The Master's New Governess (HQR Historical)

by Eliza Redgold

  Maud leaned into his arms.

  Why, who’d have credited it? Fairy tales did come true, after all.

  * * *

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  by Eliza Redgold

  Enticing Benedict Cole

  Playing the Duke’s Mistress

  The Scandalous Suffragette

  Maud’s World

  The Figure of the Governess

  The governess was a familiar figure in Victorian England. Some of them, like Maud, were ‘bluestockings’—a nickname for free-thinking women who fought for female education. Also, like Maud, many governesses were cultured women who had fallen on hard times.

  In their employment they were expected to provide both academic and moral education, often for low pay and in insecure conditions. Many governesses existed between two worlds, not accepted by the servants or by the family, and some were at the mercy of their more unscrupulous employers.

  The Governesses’ Benevolent Institution, to which Maud turns, provided aid for needy and retired governesses in straitened circumstances. Today, this society still exists in the form of the Teaching Staff Trust.

  Wise Women’s Wonder Tales

  Governesses were known to use fables and fairy tales for female education. Like Maud’s Butterfly Fables, such tales were often full of wonder, wisdom and often warnings to women.

  One such governess, Madame Leprince de Beaumont, published educational guides for young ladies. Her Moral Tales (1744 and 1776) became famous handbooks, and included an early English translation of Beauty and the Beast.

  Louisa May Alcott, best known for Little Women, wrote Flower Fables (1860), to instruct and entertain Ellen Emerson, the daughter of Ralph Waldo Emerson, while author and illustrator Cicely Mary Barker ran a kindergarten with her sister—she modelled her famous Flower Fairies (1925) upon the children who attended it.

  Beautiful British Butterflies

  In Maud’s era, many species of butterflies fluttered across British landscapes. Butterfly-catching was a popular hobby.

  The Butterfly Vivarium or Insect Home: being an account of a new method of observing the curious metamorphoses of some of the most beautiful of our native insects, by Henry Noel Humphreys, published in London in 1858, became a bestseller.

  Sadly, many British butterflies are now rarely sighted. The Swallowtail, Britain’s biggest butterfly, is threatened with extinction due to the salination of Britain’s lakes and marshes. The Small Tortoiseshell is also facing declining numbers.

  Learn more about butterflies from The Association for Butterflies—you can even attend Butterfly College—support Butterfly Education and Awareness Day in the USA, or aid their conservation in Britain by joining The Big Butterfly Count.

  Visit elizaredgold.com to see beautiful images of a Victorian butterfly vivarium.

  All Aboard! The West Cornish Railway

  Dominic’s background as a railway entrepreneur is set against the founding of the West Cornish Railway Company. In the 1840s and 1850s this railway company was formed by local businessmen and men of standing in the community, offering new economic hope to Cornwall.

  Dominic’s passion and energy for the railway captures the pride emerging in Cornwall at that time. Its heritage remained in the form of the Cornish Riviera Express—one of the railway wonders of the world.

  For a romantic getaway you can still catch the Night Riviera sleeper to Cornwall. Or climb aboard the magical Christmas Train of Lights!

  Sensual Saffron

  Saffron has been grown in Cornwall for centuries and has long been used to flavour its local cuisine—not least its famous saffron buns.

  The brightly coloured orange-red stigma of the crocus flower—saffron—turns food to gold when cooked and, because of the necessity to harvest the spice by hand, it is worth its weight in gold, too.

  A natural aphrodisiac, saffron was often used in marriage customs. Rather than rose petals, the marriage bed was once sprinkled with strands of saffron to ensure happiness and good fortune.

  The Stories of Scheherazade

  Scheherazade’s fairy tales are some of the most famous and fabulous fairy tales ever told. Known as The Arabian Nights or One Thousand and One Nights, her tales embroidered flying carpets, magical lamps and wish-granting genies.

  Scheherazade told her stories to save her life and those of other women. As vengeance against his wife, who had betrayed him, a sultan vowed to take a new wife every night. One of these was Scheherazade, but she had a plan of her own.

  On her wedding night, she told stories full of such adventure and intrigue that the Sultan could not resist asking her to continue to tell them. She told her tales for a thousand nights and by the end of them the Sultan had fallen in love with her and seen the errors of his ways.

  Do read more about Scheherazade, or listen to the famous music by Rimsky-Korsakov, inspired by her tales.

  Poetic Inspiration

  Interwoven into my story is Tennyson’s poem Maud (1855). Full of desire and conflict, it is the inspiration for Maud and Dominic’s story—which for them ended happily ever after.

  Visit elizaredgold.com for more.

  Saffron Revel Buns

  Saffron revel buns have long been made in Cornwall. Believed to have desire-enhancing properties, they were once part of marriage or anniversary feasts.

  Like all good things, saffron buns take time.

  This is a traditional version of these festive treats.

  Enjoy!

  Ingredients

  A pinch or two of saffron strands

  Half a cup of milk

  A handful of raisins

  400 grams of plain or all-purpose flour

  A pinch of salt

  Half a cup of butter

  Half a cup of double cream—or Cornish clotted cream, if you can get it

  28 grams fresh yeast or dried yeast equivalent

  1 teaspoon of caster sugar

  Method

  Grind the strands of saffron in a pestle and mortar into a fine red-gold powder. Mix with the milk to make a paste. Set aside overnight, for the saffron to dye the milk gold.

  Place the raisins in a small bowl and cover with warm water. Set them aside to plump.

  The next day, sift the flour and salt. Rub in the butter by hand.

  Strain the saffron milk. Warm until it is lukewarm. Do not allow it to boil.

  Place the warmed milk in a bowl and mix in the sugar. Sprinkle the yeast over top of the milk and let it stand for ten to fifteen minutes. The yeast will soften and begin to bubble.

  When cool, gradually stir in the raisins, cream and beaten eggs.

  Make a well in the centre of the dry ingredients and add the milk mixture little by little, until it forms a firm dough.

  Turn it on to a lightly floured board and knead for five minutes. Make a ball and return the dough to a lightly greased bowl. Cover with a damp tea towel and stand in the refrigerator overnight, until doubled in size. Alternatively, you can place it in a warm place and it will double in size in approximately two hours.

  Once it has risen, shape the dough into twelve to sixteen buns. Roll each piece into a ball, place on a baking tray and allow them to rise again in a warm place for about fifteen to twenty minutes. Again, let them double in size.

  Glaze with warm butter or milk and sprinkle with caster sugar if desired.

  Place in a preheated oven at 375°F—190°C—for about fifteen minutes, until they are firm and golden.

  Acknowledgements

  A big thank you to everyone at Harlequin Mills & Boon Historical in London, especially editor Nicola Caws—a complete star, who is always fantastic to work with.

  Thanks also to the Harlequin Hussies—the online group of Historical authors, past and present, who are so fabulous, fu
nny and full of wisdom.

  Thanks to my erstwhile critique buddy, author and creative practice academic, Dr Carol Hoggart, who dived into an early draft of this work and helped get it into shape—and share some ‘Writer’s Tears’ whisky while doing so.

  Thanks to Dr Rose Williams, whose critical reading has become my favourite part of the process.

  Thanks also to Pamela Weatherill and Pearl Proud—I hope you know how much your friendship and support mean to me.

  To Anne Symes—whenever an encouraging email was needed, it arrived from you.

  And to Joanne Macdonald—who left a bluestocking badge on my university office door at the ‘write’ moment.

  Keep reading for an excerpt from His Runaway Lady by Joanna Johnson.

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  His Runaway Lady

  by Joanna Johnson

  Chapter One

  The moment Sophia Somerlock had been told the name of the man she was to marry was the same moment she knew, without hesitation, that she had no other choice.

  She would have to run.

  * * *

  Huddled into one corner of the swaying coach, Sophia twitched aside the dingy velvet curtain obscuring a window and looked out, attempting to distract herself from the terror that circled in her stomach. There was nothing to see other than ghostly trees, barely lit by the moonlight struggling through the dense canopy above. Savernake Forest stretched out silently on either side of the rough road to Marlborough, only the rattle of the wheels and hollow clip of hooves breaking the heavy stillness of the summer night. Another glance showed the white shape of an owl disappearing into the darkness, leaving the reflection of Sophia’s pale face to peer back at her in the glass.

  Mother will be beside herself with rage when she realises I’ve gone. I can scarcely believe I found the nerve.

  How many vases would Mother smash in her fury, now deprived of the usual target for her wrath? Sophia wondered with rising fear. Bearing the brunt of that foul temper was Sophia’s only purpose in life, after all, aside from one day being sold into a lucrative marriage from which everybody would profit but herself. That was the sole reason Mother hadn’t abandoned Sophia to a convent after the death of Papa as she deserved. She’d been told this almost daily ever since she was six years old, but now she had fled the future mapped out for her, the ungrateful little beast, and the passion of Mother’s anger made Sophia’s blood run cold at the mere thought. While Papa had lived Mother had hidden the worst of her cruelty from him, never in his hearing abusing the spirited little daughter she had never wanted and resented for claiming a share of his love, but since his passing Sophia hadn’t known a single day without guilt and fear and that spirit had been well and truly crushed beneath the heel of Mother’s boot.

  Almost alone in the carriage, Sophia reached to tuck a stray sweep of bright copper hair back out of sight beneath the bonnet taken from her unsuspecting maid. The elderly gentleman seated opposite looked to be fast asleep, but she wouldn’t risk him waking to catch sight of her distinctive flaming mane. Long, thick and refusing to hold a curl—much to Mother’s annoyance, as though Sophia had grown such determinedly straight hair just to spite her—it was the only feature she had inherited from her real father, the final link between them Mother had never been able to sever. Lord Thruxton might insist she call him Father now, having become Mother’s husband the day before Sophia’s seventeenth birthday five years before, but nobody would ever replace the kind, handsome man she had loved and who had loved her in return until the fateful day her stupidity had cut him down. She would always be a Somerlock in her heart, no matter how many times she was introduced as Miss Sophia Thruxton. Papa’s name would live on inside her for ever and there was no way she would ever become a Thruxton for real, neither by marriage nor by force.

  Sophia squeezed her clammy hands together so tightly it hurt, the reflexive action of many years’ standing, although nothing could drag her thoughts away from the great house she had left behind. Fenwick Manor had felt like a prison for all its splendour, caging Sophia within its walls and not a friendly face among those who lived there. Mother detested her, of course, and Lord Thruxton—never ‘Father’—remained coldly indifferent to her presence, only becoming animated when dear Septimus came to call—his beloved nephew and heir, and the most terrifying future husband Sophia ever could have dreamed of.

  It was the worst-kept secret in Wiltshire society that Jayne Thruxton had been declared insane after only two years of marriage, Sophia thought with a shudder as the coach ploughed on through the night, each hoofbeat carrying her further and further from the fate she had fled. Everyone pitied Septimus and his bad luck in acquiring a lunatic for a wife—although from the whispered conversations she had overheard between her mother and stepfather Sophia knew otherwise. Jayne had seemed as rational a creature as ever lived before she was tormented half to death by the malice and brutality of her handsome, charming husband, a facet of his personality concealed from her—and society at large—until it was too late. If she had voluntarily entered an asylum it could only have been for one of two reasons: either Septimus’s treatment had addled her wits, or life in an institution had seemed a better prospect than remaining in her marriage. Neither motivation was one Sophia wished to experience for herself and the bleak truth had given her the courage to hide beneath the clothes of a servant and disappear into the night, a rash action that flew in the face of every instinct for her obedience. Quiet compliance was all she knew now, the strong will she’d once possessed hammered flat by years of torment—or so she had thought, before the prospect of a life even more miserable than her current existence forced the decision that even now clamped her chest in a vice of fear.

  It’s hardly surprising Mother chose a man like that for me after what I did to poor Papa, a fitting punishment for my actions. She has told me often enough I was the reason she became a widow sentenced to mourn the only man she would ever love for the rest of her miserable life—as if I needed proof she only married again for the title. If she couldn’t be happy, why should I?

  That had been the constant refrain of Sophia’s wretched childhood, she now thought grimly. Papa had died when she was just six years old and since that moment Sophia had known herself to be a monster, an unwanted creature starved of the approval and tenderness she craved so badly and yet knew she didn’t deserve. Grief and guilt so strong it almost drowned her was her inheritance, encouraged daily by Mother’s cruel tongue, and she’d certainly never expected to marry for love when the time came for Mother to see some return on her grudging investment in her only child. There was nothing about Sophia that might rouse fond feelings in a man, after all—how could she ever believe otherwise, told as much repeatedly from the first moment she could begin to understand?

  ‘I’ll marry one day, won’t I, Mother? To a man like Papa?’

  ‘You’ll marry, but not to a man like your father. He was kind and strong and handsome—now, tell me, would a man like that, who could have his choice of wife, want somebody as worthless and troublesome as you?’

  ‘I suppose not.’

  ‘You suppose correctly. My life with your father was perfect before you came and ruined everything with your wickedness, always getting between us and turning his attention from me. Why would any man look upon you with favour after learning of your sins?’

  The elderly passenger twitched in his sleep as the coach rounded a bend and began to slow, the driver’s low command to the horses breaking into Sophia’s unhappy memories. A swift peep out of the window showed a couple of men waiting for the post carriage to draw near, the torch they stood beneath obscuring their faces in shadow, and Sophia felt her chest tighten with apprehension
at the sight.

  With each new passenger that boarded the coach the chance of her being seen by some acquaintance of the Thruxtons grew. All it would take was one dropped hint, one accidental glance, and her mother and stepfather would know which way she had fled. The midnight carriage had seemed such a safe bet—surely everybody she knew in the county would be abed by now—but evidently she wasn’t the only one with travel in mind, sneaking from Fenwick Manor with breath held for fear of discovery. If she was seen now the risk she’d taken would have been in vain, and she would be left with no choice but to face the consequences. She could do nothing but sit, helpless and afraid, as the coach drew to a standstill and the murmur of voices filtered in from outside, the light from the torch growing brighter as the door opened and the two waiting men climbed inside.

  The first was a stranger and Sophia felt some of the tension leave her limbs as he dropped into a seat. He looked at her with a quick flick of appraisal, taking in her heart-shaped face and slanted green eyes with an appreciation he never would have dared had she been dressed in her usual finery. In a servant’s clothes she was evidently a fair prospect, however—Sophia might have spent a moment pondering the difference an expensive gown could make had the second passenger not made her mind stutter to a sudden halt.

  Her stepfather’s bookkeeper settled himself in the far corner of the cabin, nodding distractedly at each of his fellow travellers as he carefully arranged his belongings beneath the seat. The elderly gentleman opposite woke for just long enough to mutter a quiet greeting but Sophia’s lips were frozen with dismay and nothing could have dragged a word from her suddenly dry mouth.