Still. He was an eager man and appeared quite taken with her. If he was a butcher’s son, or from a farming family, Anne would not have taken it quite so awkwardly, but they resided in the same property. This could not continue, not like this.

  “More chores, I am afraid,” she said cheerfully. “There is much to prepare for Lady Frances’s future schooling, as you can imagine. You will have to excuse––”

  “But in your free time,” said Holt, stepping across the corridor to bar her way. “What do you do?”

  Anne laughed. “I must admit, I do not have much free time. Good day, I must––”

  “No free time? ’Tis a scandal of the first degree!” the footman said, stepping to block her way once again with a smile he obviously thought was charming. “The master cannot expect you to work all the time. All of us deserve a little…leisure.”

  Anne did not know what to say. The questions in themselves were not harmful; neither rude nor inflammatory, she could find no fault with them.

  But he was an eager young man, that was the word for it. [said six paras ago] Far too eager. The fact he was a good looking man, all sandy hair and freckled cheeks, was neither here nor there. Anne was not here to find a gentleman follower. She was here to care for Lady Frances.

  Besides, if she was interested in any gentleman…

  The image of the master, of Timothy Lexington, Earl of Clarcton, flashed through her mind, unbidden. [the last time we knew her to think about him, she was convinced she would not be attracted to him. Since then, it has been said flat out that she hasn’t seen him. What happened?]

  Anne flushed, her cheeks hot, and Holt’s smile broadened.

  This was not the time to lose her head! She should not be thinking of the master like that, not at all, and it would only serve to give the footman false hope.

  Anne Gilbert was not in the market for any man.

  “I really must be going,” she said, finally getting around the footman and walking down the corridor faster than she would naturally.

  Quickening her pace seemed to be the only way to escape him, and Holt did not try to follow her. Thank goodness. The last thing she needed was for gossip to spring up from a perfectly innocent conversation.

  Well. Innocent from her side, at least.

  Frances’s drawing room appeared as she turned a corner, and Anne halted outside it to catch her breath.

  The first two weeks in any new posting were the most intense. She knew that; anyone worth their salt from the Governess Bureau knew that.

  She was fortunate indeed to have a charge both obliging and pleasant. Now she had overcome the first fourteen days, she could settle into a routine of her own, carve out her own niche within the household and be happy for…

  How long? With a child this young, she could feasibly be a part of Clarcton Castle for ten years, maybe more.

  Anne tried to slow her breathing, taking in slow and measured breaths. Ten years here would certainly be an honor, but it could also start to feel like a prison. All she had to do was take each day as it comes. All she had to know was keep going.

  A smile, bittersweet, crept over her face. Just keep going. A favorite phrase of her mother’s, which had once been her own mother’s. Both her sister and her sister said it, and now Anne said it, along with her cousins.

  Just keep going.

  Taking a deep breath and throwing back her shoulders as though heading into battle, Anne opened the door and stepped inside.

  “Miss Anne!” Frances’s face lit up to see her, and though this was charming in itself, it did cause a little pain to sear through Anne’s heart.

  That a child should be so happy to see what was a relative stranger was symptomatic indeed of a lonely life. Where was her mother?

  She had not been here for some time. Smythe had been here almost a year, and she had admitted in a quiet corner of the servants’ hall just four days ago that she had never seen the mistress.

  A sickness severe indeed to take her away from her child for a quarter of her life.

  Anne’s heart broke as the little girl rushed towards her, babbling away about a toy she held in her hand. She scooped her up, pulling her into her arms as nature intended. A child in a pair of loving arms. It did not matter whether they were a parent’s. What this child needed more than anything was love.

  “––over the top of the hill and back down again!” Frances said, bright eyed.

  “Goodness, what an adventure to be had!” said Anne brightly. “Come now, show me.”

  The child wriggled out of her arms, which was all to the good for Anne kept forgetting how heavy a four-year-old was, and scampered over to the window where the Grand Old Duke of York was waiting to go up and down the hill, or pile of cushions, of Frances’s making.

  Anne dropped to her knees, no concerns about standing on ceremony here. She was starting to become a part of Frances’s world. It would be impossible to teach a child of any age, let alone only four years old, if you would not already accepted into their world.

  “Can you make me go over a hill?”

  Anne blinked. “I beg your pardon, Frances?”

  Frances was smiling wistfully. “It’s what Papa used to do, ages ago. He whirled me around and around!”

  Her face had lit up at the memory. Every daughter had a memory of being whirled around by her father. Anne certainly did.

  “I am not sure I am strong enough,” she said ruefully. “But let’s have a go. Up you get!”

  Frances jumped to her feet, eagerness spread across her face, and offered out her hands. Anne found to her surprise that she was strong enough, the child whirling around with shouts of joy and giggles overflowing, and a rush of joy filled her own heart.

  This was what she was here for. To make Frances feel joy, to show she was loved and wanted. It met a need so deep in Anne that she had no idea from whence it came. To feel wanted, to feel needed by someone so desperately that––

  “Put my daughter down.”

  It was fortunate indeed Anne was slowing down anyway, for the sudden voice behind her may well have caused her grip to slip and the child to fall.

  As it was, she slowed enough for Frances’s feet to touch the floor and, once she was certain she was not so dizzy that she could not hold herself, Anne turned around.

  The earl was standing behind her, arms crossed, and thunder across his face.

  The flush that seared her cheeks was natural, and Anne could not stop it. She had done nothing wrong, but it was clear she had transgressed some sort of line as yet unmarked.

  “Papa!”

  Frances, unaware of the icy tension between the two adults, ran towards her father. “Papa, we were playing going up hills! Look, look at the hill I made with the cushions!”

  The earl glanced at the pitiful two cushions stacked one on top of the other, and immediately looked away and returned his gaze to the governess.

  A spark of irritation flared in Anne’s own heart. Here he was, a gentleman with a spirited young daughter, and he ignored her. Frances was so desperate for attention she would quickly embrace a stranger, and her father did not think it worth his attend to her?

  The memory of her first meeting with Frances replayed in her mind, and she bit her lip as though that would prevent the censure she felt for the father from pouring from her mouth.

  There was warmth there. She had seen it; she was not mistaken. But it had disappeared as quickly as a winter sun once a cloud covered the sky, and it confused her most heartily.

  Why would the earl not permit himself to love his daughter?

  “Come with me, Miss Gilbert,” said the earl coldly before leaving the room.

  Anne swallowed. This could not be good, and yet there was no censure specifically in his words, nor tone. Just a general sense he was not to be crossed.

  Taking Frances by the hand, for she could hardly leave her alone in the drawing room set aside for her own personal use, Anne stepped into the corridor just in time to see the earl step into the next room along. It was unknown to her, like many of the rooms in the castle.

  “Hurry up!” said Frances, with all the eagerness of a child.

  Anne obeyed, entering the room and seeing to her surprise that it was laid out in much the same manner: a drawing room, with pianoforte, armchairs, sofas, and roaring fire that was a relief to her toes, which were unprepared for northern climes.

  “Now, Frances, come here.”

  The child released Anne’s hand at once as she scampered over to her father, who was holding out––

  “A dolly!”

  It was indeed a doll, finely made, with blonde hair and a delicate gown of silk. Frances’s squeals of delight were enough to tell Anne this was evidently a particularly favorite style of gift.

  “Thank you, Papa, thank––”

  “Yes, yes,” said the earl distractedly, pointing to the other side of the room. “Go and play with her by the pianoforte, child. Your Miss Anne and I need to discuss something.”

  Anne sat obediently in the armchair that he pointed to opposite his own. Had she done anything wrong? Had Mrs. Seton complained about her, invented some small slight to whine about––or worse, had she noticed Holt’s rather persistent attentions and sought to bring them to their master’s attention as soon as possible?

  She smoothed her skirts with nervous hands as the earl said nothing.

  If she did not know any better, she would have said this was a second interview. Looking to him for insight was useless; the earl sat blankly, his face impassive, the only movement his eyes as they raked over her.

  Anne swallowed. She had done nothing wrong. Until she was accused of mishandling the education of her charge, or anything else, she would do as her mother had always told her.

  Just keep going.

  “Miss Anne Gilbert,” said the earl finally, as the happy chatter from Frances grew.

  He said no more, and Anne found a little of her red-headed defiance.

  “Timothy Lexington,” she said calmly, meeting his gaze.

  He smiled. “You have done well these two weeks, Miss Gilbert. Very well indeed.”

  The tension which had built in her immediately dissipated. The personal opinions of masters had never really mattered much. Nor had those of her mistresses, in truth; it was the views of the children that she cared about, and as long as Anne had the trust of her employers, she was typically permitted to get on with her duties to complete them quite happily. [there is no further mention of “the thunder” on his face when he found them playing, not even curiosity she dismisses. The change between the order to come with her and the conversation is jarring but necessary for the plot; but for her to not even think of it again is weird and drew me out]

  But if she did not have that trust…well, she knew what would happen. It had never happened to her, not yet, but there were plenty of ladies in the Governess Bureau who were quietly dropped from the books if one was found wanting by two or three postings in a row.

  “It is an honor to serve,” she said quietly, conscious Frances was in the room, “and a pleasure to get to know my charge.”

  The earl glanced at her, a shadow passing across his face as he took in the small child.

  It was there only for a moment. If Anne had not been examining his expression at that very moment, she would have missed it. It was almost as though seeing his child not only brought him joy, but unhappiness too.

  Could it be something to do with his wife, Anne wondered. Did the child look like her mother? Had there been some tragedy––had the birth rendered the countess so unwell?

  “You must have wondered about my wife.”

  Anne jumped, startled at the strange sensation the gentleman had read her mind.

  Still, it would be uncouth to deny it. “I have, my lord.”

  The earl sighed. In that moment, he appeared to age almost ten years. “Yes, I thought you would. I had no wish to tell you immediately, it was important I knew I could trust you. Two weeks has been sufficient to see you are dedicated to your charge and to her care, and that is sufficient for me. You deserve the truth.”

  Anne leaned forward, despite herself. Was she finally about to understand why a child was here motherless, a man stuck in his castle without his wife?

  “My wife,” said the earl heavily, “has no wish to be here. She left me, the child, this place almost two years ago now. She has no wish to return, and so I do not require it.”

  It was such a banal response Anne waited for the rest of the story. When it became clear that there was no more forthcoming, she leaned back in almost disappointment.

  “Left?” she repeated. “Left. So why is the truth hidden?”

  It was the wrong thing to say.

  The earl snorted. “You think there would be no scandal if it was discovered that the Countess of Clarcton disliked her husband so utterly that she would abandon her child?”

  Anne swallowed. It was a foolish thing to say, in hindsight. Yet her curiosity was heightened, rather than abated. To leave a child, so young as Frances must have been––something must have occurred between the husband and wife to precipitate such an event.

  What had happened? What had the earl done to frighten away his wife?

  “And that leads us to the favor I must ask of you.”

  Anne looked up from her palms, carefully folded in her lap. “A favor?”

  Why was it that the earl looked so discomforted? “Yes, a favor, and I speak advisedly. This is a request, and you must feel perfectly able to reject it, if you do not believe yourself up to the task.”

  Up to the task. That competitive streak her brothers had trained into her rose.

  “Ask, my lord,” she said lightly. “The worst I can say is no.”

  He looked far more concerned than she would have expected. What sort of favor did an earl have to ask a mere governess?

  Out of a pocket, the gentleman pulled out a sheaf of envelopes. “Do you know what these are?”

  Anne blinked. “How on earth would I know that, my lord?”

  Timothy laughed dryly. “I suppose that would be too much to ask, even of a governess of the Bureau.”

  Anne’s smile was brief. She did not consider the Bureau a laughing matter. She had worked hard to earn her place there, and she would do nothing to risk it.

  The earl opened up one of the envelopes. “My dear Earl of Clarcton, I would be honored if you would delight my daughter with your presence at dinner this evening. A very pretty invitation from the Merriweathers.”

  Anne waited for more as the earl met her gaze, as though she should understand something important.

  “Nice family,” he said nonchalantly. “Or how about this one? To the Earl of Clarcton, please consider this your invitation to this summer’s house party, there will be several young ladies in attendance with whom I am sure I can secure an introduction.”

  Anne did not understand. Introduction to ladies? The earl was married though, wasn’t he?

  “It was this one which upset me the most,” said the earl, pulling out a letter that appeared scented, if Anne was any judge. “Miss Theodosia Ashbrooke. A matchmaker, perhaps you have heard of her?”

  Finally, Anne was able to rejoin the conversation. “Miss Maria had already requested to her mother, the Countess of Allun, that Miss Ashbrooke would be a useful connection in case…well. Her Season did not go to plan.”

  The earl barked a laugh. “Yes, quite. Well, Miss Gilbert, this handful of letters is just a smattering of missives I receive on a weekly business—to say nothing of the in-person nonsense I must suffer.”

  He looked at her expectantly, but Anne was entirely at a loss. “It must be distressing I suppose, but I am sure more upsetting for your wife. The countess.”

  Timothy’s eyes met hers, and Anne almost gasped aloud. There was such intensity there, such ferocity. A coldness, like a lake that might be warm if welcomed in.

  “The Clarcton Christmas ball. I am forced to host it once again,” he said heavily. “I need…I need you to pretend to be my wife.”

  Anne laughed, but her laughter became uncomfortable as the earl stared, unsmiling.

  She halted quickly. “I am sorry, could you repeat that?”

  “I need you to pretend to be my wife,” said the earl. “To attend, as my wife. To dress as my wife would. To dance with me, as my wife. In short, to present yourself as the Countess of Clarcton for the world to see.”

  The words individually made sense, but Anne could not take in the meaning.

  Was he mad? She, a mere lady and that only due to the good fortune of her birth, pretend in a new place, a new neighborhood…to be a countess?

  “Why on earth would you have such a request of me?” she asked slowly.

  Why was there such hesitation on his face? “As to that, I cannot say.”

  Anne examined him. It was perhaps the first opportunity she had to do so without the risk of attracting condemnation for being so forward.

  He was a handsome man. She had been correct in that assumption when she had first met him in Miss Clarke’s office. He did not appear to be an evil man. He was not cruel, she had seen no evidence of malice or wickedness.

  He did not attend church, to be sure, but Anne could not count on two hands the number of gentlemen who attended purely to satisfy the demands of their wives.

  Pretend to be his wife. Attend a ball, as the countess? It was a test. A trick. Perhaps even a trial. Why would an earl require someone to pretend to be his wife?

  “So…so you want me to lie at a ball, pretend to be your wife?”

  It sounded ridiculous now she said it aloud, but the earl did not appear amused.

  “Yes,” he said calmly.

  Anne had to laugh. “What on earth for? Forgive my bluntness, my lord, but it seems like such a foolish idea. Why not just say your wife is still away? Better still, tell the truth, and share that you do not know when she is coming back?”

  It was harshly spoken, but someone needed to shock the earl from his radical thinking, make him see that what he was asking of her was not only impossible but downright ludicrous!

  But the earl smiled. “Miss Gilbert, I do not believe you can comprehend what it is like to be a gentleman in my position.”