A Governess for the Brooding Duke(88)

And now I must end, but I promise that I shall write to you again soon. My baby, or babies, are due near Christmas. What a wonderful thing that shall be!



With all my love,



Josie.”



By the time she had finished reading, Georgette was almost blinded by tears. Josephine was every bit as lovely as her aunt and housekeeper proclaimed, and it was easy to see where Eleri and Ffion had found such lovely natures.



All that remained was to read the rest and hope that when she returned to Oxfordshire, the Duke would at least allow her a moment of his time so that she might show the letters to him.





Chapter 31



“That is such a beautiful painting over the fireplace, Mrs Evans,” Georgette said the following morning after the two women had sat down together for breakfast.



Mrs Evans had gone to a lot of effort, cooking bacon, eggs, and toast for her, not to mention just about the strongest tea she had ever encountered in her entire life.



As the two sat down together, Georgette realized that it had been a very long time since she had sat down to a meal with another person. Apart from the bread and butter she had eaten with John Casson in Trawsfynydd, Georgette had not shared a meal since her father had died. She had eaten alone ever since, and something about Mrs Evans’ kindness and caring made her feel somewhat more human than she had done for some time.



“It is a painting of the Rhinog Mountain Range, Miss Darrington,” Mrs Evans said and seemed to flush with pride. “If you stand at the top of the garden, that is exactly the view.”



“And so it is,” Georgette said, rising to her feet and walking over to the fireplace to take a closer look. “Tell me, who painted it?”



“It was Carwyn Thomas, Miss. He was a fine painter, and that’s for certain.”



“Indeed, he was,” Georgette said and meant it.



She had more than once admired the wonderful view from the top of the beautiful and deceptively large garden and could see that Carwyn Thomas’ painting was a most faithful and very beautifully painted reproduction of that scene.



In truth, everything in North Wales seemed as a dream to her, and she could quite understand how it was that Lady Josephine Whitehall, sister of the Duke of Draycott, had felt so at home there. There seemed to be a quality to the green of the grass that was not quite as apparent in England. It was deeper and brighter somehow, perhaps because of all the rain. The rain and the sunshine, often occurring within minutes of each other, had served to paint the landscape in such a unique hue. And then, of course, there were the other mountains; the ones which were not covered in lush green foliage and grass. The gray, sharp mountains which were frightening and beautiful all at once.



It seemed to Georgette that everything around her worked together, almost as if it conspired to provide a vista of the highest drama. A vista from which many fairytales and myths and legends must surely have been born.



“It really is a very beautiful place,” Georgette said a little wistfully as she turned to look back at Mrs Evans.



“Yes, I would say it’s the most beautiful place on earth. Even though I have never been anywhere else, I am sure of it.” Mrs Evans laughed, and it was an extraordinarily deep and rich laugh for so slim a woman.



“Well, I shall believe you are quite correct, Mrs Evans.”



At that moment, there came a rather determined knock at the door.



“Goodness me, that certainly made me jump,” Mrs Evans said, laughing a little as she rose, her hand on her chest as if to steady her heart.



As Mrs Evans disappeared to answer the door, Georgette turned her attention back upon the painting of the Rhinog Mountains. Once again, she found herself a little lost in the scenery and could quite understand why it was that Josephine had fallen so very deeply in love with Carwyn. If his poetry was as good as his painting, he was a young woman’s dream come true.



“You have a visitor, MissDarrington.” Mrs Evans sounded quite upended. “Oh, dear me,” she went on, her hand fluttering about her neck and her cheeks quite pink. “It is the Duke of Draycott,” she said and turned to allow the visitor admittance into the drawing room.



“Thank you kindly, Mrs Evans,” the Duke said smiling warmly at the woman in a way which made her cheeks turn pinker still.



“You are welcome, Your Grace,” she said uncertainly and curtsied in a most curious fashion before backing out of the room for the safety of her kitchen.



“Miss Darrington,” he said rather somberly and nodded.



“Your Grace?” Georgette said, her heart thundering with tremendous speed. “I do not understand. You are here.”