Page 4 of The Governess and the Rogue (Somerset Stories #6)

Jack was a man of action, not quiet contemplation.

He’d rather be out riding in the open country, playing cricket with his brothers, or going several rounds at his favorite boxing saloon.

To huddle in that measly cabin all day, poring over old correspondence and drafting letters to send at the next port of call, was minute-by-minute eating away at his sanity.

“I have tasks to occupy myself,” he said. “Letters and so forth.”

“Oh?” Her attention fell to the deck. “Is this one of them?”

Jack glanced down. His letter had fallen from his pocket. The wind loosed the pages, scattering them across the boards. Before he could make a reply, Miss Layton sank gracefully to retrieve them.

He suppressed a scorching flare of aggravation.

He’d been adapting to his new limitations as best he could since leaving hospital in Cairo, but the fact that he couldn’t yet easily bend his left knee to crouch or to kneel was still a source of frustration to him.

He nevertheless moved to assist her, his efforts made awkward by his cane. “Allow me?—”

“I have it,” she said, swiftly collecting the pages. There were four altogether, covered front and back in a neat, even penmanship that had, over the past fourteen years, become all-too familiar to Jack.

Miss Layton assembled them into order and, rising, handed them back to him. “Here you are.”

Jack took them, feeling as useless as he frequently did these days. “Thank you,” he said stiffly.

“Not at all.” Smoothing her skirts, Miss Layton returned to her position at the rail. “I wasn’t aware there was any way of receiving one’s post after leaving port. Not until we reached Malta.”

“It’s not a recent letter.” He shoved it back into his pocket, more firmly this time. “I received it before leaving Alexandria. It’s one I often re-read.”

“A letter from a lady?” she asked with deliberate nonchalance.

Jack’s smile slowly returned. “As a matter of fact,” he said. “It is.”

* * *

Bea inwardly withered at the sight of his amusement. She could have kicked herself for inquiring. What did she care that he was poring over a letter from a lady? A letter written in a straight, elegant hand, covering four pages of paper. One he’d read over and over again.

A letter from someone named Hannah.

His sweetheart, Bea gathered.

Naturally he had one. What soldier didn’t? Especially a soldier with roguishly handsome looks and an equally roguish manner? He was just the sort of man young ladies would be chasing after in droves. A catch, and no question, particularly if he was indeed a colonel.

“It’s no business of mine,” she said quickly. “Forgive my mentioning it.”

“Not at all,” he said. “It’s no great secret.”

“Yet… It must be important to you for you to have reread it so many times.”

His smile reached his eyes. The icy-gray depths twinkled with humor. “You might say that. The lady who wrote it has a talent with words. It makes her letters entertaining, as well as informative.”

“How nice,” Bea managed. She set her hands on the cold ship’s rail.

She wished she’d remembered to put on her gloves before venturing from her cabin.

Without them, her bare hands were revealed in all their careworn glory.

The red knuckles, callused fingers, and roughened skin.

Decidedly not the hands of a lady. Not even the hands of a governess. Not anymore.

That role had diminished year-by-year since her arrival in India. With every unsuccessful posting she’d been reduced—accorded less privilege, less respect, less money—even as her duties had increased.

The colonel drew closer to her. “You must have letters you enjoy rereading from time to time.”

“Indeed, I do not,” Bea said. “A governess isn’t permitted to have followers.”

“What about friends?” he asked. “Surely you have some of those worth corresponding with?”

Bea hadn’t imagined she could feel any worse this evening. “I keep a journal,” she admitted.

“Ah,” he said.

The single syllable could have meant anything.

Bea forged ahead. “I’ve made a historical record of my time in India. And of the British occupation there. It’s a fairly thorough account.”

“Yet not the same thing as a correspondence with a friend,” the colonel pointed out.

“I’m not… That is, I haven’t…” She paused. “My positions have been such that I could make no lasting connections.”

“I don’t see why?—”

“I’ve had over two dozen postings,” she blurted out.

The colonel couldn’t conceal his surprise. “ Two dozen? At your age?”

Heat threatened to creep into her cheeks again.

Bea refused to allow it. She was aware she looked younger than she was.

But the fact remained that she was not young, neither in years nor experience.

She was, by any objective measurement, rapidly approaching spinsterhood.

“I am six and twenty, sir,” she said. “Very nearly seven and twenty.”

He stared at her.

Bea had to steel herself not to squirm under his regard. “It’s nothing to the point,” she said. “I came to India when I was but seventeen, not long out of school. Since then, I’ve been all across the continent, from Calcutta to Bombay, Kashmir, Hyderabad, and back again. It’s not an easy life.”

“Even less so, I imagine, now you’re in the Dimsdales’ employ,” he said.

“A temporary position, as I told you yesterday. I only took it to secure passage back to England.”

Indeed, some might argue that all Bea’s positions had been temporary positions. She never kept them for long. One-by-one they all came to a swift end, either through mutual agreement or by courtesy of the firing squad.

“Everyone else was leaving after the uprising,” she continued. “Given my diminished employment prospects, I thought it wise for me to do the same.”

The colonel studied her face. “I trust you’re returning home to be with your family?”

“I have no family,” Bea said. Her conscience gave an immediate twinge at so bleak a statement. The conversation had taken an unfortunate turn toward the melancholy. “I’m returning to England to find a new position. Mrs. Dimsdale has promised me a glowing reference in exchange for my services.”

The silence that met her statement held a wealth of unexpressed opinion. Pity, disbelief, judgment. Or, very probably, all three.

Bea folded her arms tighter about herself, feeling very much alone. “Are you?” she asked finally.

“Am I what?” the colonel returned.

“Going home to your family?”

An odd look crossed his face. “After a fashion.” He half leaned against the rail beside her.

“Most of my relations reside in the West Country. I own a small estate there as well. Marston Priory. My brother has had the management of it while I’ve been away.

I plan to settle there for a time, until I decide what I’m to do with the remainder of my life. ”

Bea didn’t know quite how to respond. It was such an abundance of riches. And ones averred to so casually. An estate. A brother. A family .

She should be so fortunate.

Instead, she had no one and nothing at all.

Her precarious mood dipped further. Tonight was proving to be a disappointment in every regard. First, no stars. And now, an unwelcome reminder that she had no beau, no friends, no home, no family.

She was beginning to regret ever coming onto the deck this evening. Better she had gone straight to bed.

“What do you wish to do?” she asked with mechanical civility.

“I don’t know,” the colonel said. “Recover my health? Write my memoirs? Breed racehorses?”

“You’re spoiled for choice.”

“I suppose I am.”

“It must be nice.”

His smile took on an edge. “Must it?”

“Whatever you decide, your family will be there waiting for you.”

“What about you?” he asked. “There must be someone in England who will be eager to have you back again.”

“Not a single soul.” Bea belatedly realized how pathetic she sounded. “Never fear,” she added bracingly. “I shall make my own way.”

“I don’t doubt it, Miss Layton,” the colonel said. “But take care. We all need someone sometime.”