost glad to be on her way.

She had said mental good-byes to those still sleeping at Hendon Park: to the duke and duchess who had accepted her as their guest with no apparent fuss, to Lord and Lady Bradley, who had always shown her quiet friendship, to Lady Hope, to Sir Godfrey. And to her grandfather. She had stood outside his bedchamber for a few silent moments before pushing under his door the note she had written the night before and running quietly downstairs to the waiting carriage. She wished things could have been different between them. She had been so very happy to see him just a few days before. And now she was leaving him almost without a word, never to see him again. If only he could have accepted her need to make her own decisions!

And she had said her mental good-byes to the Earl of Rutherford. All night long, in fact, while she tossed and turned on her bed, quite unable to snatch even a wink of sleep. She wished they had not been forced into company together the evening before. Without that encounter perhaps the bitterness of their morning interview might have sustained her for a few days, until she was far away and would find it easier to forget.

It had been agony to have to sit next to him in the drawing room at Lady Hope's request, to feel him close to her, to hear his voice. She had wondered how she would retain her composure long enough to waltz with him. His hand at her waist had seemed to burn a hole in her sash. She did not know quite how her hands had obeyed her will to touch his shoulder and clasp his hand. She had fixed her eyes somewhere on a level with his waistcoat, desperately resisting the urge to look up into his eyes or to lean forward to rest her forehead against his chest.

And she had cursed herself. She could have been celebrating her betrothal to him, as Lady Hope and Sir Godfrey were celebrating theirs. She could have been as glowing and happy as Lady Hope. Why had she said no? He had tried to talk to her, had tried to get her to explain why she would not marry him, and she had said nothing beyond agreeing with him when he had asked if there were nothing in him of which she could approve. That was not true. There was a great deal about him that she liked and admired. She could not love him else.

Why had she not explained? Perhaps if she had shown a willingness to talk, he would have spoken too. Perhaps she would have found that his reasons for wanting to marry her were not quite as shallow as they seemed, after all. He had spent three whole weeks- and during the winter, too-traveling the country trying to find out more about her and had brought her grandfather to London to be with her. Were those the actions of a man who merely had a lust for a woman? Or who merely felt duty-bound to offer for her?

But no, she had said nothing when he had given her the chance. She had stubbornly waited for him to speak first. She had wanted to hear him tell her how he had come to value her acquaintance, how he had come to respect her person. She had hoped somewhere in the unconscious part of herself that he would tell her that he loved her. She had not been willing to meet him halfway. She had wanted him to do all the bending.

So she had danced with him, aware of the fact that her misery was probably of her own making, wanting another chance, just one more, to work things out with him. But she had ruined all her chances. He must hate her now. She had released him from the obligation of duty. Her words and behavior must have killed any more tender feelings that might have been growing in him.

And then he had spoken and made her feel ten times worse. He had spoken with kindness. And he had spoken of going away so that she could be free of him. Why had it hurt almost more than she could bear to know that he was going away, that he would not be in London for the next few months, or even in England for the next few years? She was going away herself. His words just made the whole situation that much more final.

By the time the dance had come to an end Jessica had scarcely known how to place one foot in front of the other. It was fortunate, she had felt, that he made quite clear the fact that he was about to leave the room himself, else they might well have collided in the doorway. As it was, she had waited a few minutes before making her own escape.

He had said good-bye to her. He had told her to be happy. He wanted her to be happy, he had said.

Jessica came out of her reverie and picked up her valise in some haste. If she did not hurry, she would miss the stagecoach. The dowager duchess would be very upset with her for traveling by the public coach when she had arranged for her own traveling carriage to make the journey. But Jessica could not accept. The break must come now. And she must travel in a mode consistent with her station in life. She would accept a ride to the coach terminal simply because she had a trunk and she did not have time to sally forth in search of a hackney carriage. But that was all.

Jessica left her room and ran down the stairs to the hallway. She did not look back.

The Dowager Duchess of Middleburgh allowed her maid to arrange her pillows behind her back and sank back comfortably against them. She laid her hands neatly on the silk cover of the bed and signaled the girl that Lord Rutherford might be admitted. She schooled her features into a polite smile.

"Ah, good morning, Charles m'boy," she said as he strode in. She turned her cheek for his kiss.

"Good morning, Grandmama," he said. "I hope I have not woken you too early. I have waited as long as I could since you left word that you wished to see me before I set out on my way. But I am eager to be gone."

"Is it some gel who has you so anxious to be back in town?" she asked. "Back to your wild oats, Charles?"

He grimaced. "By no means," he said. "Those days are over, you will be delighted to know, Grandmama. No, it is just that life grows dull here now that Christmas is over. It will be good to be busy again. I intend going down into the country by the end of the week, you know. It is time I looked over the estate again."

"Yes," she said, "young people must ever be busy, as I remember. And of course it would be dull for you here now that dear Jessica has gone away."

"Jessica?" he said. "Gone away? What are you talking about, Grandmama? I danced with her last evening."

"She left at five o'clock this morning," the dowager said, "in my carriage alone."

Lord Rutherford stared down at her in silence for a few moments. His face had turned paler. "She need not have gone," he said. "I told her last night that I myself would be leaving today. But perhaps she will feel more relaxed back at Berkeley Square. What the devil does she mean, though, by going back alone? And so early? Is the marquess not going too?"

"He does not know yet, m'boy," the dowager said with a sigh. "She is not staying at Berkeley Square, you know. She is going into Yorkshire. She carries a letter to

Georgina Hearst. Very old friend of mine, you know. She will find a situation for Jessica."

"A situation?" he said faintly. "As a governess, you mean?"

"She seemed to think it was the only thing for her," the dowager said. "I spent all of yesterday afternoon pleading with her, Charles, but the gel was adamant. It seems that you had convinced her that her reputation was in shreds and that a Season in London was out of the question."

"But that is ridiculous!" he said. "Of course her reputation is not ruined. Does she not realize that she would not be received here if such were the case? No one knows about those past indiscretions except a few people who love her. None of those people is going to make the knowledge public."

"That is exactly what I told her," the dowager said. She was toying with a lace handkerchief in one hand. She seemed to be deliberating whether or not she should raise it to her eyes, but she evidently decided that a show of tears would be out of character. "It seems she believed you and her grandpapa rather than me, Charles, m'boy. You must have been very convincing."

Lord Rutherford was pacing back and forth at the foot of the bed. "Do you mean that Jess has gone to Yorkshire to be governess to some stranger all because she feels she cannot remain in the life to which she was born?" he asked.

"Foolish, is it not?" she said. "She could have a brilliant future ahead of her, Charles. She is already popular with any number of eligible gentlemen. With her grandfather newly arrived and the Season approaching, she could choose almost any unmarried gentleman she wished. Dear Jessica! I cannot help feeling that she will be very unhappy in service, especially now that she has tasted the pleasures of society."

"She must have that future," Lord Rutherford said. "She must be happy, Grandmama. Only so will I be able to find all this bearable. She cannot go back. You did not see her as she was before. I shudder to remember what a docile, gray little governess she was when I first set eyes on her. Not again. I cannot let that happen to Jess again."

"Do stop pacing, Charles," the dowager said. "You are giving me the headache. I really do not see what you can do about the situation, m'boy. I could not do anything yesterday. Of course, if you succeeded so well in persuading her that her reputation was in ruins, perhaps you will also find it possible to persuade her that it is just not true. It is a shame she has left already."

"She left at five o'clock?" he said. "That is more than four hours ago. Did she leave straight for Yorkshire, Grandmama?"

"She was to call at Berkeley Square first of all," she said, "to collect some of her belongings and to take my best traveling carriage. But she will be on her way by now, Charles. It is too late. Poor Jessica must be left to her fate. Perhaps she will meet a gentleman in Yorkshire who will appreciate her real worth. She is still young, after all, and very pretty even when wearing those very plain clothes. And knowing Jessica, I would be willing to wager that she is already dressed in gray again."

"It is not too late!" the Earl of Rutherford said decisively. "I can overtake your carriage very soon, Grandmama. I shall persuade Jess that she is being foolish, never fear. And I shall bring her back with me. By tonight. It is I who will be going away, not her. She will remain in London and settle to the life she should be leading. She is going to have a happy life. I swear it."

"I think it quite likely if you can but persuade her," the dowager agreed. "But if you intend to ride in this raw weather, Charles, do be sure to dress warmly, m'boy."

She was not at all sure that her grandson had heard her maternal advice. He had already stridden from the room. But the Dowager Duchess of Middleburgh did not seem unduly perturbed. She smiled smugly at one ornate bedpost and snuggled lower into her pillows.

The day's journey had not been nearly the nightmare of the previous one, Jessica thought with some relief later that evening. It had been every bit as uncomfortable, however, if not more so. The day had been bitterly cold and the coach drafty. Indeed, snow had begun to fall before they stopped for the night at an inn on the Great North Road. The coach seemed particularly ill-sprung, the passengers all very large and all carrying particularly bulky bundles. And there seemed to be an unreasonable number of unwashed bodies riding as inside passengers.

These discomforts aside, however, Jessica had found that she was not abused as she had been on that previous journey. Indeed, her right-hand neighbor, a woman whose abnormally large and stiff bonnet brim threatened to take Jessica's eye out every time she turned her head, was a plump, motherly person, whose hand regularly reached into her food basket and who constantly insisted on sharing its contents with other passengers, especially Jessica. The latter could well have done without the offerings, proffered as they were from a somewhat grubby hand. But she found herself reluctant to reject such obvious good nature. She accepted and even managed to eat a meat pasty and a jam tart.

The day wore on and Jessica's spirits drooped proportionately. What sort of a life was ahead of her? she wondered. Would the dowager duchess's friend be able to find her a suitable situation? Would it be a difficult job? Challenging? Lonely? Unfortunately, she was in no position to choose. She must accept whatever was offered to her.

And it would surely be a deal worse than it had been the last time. The last time everything had been new to her. She had had nothing with which to compare her life with the Barries except life at home with Papa. And although she had always been happy at home, she had to admit that it had been a rather dull life of plodding routine. Life at the Barries' had not been so very different except that she had felt the absence of love.

Now she was aware of what her life could have offered. Not just the fine homes and clothes, the parties, the outings, and the suitors. But she knew what her particular life might have been. She might have been the Countess of Rutherford, the wife, the companion of the man she had grown to love. She might have made something of such a relationship even if his love did not nearly match her own. At least she would have had a chance to win his friendship, his esteem. The challenge would have been exhilarating. Now she would never see him again.

But she must not look back, Jessica told herself on that first evening, must not regret rashly made decisions. And she must not complain. Her first night on the road was to be reasonably pleasant, at least. She had actually been given a room of her own. Granted, it was a tiny box of a room under the sloping roof of the attic, in which it was necessary to edge one's way around the rather lumpy bed. The only other furniture was a cracked washstand and an equally cracked bowl and water jug. But at least she would have some privacy, and at least-and surprisingly-the sheets were clean. And there was a dining room in this inn separate from the taproom. She had been able to eat her dinner without fearing at every moment that she was going to be accosted

It was fairly early in the evening, far too early to go to bed, Jessica decided. But she would not venture from her room again. She took a book out of her valise and perched as comfortably as she could on the edge of the bed, huddled up inside her cloak. She would read until the candle burned out, anyway.

It turned out to be a very frustrating day for the Earl of Rutherford. When he left Hendon Park, he expected that finding Jessica would be the least of his problems.

It was what he would say to her when he did so that occupied his mind all the way back into London. This time he must be very sure that he said the right thing. The whole of her future happiness would depend upon it.

For that very reason, perhaps, he was not quite as nervous as he had been the day before when he had proposed to her. Then it had been his own happiness he was trying to secure. Now he had merely to convince her that she must return to London and her grandfather's care. He must assure her that in the public eye her reputation was quite unsullied and would remain so. Although the Barries could cause her some embarrassment if they chose to do so, really the only persons who could do her reputation any real harm were himself, his grandmother, and her grandfather. Surely it would not be difficult to convince her that none of those three persons would ever be malicious enough to begin a whisper of gossip about her.

She must return to London, to the society where she belonged. The thought of her returning to the sort of life she had led when he first saw her filled the Earl of Rutherford with dread. Women ordering her around, treating her like dirt beneath their feet. Children treating her with as much insolence as they knew their parents wopld let them get away with. Men eyeing her with lust, scheming how to coax her into their beds. She would be fortunate indeed if she found her way into a house where she would be treated with the proper respect. And even then it would be no life for Jess. His beautiful Jess.

Perhaps she had not heard or had not believed his assurances of the night before that he was going away, that he would trouble her no more. Perhaps it was her fear of him as much as anything that was driving her away. He must repeat his assurances to her. He must convince her that he meant what he had said. She must know that she could return to London and begin her social life again without the constant fear that she would meet him at every turn. She must feel entirely free to encourage other suitors and choose an eligible husband from among them.

Rutherford felt physically sick at the thought, but he resolutely put his feelings from him. He had renounced Jess the previous day. He must train himself now always to think of her as quite beyond his reach. It must be her happiness, and only hers, that occupied him for the rest of this day's business. As soon as he found her, he would take her back to Hendon Park, or to Berkeley Square if she preferred, and then leave, never to see her again.

He decided not to stop in London. His grandmother had assured him that Jess would already have set out on her journey north even before he left Hendon Park. It would be an utter waste of time to go to Berkeley Square on the slim chance that she would still be there. After all, if she was bent on running away from her grandfather, she was not likely to spend a few hours relaxing at his grandmother's house.

He would save time, he decided, by taking immediately to the northern road. His grandmother's crested carriage was easily recognizable. He would overtake it within the hour, if he were lucky, or certainly not too much longer than that. He would be able to bring Jess back before the middle of the afternoon.

It was only as one hour turned into two that Lord Rutherford regretted not returning home for his curricle. It would have been a slightly more comfortable mode of travel. He had not realized that the carriage could have had such a start on him. Jess must have made almost no stop at all at Berkeley Square. It made sense, he supposed when he thought about it. He would wager that she would not take with her any of the finery that his grandmother had provided her with. Packing her belongings would not have taken her long.

As the afternoon wore on, he became downright uneasy. Could the carriage have possibly come this far? Was there any chance that he had passed it? But no, that was impossible. It was equally impossible that it could have taken a different route. Lord Rutherford began to come to the unwelcome conclusion that the carriage must still have been in London when he passed the city by and that it was somewhere on the road behind him.

But did he dare take a gamble and turn back? If by some chance she was still ahead of him and he went back now, he would never catch up to her.

He rode onward for another five miles before deciding that he must turn back. As it was, it seemed unlikely that he would get back to London that night. And the weather was turning bitterly cold. He had been trying to ignore it all afternoon, but his hands were numb even inside his gloves, and the heavy capes of his greatcoat were failing to keep out the cold. Stray flakes of snow were beginning to drift down from a leaden sky.

Lord Rutherford did not afterward know what inspired thought led him to consider that perhaps his grandmother's carriage was not on the road at all. Was it certain that that was how Jess was traveling? His grandmother had said so, of course. She had offered the carriage. But was it really certain that Jess would have accepted? Was it not far more consistent with her stubborn character and with her determination to return to her former life, for her to have decided to travel by. the stagecoach? He had passed several since leaving London. She could have been on any one of them!

And so he made his way back, uneasy about his decision to do so, cold, worried about his tired horse, and determined to examine every stagecoach he passed to make sure that she was not on any of them. Soon, of course, most of them would stop for the night. He must look carefully at each inn to see if a stagecoach stood in its yard.

He hailed two stagecoaches on the road without success before spotting the one in an inn yard. Snow was falling. It was almost dark. He felt hopeless. He had lost her. Somehow he had missed her, and he would never see her again. He would never be able to explain to her that she was making an unnecessary sacrifice of her life.

He asked for her by name, slipping the innkeeper a large coin as he did so. It was amazing to be told that yes, she was upstairs in the attic room. After the long journey of the day and all its worries and uncertainties, it seemed almost too easy to find that she was here, at the very first inn he checked.

There was no spare room at the inn. Rutherford placed another coin in the innkeeper's hand and began to climb the stairs to the attic.