Chapter Twenty-Three

It took two days after Graham’s departure for Kit to convince herself life had gone back to normal. On the outside, it had. The days passed like usual, though with possibly a few more opportunities taken for spontaneous fun.

Three days after that, though, their lives were back in turmoil. Mr. Leighton wanted to bring Benedict in to work on a special desk even though the boy wasn’t scheduled to start his apprenticeship for another month. Desks were Benedict’s joy, with all the opportunities for compartments, hinges, latches, and secret moving parts. There’d been no real reason to say no, so here Kit was, walking to Marlborough through the dew of early morning, the young man loping along at her side.

They’d left the house as the sun peeked over the trees because Kit would be making the long walk back on her own, after visiting with Mrs. Lancaster and checking in with Nash. She didn’t have anything truly pressing to discuss, but they hadn’t wanted to send Benedict into Marlborough on his own, not for the first days of his new life.

Daphne was originally going to walk him in, but she’d shown up in Kit’s room with red-rimmed, swollen eyes, unable to do it, even though she knew it was an amazing opportunity for Ben. Though his work was still a bit rough and complicated projects took him a long time, by the time he finished his apprenticeship, he would be making cabinets, desks, and gaming tables that would be the envy of everyone in England.

It had ripped Kit’s heart out. Daphne had never been able to be a mother to her little boy, not really, but she’d never stopped loving him like one.

Despite Daphne’s pain, Kit believed it had been a good decision. Benedict had grown up with the other children, feeling like he was one of them. Good decision or not, though, Daphne’s tears only added to Kit’s guilt.

Marlborough was bustling by the time they made it to High Street. A stage was loading passengers outside The Castle Inn, deliveries were being made, and men were walking to the factories to spend their days making cheese and textiles.

Through the large office window, Kit saw Nash already sitting at the desk in his office. She swallowed. “Do you want me to—”

“I know the way to Mr. Leighton’s house,” Benedict said, pushing his shoulders back and standing as tall as he could.

Kit nodded and swallowed hard again. Everything in her wanted to walk him across the street, guide him to the woodworker’s shop. But he wasn’t a little boy anymore. He was becoming a man. “We’ll see you in a few days, then.”

His steady stride through town nearly made Kit break down like Daphne had. Unlike the other children, Benedict had been with Kit since he’d been born. She’d changed his diapers and walked the floor with him in her arms when he was fussy. No matter how they might have tried to pretend otherwise, that distinction made Benedict different. And it made it very difficult to let him go.

She watched him until he disappeared down a side street, turning back at the corner to give her a wave, and then she pushed her way into Nash’s office. “Good morning.”

Nash looked up, hair already sticking out at odd angles even though it was only the middle of the morning. “Kit.”

She took a deep breath and held up a folded piece of paper. “Will you post this to Priscilla for me?”

“Right. Yes. Of course I can do that.” He shoved his hand through his hair. “Sit down.”

What? He was simply agreeing? Normally he asked a dozen or more questions when Kit asked him to contact one of the women.

Something must be wrong.

Nash picked up a paper. “I got a report from my man in London.”

Kit dropped into the chair across from his desk, her legs refusing to hold her a moment longer. By necessity, Nash and his wife, Margaretta, maintained contacts in London who knew a limited amount of Haven Manor’s business.

Margaretta kept in touch with a small group of women they referred to as “The Committee,” who helped them find women in need of their special type of assistance, and Nash had a couple of men who kept an eye on all of the people paying Haven Manor to raise their children. His own method of insurance, Kit supposed, to avoid any surprises showing up quite literally on his doorstep.

Kit nodded at the paper in Nash’s hand. “What does it say?”

“Someone is trying to find you. He’s not sure who. Only that there’s been some whispers floating around of someone who is looking for The Governess and is willing to pay a good bit of money to anyone who helps locate her.”

Kit winced at the nickname but tried to hide it by dropping her gaze to her lap and pleating her skirt with her fingers. “Is it Lord Charles?”

“Possibly,” Nash said with a sigh and another pass of his hand through his hair. “I’ve already heard from him directly once. A rather large, menacing man delivered the first bank draft. If he intends to deliver all of them that way, I may have a nervous collapse.” Nash sat back in his chair and flicked a finger across the paper. “Lord Charles isn’t the most discreet of men. I’m not sure he’s keeping your visit much of a secret, and it’s possible that’s stirred up someone else. If London is talking about you, they’re going to try to figure out who all you have contracts with.”

He dropped the paper and lifted his gaze to lock with Kit’s. “Someone could be getting scared.”

“Most of them have moved on and built good lives, just like we hoped they would,” Kit murmured.

“That’s true,” Nash said with a nod, “and if those good lives are threatened . . .”

“We’ll have to be careful.”

She should probably tell Nash about Graham. Given this concern, the fact that there was someone out there who not only knew what they were doing but how to get to the house was a potential problem. It made Kit feel vulnerable to know that, but then again everything about Graham made Kit feel vulnerable.

As soon as Nash brought up Priscilla’s brother being in town, she would tell him about Graham. It would be a logical conversation and allow her to impart nothing but the most vital of details.

Only Nash wasn’t saying anything about Priscilla’s brother.

Kit frowned. How many other men had come to Nash for information that he’d never told her about?

Perhaps he didn’t think Kit cared. “You, Margaretta, and the children are the most important concerns in this matter,” she said, wanting him to know that she appreciated what he did and knew how difficult it was. “No one knows who The Governess is or where she lives. The only connection anyone has is you.”

“Margaretta is keeping the children close to home for now and limiting her trips in to town.”

“We’ll do the same.” Kit grimaced. They didn’t bring the children to town often and never more than two at a time, which meant the trips they did get—an occasional attendance of Sunday services, a visit to Mrs. Lancaster—were precious. Losing those would be disappointing. “We’ll distract the children from what they’re giving up.”

Nash laughed. “Distract them? With what?”

“I don’t know. Perhaps a picnic in the glen, or we’ll teach them to dance.”

Pangs accompanied the memories, but gratitude overwhelmed her, too. Graham may have left her behind with conflicting emotions, but he’d also reminded her how to let her charges be children.

“You are going to take the children on a picnic?” The disbelief in Nash’s voice made Kit sit up straighter.

“Why not?”

He shuffled papers around on his desk. “I can’t think of a single reason why not. A picnic sounds like a wonderful idea. I’m sure the children will enjoy it.”

They had. And Nash’s disbelief was actually quite understandable given that Kit had needed to essentially be tricked into allowing it. Graham was quite good at maneuvering her into doing things she wouldn’t have otherwise.

An icy chill of fear wound up her spine. What if Graham wasn’t as good and kind as he appeared? What if he had something to do with the rumblings Nash’s man was hearing?

Twelve years. They’d gone twelve years without anyone raising much of a commotion about them, mostly because revealing they knew anything about The Governess would have called their own honor into question. Their pride had been Kit’s greatest safety measure. But what if that was failing?

All it would take was one man to decide that his money was worth more than his pride and that bringing her out into the light was worth any damage it would cause to his reputation.

What if Graham was part of such a thing?

Her instincts told her he wasn’t, but she wasn’t sure she could trust those instincts. She’d thought that Maxwell Oswald was a good sort of man all those years ago, and he’d turned out to be a cad of the highest order.

And society had done nothing to him. He’d married Miss Rhinehold, who had apparently turned into a bit of an heiress when her father’s shipping venture expanded. But what if his vindictive and horrible ways were continuing? Could he possibly have discovered she was The Governess and set out to ruin this as well?

Or was it a father who didn’t want to pay anymore? Perhaps even one of the mothers, concerned about her reputation with her new husband? They’d always encouraged the women to tell the men they eventually married about having a child—without mentioning the details of Haven Manor—but Kit had no way of forcing the women to do so.

It could even be her own father.

“Your man,” Kit said, gesturing toward the paper on the desk. “Does he say what he’s hearing or only that people are talking about me?”

Nash cleared his throat. “No one,” he said with definitive emphasis, “is talking about you. They are talking about The Governess. And at the moment, everything is simply vague inquiries to see if anyone knows where she is or how to contact her.”

“And no one has mentioned you yet?”

“No. But it’s only a matter of time. Once the person looking makes contact with me, we’ll know more.”

Kit hated that Nash was putting himself in such danger, but what else could they do?

She nodded her agreement, set the letter for Priscilla on his desk, and left the office.

Her walk down High Street wasn’t as enjoyable as it normally was, the prospect of visiting with Mrs. Lancaster not as appealing. She had to speak with the woman, see how sales had been at the market Saturday and what they needed to make more of, but for the first time ever it felt like a task instead of a privilege.

All she really wanted to do was run to her special tree with a book in hand and pretend her world wasn’t falling down around her.

Everyone Graham knew had somehow become more annoying while he’d been in Marlborough. That or his newfound understanding of life made the conversations feel even more vapid and empty than they had before. All he knew was that three weeks back in London had him ready to rip his hair out.

He wanted to be doing something more with his life.

One day he’d be the earl. One day he’d have tenants and the laws of the land would be in his hands, but his father was in excellent health and the family’s estates were running smoother than they ever had before. And there wasn’t anything in him that wanted that to change, not even to dispel the uneasiness he was having to learn to live with.

One day.

But even then, would life as an earl be enough? Had his father found it to be enough?

Graham’s valet finished creasing the cravat tied intricately at Graham’s throat before declaring him ready for the night’s ball. He wandered downstairs to await his parents and found his father alone in the drawing room, a book in one hand and a glass of sherry in the other.

Spectacles rode low on the straight, slim nose, and his hair, once as thick and dark as Graham’s, was now more grey than black and had to be carefully styled to keep from revealing the fact that there was a bit less of it than there had been before. It was likely that Graham would look exactly like that one day. He couldn’t think of anyone else he’d rather be. If he could one day resemble his father in more than just looks, all the better.

He lowered himself into a chair and waited until his father glanced up to give him a smile and a nod of acknowledgment.

“What makes a good earl?” Graham asked. It wasn’t what he really wanted to know, but he couldn’t think of how to phrase his real question.

The earl set his book aside and took a slow sip of sherry. “The same thing that makes a good man.”

“And that is?”

“Love for country. Love for God.” He set the glass on a table and leaned forward, taking off his spectacles to better look Graham in the eye. “A good man sees what he’s been given and does the best he can to earn it.”

“And when he’s been gifted an earldom?”

Graham’s father sat back with a shrug. “He makes sure he remembers that it’s a responsibility as well as a blessing.”

Was that what Graham’s life was missing? Responsibility? A sense of purpose knowing that what he did mattered to someone else? Graham’s next words slid out in a hoarse whisper. “And when he’s waiting for an earldom?”

“I suppose that’s a bit harder,” the earl said slowly, “but what he does in that time to become a good man determines whether or not he’ll be a good earl.”

“What did you do?”

“Nothing I’m all too proud of.” He picked up his spectacles and folded the ear pieces in and out while he stared at them with a frown. “Nothing I’m excessively ashamed of either, though. I suppose I did just what you said. I waited.”

“And if I don’t want to wait?”

A smile kicked up one side of the earl’s mouth. “Are you planning on having me expended?”

Graham laughed and shook his head before dropping his elbows to his knees. “No. I don’t want to become the earl for a very long time.” He looked up, meeting a golden-brown gaze that was so very much like his own. “But I don’t want to wait to become a good man.”

For a long moment, the earl considered his son. It had been a while since Graham and his father had really talked. Even longer since they’d talked this baldly.

Finally the older man smiled. “Then be one. When I married your mother, she rattled around this house for months before declaring she was going to burn it down if she had to sit through one more pointless visit. She’s got her charities now, like the school back in Staffordshire and the hospital. She still has as many inane teas as she ever did, but they don’t bother her as much because she’s got a purpose, too. When she needs something for the hospital, she has those women over for tea and plucks at their reticules until she’s got the funds she needs.”

The earl sat back with a shrug. “If a purpose is what you need, we’ll find you one. Or you can find your own. There’s nothing that says you have to wait until you’re the earl to love your country and love God.”

“And if my purpose isn’t popular?”

Slowly, his father slid his spectacles back on and then looked over the top of them so his sparkling gaze connected with his son’s. A small smile tilted the edges of the older man’s lips into a confident grin. “You’re going to be an earl, son. You get a little bit of say in what’s popular.”