by Aria Norton
I miss you, Pickle. You were light in a dark world. I remain
Your loving brother,
Swabbie
Richard put down his pen with a soft sob and pushed the letter away from him.
Chapter 6
Fenwick came into the office and announced, “Mrs. Emma Grippe, milord.”
They were several interviews into the process so far, and so far none had seemed in the least bit promising. There were former charwomen with no experience with children, spinsters with too much experience with girls and not enough with boys, a German girl that did not speak any English at all, a French maid with a tittering laugh that seemed more interested in the size of the house than her duties as governess, and on and on they came.
But with all the varied applicants that paraded in and out of the office throughout the day, nothing could have prepared Richard for the force of nature that barreled into the room, knocking poor Mr. Fenwick Cheever to one side in the process.
“Name’s Grippe with two p’s, milord, and they both stand for precision,” she said with a voice like ten thunderstorms.
“Indeed,” said Richard, regarding her curiously over the tops of his spectacles.
She was a stout woman in a slate-colored Spencer jacket pulled tightly around her ample frame. This she wore over white muslin, which seemed to flow stiffly from her like water from a frozen fountain. Her face was round and solid, meaning there was nothing there to fit anything but the permanent scowl of discipline.
“I’m three times married, milord, and I buried all three of them without a single tear shed amongst the lot. They were lieabouts, you see, and I don’t abide lieabouts. In fact, I have no love for sloth of any kind, being a God-fearing woman. I believe that to spare the rod is to spoil the child. I believe that children are ripe for temptation at every turn and it is the job of God-fearing women like myself to make sure the devil don’t get any part of them. And if that means scaring Old Nick away with the blunt end of a ruler on the backside, then so be it. I didn’t get this far in life having buried three husbands by being careless.”
Richard cleared his throat. “Well then. Er, have you any experience with children?”
The woman’s eyes went wide, revealing haloes of milky white around the stone black pupils. Her mouth formed an o shape, and she looked as if she were about to scream. She shut her mouth and her eyes went back to their normal size. She then let out a breath through her nose that sounded like the hiss of a cauldron a-boil.
“Lord Hawkscombe,” she said in measured tones, “I have six children, all of whom have grown to be successful young men and women in their own rights. The boys all became merchants and lawyers. The girls married merchants and lawyers. If it weren’t for my rodded hand and my icy resolve not to let the whims of the devil get the better of them—what with three lieabouts for husbands—they would have, each and every one of them, wound up on the streets for sure!”
“Pardon me, Mrs. Grippe,” said Richard, “I did not mean to offend.”
“Oh, no offense taken, milord. I believe a woman ought to assert her accomplishments these days. Too many women lumbered with lieabout husbands don’t realise that it is they who ought to take up the rod and be the lady of the manor, as it were. If they were only like me. Precise, a lover of administering discipline, and a caring nurturing sort—for you see, milord, I love the little dears. It is for this reason that I must stand erect in the face of sin, and there ain’t no more fertile ground for sin than in the sweet little darlings.”
She accentuated this last point by pounding her fist on Richard’s desk
She cleared her throat. “Pardon me, milord,” she said sheepishly. “I’m passionate about my work.”
“I can see that,” said Richard. “Well, Mrs. Grippe, I’ve a great many applicants to see today. I shall bid you farewell for today. You will be hearing from me.”
Mrs. Grippe straightened in her chair. “If you don’t mind, milord, I’d like my answer now please.”
“I’m sorry?”
“You say you have a great many applicants to see. I appreciate that. Your Lordship is a busy man. But I am a busy woman, milord, and I believe we will save us both a great deal of time—not to mention heartache on the part of one of us—if you were to give me an answer regarding my employment.”
“Mrs. Grippe,” Richard said firmly, “I have given you my answer. I am a busy man and will contact you as soon as I have made a decision. Good day!”
Mrs. Grippe huffed and rose from her chair, barreling past Fenwick and leaving the scent of jasmine in a great wake behind her.
“Next,” said Richard, dreading the rest of the day.
Chapter 7
“Miss Molly Riordan, milord,” said Fenwick.
In stepped a young woman not more than twenty-two years of age. She was attired simply, in a pelisse of ecru with a white bonnet from which sprouted ringlets of satin-like hair of fiery red. She approached the desk almost on tiptoe across the Persian rug.
“Please sit down, Miss Riordan.”
“Thank you, milord,” the girl said with a voice like a soft bell.
“You go by Molly, then?”
“Yes, milord. I was christened ‘Maille’, but somewhere along the line people started calling me Molly.”
“Well, which is it, Molly or Maille?”
“I prefer Molly, milord. Though either will suffice.”
“I’ll call you Molly, since it seems that is what fate has ordained you.”
The girl began to fuss with a pocket on the side of her pelisse. “If you please, milord, I have a letter of introduction here.” She extracted a piece of paper from her pocket and unfolded it. “It’s from a certain Lord Hillington of Devonshire.”
“Good heavens,” Richard said with a smile. “I know Lord Hillington. Do you remember him, Fenwick?”
“The name does sound familiar, milord.”
“He’s been here on several occasions. He and Papa were cronies. They’d served together in the Army. How is Hilly anyway?”
“He is doing very well, milord. I was in service as governess to his little boy.”
“I see,” said Richard, taking the letter and perusing it. “Well, I do say you come highly recommended. It says here that you took the boy as your charge until he was old enough to go away to school.”
“Yes, milord,” she said. She turned her head down as a smile made its way onto her smooth, white face.
“Well,” said Richard, returning her smile, “I think this letter goes rather a long way toward making your case. There are two boys you will be looking after. One is ten and the other is six.”
“I do well with boys that age, milord.”
“Don’t speak so quickly, Miss Riordan. These boys have undergone a terrible tragedy and are incapable of normal social interaction. They are in need of a strong-willed governess thoroughly capable of breaking through their steely exteriors. Do you see yourself as up to the task?”
“Oh, certainly, milord. If I may, Lord Hillington’s boy was rather fond of kicking up a lark now and again. Too ripe and ready by half, if I may say.”
Richard chuckled. “Was he, then?”
“Indeed. It took a good week to get my hands around him, but once I did, he was mine at all costs.”
“Well, I am sure of it, Miss Riordan.”
“Thank you, milord.”
“If there’s nothing else, you are dismissed for the time being.” He held up the letter. “May I hold on to this?”
“Certainly, milord.”
“Goodbye, then, Miss Riordan.”
“Goodbye, Lord Hawkscombe,”
He watched her leave, and when she did, and after the door was closed behind her, he said, “Well, Fenwick? Do we have any more?”
“That is it, milord.”
“Capital. What do you think?”
“If it were up to me, milord, I’d say she was perfect.”
“I thought so. I am going to arrange to have Lord H
illington here next month. I miss the old boy. He always had good stories to tell of Papa.”
“You must have mistaken me, milord. I was not speaking of Miss Riordan.”
“You weren’t?”
“No, milord.”
“Well, who were you speaking of?”
“Why,” said Fenwick, “Mrs. Grippe, milord.”
“Mrs. Grippe?” Richard said incredulously, grabbing the edge of his desk for fear of falling over backwards at the suggestion.
“Yes, milord. She’s hard, I’ll give you that, but I believe she has the stuff of which a good governess is made. I had a governess just like her when I was a lad, and look at me.”
“Yes, look at you,” said Richard. “I say, Fenwick, you and I have always seen eye to eye on things. I can’t for the life of me understand how it is you can possibly think that that woman should be allowed anywhere within twelve acres of the nearest child.”
“As I stated previously, milord, she reminds me of my Nan.”
“Is that what you called her?”
“Short for Nancy. Yes, milord. She was a harsh maiden, my Nan, but she set me right.”
“I have no doubt, but I still cannot fathom the idea of Mrs. Grippe raising my nephews.”
Fenwick stood for a moment in silence, licking his lips.
“If you please, milord...” he said.
“Yes? What is it? What’s on your mind, man?”
Fenwick approached the desk, his face grave. “M’Lord, come this July I will have been in your employ for eight whole years. I do believe I’ve had your ear during the entirety of my tenure, is that not correct?”
“That is certainly correct, Fenwick. I not only consider you a valued employee, I consider you a confidant—dare I say, a friend.”
“Yes, milord, and I’m glad of it.” He licked his lips again. “M’Lord, this woman, this Miss Riordan with whom you are so taken, perhaps your enthusiasm for her based upon the recommendation of your father’s dear friend Lord Hillington clouds your judgment.”
“Clouds my judgment?”
“Yes, milord.”
“How so?”
“M’Lord,” said Fenwick, gesturing for the right words, “Miss Riordan is... Irish.”
“Well of course she’s Irish! I heard her speak. And you cannot deny it from her physical appearance.”
“Yes, milord.”
“Is that all, Fenwick?”
“I think,” the secretary said boldly, straightening himself, “that employing an Irish girl as your governess will have a most negative effect on your reputation, milord. There. I’ve said it. Now you know it.”
“Fenwick,” said Richard, measuring his tone, “I will say this one last time. I’ll not have any anti-Irish sentiment around my house. My dear cousin Anne married an Irishman, and a good man he is. This denigration of an entire country full of people is foolish, not to mention immoral. I won’t have it. Is that understood?”
“Yes, milord,” Fenwick said with half a voice.
“Very well,” said Richard, his tone resumed for business. “I want you to make arrangements to have Miss Molly Riordan officially employed in the position of governess to my nephews.”
As Fenwick opened the door to the office, there arose such a commotion from the passage that Richard’s hair nearly stood on end.
Chapter 8
“I’ll not stay another minute!” cried Mrs. Montgomery, the housekeeper. “Not with that scallywag cutting up my peace every chance he gets!”
Richard found her pacing the passage, gesticulating wildly with a dishcloth.
The rest of the scene was curious. A footman by the name of Gerald was trying to get ahold of her, following her reckless turns and jerks with turns and jerks of his own. At one point, when he’d tried to relieve her of her dishcloth, she backed up a pace, then snapped it at him as if taming a lion. And while the two were engaged in this lively pas de deux, there was Ayles, lanky and drawn, standing in the center of the passage with his arms behind his back, looking the very picture of solemnity.
After a moment of observance, it became obvious to Richard that Gerald was engaged in the act of shielding Ayles from Mrs. Montgomery’s dishcloth and whatever acts of attendant rage she might perpetrate on him.
“Mrs. Montgomery,” Richard said firmly. “What is the meaning of this?”
The woman turned around. Normally a pleasant, docile creature with a tender, freckled face, Mrs. Montgomery now resembled a wild-eyed savage, her teeth skinned back, her bonnet askew, allowing strands of straw-colored hair to tumble out in tangles of rage all on its own.
“The meaning? Meaning?” she cried. “I’ll tell you the meaning, my lord. This cad, this low order of hog, this father of lies has been spreading the most pernicious untruths about me! I will not spend another minute in the same house as him!”
Richard approached Ayles, whose expression remained exactly the same as when he’d first seen him. “Ayles, out with it. What is this all about?”
“M’Lord,” said the cool and collected butler, “It’s all about the trifle.”
“The trifle?”
“Yes, milord. Miss Turner, the cook, was to serve a trifle for pudding at this evening’s supper.”
Richard looked back at Mrs. Montgomery, who was now in a red-faced state of hyperventilation, being comforted by Gerald, who had a hand on her back and was whispering something in her ear.
Richard turned back to the butler. “What has trifle got to do with this?”
Ayles took an impatient breath. “Mrs. Montgomery was lamenting that the trifle was not up to the standards of the Bridewater kitchen and began to berate poor Miss Turner over it. I sampled a bit of it and agreed that it was indeed not up to the standards of the Bridewater kitchen. Well, Mrs. Montgomery, perhaps emboldened by my endorsement of her culinary judgment, took to berating Miss Turner further. In my capacity as butler, milord, I feel it is my duty to restore social harmony in this house whenever I see fit. Seizing the opportunity, I merely remarked that if Mrs. Montgomery spent more time supervising her staff and less time accepting the attentions of the footmen, she might achieve the results she is so desperately wanting.”
At this Mrs. Montgomery resumed her rage, springing up and spinning the dishcloth like a mace above her head, emitting the most terrible sound from her throat.
Richard assisted Gerald in restraining her.
Dusting off his coat, Richard addressed both parties. “This is inexcusable.”
“You’re right, it’s inexcusable!” cried Mrs. Montgomery.
“I want no more of this, do you both understand? If you cannot share amity with each other, then perhaps both of you ought to find employment elsewhere.”
“I shall make the process simple, milord,” said Mrs. Montgomery, suddenly regaining her composure and apparently emboldened by her decision. “And I shall give my notice now.”
