Page 25 of A Winter’s Romance

A s Honoria lay her head upon her pillow, her bedroom door creaked open and her cousin, clothed in her nightrail and a worn dressing gown, slipped in. Pressing a finger to her lips, Prudence crossed to the bed and jumped under the covers.

Honoria squealed. “Your feet are frozen, Prue!”

“I’m sorry, Nora. The maid neglected to lay a fire in my room. I am in disgrace after Anne’s escapade this afternoon, you know.”

Honoria promptly popped out of bed and retrieved the warming pan. “I’m sorry I did not make the case better—but I was in such a state!” she said, adding a few coals to the pan.

“But why? You did not even try to speak to me in the drawing room.”

Honoria passed the copper pan under the sheets at Prudence’s feet. “No, for I was on pins and needles for when Fred would appear.”

Prudence cocked her head. “Then you knew he would come? Nora, did you know Lord Windon was acquainted with Fred? ”

“Indeed, I orchestrated their acquaintance,” Honoria said, giggling as she set the pan on the hearth and jumped back in bed.

Prudence demanded to know all and her cousin was happy to oblige her, speaking in such glowing terms of Lord Windon’s kindness that Prudence’s irritation at him diminished to almost nothing.

“I hope it all turns out for you and Fred, Honoria.” She smiled in real conviction then turned on her back, gazing up into the darkness of the canopy. “I wish I were not obliged to be a governess. Lord Windon admired me, Nora. I know he did—at the ball last Season he hung about me all the evening. And though he forgot about that, he was excessively eager to ensure he would see me again after he drove me here from the inn. But when he saw me dressed as a governess, he was so shocked he took me to task—can you believe it?”

Honoria nodded. “He told me, Prue. But you must forgive him—he is a gentleman, after all, and has no notion of how it is with young ladies who must become governesses. It is my belief he hasn’t given a governess a thought in his life—until now.”

“Only to dismiss it. He hardly looked at me in the drawing room today—and I cannot blame him. I was a wren among peacocks. Miss Duerden’s gown nearly had me green with envy—did you see the rouching? Oh! I would die to have a gown like it—if only for one day!”

She sighed, her breath puffing into the cold air. “I try to be content, Nora, truly I do, but it is so very hard! We had such hopes for my Season! Mama planned everything, down to the last slipper, even though she was ill. And then that odious man cheated Papa and we had to flee London, then Mama died, and then Papa—” She swallowed down her emotion and said haltingly, “I—I know I ought not to—to complain, but it seems so—so horridly unjust!”

A warm hand came to clasp hers under the bedclothes and she turned to find her cousin’s eyes bright with intent.

“And so it is!” Honoria whispered fiercely. “But it needn’t be all bad. Why should you not have a beautiful gown—if only for one day? Perhaps I cannot restore you to your old life, but I can grant you that wish.”

“What do you mean?” inquired Prudence, dashing the tears from her cheeks.

Honoria’s eyes narrowed conspiratorially, a dimple appearing as she smiled. “The ball on Thursday. We will dress you in one of my gowns and you will come, like a princess from a faerie tale. Once you are in the ballroom, there is nothing Mama may do about it, for she will not like to make a scene, and you may dance to your heart’s content, and be admired as is your right!”

Prudence’s heart fluttered at the enticing vision, but she said, “She will sack me, sure as anything, Nora. It ought not to be attempted.”

“Pooh! Faint heart.” Honoria nudged her with a toe, pursing her lips in a mischievous smile. “I will contrive to make it all right. I will talk to Papa, and make him think it was all his idea to give you a treat. He has a tender spot for you, Prue—he simply is too careless to do anything about it of his own accord.”

Prudence bit her lips, but her dimples peeped, too. Did she dare? It all sounded too delightful, and the thought of wearing a lovely gown, of being again in a position to be admired, of putting off her lowly status for one wondrous night, was difficult to dismiss.

“Do you really think Uncle will speak for me?” she whispered. “I do not know what I shall do if Aunt Tyndall sends me packing. There is Miss Dickerson, but—”

Honoria placed a finger against her lips. “I forbid you to worry about that. It will all turn out right, depend up on it! I have it all worked out. Now, you’d better go back to bed, but take the warming pan and make yourself a fire, or your feet will be too frozen to walk, much less dance at the ball!”

Giggling, Prudence slid out of bed and, collecting the warming pan and some wood from the basket beside the fender, blew her cousin a kiss goodnight and slipped from the room.

Lord Windon considered he must be running mad. He had never been a man of much depth, but he knew himself well, and it was only with astonishment that he acknowledged, while he had not been privileged to even glimpse Miss Stowe for three days, she had been foremost in his thoughts, and her beauty had scarcely anything to do with it. On the contrary, since he had watched her scurry from the drawing room, his chief concerns had been the injustice of her situation and what he dared do about it.

Never before had a lovely woman—and definitely not a dowdy one—inspired such anxiety. Even at his most romantic, it was unlike him to concern himself with anything so sordid as the consequences of social exile—such things were beneath his notice. He had been, until now, content to move from one fashionable event to the next, collecting beauty as he might a posy of flowers. But now he had no use for a posy, for how could he admire it when he was haunted by the thought of Miss Stowe consigned to the dreary life she had been obliged to take up?

His mama had been right, after all, and Windon found it dashed disturbing. His deeper feelings, so long immature, had blossomed through the forced acknowledgment that Miss Stowe was more than a pretty face. The circumstance was not as distasteful as he had imagined, however—indeed, he felt rejuvenated, vitalized, and determined. If this was a “lasting passion,” he could comprehend why so many gentlemen gave up their liberty to pursue it, and he only hoped his mama, upon discovering he had at last formed such an attachment to a lady, would be so delighted she would overlook the fact that the lady was a governess.

Yearning to see the object of his musings again, but without an idea of how to effect a meeting that would not antagonize his hostess and further distress the governess, Windon was not displeased to see little Henry come running from the shadow of the stable door to greet him as he dismounted from his Monday morning ride.

“Good day, sir! I’m glad to see Calliope is well. May I say hello?”

“Daresay you should be in the schoolroom,” replied Windon, dismounting and glancing toward the house in the hopes of seeing Miss Stowe, in all her drab glory, come running out.

“Yes, but I don’t give a fig for that,” said Henry ingenuously, already patting the mare’s neck. “Horses—especially Calliope, here—are far more interesting, don’t you think?”

“Infinitely,” said Windon, nodding to the groom who had come up to take the reins, a signal that he approved the boy’s visit. “But it’s bound to make your mama angry. ”

“She don’t know. The drawing room’s at the front of the house.”

Windon’s brows went up as his pulse quickened expectantly. “Ain’t the schoolroom at the back? I’ll be bound Miss Stowe can see the stables.”

Henry shrugged, producing an apple. “Does Calliope like apples? I snabbled one from the kitchen.”

Calliope gave her own answer, nibbling at the purloined fruit without a care for its provenance. Windon exchanged an amused look with the groom and settled against the stable doorframe in preparation for Miss Stowe’s imminent arrival. He had not long to wait. Before the mare had got rid of the evidence of Henry’s misdemeanor, the governess came flying from the kitchen door and down to the stables.

She skidded to a halt, her chest heaving and tendrils of her hair escaping from the tight bun at the back of her head to wisp softly around her face. She did not notice Windon, who had drawn a little into the shadows so he could more easily admire her rosy complexion and fine eyes, which were accentuated by vexation and exercise.

“Oh, Henry, you served me such a trick!” she cried, trying to catch her breath. “You cannot continue running off like this! Your mama will be so angry if she finds you here and not at your lessons!”

“I hate my lessons!” declared Henry, intent upon the fast-disappearing apple.

“I know, Henry, but I cannot let you be forever pestering the gentlemen’s horses!” returned Miss Stowe in pleading accents.

“Not to worry, Miss Stowe,” said Windon, emerging from the shadows of the doorframe. “If Lady Tyndall gets the wind up, I’ll say it was my idea. Got a knack for telling fibs, I’ve discovered. ”

The governess blinked, gazing at him a few startled moments before putting a hand to her hair and lowering her eyes as she endeavored to pat the stray tendrils back into place. “You are too kind, my lord. But Henry ought not to be a bother to his mother’s guests. Come along, Henry.”

“No!” Henry stamped his foot, wiping his slobbered hand on his nankeens. “His lordship said I could talk to Calliope, and I shall!”

Before Miss Stowe could remonstrate with him, Lord Windon said sternly, “It’s not gentlemanly to speak so, Henry. Never good form to take a pet. Besides, not the thing to contradict a lady.”

“But she’s no lady—she’s a governess,” pouted Henry.

Miss Stowe’s cheeks became even rosier, and Windon said quickly, “A governess is a lady, Henry—the sooner one learns that, the better! No more arguments. Calliope needs her rest. Go on now, and I’ll ask Miss Stowe to bring you again tomorrow morning.”

Appeased, Henry said goodbye to Calliope and trotted obediently back to the kitchen, not even waiting for Miss Stowe.

She dipped a quick curtsy. “Thank you, my lord. You are very kind.”

“Least I could do,” he replied, feeling oddly conscious. He sent off the groom with a nod of his head and said to her, “Might I escort you into the house, Miss Stowe?”

“Oh! Oh, dear me, no, sir. It really is not necessary.”

“Believe it is necessary,” he said brusquely. “A lady wants protection.”

She stared at him, a faint blush rising in her cheeks. “Oh! But it is only a step to the house. I—I cannot imagine there is much danger. ”

“Don’t signify. Gentlemanly thing to do.” And he offered his arm.

Miss Stowe gazed at him in stupefaction for some moments, then slowly placed her arm within his own. He sighed and smiled, relieved she had allowed him the honor of protecting her—and grateful she could not possibly hear the thumping of his heart as it tried to beat out of his chest.

The following three days passed as though something out of a dream for Prudence. Everywhere she went, a benign influence seemed to have penetrated. Anne was sent for during each afternoon to sit with the ladies, relieving the strain on governess and nurse alike. The second day, both Prudence and Anne found a small posy at her dinner plate, so that one could simper and the other could wonder and blush in peace. The evening of the third there was a box of bon bons on Prudence’s pillow when she went up to bed, and Honoria smilingly vowed it was not from her.

Two mornings Lord Windon himself arrived in the schoolroom to invite Henry to visit Calliope, and Nurse insisted Prudence go along with them to supervise her charge. If her lips pursed against a smile as she shooed Prudence out the door, only one person blushed at it. And as the groom drew Henry into talk about the mare’s finer points, Windon spoke so charmingly to her that she could have imagined herself to be just another guest at the house party.

The night of the ball, Prudence waited as arranged until the first stately dances were finished and she was certain her aunt was safely amid her guests in the ballroom. Then she flitted along the corridor and into the throng where Honoria, waiting by the door, grasped her by the hand .

“I’ll introduce you like a regular guest, and then everyone will believe you are, and Mama will not be able to do a thing about it!” Honoria whispered exultantly, drawing her cousin into the crowd. “Lord Windon! Good, you are not dancing.” She spoke loudly, so that several persons near them could hear. “You are acquainted with my cousin?”

“To be sure,” murmured Windon, his eyes wide as he gazed at Prudence.

She felt her cheeks heat. She knew she looked well—how could she not? Honoria had lent her the most ravishing dress of silver thread-net over a pale blue skirt, with deep blue and white rosettes along the hem. She had further insisted upon Prudence wearing her second-best pearls, and had clasped two silver bangles on her wrists.

“Windon!” hissed Honoria, looking significantly at his lordship.

He blinked, coughed, and bowed, raising his voice to speak quite as loud as Honoria. “Miss Stowe! Could never forget. Met at the Dowager Marchioness of Foxham’s ball last Season.”

“My lord.” Prudence hoped her color was not so high as to give the wrong impression, for she was truly grateful to him for what she could only guess was more deception. Whatever it was, it was doing its work, for there were approving murmurs and interested stares from all around the room.

Windon took her hand and carried it to his lips. “Care to dance?”

Delight bubbled up in Prudence’s chest and she smiled brilliantly. “Yes, thank you, my lord.”

He led her into the set and for the next quarter hour she floated on air. Windon was an excellent partner, light on his feet and solicitous, and she thought she could ask for nothing more.

But then, just as the second set struck up, Lady Tyndall caught sight of her, and favored her with such a malevolent look that Prudence stumbled as she found her place, colliding into Lord Windon.

He caught her by the elbow, assisting her to remain upright. “Anything the matter?” He glanced about, and by the set of his mouth, she guessed he had seen her aunt.

“Perhaps, I ought to sit out,” she suggested faintly.

“No, by Jupiter,” Windon said firmly, leading her into position. “Take it as an affront if you went away.” He bent to say in her ear, “Been hankering to dance with you for days. Mean to make the most of it.”

Her pleasure at this gallantry precluded speech, and she went about the next dance in nearly the same state of contentment as she had the first. But she knew it could not last. As soon as the music ended and Lord Windon led her to the side of the room, Lady Tyndall pushed toward her through the crowd. Prudence trembled, anxious whether Honoria had succeeded in winning over Lord Tyndall to her cause and fearing she had not. But then she felt a steadying hand on her arm, and she glanced up to see Lord Windon still beside her.

Lady Tyndall reached her and, seeing his lordship by her side, quickly schooled the thunder in her expression to a false smile. “Prudence! I wonder at your coming down tonight. Are not Henry and Anne in need of you?”

“N-no, Aunt,” Prudence stammered. “They are both asleep, and—and if you recollect, Nurse has charge of them at night.”

Before her aunt could reply, Lord Windon smiled widely and said, “Pleased you changed your mind, ma’am, and included your niece. Very wise. Always good to have as many pretty women as possible at a do like this, in my opinion. Miss Tyndall can’t be the only handsome one.”

Lady Tyndall’s simper looked suspiciously like a grimace. “Honoria does look lovely tonight, does she not? You made a handsome pair, the two of you, opening the ball. I declare, I have never seen a couple better suited.”

Windon seemed to consider this, then shook his head. “Can’t agree. Better pair over there.” He gestured to the other side of the room, where Mr. Benchley stood speaking animatedly with Honoria. Lady Tyndall gasped, but he went on blithely, “Look as though they were made for one another. Wouldn’t be surprised if they made a match of it.”

Her ladyship, who had visibly been struggling against outrage, looked quickly at him and said, “But my lord, you were to—that is, your attentions to Honoria have been very particular! Indeed, she expected an offer from you and would feel shockingly used if it came about you had a change of heart.”

Windon cocked an eyebrow and said smoothly, “Beg your pardon, but nothing of the sort. Came only to forward my friend Benchley’s suit. Miss Tyndall knows it well enough—seems she’s quite content, too.”

Lady Tyndall blustered a bit, but at last clamped her lips together and got hold of herself. “You will pardon me, my lord, but it is only a case of long friendship turned to calf-love. I’m afraid it simply would not do. Poor Mr. Benchley is not what we could wish for our Honoria. ”

“Nonsense!” boomed a new voice, and Prudence and Windon turned to find that Lord Tyndall had joined them. “Fred’s a capital fellow, excellent seat. Never seen such a hard goer—neck or nothing! My kind of sportsman. He’ll do very well for Honoria, Althea, mark my words. They’ll make a famous match.”

“George!” cried Lady Tyndall, growing as pale as she had been red a moment earlier. “We agreed that it was not our wish—such meager expectations! And so nearby!”

Lord Tyndall humphed. “Not a bit of it. Neat little property, Pattendon. Good hunting, fine grounds. Besides, so near to Randley, won’t require half the land of a gentleman farther off. Honoria will do fine with him. Already gave him my consent.”

“Well done!” said Windon, shaking his lordship’s hand. “Felicitate you, sir! As I said, you couldn’t ask for a finer son-in-law.”

“Thank you, thank you. And you, puss,” he said, chucking Prudence under the chin. “You look as fine as five-pence. Glad I thought to give you a treat. Every girl should have a ball once in a while.”

“But George,” objected Lady Tyndall weakly, “a governess.”

“Humph. All work and no play made Jill a dull girl. Can’t have a dull governess for my son and heir, can I?”

With that, he went away, and Windon, taking Prudence’s hand and pulling it through his arm, followed his example, leaving Lady Tyndall gasping like a landed fish.

“Good heaven, Lord Windon!” cried Prudence when they had passed out of earshot. “I could never have foreseen such a turn of events! Only last month poor Fred was turned off the place, and here he is engaged to Honoria! And all due to your kindness in helping them!” She gazed up at him with shining eyes. “You seem to be a miracle worker! I am so happy for them that I declare my aunt may banish me forever and I should not give it a thought.”

Windon’s eyes widened in alarm. “ I’d give it a thought, however! Mustn’t allow her near you. Have just the thing for it—introduce you all around. Have you dancing all night! Can’t banish you then.”

He was as good as his word. Prudence was soon dancing with an amiable young man from the neighborhood, with two others promised in their turn. Windon bespoke the supper dance, and took her safely down to the dining room, never leaving her side or allowing Lady Tyndall an opportunity to whisk her away. He talked and laughed, listened and inquired after her history, and altogether made her feel as though she were not an interloper at all, but an interesting and desirable companion.

Prudence had not been so well-entertained in months, and her only discomfort was a strong yearning at the close of the ball that Lord Windon be forever in her company. It could never be, and even she was not so bird-witted as to imagine it could. She was a governess, and much as she had enjoyed her one evening of playing at being a gentlewoman again, she knew she must return to her real life.

But as she laid her head upon her pillow that night, she resolved to treasure up this night in her memories, there to be recalled during those moments she knew would come when she dearly wanted the comfort of a dream come true.