by Olivia Drake
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Chapter 1
“Wait until you hear the news,” Lady Farnsworth said to a friend who had just entered the millinery shop. “The Duke of Carlin has lost yet another governess.”
Mrs. Ludington gasped. “Why, this one cannot have been in his employ beyond a week.”
“Four days. My cousin lives near His Grace in Grosvenor Square, you know. This very morning, her maid spied the woman departing Carlin House with portmanteau in hand.”
Tessa James shamelessly eavesdropped from behind the counter. A threaded needle gripped between her forefinger and thumb, she craned her neck to peer past an arrangement of hats. Both ladies were regular patrons of the shop. As they chatted, Lady Farnsworth preened at her aging reflection in the mirror, while Mrs. Ludington tried on a rust-colored toque over her salt-and-pepper curls.
Tessa knew the women only by sight since Madame Blanchet trusted no one but herself to wait on the aristocratic customers. The shopkeeper hovered near the ladies, making suggestions and offering oily praise. Amid the colorful bonnets on display, Madame Blanchet in her severe black gown resembled a raven skulking in a garden of spring flowers.
“Zis chapeau is très magnifique,” she said, encouraging Lady Farnsworth to try on another bonnet.
Tessa curbed the urge to step out from behind the counter and direct the woman to a more flattering style, since the mass of yellow-dyed ostrich feathers made her pudgy features appear sallow. If it were her shop, she would use tact and diplomacy to ensure that every lady walked out looking her very best.
But she was not the proprietor. She lacked the means to set up an establishment of her own. At least as of yet.
A few minutes ago, she’d been called out here to do a minor alteration. It was a welcome escape from the cramped workroom where she and two other employees labored from dawn until dusk. Each hat required hours of toil from start to finish: the shaping of the buckram base, the assembling with wire and crinoline tape, the attachment of the lining, and the addition of trims.
Over the past eight years, Tessa had mastered all the skills of the trade. She had filled a notebook with her own sketches, too, although being allowed to actually make those hats was another matter. Madame preferred ornate monstrosities festooned with ribbons and lace, feathers and birds, silk flowers and papier-mâché fruit. Consequently, the shop was frequented by elderly ladies who had grown up in an era of elaborate powdered wigs.
But times had changed. The current fashion trended toward the elegance of simplicity—a taste shared by Tessa. A few days ago, she finally had been allowed to create one bonnet of her design. How proud she’d been to put it on display yesterday. And how dismayed to learn that—
A prickling sense of being observed alerted her to Madame Blanchet’s sharp black eyes glaring from across the shop. Her toadying way with the patrons didn’t extend to the staff. Tessa felt sure that Wellington himself could be no stricter a general than Madame.
Hastening to appear industrious, she poked the needle into the stiff interfacing of the bonnet. As much as she’d love to give the woman a piece of her mind, Tessa could ill afford to lose her position. It paid little enough as it was. Every farthing she could scrimp went into the tin box kept hidden beneath a loose floorboard in her tiny flat. Every penny put her one step closer to achieving the dream of one day being a shop owner herself.
For now, she must grit her teeth and oblige her employer by altering this bonnet, the very one Tessa herself had designed. It had a wide chip-straw brim with a gentle pouf of sky-blue satin at the crown. The matching ribbon that crisscrossed the straw was anchored in place by a delicate satin rosette. She had intended the stylish confection to frame the features of some lovely young lady.
Instead, Lady Farnsworth with her multiple chins had cooed over the hat. The woman then had insisted on ruining its elegance with the addition of three huge bunches of pink rosebuds, and Madame had fawningly acquiesced. In one fell swoop, the bonnet had gone from being a work of art to just another overdone atrocity. Tessa’s only consolation was being able to listen to the conversation as she halfheartedly stitched the silk flowers into place.
“Carlin must be frightening away his governesses,” Mrs. Ludington was saying. “Surely a man cannot spend so many years sailing around the world to remote lands without forgetting the finer points of proper behavior. Heaven only knows what peculiar customs he might have acquired.”
“Nonsense, the duke was raised a gentleman even if he never expected to assume the title.” Lady Farnsworth tried on another hat, this one of burgundy velvet adorned with a stuffed quail and faux autumn leaves. “As a widower, he is London’s most eligible bachelor. And you cannot deny he cut quite a dash at the Sedgwicks’ ball the other night by dancing with several of the young ladies.”
“But there has to be a reason for all the departures.” Mrs. Ludington lowered her voice to a scandalized whisper. “Do you suppose he is making improper advances toward the governesses?”
“When all of them have been bran-faced spinsters? Nay, I daresay it has to do with his daughter running untamed during Carlin’s absence. Rumor has it that Lady Sophy terrorizes the ducal household. Her maternal grandparents raised her, and everyone knows what rattlepates the Norwoods are.”
“Well, the girl ought to have learned suitable behavior by now. If she is still spoiled at four years, it must be nipped in the bud at once.”
“Carlin is in need of a wife to take matters in hand,” Lady Farnsworth said in agreement. “My granddaughter will be making her bows in the spring, and it would be quite a plum for her to acquire a duchess’s tiara.”
“Let us hope that Lady Sophy’s manners improve in the interim.” Mrs. Ludington examined a gold-fringed purple turban in the sunlight from the window. “The naughty child wants discipline, and swiftly. His Grace must seek a sterner character when he engages another governess.”
Tessa’s fingers stilled in the act of tying off a thread. The sudden jolt of her heart caught her by surprise. The idea that leaped into her mind was utterly daft. She would have to be mad even to consider such a notion. Yet the words sizzled through her like a bolt of lightning.
Another governess.
The Duke of Carlin had been left in the lurch. He needed someone on short notice who could handle his disobedient daughter. Perhaps that someone could be Tessa herself.
Living in a ducal household would place her at the center of the aristocratic world. She’d be on a swifter path to acquiring the funds she needed to open her own shop. Partly due to the increase in salary, but also because she finally might find her father.
The man whose name had always been a mystery to her.
She touched the dainty oval shape beneath her bodice. The high-necked gown of gray kerseymere hid the gold pendant that was her most precious possession. In the sixteen years since her dying mama had placed it around Tessa’s neck,
never once had she removed it. Her fingers traced the small image engraved on the piece. The coat of arms belonged to a noble family—her father’s family.
But who was he? Since most of her waking hours were spent here at work, she’d had little opportunity to discover the answer. Tessa didn’t dare ask anyone, either. If she were to show it to any of the Quality who patronized the shop, she might be accused of stealing the pendant.
As a governess, though, she could keep her eyes peeled for the coat of arms. Somewhere she might glimpse it on a carriage door or carved into the lintel stone of a house. Once she matched it to a name, she could confront her sire and convince him to advance her a loan.
Yet common sense offered a swift rebuttal. What did she know of being a governess? Next to nothing! Unlike her, they were ladies who had been raised in genteel families. While window-shopping on her half day off, she’d sometimes glimpsed such plain-garbed women shepherding their charges in the posh district of Mayfair.
She could not seriously be thinking about joining their ranks, though.
Governesses had the task of educating upper-class children, and Tessa’s schooling had been sketchy at best. She had taught herself to read by poring over fashion periodicals. From there, she’d graduated to newspapers, playbills, and penny novels rescued from the rubbish bin behind the secondhand shop. She went to church on Sundays partly for the pleasure of reading the hymnal.
However, she knew little of literature or geography or history. Foreign tongues like French and Italian sounded like gibberish to her. And didn’t all young ladies require music lessons? Having no such skills herself, Tessa would be exposed as a fraud.
But at four years, Lady Sophy surely wouldn’t be expected to know more than a few simple nursery songs. The girl must be just learning her letters and numbers. Tessa’s job had made her adept at basic arithmetic like counting and measuring. Even Lady Sophy’s difficult behavior should pose no problem since Tessa knew something of bullies from having grown up in a foundling home, where she’d been tasked with caring for the younger girls.
And there was no denying the governess post could put her on the path to fulfilling her dearest dream. By this time next year, she might be proprietress of her own millinery shop.
Tessa succumbed to her favorite flight of fancy. She would lease a storefront on Bond Street, one with a bow window that would be perfect for showcasing her creations. The fashionable set would clamor for her designs, ladies more stylish than the two aging matrons who were presently rummaging through the bonnets here. What should she call her shop? Perhaps Millinery by Miss James. Something as simple and elegant as the merchandise—
“Stop gawping at yer betters.”
The hissing voice startled Tessa into pricking her finger with the needle. Wincing, she saw that her employer stood glaring from the other side of the counter. The French accent slipped into Cockney whenever Madame Blanchet was out of earshot of the customers. They didn’t know she’d been born plain Polly Brewster within the shadow of St. Mary-le-Bow church.
“I don’t pay ye to stand idle,” Madame continued in a harsh whisper. “Ain’t them rosebuds attached yet?”
Tessa hastened to tie off the threads and snip the ends with the scissors that dangled from the waistband of her apron. “Aye, Madame.”
The shopkeeper snatched up the bonnet and critically examined the work. Her nostrils flared against the stark angles of her face. “Clumsy chit. There be blood on the brim.”
Tessa leaned closer, dismayed to see a dot of red on the straw. It must have happened just now when she’d poked her finger with the needle. “I daresay a quick sponging with soap and water—”
“Never mind, ’tis ruined. I should’ve never let ye wheedle me into makin’ such a drab piece, anyhow. Ye with yer fine airs.” Sneering, Madame Blanchet dropped the bonnet onto the counter. “Since it ain’t me what done the damage, the cost’ll come out of yer wages.”
“But … that will mean months without pay!”
“’Twill teach ye a lesson. Now, back to the workroom.”
Tessa stood paralyzed as her employer turned away. How was she to cover the rent that was due at the end of the week, not to mention buy food and a host of other expenses? She was down to a stub of tallow candle and a sliver of soap. In her neighborhood, merchants seldom extended credit to low-wage earners like herself. She’d have to dip into her treasured savings …
“No. I won’t.”
Tessa didn’t realize she’d spoken aloud until Madame whipped back around, a thunderous frown on her bony features. Her burning-coal eyes held incredulity, for the employees were usually too wary of her temper to disobey her orders. “Eh?”
Her heart drumming, Tessa felt the fear and exhilaration of stepping off a cliff. All the years of biting her tongue suddenly became intolerable. She was done with being silent. “You heard me,” she said firmly. “I quit.”
* * *
A rapping on the door reverberated through the flat.
The small room might more aptly be described a cubbyhole, but it was home to Tessa. Having grown up in a crowded dormitory, she treasured having space all to herself. It was just large enough to hold a single iron bedstead, a rickety table and chair, and a battered chest of drawers on which sat a spirit lamp where she could make a cup of tea. The single window had a view of a brick wall. She’d spruced up the dreary surroundings with a colorful rag rug on the floor and pages of hats tacked to the peeling wallpaper.
As the knock came again, she paused in the act of unpinning those inspirational drawings. It was rare for her to be at home in the middle of the afternoon. For that reason alone, she should be cautious of opening the door. Although most of the residents in the boardinghouse were hardworking folk like herself, the neighborhood had its share of vagrants and ne’er-do-wells.
But she recognized the summons. Two sharp taps, a pause, then another knock. Tessa hardly knew whether to be pleased or peeved at the interruption in her packing.
Clutching the sheaf of papers to her bosom, she hastened to open the door. “Orrin! Why aren’t you at work?
A wiry young man in a brown corduroy suit stepped into the room. Orrin Nesbitt removed his flat-brimmed cap to reveal a thatch of rusty-red hair. Although slightly older than herself, in his mid-twenties, he had a round freckled face that gave him a boyish mien. They’d become friends the previous year when he’d moved into one of the downstairs flats. Since he worked as a typesetter for a tabloid, he’d made a habit of bringing her the daily newspaper.
He held one tucked under his arm but made no move to hand it to her. “Put today’s rag t’ bed early, so I went t’ the shop. Sukie said you pelted off in a rush, leavin’ ole Blanchet with her britches in a twist.”
Tessa regretted having to abandon her co-workers. “Poor Sukie and Nell. I hope Madame didn’t take out her wrath on them.”
“Dunno. I hightailed it out o’ there and came straight here.” Orrin’s hazel eyes studied her with stunned curiosity. “Gorblimey, Tess. Wot happened? Tell me you didn’t just up an’ quit!”
Her stomach clenched. For the hundredth time since marching out of the millinery shop, she questioned her impulsiveness. What had she done? What if she failed to win the governess post? What if the Duke of Carlin saw through her deception? Worse, what if she was never even interviewed? The duke lived in a grand Mayfair mansion undoubtedly guarded by a staff of snooty servants. If she were refused entry, how would she support herself? Steady work was hard to come by, and it might be weeks before she secured another position.
A craven part of her was tempted to slink back and beg Madame’s pardon. The woman might be a tyrant, but at least she’d hired Tessa as a fourteen-year-old runaway and had taught her the art of hatmaking.
No. She mustn’t regret her decision. She couldn’t stay in a position that stifled her creativity and offered little chance of advancement. Her dreams for the future were at stake.
She met Orrin’s gaze. “Yes, it’s true. I�
��ve resigned and I’m not going back.”
“What’d the ole battle-ax do t’ you?” He shook his brown felt cap in the air. “I oughta go tell that harpy wot for!”
“You mustn’t. It wasn’t Madame’s fault, at least not entirely.”
“So you been plannin’ t’ leave?” He glanced past Tessa at the signs of her packing, the small trunk containing her few possessions. “Without sayin’ naught t’ me about it?”
His crestfallen face and puppy-dog eyes filled her with chagrin. In her haste to collect her things before proceeding to Grosvenor Square, she hadn’t spared a thought for Orrin. He deserved an explanation.
“I only just decided today,” she said. “Though I’d have left you a note, of course. You see, this morning I overheard two ladies discussing a lord who needs a governess for his little daughter. I mean to apply for the post.”
Orrin let out a hoot of laughter. “Wot, you, a governess? Are you mad?”
“At the foundling home, I watched over the little ones. So I’ve plenty of practice in dealing with children.”
He hastily sobered. “Didn’t mean you’d make a shabby one. You’re sharp as a tack an’ you talk much finer than the likes o’ me.”
“I’ve always listened closely to Madame’s customers as preparation for opening my own shop. And don’t forget, my mother worked for a time as a maidservant. She learned to mimic her employer, and then she taught me.”
At least until Tessa was six. Snippets of memory were all she had left. Mama’s clear voice singing to her at bedtime. Being cuddled to soft maternal warmth on a cold night. Playing with spools of thread as Mama sewed from dawn till dusk in order to provide for their food and lodging.
The most vivid memory of all was the last one. They’d been crossing the street to deliver a parcel of finished shirts when Tessa heard the clatter of hoofbeats and the rattle of wheels. In a flash, a carriage careened toward them at breakneck speed. Mama had given Tessa a push that sent her tumbling into the gutter. Her teeth rattled from the hard fall, but that wasn’t the worst part. It was seeing Mama lying on the cobblestones, utterly still, her face bloodied. As Tessa scrambled to her with a cry, Mama’s eyes had fluttered open. Her hand fumbled for her pendant, sliding the filigreed gold chain over Tessa’s head. “Hide this … find him … father … pain…”
