Chapter Four

      Marianne’s jaw dropped. What? What is this woman saying? She felt a roaring in her ears as all her hopes for a welcome, security, a safe place, crumbled before her. She stopped walking and simply stood there, desperately trying to fathom what was happening.

      Lady Kingswood’s face was twisted with raw fury—mostly, it seemed, directed at Lord Kingswood. Lady Cecily held her mother’s arm, supporting her, and her young face was also set with anger. Both were white-faced, their pallor accentuated by their black gowns. Marianne knew that her own face was similarly pale.

      Lord Kingswood kept walking, tension evident in every line of his body.

      ‘Oh, for goodness’ sake, Fanny, stop play-acting.’

      ‘Play-acting? Play-acting?’ Lady Kingswood’s voice became shrill. ‘You think this is some sort of jest, do you? Did you honestly believe that you could simply turn up here, with your lightskirt, and expect us to simply accept it?’ She took a step forward into the centre of the doorway. ‘You are not welcome here, and nor is she!’

      ‘Dash it all, Fanny, you have become quite tedious. She is the new governess—not a lightskirt. And if you would pause these vapours for one second you would see that.’ His tone was calm, unperturbed. ‘Besides, you know full well that you cannot prevent me from entering Ledbury House. Nor do you have any say in who accompanies me.’

      She gasped. ‘That you should speak so to me! If John were here...why, he would—’

      ‘Yes, but John is not here, is he?’ He marched up to her and stepped inside.

      Marianne felt a pang of sympathy for Lady Kingswood. Despite the woman’s erroneous assumptions about her, Lady Kingswood was a recently bereaved woman who was clearly in distress.

      The two ladies had turned to follow Lord Kingswood inside, and Marianne could hear the altercation continuing indoors. Behind her, a groom had taken charge of the horses and begun walking them towards the side of the house. The noise of hooves on gravel, combined with the jingling harnesses, prevented Marianne from making out the words, but she could hear Lady Kingswood’s distress, punctuated by Lord Kingswood’s deep tones.

      The door was still open, but Marianne remained rooted to the spot. What on earth was she to do now? How would she get back to Netherton? She would have to walk, and some of her precious coins would have to be spent to pay for the next mail coach back to London—probably in the early hours of tomorrow morning.

      She hurried after the phaeton and retrieved her bandboxes from the groom. He failed to meet her eyes and was clearly uncomfortable with the entire situation.

      Marianne squared her shoulders, turned, and began trudging down the drive. As she walked, she carefully focused her attention on each step.

       Don’t think about reality. About the fact that you have no position. That you will be walking for the next hour just to reach the village. That you have no bed to sleep in tonight.

      Could she afford to pay for a meal at the coaching inn? Once she had bought her ticket she would count her coins and decide what she must do.

      Stop! She was thinking about exactly the things she should not be thinking about. Just walk, she told herself. Just. Walk.

      ‘Miss Bolton!’

      Surprised, she turned. Judging by Lady Kingswood’s distress, she had not expected the argument between her and Lord Kingswood to end so soon. If she had thought about it at all, she would have said that neither of them would remember her existence for at least a half-hour.

      Lord Kingswood was marching towards her, his face contorted with wrath. ‘Where the hell do you think you are going?’

      ‘To Netherton, of course.’

      ‘Lord preserve me from melodramatic females!’ He raised his eyes to heaven. ‘Give those to me!’

      Stupidly, she just stood there, trying to understand what was going on. He took the luggage from her.

      ‘B-but...’ she stuttered. ‘Lady Kingswood—you surely cannot expect her to accept me as a governess, when she believes—’ She broke off, unwilling to repeat Lady Kingswood’s shocking assumption about her.

      ‘I can and I shall!’ he said through gritted teeth. ‘Now, Miss Bolton, please come into the house and stop enacting tragedies. The day is too cold to be standing in a garden exchanging nonsense!’

      He turned and began walking back to the house. As if tied to her precious bandboxes by an invisible thread Marianne followed, her mind awhirl.

      The door was still open. Marianne followed him inside. And there was Lady Kingswood, seated on a dainty chair in the hallway, sobbing vigorously, and being soothed by her daughter, who threw Lord Kingswood a venomous look.

      ‘Now then, Fanny,’ he said loudly, ‘apologise to the new governess!’

      ‘Oh, no!’ said Marianne. ‘There’s really no need.’

      ‘I think there is. Lady Kingswood has jumped to conclusions and insulted both of us. Fanny! Quit that wailing!’

      Lady Kingswood sobbed a little louder. Overcome with compassion—for she could see how distressed the lady was—Marianne rushed forward and touched Lady Kingswood’s hand.

      ‘Oh, please, Lady Kingswood, there is no need! I can see your anguish. Is there something that can be done to aid you?’ She looked at Cecily. ‘Would your mama be more comfortable away from the hall?’

      ‘Yes,’ said Cecily. ‘Mama, let us go to the sitting room and we shall have some tea.’

      Lady Kingswood let it be understood that she was agreeable to this, and Marianne and Cecily helped her up. One on either side, they supported her through the hallway. Her sobs had quietened.

      The Earl did not follow, but Marianne could still hear him, muttering under his breath.

      Marianne could not help remembering her own grief in the days after her parents’ death. She knew that she had been in a dark place, and that she had at times been so overwhelmed that, like Lady Kingswood, she had not been able to think straight. Whatever was going on between the widow and Lord Kingswood was none of her business. But she could not ignore someone in need.

      Lady Cecily opened the first door to their left and they went inside. The pale February sunshine illuminated a room that was—or once had been—cosy. It was in need of a good clean, and perhaps the door could do with a lick of paint, but the sofa that they led Lady Kingswood to was perfectly serviceable.

      She lay down, quiet now, and Marianne put a soft cushion under her head. ‘Now, Lady Kingswood, should you like a tisane? Or some tea?’ Marianne spoke softly.

      ‘Tea...’ The voice was faint.

      Lady Cecily sat on the edge of the sofa and lifted her mother’s hand. Marianne looked around. Spotting a bell-pull near the fireplace, she gave it a tug.

      ‘It doesn’t work.’ Cecily rose from the sofa and opened the door. ‘Mrs Cullen! Mrs Cullen!’ Her voice was shockingly loud—and quite inappropriate for a young lady. ‘Some of the bells work, but not this one.’

      Oblivious to Marianne’s reaction, the girl returned to her station by her mother’s side. Marianne sat on an armchair near the sofa and took the opportunity to study both of them.

      Lady Cecily was a pretty young lady, with blonde hair, a slim figure and distinctive amber eyes. She carried