Page 22 of A Winter’s Romance

L ord Windon stared at his valet. “What—Lady Tyndall? Here?”

With a bow of his head, Gripson stood aside, allowing the grim-faced woman to come up to the coach to address his master.

“My dear Lord Windon!” she said, an ingratiating smile relieving the hard lines of her face. “You must forgive the familiarity—I feel as though we know one another, so much have I heard of you from Honoria. I am so glad you have come! It is a great kindness in you to travel all this way, and leave behind your family at Christmas—how is dear Lord Dewsbury? The gout is not to be trifled with, to be sure. I am certain he is comfortable at home where dear Lady Dewsbury can take good care of him. Will you not come in, sir? I trust my niece has not frightened you away with her forwardness?”

“F-forwardness?” managed Lord Windon, gazing in stupefaction at his hostess. “Your niece—that was your niece?”

The smile became a little sour. “She did not even tell you that, eh? Good heaven, what an ill-mannered girl. Yes, sir, my niece, Miss Stowe. She is come to be a governess to my younger children and a companion to Honoria.” The smile once again brightened. “You will see Honoria presently—she is as lovely as ever, and so looking forward to your visit.”

The carriage door opened and Lord Windon stepped down, still rather bemused. “Miss Stowe is a governess? Here?”

“Yes, though not a very good one,” Lady Tyndall said, ill-disguising her displeasure at his interest in the wrong young lady. “If it were not for her dreadful circumstances, I should never have employed her. But a near relation—” She sighed. “One does what one must for those beneath one.”

“Your niece.”

Lady Tyndall fluttered a hand as she guided his lordship up the steps and into the house. “Lord Tyndall’s sister’s child. A marriage quite below her station, though he was a gentleman. But poor Letitia is dead, and so is Mr. Stowe—rest his soul. One does not like to speak ill of the dead, but there was some shocking mismanagement, and their child was left destitute. Such impecuniousness gives one a disgust for such persons—for one only imagines they have earnt it with profligacy. I fear they have passed their taint on to their progeny, as is so often the case—but I saw it as my duty to take Prudence in. I trust that, in giving her a respectable home and occupation, a change might be effected, and her character saved. After today, however, I begin to doubt my good will.”

Lord Windon, now being divested of his greatcoat, blinked. “Character—saved? Not a bit of it—merely brought her here in my coach.” He blinked again, the bemusement clearing from his brain, and certain facts coming to the fore. “No carriage sent for her, you know! Had to do the gallant thing, or she’d have froze. ”

Lady Tyndall tittered a bit consciously. “Oh! Well, it has been such a day, with guests expected and entertainments to prepare. Her coming entirely slipped my mind! It is what comes of making her arrangements at the last minute. She was to stay all of Christmas with that old governess of hers, you see, but there was an ill relation or some such and the woman was obliged to go attend. At any rate, I would have been pleased for Prudence to stay where she was, but Honoria insisted that she return. Honoria is always so generous to her cousin—and, indeed, to anyone! Just one of her many excellent qualities, you know.”

“Indeed,” said Windon, beginning to grasp that he was in no trouble at all, and that Lady Tyndall’s dislike was directed entirely at her niece. “Look forward to furthering her acquaintance, ma’am. And Miss Stowe’s.”

“Oh, I daresay you have seen all there is to see of my niece, my lord,” simpered her ladyship. “A governess, you know.”

Windon cocked his head. “But Miss Stowe is your niece. Surely she’ll be joining the party.”

Her ladyship’s smile became something of a grimace. “Oh, dear me, no. Did she claim to do so? How odiously coming of her!”

“Not a bit of it, ma’am!” Windon said, firing up over this traducing of a lovely girl’s character. “Said she hadn’t known at all of a party—didn’t even say she was your niece. Dashed well would have refused my offer of the carriage and walked three miles, or four miles, or whatever it is from the Black Bull, but that I wouldn’t take her nay. Wouldn’t have been gentlemanly—devilish cold weather for a walk.”

Lady Tyndall had the grace to look somewhat abashed, but recovered quickly, saying, “My wretched memory! How providential that you happened upon her, sir. She did, I trust, express her gratitude properly.”

“Very, ma’am, so properly that I hope to see more of her—at the house party.”

Her ladyship looked acutely uncomfortable as she led him toward the drawing room. “I fear it is impossible,” she said in a wheedling tone. “What would people say? A governess! My dear Lord Windon, my—nor even Honoria’s—generosity cannot extend so far.”

“But ain’t she Miss Tyndall’s companion?” pressed Windon, not so easily put off.

“Certainly, but with so many guests at the party, Honoria shall not want her. No, my niece will be far too occupied with little Henry and Anne. They are sweet children, the best in the world, but so high-spirited. She will have no time to join in a party, even were it proper for her to do so. Now here is Honoria and some other of our guests. Honoria, dearest, here is Lord Windon!”

His lordship was instantly distracted from his campaign to assure himself of Miss Stowe’s amiable company, for his admiration of Miss Tyndall was miraculously revived upon seeing her. Indeed, he could not help but see the resemblance to her cousin, only with light coloring—celestial blue eyes and honey-gold curls. She was perhaps a bit plumper than Miss Stowe, but the low-cut white muslin gown she wore attested to this being entirely in her favor.

She smiled delightedly up at him. “My lord, how lovely that you have come.”

Windon bent low over her proffered hand and murmured what was proper, the tragedy of Miss Stowe’s not being allowed to be of the party fast receding from his mind.

When Honoria retired to her bedchamber to dress for dinner, she was pounced upon by her cousin, who had been pacing the room for nearly a half-hour awaiting her.

“Oh, Nora! I do not know what to do!” she cried. “I am utterly undone!”

“Goodness me, Prue. Whatever can you mean? Has Henry climbed the drainspout again?”

“No, no, he and Anne are with Nurse today, and I cannot be more grateful!” She allowed her cousin to lead her to a chair, where she sat with a gusty sigh. “Nora, did you see Lord Windon?”

Honoria regarded her bemusedly. “Certainly. But what has Lord Windon to do with Henry?”

“Nothing—forget Henry! Did his lordship say anything about—about me?” Prudence inquired, her brown eyes anxious.

Her cousin blinked back. “No, how could he? He does not know you, Prue. Did you perhaps get a touch of the sun at Dimstock?” She reached to lay a cool hand on Prudence’s forehead, but it was pushed impatiently away.

“Nora, he does know me—that is, we have met before. However, it is of no consequence, for he did not even recognize me.”

“You are not making sense, Prue. How can he have recognized you? He only just arrived and you have been upstairs.”

“He took me up in his carriage this afternoon, when I arrived on the stage! Oh, how could I have been so idiotish? He told me he was at Wolsingham to attend a house party—who else could he have been visiting but Aunt Tyndall? Oh, I wish I were dead!”

“Do not say so, Prue!” Utterly bewildered, yet deeply concerned, Honoria drew up the footstool and sat beside her cousin, patting her hand where it lay limply on the arm rest. “But I do not follow—you say you met his lordship? It can only have been in London, then, for since your mama—that is, since you were obliged to—”

Prudence had closed her eyes, a pained expression flitting across her features. “It was at the Dowager Marchioness of Foxham’s ball.”

“Oh.” Honoria sat back on the stool. “I had forgotten about that. You were in Town only a few weeks, after all.”

“He took me down to dinner,” continued Prudence in a resigned tone, “and was so charming! I could tell he greatly admired me, and I hoped—well, it was not much of a chance, for I was only there out of Lady Strickland’s kindness, but one cannot be blamed for hoping.”

“No.” Honoria patted her hand again, then her expression changed, her brow furrowing. “How did it fall out that he took you up with him today? Did not Mama send the carriage for you?”

Prudence rolled her head on the headrest to regard her cousin. “No. I daresay she forgot—again. If it had not been so cold, I should gladly have walked, but he was there, and insisted he was at leisure and could take me wherever I wished. I know I ought not to have accepted, but it was bitter cold, Nora. And he was very persuasive.”

“And rightly so,” said Honoria approvingly. “He is excessively amiable, though a sad rattle—but you must know that. It is of no consequence, however, for he is every bit as eligible as ever he was,” she added forlornly, and sighed. “Mama is very pleased.”

“Is she very vexed with me?” asked Prudence .

Honoria looked up from her unhappy reflections. “Who?”

“Aunt Tyndall. She was horridly displeased when she saw that I had come with his lordship. I swear I did not imagine he was to come here, and to a house party—Nora, why did not you tell me of the party when you begged me to come home?”

Her cousin averted her eyes, color coming into her cheeks. “I did not wish to disappoint you. I had hoped to persuade Mama to include you, but—” She sighed again. “As I feared, she remains unmoved. It is monstrous of her to deny you—it is not as though you were born a governess.”

Prudence could not help but chuckle. “No one is born a governess, silly! But I have fallen sadly in the estimation of the world, and cannot but be grateful there is a roof over my head. Things could be much worse, you know. Oh, poor Mama! Poor Papa!”

“They would be mortified to see what has become of you, Prue!” declared Honoria, a mulish look on her pretty face. “And all because Mama is jealous!”

“Oh, Nora, how could she be? I have never believed it, for you are as beautiful as an angel.”

“As are you, and she insists upon setting you up as competition to me. As though you would attempt to cast me into the shade.”

“I could not, even if I were so mean-spirited as to try.”

“Be that as it may, Mama refuses to see it.”

They sighed in united discontent with the injustices of their world, clasping hands with fierce loyalty.

Prudence smiled wanly. “At least you are good to me, Nora. I cannot be unhappy with you always taking my part. I might not have been allowed to visit poor Miss Dickerson at all if you had not championed my case to my aunt. Thank you again for lending me your cape and pelisse. It was so lovely not to fear for my appearance.”

“It is a shame you had to sell all your pretty things.” Honoria slumped, resting her chin in her hand. “I only wish I could persuade Mama to give you another Season—your first was so unhappily curtailed. The injustice of it vexes me infinitely! If you were to get a husband, Mama could be easy, but she will not agree to it.”

“It would be shockingly expensive, Nora.”

“Pooh! We have the house in Town, and you could have my old gowns—they are perfectly good. I declare I wore them no more than twice each, and Mama intends to buy me all new next Season.”

Prudence shook her head at this extravagance, but patted her cousin’s hand. “It is better to put all talk of that behind us, my dear. I must accept my new station and do my best to fit into it.”

Honoria pursed her lips, a twinkle coming into her eye as she looked at her cousin askance. “You will have to do better than that, Prue. You are a deplorable governess.”

Prudence smiled, but looked downcast. “I cannot deny it. I simply cannot seem to teach your brother and sister anything. I do try, but Henry is so very wild, and Anne has taken me in dislike. I fear she is much like my aunt.”

“It is too true. If only Papa would take Henry in hand, but dear Papa is so very insensible, for all he is a perfect dear.”

“When he can be got to leave off hunting and riding. I fear it irritates my aunt that he is forever in the stables or gone off to visit one of his cronies. ”

The two cousins exchanged a rueful look and were once more thoughtful.

After a moment, Prudence said, “I must not annoy her during the house party. If I keep out of sight, perhaps she will forget that I made Lord Windon’s acquaintance. Indeed, she will not know that we are otherwise acquainted, for he shall not have mentioned it, having forgotten all about me.”

“It is very likely, for he did not speak of your meeting to me,” agreed Honoria optimistically. “Perhaps Mama will not give it another thought.”

But such was not the case. As Prudence readied herself for bed that night in her tiny attic bedroom, the door opened and Lady Tyndall entered, her handsome countenance every bit as grim as it had been upon perceiving the mode of her niece’s arrival that afternoon.

“Well, Prudence,” she said, eying her niece with dislike. “You have had a very great honor this day. It has, no doubt, gone to your head.”

“Indeed not, Aunt!” cried Prudence, her eyes averted in what she hoped would be construed as abject humility.

Her aunt humphed. “I trust not, for it will only lead to sorrow if you do. His lordship was quite adamant in his motives for taking you up, and they were entirely altruistic. Do not begin to imagine that he meant anything more than to ease the suffering of a poor dependent, as is his duty as a peer of the realm.”

“Certainly, ma’am.” She felt Lady Tyndall’s gaze rake over her.

Her ladyship sniffed. “Anne reports you were impertinent at dinner. I shall remind you that while you are in my employ you will treat the children with the respect their station deserves, or you shall find yourself at the employment office without a reference.”

“But ma’am,” cried Prudence, looking up quickly. “She called Nurse a gargoyle! You would not have me let her do so without—”

“Nurse may defend herself as she sees fit. She has been our faithful retainer since Honoria was born and has earned that right—unlike yourself.” She picked up a small ornament on the dressing table and looked it over, replacing it with a look of distaste. “I trust there is no need for a warning to you, Prudence, that you will behave properly during my house party. Honoria shall dispense with your services as a companion during the next fortnight, and you shall devote yourself to the children. You will not descend from the upper rooms except by the servant’s staircase, and you will endeavor to be unheard and unseen by my guests. Do you understand?”

Prudence sighed, but it was only as she had expected. “Yes, Aunt.”