“Because he’ll just say I should have known better. And I should have done.”
“How long have you known the man?”
“The viscount,” her father corrected.
“A title is only so good if you are prepared to earn it. And that means protecting your friends. Besides, isn’t he said to be well off? Isn’t that said about all his Set? That they have more money than they know what to do with?” Maeve was used to giving out somewhat moralising statements to the school children she taught. But more than that, she did truly believe it. A small smile a lightened on her face when she thought about seeing their adorable little faces next week, and if she had to go and eat humble pie in front of a judgmental lord, so be it. “I will go if you can’t. Or won’t.”
“But…” Her father’s voice trailed off, as if he wasn’t certain what was the best course of action. “I don’t think it wise.”
“No, but it’s better than you becoming homeless. If he needs something in exchange, I will offer myself or Grace as a companion to his mother.” A thousand pounds as wages for such a position would be obscene, even if both girls spent the next twenty years working to repay the debt. Hopefully, the viscount would be won over by a willingness to help his old friend.
“Will you tell him everything?” Her father looked so shamefaced that it broke Maeve’s heart.
“I will try to be as honest as I can, but in deference to you, I will not say too much about how these debts occurred.” Maeve gave her father a smile. “All will be well. And if you are deported, I will go with you to Australia.” Her attempt at a joke fell flat as her father’s face blanched, and Maeve hastened from the room to find her bonnet and cloak.
The walk up to the Hall was a straightforward one. Maeve cut through familiar village lanes until she left Staplehurst and reached the less formal fields that led towards Silver Hall. In the wintry January afternoon, the wind whistled its way down from the nearby hills and battered her sides. She pulled her cloak more tightly around her body. The bitterness of the day had frozen the grasses and the water beneath her feet, so Maeve needed to watch her step, or she was likely to end up in a muddy ditch. She made a little skip over the especially deep dips in the grass and made herself count her blessings.
One, she could finally be grateful for the fact that her father knew such powerful people.
Two, she had come up with several ways of saving more money in just the last hour. If she were given a day, she knew she would have more ideas.
Three, if this visit to the viscount did not produce the desired effect, then Maeve would be able to come up with another solution, she was sure. With that certainty beating through her, she straightened her spine. With such resolve, she would save her father.
It came as a surprise to her how quickly she reached the edge of Silverton’s estate. She had previously only seen the Hall from a distance, the high walls in part obscuring her view from the road. When she tried the gate, it swung open easily, as if the austere atmosphere was just an illusion.
“Don’t be a ninny,” she told herself as she made her way through the sparse, icy gardens. Her pace had slowed, even she noticed that, so that when she reached the front door, she felt as if she were dragging herself forward. Her hand reached up for the knocker, and the echo could be heard through the wood of the door. Unable to stop herself, Maeve backed away from the opposing doorframe.
It hit her then, how out of place she was: A spinster schoolteacher come to nag and moralise to a haughty viscount. How outrageous of her to think she could simply march up to a lord and demand money from him. Besides, he might not even be in. He rarely was. Yes, that was a good point. He was unlikely to be home.
Run, her mind whispered.Just scarper before the door opens, go on, run…
But before she could do any of that, the door swung open and a feminine voice called out, “Ah Miss Walsh, come in, come in. I can’t stay long. The lady of the house needs me. Just head towards the kitchen, there’s a good girl….” The housekeeper, Mrs. Bowen, was an old family friend of the Walsh’s. A bell echoed overhead, and Mrs. Bowen ran off towards the stairs. “I’ll be back,” she called over her shoulder at Maeve.
The rumours that the Hall was understaffed were clearly true, as the woman looked completely harried and exhausted.
“Is his lordship in?” Maeve found her voice, expecting a querulous response. Surely Mrs. Bowen would dismiss her and think it very bizarre that Maeve wanted to see the viscount. After all, what business could she have with him?
“In his study, third door on the left.” And with that, Mrs. Bowen left Maeve standing all alone in the hallway.
With tentative footsteps, Maeve followed Mrs. Bowen’s directions, making her way through the Hall, her confusion mounting. Yes, she was there under odd circumstances, but the Hall’s inhabitants appeared likewise to be rather strange. Perhaps today was a day of madness. If that were the case, Maeve reasoned, then maybe her petition might succeed?
The hallway led her to the third door where Mrs. Bowen had indicated the viscount would be. It was made of oak, a handsome old-fashioned Queen Anne style, like the other doors which lined the hallway. Despite the wear, the place had retained its neo-classical appeal. All it needed, Maeve thought, was a little care, and then it would glisten and be splendid once more.
She rapped twice firmly on the door and then, when she got no answer, tried the handle. It swung open easily enough, and laid out before her was an elegant man’s study of handsome proportions. A thick, old-fashioned scarlet carpet was spread over the floor. There was a likewise impressive hearth in which blazed a huge fire. The desk was made of dark wood and had been positioned close to the grate. It took up a great deal of space within the room. Sat with his back to the fire, hands on the desk, watching her, was a gentleman.
He rose slowly to his feet when she entered. The first thing that struck her was how much this man’s sheer presence seemed utterly designed to intimidate her—his aspect was one that could frighten a lesser woman. And probably a great deal of men too. His shoulders were broad, his tall frame refined with a tapered waist. His thick brown beard obscured most of his face, leaving only his eyes to glint at her in confusion. Likewise, his dark hair was windswept and created an impression of a wild man rather than a noble. As he drew nearer, Maeve saw he walked with a cane, but it did not distract from the sheer physicality of the man. Maeve did not think this was how gentlemen were supposed to look. She had seen men of similar breeding in Brighton, but this man could not have been less like those foppish aristocrats.
A blush crept up her cheeks as she realised she had been staring at him, her mouth slightly agape. Sucking in her breath, Maeve determined she had no time for cowardice. She bobbed a hasty curtsey. “You don’t know me, but my father is an old colleague of yours, a Mr. John Walsh.” The viscount was so close to her that Maeve had to tilt her chin up to stare into his face. She took in his appearance and saw that he had fine dark eyes with thick brown lashes and heavy eyebrows that marked his countenance. “I am sorry to interrupt you, my lord.”
He offered out his hand to her. Without thinking, Maeve stretched out her own, and their fingers touched. It was then she realised that neither of them wore gloves. She had left the cottage without wearing a pair. A spark of awareness travelled straight up her arm. Her eyes widened as they locked with the viscount’s, unable to look away from this compelling stranger.
The gentleman dipped his head, and she saw that he was examining her bare left hand.
“Come.” He led her farther into his study and towards the fireplace, where there were two comfortable-looking armchairs positioned beside the desk.
The viscount did not release her hand until Maeve sat in one of the seats. “I’m afraid, Miss Walsh, I only have whisky available to drink, and I suspect Mrs. Bowen is busy with my mother. We are understaffed as you may have noticed.”
“No, thank you, my lord. I do not drink.”
