Married For His Convenience. Eleanor Webster
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you did not enjoy it overly much?’
‘I made certain I was only moderately content.’
‘And no gentlemen made any improper advances?’
‘At six and twenty, such an event is highly unlikely. Now let me put the kettle on and make you a little luncheon.’ Sarah stood, moving briskly.
‘Do not waste food.’
‘I will use the bare minimum to keep body and soul together.’
After settling Mrs Crawford, Sarah entered the kitchen’s warmth, which still smelled pleasantly of the fresh bread Mrs Tuttle, their only domestic, had made earlier.
With the ease of familiarity, Sarah filled the kettle, hanging it on the arm iron to boil before slicing the bread and spreading it with Cleopatra’s creamy butter.
Her knife scraped the pot. She’d have to make more soon. Always so much to do... Plus she’d accomplished nothing yesterday. Not that yesterday had been wasted. Sarah smiled—just hearing about London thrilled her as though being in earshot of the words ‘Westminster’ and ‘Regent’s Square’ made finding her sister more possible.
One day, she promised herself. One day she would get to London and look for Charlotte, the half-sister who had been more of a mother to her than the woman who had given birth to them both.
And once in London, she would scour every street, knock on every door and pray that she was not too late.
* * *
Next morning, Sarah rose early, rushed through breakfast and hurried to feed the chickens in the hopes of escaping to Eavensham to collect the rabbit and her valise.
Yesterday had proved too busy despite her best efforts and she just had to hope that Eavensham’s kitchen staff would have looked after the creature. Likely they would. They had an affection for her from the days when she and Kit had requested treats and other edibles.
‘Miss! Miss!’ Mrs Tuttle’s shrieks interrupted her only seconds after she had started to scatter seed.
‘What? Is Mrs Crawford ill?’ Sarah threw the rest of the grain at the birds and hurried towards the house where Mrs Tuttle stood at the kitchen entrance, her pink face puce as she flapped her arms with agitation.
‘What is it?’
‘Miss Sarah, Miss Sarah, you have a visitor.’
Sarah stopped abruptly. ‘A visitor? Is that all? I thought something dreadful had happened. Is it Mr Kit?’
‘It ain’t Mr Kit.’
Sarah had reached the door now. ‘The vicar?’
‘It ain’t the vicar neither.’
‘Gracious, who is it? Or must I play a guessing game?’
‘’Tis Lord Langford.’
‘His lordship? Why?’ Her voice squeaked and she frowned.
‘I’m sure I don’t know, miss,’ Mrs Tuttle said, her eyes round.
‘You are certain he did not ask for Mrs Crawford?’
‘Yourself, miss. Most specific, he was.’
‘Where is Mrs Crawford anyway?’ Sarah asked, walking into the kitchen.
‘Resting. She felt tired and was confused after breakfast. Should I wake her?’
Sarah paused as she cleaned her hands under the chill water of the kitchen pump. Mrs Crawford would not approve of her meeting a gentleman without a chaperon. At the same time, Sarah had no wish for Mrs Crawford to know about yesterday’s events. Doubtless she would see an acquaintance with his lordship as either the influence of evil or an inherited flaw from her mother.
‘Don’t wake her. I will see him,’ Sarah said with decision.
‘Very good, miss. But what do you think he wants?’
‘I haven’t the faintest idea and can think of only one way to find out,’ Sarah said, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear and walking purposefully towards the drawing-room door.
* * *
Lord Langford had not had a pleasant day following the incident at the stream. His host was in a bad mood, likely brought about by the unsatisfactory hunt. Lady Eavensham’s foot hurt and she had taken to her bed while the young ladies kept giggling and engaging him in conversation.
This would not have been such an irritation if he had not needed solitude to think. The idea, when it had first struck him, had seemed ludicrous, the far-fetched scheme of a desperate man.
And yet he could not reject it out of hand. He remembered those few words of fluent French he’d overheard and, more importantly, Miss Martin’s kindness to her elderly guardian.
The idea would, he thought, solve a multitude of problems in an efficient manner. He liked efficiency. Indeed, in the management of his estate, he would never dismiss such a practical solution without consideration. Surely, his personal affairs deserved the same attention.
And so he had listened to Lady Eavensham’s vapid guests while thoughts whirled and he veered between the alternating conclusions that he was mad and eminently sensible.
He had retired, slept poorly, only to have the problem brought to a head the next morning with Hudson’s arrival in the library.
‘A message, milord,’ Hudson announced.
Sebastian took it. As always, he was conscious of that shiver of apprehension, excitement, hope...despair.
It was from his housekeeper. He recognised the script. He scanned the lines which were businesslike and succinct.
The governess had quit.
‘Miss Elizabeth has taken to remaining on her rocking horse for hours. Indeed, it is hard to make her stop even for meals and Miss Grosvenor could not endure the constant creaking of the rockers combined with Miss Elizabeth’s silence.’
Damn. Sebastian crumpled the note, throwing it towards the hearth where it ignited. He watched the flame lick the paper’s edge, the fire growing in momentary strength before subsiding to ash.
Damn and blast. Did not one governess have any backbone or staying power? Did none of these women have the skills necessary to return Elizabeth to some semblance of normality?
And it was then, standing in Lord Eavensham’s library and staring at the dying flame, that had Sebastian decided.
* * *
Sarah found Lord Langford in the drawing room standing beside the unlit hearth. Although not much taller than Kit, he dominated the room and dwarfed the shabby furniture in a way her childhood friend could not.
It was not only his physical size, but his presence and the cold, controlled force of his personality.
Like a volcano under snow.
‘Lord Langford.’ She stepped towards him.
‘Good morning, Miss Martin.’ He made his bow.
‘Did you wish to see me? Or perhaps Mrs Tuttle misunderstood. I could fetch Mrs Crawford.’
‘Indeed, no. I expressly asked for you.’ He spoke in a crisp, authoritative tone.
‘Oh.’ A shiver of nervousness tingled through her. ‘Pray be seated.’
They both sat. Sarah felt stiff, as if her arms and legs had lost fluidity. It had been easier to talk to him while rescuing Albert, as though the very oddness of their occupation had made social conventions unnecessary.
She rubbed her hands together. They made a chafing sandpaper sound, emphasising the chill silence of the room.
‘May I offer you refreshment?’ she asked belatedly.
‘No,