The dukes proposal for t.., p.3
The Duke's Proposal for the Governess, page 3
‘Indeed,’ Dolph said. ‘Although I am not certain if it counts as “new” given that it is now defunct.’
Iggy let his foot drop to the floor with a slight thwack. ‘You’ve heard of it?’ he asked, new respect visible in his expression.
‘A mechanized vehicle until its unfortunate demise.’
‘True, ’cept it did not de-whatever. It blew up.’
‘My mistake. Pray continue. Tell me all about this mechanical marvel.’
‘’xactly!’ Ignatius said, with a wide grin. ‘That is what Miss Carstens calls it. A marvel! It operated on steam like a gigantic teakettle.’
‘You seem well informed.’
‘Miss Carstens knows that stuff,’ Ignatius said magnanimously, glancing towards Miss Carstens’s rather firm features.
‘Miss Carstens is full of surprises.’
‘Yes, she is all right for a girl. And better than the tutor I had. I didn’t like him. He didn’t like me either, so he left. Miss Carstens let me make a butter churn using a water wheel. Only it flooded the dairy. Dora was surprised. And cross. She was the maid.’
‘Ignatius,’ Miss Carstens said, her tone echoing his mother’s earlier admonishment.
‘Well, she was! She said that you were encouraging my bad habits. And then Lucy said it wasn’t ladylike and that you should teach me French, except I don’t like French. I am more interested in pressurized steam.’
‘Due to its more explosive nature, I presume,’ Miss Carstens said drily.
‘Have you heard of the Catch Me Who Can?’ Iggy asked Dolph, ignoring this last comment.
‘A locomotive on which one can ride which runs on a circular track in Bloomsbury at Torrington Square,’ Dolph said and was rewarded again by a look of surprised respect.
‘Miss Carstens said as how I could see it even if we do not have the money to ride on it,’ Ignatius said. ‘It costs a shilling.’
‘Ignatius!’ his mother said in a tone of acute suffering.
‘Well, we don’t. On account of Father leaving a lot of debts. But Miss Carstens said as how it would be a shame to come to London and not.’
‘Miss Carstens, are you also interested in Trevithick?’ Dolph asked, quickly interrupting his young host before he could further embarrass his mother.
She met his gaze, her surprisingly full lips twisting into a slight smile. He noted an expression in her rather fine eyes which suggested that she was not completely bereft of humour. ‘No, James Watt’s machine has more merit. It is less apt to blow up.’
Dolph felt his jaw slacken. He had meant to tease and was, instead, teased. ‘We should go,’ he said with an impulsivity unusual to him. ‘I mean to Torrington Square. All of us.’
Ignatius gave a whoop and, for a brief instant, Miss Carstens leaned forward, an expression of eagerness flickering across her features. Then, with obvious effort, she checked herself.
‘Ignatius, we do not want to inconvenience His Lordship,’ she said.
‘I never allow people to inconvenience me.’ He stretched his long legs lazily towards the fire. ‘My life’s mission, so to speak.’
Her eyebrows pulled together. She was intriguing. A bluestocking, no doubt, but intriguing, nonetheless.
‘It might prove overstimulating,’ she said, glancing towards the excited boy with a tiny disapproving tsk as she pressed her full, well-shaped lips together.
‘Ah, we definitely wouldn’t wish you to become “overstimulated”, Miss Carstens.’
‘My concern is not for myself.’ He noted a slight flushing along her cheekbones and it amused him that she had understood his double entendre.
‘She worries about Lucy,’ Ignatius explained, his tone heavy with disgust. ‘She faints, you know. She fainted when I blew up the chicken coop.’
‘Lud, country life sounds so exciting. I doubt our city chicken coops ever explode,’ Dolph said. ‘Fortuitously, there are no chicken coops in Torrington Square so we should be safe. Indeed, it is quite fashionable. Only last week, the Regent himself went, I believe.’
This last statement had an immediate effect on Mrs Harrington. Previously, she had been focused exclusively on the teacups and sponge. Now, she straightened with a rustle of stiff sateen as she looked at him with an expression of obvious eagerness.
‘Well, if the Prince Regent is impressed, perhaps we are being too cautious,’ she said in her rather loud tones. ‘Indeed, Miss Carstens, you have said that Ignatius has a lively mind and the best thing would be to keep him occupied and prevent boredom.’
‘Oh, it would be just the thing for my relative’s lively mind,’ Dolph said.
‘Thank you!’ Ignatius said, his tone one of hero worship. ‘Nobody understands the possible importance of Trevithick’s machine. I would love to make something like Trevithick. If I don’t make a leg. Which would also be interesting.’
‘And potentially less likely to blow up,’ Miss Carstens said.
Chapter Two
Two days later, Dolph honoured his impulsive offer and headed to Wimpole Street in an unusually optimistic mood. Indeed, he was just thinking that his head did not hurt as much as was typical when his vehicle pulled to a sudden, jarring stop.
He peered outside. An unconscionable racket was coming from in front of the vehicle, shouting, barking and a general hullabaloo. A small but excitable group had gathered, blocking the street ahead. At its centre, he noted a large middle-aged lady, shaking her parasol and in considerable distress.
Before he could take in further details, his view was obstructed by the sudden appearance of his groom’s round, somewhat cherubic face at the carriage window. ‘So sorry, my lord. Should I try to disperse the group, my lord?’
‘We may have encountered a force of nature beyond even your ability to control, Martin,’ Dolph said. ‘I will get out and investigate the situation. Stay with the horses.’
Uncoiling his large frame, Dolph exited onto the street, carefully manoeuvring around the large, dirty puddle which threatened his Hessians. From this location he could stare over the shoulders of two burly onlookers.
The irate parasol lady stood beside a gentleman whose air of obsequious self-importance suggested a role as a minor bureaucrat. His only other notable feature, aside from rather lush side whiskers, was a rip in his waistcoat, incongruent with the rest of his meticulous appearance.
Opposite this duo and with her back to him, he noted a woman wresting a large animal, now caked in mud. Even though he could only see her rear, Dolph felt a tingle of recognition. This was intensified by her voice, clearly audible, if somewhat breathless from her exertion.
‘Mrs Pollock, if you would stop waving the parasol, I am certain he would calm down! Likely he thinks it is a battering ram or something.’
‘It is a parasol straight from Paris,’ the middle-aged lady said.
‘Well, he is a dog and hardly acquainted with French fashions!’
Dolph felt a ripple of mirth. Yes, the clipped tones were recognizable...the governess, Miss Carstens.
The lady shook the parasol again. ‘I have put up with that animal digging at my roses, howling at the moon and causing all manner of mayhem for at least two weeks. It is more than a body can bear, which is why I called the magistrate. And now look how that dreadful creature has attacked the poor gentleman.’
She pointed dramatically towards the ripped waistcoat to emphasize her point.
‘The “poor gentleman” attempted to sit on him. Besides, he is unused to the city and is homesick,’ Miss Carstens said.
‘Homesick? Homesick?’ the lady expostulated, her voice rising an octave. ‘His immediate execution will solve any homesickness!’
‘Absolutely not! No! I will not allow it!’ Miss Carstens straightened, allowing the animal greater movement, which he instantly used in an eager lunge towards the parasol.
‘Fortunately, that is not your decision. That is for the magistrate to decide,’ the other lady said, her tones haughty.
The magistrate stepped forward, patting his waistcoat and eyeing the dog with disapproval. ‘I must agree with Mrs Pollock. It is a dangerous animal and should not be within city limits. I will arrange for its immediate destruction.’
At his words, the two burly individuals in front of Dolph stepped forward, striding towards Miss Carstens and the dog with obvious intent.
Lord Lansdowne had been previously quite amused by the spectacle but now found himself moved to intervene, his fondness for animals surpassing his usual ennui. Besides, the boy, Ignatius, had that certain brand of oddness which likely made the company of animals preferable to people.
Dolph was about to say something when he was arrested by Miss Carstens’s clear tones. ‘I suggest that you do not hurt this animal until you have spoken to Lord Lansdowne!’
‘Lord Lansdowne? Why would he care?’ the magistrate asked.
Dolph was quite curious to hear the answer.
‘It is his dog,’ Miss Carstens said.
Dolph had not realized he had acquired an animal and felt certain he would have chosen one with better manners and less mud.
‘Nonsense! His Lordship would not give house room to such a mutt and a distempered one at that,’ Mrs Pollock said. She had a point.
Miss Carstens, however, gave a graceful shrug, or as graceful as could be managed with the dog still pulling with obvious intent to harm the parasol, if not the woman.
‘Lord Lansdowne assured me that Basil is pure-bred. Indeed, quite exotic, a Belgian hunting dog and valuable. Mrs Harrington is Lord Lansdowne’s cousin and we are obliging him by looking after the animal,’ she said.
‘Fiddlesticks. The entire household is irregular. Lord Lansdowne likely would have nothing to do with them and I doubt he has even met the creature.’
Dolph stepped forward.
At his movement, everyone’s gaze turned to him with a precise synchronicity of motion. The magistrate opened and then closed his mouth. Mrs Pollock remained fortuitously bereft of speech while Miss Carstens’s eyes widened.
* * *
Abby stared as Lord Lansdowne bowed, a sweeping, dramatic gesture.
‘I am afraid I have not made your acquaintance,’ he said to Mrs Pollock, who was thankfully no longer brandishing the parasol.
‘This is Mrs Pollock,’ Abby said, hastily recovering her wits and manners. ‘Our neighbour. And the magistrate.’
‘It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Mrs Pollock. I am Lord Lansdowne. You seem in some distress. May I be of any assistance?’ Dolph smiled engagingly, a dark lock of hair falling into his eyes, out of place from his low bow.
‘I...oh...’ Mrs Pollock sputtered. ‘I had not realized that this animal was yours and from Belgium.’
‘My dear lady, I am afraid you are mistaken—’
Abby’s hand tightened against the dog’s rope. Her stomach twisted into a sickening knot. For some reason, she had believed Lord Lansdowne would support the story, if only to alleviate his own boredom.
‘Lord Lans—’ she began.
‘He is from the Balkans,’ Lord Lansdowne continued. ‘Not Belgium. To be completely honest. And I have been recently advised that women admire honesty.’
She caught his gaze and saw the wry twist of his lips, a mix of smirk and smile. She had never encountered a member of the nobility with a sense of humour and now did not know whether to be irritated or disarmed, to laugh or take up the parasol against him.
Mrs Pollock, however, appeared entirely enraptured. ‘My lord, you are too kind. And really, it is no great matter. I am likely making too much of such a small incident. A mountain out of a mole hill,’ she said, tripping over her words in her eagerness to appease.
‘Indeed, you have had great patience with my dog’s shenanigans, and I can only beg your forgiveness that I have not instructed dear Bruno with better manners. Please do not punish him for my sins.’
A bit over the top, Abby thought. And Bruno? Bruno?
Bruno sounded like a disgraced Italian opera singer. Fortunately, Mrs Pollock was oblivious to any inconsistency, allowing Lord Lansdowne to bend over her hand while assuring him again that the matter was of no consequence.
‘There is, however, the issue of my waistcoat,’ the magistrate said, somewhat huffily, less disarmed by His Lordship.
‘Absolutely.’ Lord Lansdowne straightened. ‘Please, allow me to compensate you for any damage to your property or your person. Give me your card and I will make the issue my first priority. Or the first priority for my secretary.’
Apparently mollified, the magistrate handed over his card, after retrieving it from his mistreated waistcoat. He then left, followed by the two burly dog catchers.
After a final farewell from His Lordship, Mrs Pollock also turned, retreating towards her house. The small crowd, surmising that there was nothing more to be seen, also dispersed and Abby found herself standing in the street beside His Lordship while Basil, exhausted by his near-death experience, sat docilely upon the cobbles.
‘Thank goodness,’ she whispered as the front door shut behind Mrs Pollock. ‘And his name is Basil.’
Lord Lansdowne shrugged. ‘Who names a dog after a spice? They don’t even like spice. Besides, my error was likely due to a crisis of conscience in participating in such a bamboozle.’
‘I am certain that your conscience is quite fine,’ Abby retorted. ‘However, I will concede that I sound ungrateful and I should thank you.’
‘Shoulds are somewhat like castor oil for the digestion.’ He smiled. The lock of hair still hung forward, grazing his eyebrows. That dishevelled lock gave him a younger demeanour, at odds with the tired worldliness that otherwise seemed to define his character.
‘It is true to dos are seldom pleasant but I am sincere. I truly I thank you.’
‘I was delighted to help. I always enjoy thwarting pompous bureaucrats, particularly those with side whiskers.’
Abby laughed. ‘You actually do have a sense of humour.’
‘I find it an absolute necessity. In fact, the episode has me intrigued. It suggests that you may be less circumspect than I had thought,’ he said.
Circumspect!
Circumspect—She had never thought of herself as circumspect. Sensible or blunt maybe but circumspect? It seemed too close to dull. And, for some reason, she did not want Lord Lansdowne to think her dull.
Did the fact that she disliked tea parties, chit-chat and impractical bonnets make her dull? After all, she and Miss Brownlee had written letters to Wilberforce and others espousing votes for women and decrying Britain’s slave trade. Indeed, she’d even attended a meeting to debate such issues.
Such opinions were hardly circumspect, although she doubted whether they would be much favoured by Lord Lansdowne and his ilk.
Intelligent women with opinions were seldom admired by men with power. Writing pretty thank-you notes and invitations was applauded but trying to improve education or decrease injustice, not so much.
‘B-a-s-i-l!’ The long screech cut across the now quiet street, casting aside her introspection as Iggy bolted down the front stairs, throwing himself on Basil.
Mrs Harrington and Lucy followed more sedately.
‘Lord Lansdowne,’ Mrs Harrington said, her forehead puckered in worry. ‘Good heavens, you must think that we are in perpetual chaos. Miss Carstens, I am so relieved you were able to negotiate the dog’s release. I do not know how you managed as Mrs Pollock seemed so irate. Indeed, I am so thankful that Ignatius was in the kitchen and unaware of the situation. Otherwise I do not know what would have happened.
I’d have killed ’em. Hung, drawn and quartered,’ Iggy stated with bloodthirsty pride.
‘Good gracious, that is a somewhat violent solution,’ Lord Lansdowne said.
Iggy nodded, still hugging Basil, who, unhappy with the tight squeeze, made grumbling noises into his whiskers. ‘They were lucky Miss Carstens was there and not me.’
‘Indeed,’ Lord Lansdowne agreed.
‘We have Lord Lansdowne to thank for today’s happy resolution,’ Abby said.
‘Apparently Basil is an exotic breed for which I have a great fondness,’ His Lordship announced.
‘Really? But I rescued Basil from the pond when Mr Motham wanted to drown him,’ Iggy said.
‘Apparently, Mr Motham did not realize he had acquired a rare breed from... Belgium?’ Lord Lansdowne said, humour lacing his tone.
‘The Balkans.’ Abby met his gaze and found herself smiling back in a shared appreciation of the farcical melodrama.
‘You should definitely smile more often,’ he said, then closed his mouth rather firmly as though his own words had surprised him.
She flushed and the very fact that she had now taken to blushing like a schoolgirl further irritated her so that she frowned with some ire at Ignatius. ‘Please get up. You are almost sitting in a puddle. And we are causing a spectacle. Take Basil to Mrs Fred in the kitchen.
‘But—’ Iggy started.
‘No argument. And perhaps you could apply your inventive mind to determining how to ensure that he does not escape again. He really cannot make a diet of other people’s roses without consequence.’
‘Indeed, as I am uncertain that even my charm could save him if he were to again imperil Mrs Pollock’s flowers,’ Lord Lansdowne said, with another wry smile.
The statement added further colour to Abby’s cheeks, increasing her irritation.
She did not know what bothered her more, this ludicrously sudden blushing or the obvious truth that Basil could eat every rose in London and Lord Lansdowne would charm his way out of it.
* * *
It took at least another half hour before they were ready to leave. Abby sent Ignatius to his bedchamber to change while she accompanied Lucy to find a cold compress to calm her features, still flushed from the excitement and anxiety of the recent debacle.
