she to respond to that?
By avoiding him altogether.
With some careful planning, Mercy might be able to evade him for the duration of her employment at Ashby Hall, which she hoped would not be long. And if she encountered him again, she would take care to follow the strictest protocol.
In other words, she would hold her tongue.
Once Mercy wrote to Mr. Vale, she did not think it would take much time for him to send his response. Perhaps only a fortnight. Mercy doubted Lord Ashby possessed any such sense of etiquette. Clearly, he had no awareness of proper social decorum, as demonstrated by their inappropriate interchange just now.
In any event, Mercy had not heard any sounds out of place in the house, and wondered if Lord Ashby had concocted his tale of rogue noises for the purpose of detaining her outside her bedchamber, wearing naught but her chemise.
That possibility was really quite infuriating, and Mercy’s blood boiled at his inconsideration. She had no doubt he’d enjoyed her discomfiture.
She climbed into her bed and gave the bolster a violent shake before yanking the blankets up to her shoulders. If the earl had intended to be maddening, he could not have been more successful.
She just wished he did not make her body quiver with an awareness that created an unwelcome heat in the core of her being.
When morning came, Mercy washed and dressed, then listened for sounds of footsteps going past her door before broaching the corridor to walk across to the nursery. She did not care to encounter . . . anyone . . . on her way to Emmaline’s room.
The arrangement of rooms at Ashby Hall was quite different from the house Claire Rogers had described in her letters, and completely unacceptable in Mercy’s opinion. But it was not a governess’s place to demand a change. She could not tell the earl to move the master’s bedroom away from the nursery any more than she could order him to stay away from her.
Nor could she quell the nervous anticipation of another midnight meeting outside her bedchamber.
In direct opposition to such a daft notion, she’d dressed in a modest frock, a gown of celery green with a high neck and sleeves that fell just below her wrists. She brushed and pinned her hair carefully, leaving no loose ends to give anyone the wrong impression.
When Mercy entered the nursery, Emmaline was still in her nightclothes, kneeling beside her bookcase, looking at the picture book they’d read the night before.
Mercy wondered if she ought to discourage Emmaline’s fascination with her mother’s book. Perhaps her attachment only encouraged the kind of dreams that had upset the child’s sleep the night before.
And yet the book was one of the few items Emmaline had of her mother. It did not seem right to take it away when the girl had already lost so much.
If Mercy owned something of her true mother’s . . .
She wished she knew more about the woman who’d borne her, and knew it was time to delve into Susanna’s journal, even though the passages Emmaline had read were disturbing. Mercy could not help but suspect the rest would be just as difficult to take.
But she might learn something of her origins, something more than the trifle Susanna had told her before she’d died. And Mercy longed to know. Later, when their morning lessons were done, she would try to eke out a few minutes to read a bit more. Perhaps after she wrote her letter to Mr. Vale.
“Good morning, Emmy,” Mercy said quietly so as not to startle the girl out of her intense concentration.
Emmaline glanced up at her, then closed the book and put it away, ever so carefully.
“ ’Tis my guess that Mr. Blue will not be coming up with our breakfast as he did with supper last night.” At Mercy’s request.
“No.”
“Well then, we must go down to the kitchen and see what we can find.” And make arrangements for all their meals to be brought up to the nursery.
Claire had mentioned that the nursemaid in her household always
By avoiding him altogether.
With some careful planning, Mercy might be able to evade him for the duration of her employment at Ashby Hall, which she hoped would not be long. And if she encountered him again, she would take care to follow the strictest protocol.
In other words, she would hold her tongue.
Once Mercy wrote to Mr. Vale, she did not think it would take much time for him to send his response. Perhaps only a fortnight. Mercy doubted Lord Ashby possessed any such sense of etiquette. Clearly, he had no awareness of proper social decorum, as demonstrated by their inappropriate interchange just now.
In any event, Mercy had not heard any sounds out of place in the house, and wondered if Lord Ashby had concocted his tale of rogue noises for the purpose of detaining her outside her bedchamber, wearing naught but her chemise.
That possibility was really quite infuriating, and Mercy’s blood boiled at his inconsideration. She had no doubt he’d enjoyed her discomfiture.
She climbed into her bed and gave the bolster a violent shake before yanking the blankets up to her shoulders. If the earl had intended to be maddening, he could not have been more successful.
She just wished he did not make her body quiver with an awareness that created an unwelcome heat in the core of her being.
When morning came, Mercy washed and dressed, then listened for sounds of footsteps going past her door before broaching the corridor to walk across to the nursery. She did not care to encounter . . . anyone . . . on her way to Emmaline’s room.
The arrangement of rooms at Ashby Hall was quite different from the house Claire Rogers had described in her letters, and completely unacceptable in Mercy’s opinion. But it was not a governess’s place to demand a change. She could not tell the earl to move the master’s bedroom away from the nursery any more than she could order him to stay away from her.
Nor could she quell the nervous anticipation of another midnight meeting outside her bedchamber.
In direct opposition to such a daft notion, she’d dressed in a modest frock, a gown of celery green with a high neck and sleeves that fell just below her wrists. She brushed and pinned her hair carefully, leaving no loose ends to give anyone the wrong impression.
When Mercy entered the nursery, Emmaline was still in her nightclothes, kneeling beside her bookcase, looking at the picture book they’d read the night before.
Mercy wondered if she ought to discourage Emmaline’s fascination with her mother’s book. Perhaps her attachment only encouraged the kind of dreams that had upset the child’s sleep the night before.
And yet the book was one of the few items Emmaline had of her mother. It did not seem right to take it away when the girl had already lost so much.
If Mercy owned something of her true mother’s . . .
She wished she knew more about the woman who’d borne her, and knew it was time to delve into Susanna’s journal, even though the passages Emmaline had read were disturbing. Mercy could not help but suspect the rest would be just as difficult to take.
But she might learn something of her origins, something more than the trifle Susanna had told her before she’d died. And Mercy longed to know. Later, when their morning lessons were done, she would try to eke out a few minutes to read a bit more. Perhaps after she wrote her letter to Mr. Vale.
“Good morning, Emmy,” Mercy said quietly so as not to startle the girl out of her intense concentration.
Emmaline glanced up at her, then closed the book and put it away, ever so carefully.
“ ’Tis my guess that Mr. Blue will not be coming up with our breakfast as he did with supper last night.” At Mercy’s request.
“No.”
“Well then, we must go down to the kitchen and see what we can find.” And make arrangements for all their meals to be brought up to the nursery.
Claire had mentioned that the nursemaid in her household always
Similar Books
