The Earl's Runaway Governess. Catherine Tinley

blue eyes, and the merest hint of wrinkles at the sides of her mouth. She was, Marianne guessed, in her early thirties. If Cecily was twelve—which seemed correct—then Lady Kingswood must have been married young. Married young and now widowed young.

      It was not uncommon, Marianne knew. Why, when she herself had turned seventeen, three years ago, her parents had offered her a London season—which she had declined in horror. Go to London? Where Henry did his drinking and his gambling and his goodness knew what else? She had shuddered at the very idea.

      Her parents, themselves more comfortable in the country, had let the matter drop, but had encouraged Marianne to attend the local Assembly Rooms for country balls and musical evenings. These she had enjoyed, and she had struck up mild friendships with some of the young men and women of a similar age. She had received two polite but unexciting marriage proposals, had declined both, and had continued to enjoy her life with her family.

      Until the tragedy. That night when she had lost both parents at once.

      Immediately a wave of coldness flooded her belly. Lord—not now!

      Exerting all the force of her will, she diverted her attention from her own loss to the sympathy she felt for the bereaved woman and child in front of her. Gradually her pulse settled and the coldness settled down.

      As she sat there, deliberately forcing her attention back to the present, she wondered where ‘Mrs Cullen’ was, and why she had not yet appeared. Lady Cecily was still sitting patiently, clearly unsurprised at the time it was taking.

      Eventually Marianne heard footsteps in the corridor and the door opened, admitting a woman who must be Mrs Cullen. She was a harassed-looking woman in her middle years, with reddish hair and a wide freckled face. She wore the simple grey dress of a servant, covered with a clean white apron. Her arms were uncovered, her hands red and chapped from kitchen work, and there was a trace of flour on her right cheek.

      She bobbed a curtsey to Lady Cecily. ‘Yes, miss?’

      ‘My mother is unwell. Could we have tea, please?’

      ‘Of course. Right away, miss.’

      ‘Oh, and Mrs Cullen, this is my new governess. Miss...’ She looked expectantly at Marianne.

      ‘Miss Bolton. Anne Bolton,’ Marianne said confidently. The lie was coming more easily to her now. That is not a good thing. ‘I arrived a short time ago.’

      ‘Yes, Thomas said so. Welcome, Miss Bolton.’

      Marianne automatically thanked her, then frowned in confusion. Who is Thomas? she wondered.

      Mrs Cullen must have noticed her confusion. ‘Oh—Thomas is the groom and the gardener, and I am the cook.’ She flushed a little. ‘I apologise for rattling on. It is nice to meet you, Miss Bolton. Now, I shall go and make that tea.’

      She left in a flurry, but Marianne was relieved to feel that at least one person had welcomed her in a perfectly natural way.’

      ‘Thomas is married to Mrs Cullen’s daughter, Agnes. Agnes is our maid of all work.’ Lady Cecily was speaking shyly to her.

      Marianne gave her an encouraging smile. ‘Mrs Cullen... Thomas... Agnes. I shall try to remember all the names. How many others are there?’

      ‘None. We used to have a housekeeper and a footman, and two housemaids, but they have all gone. And our steward died. He was old—not like Papa.’

      ‘None?’ Marianne was shocked.

       A house of this size, an earl’s home at that, with only three servants?

      From the sofa, a low moan emerged.

      ‘Mama!’ Lady Cecily was all attention.

      ‘Help me up.’

      Assisted by her daughter, Lady Kingswood raised herself into a sitting position. Her face was blotched from her recent tears, but she was still an extremely pretty woman, Marianne thought. She could not help but notice the fine silk dress that Lady Kingswood was wearing. Cecily’s gown looked similarly expensive—the finest fabrics and the expert cut indicated that considerable expense had been laid out on both mourning dresses.

      So why, Marianne wondered, have the staff all gone? And why is the house so dilapidated?

      Lady Kingswood took a deep breath. ‘Miss Bolton,’ she began, fixing Marianne with a keen eye, ‘while I appreciate the kindness with which you responded to me just now, there are certain questions I must ask you.’

      Marianne’s heart sank. ‘Of course.’

      ‘I contacted a London registry to find a governess, but they sent me no word that they had appointed someone. I had no notion of your arrival.’

      ‘They appointed me only two days ago, but assured me they would write ahead to let you know I would arrive today.’

      ‘No letter has been received.’ Her eyes narrowed. ‘So how did you manage to arrive with A—with Lord Kingswood?’

      Haltingly, Marianne explained how it had come about. Lady Kingswood listened intently, but Marianne had the feeling that she was not convinced.

      ‘I assure you,’ she said earnestly, ‘I had never met Lord Kingswood before today.’

      ‘Hmm...’

      Lady Cecily, Marianne noted, was looking from one to the other, her expression one of mild confusion. Lady Kingswood noticed it too.

      ‘Cecily, please pass me my shawl. It is positively freezing in here!’

      It was true, Marianne thought. Still attired in her cloak, bonnet and gloves—and how rude she was to be so—nevertheless could tell that the sitting room was only a little milder than outdoors.

      Discreetly, she removed the gloves and stowed them in the pocket hung under her cloak.

      Cecily passed an ornate shawl to her mother, commenting as she did so, ‘The fire has not been lit in here, Mama. And Agnes will be helping Mrs Cullen with dinner. We shall have to wait until afterwards for her to set the fire in the parlour again.’

      Lady Kingswood looked a little uncomfortable. ‘I should explain,’ she said, addressing Marianne, ‘that we have had to make certain economies during my husband’s illness. Temporary, of course.’

      ‘Of course.’ What else could she say?

      Thankfully, Mrs Cullen then reappeared, with hot tea and delicious-looking crumpets. Marianne, who had eaten nothing since yesterday evening, felt her stomach cry out for the food.

      ‘Dinner will be ready in about a half-hour, my lady,’ the cook said to her mistress. ‘What with the new Earl and Miss Bolton arriving, I’ve added a few extra vegetables and put a pie in the oven.’ She looked at Marianne. ‘Once you’ve finished your tea I’ll show you your room, if you wish.’

      Marianne thanked her, noting that with the mention of Lord Kingswood the tension in the air had increased again.

      The Dowager Countess Kingswood served the tea and they all drank and ate in silence. Marianne loved the freshly baked crumpets. If these were any indication, then Mrs Cullen was a fine cook.

      ‘Mama,’ said Lady Cecily suddenly, ‘can Lord Kingswood really bring whomever he wishes into Ledbury House?’

      Lady Kingswood frowned. ‘Yes,’ she said bitterly, ‘and there is nothing that either of us can do about it. The law allows it. He is master here now.’

      ‘But,’ said Cecily, ‘that is not fair!’

      Marianne reflected on this. Like her, they were victims of the law. Men wrote things in wills; women suffered them. As if it was not enough to lose a loved one through death, they then had to be subject to whatever the law said must happen next. In the Kingswood ladies’ case that meant subjecting themselves to the arrogant Lord Kingswood. For Marianne it had meant the arrival