A Temporary Governess

by Blaise Kilgallen

  "Hurt me?” Clarissa exclaimed, exasperated. “He simply tried to kiss you, Jane! I admit that sounds very unappetizing, but he is not likely to-to strike me, or ravish me in the schoolroom, is he? Believe me, I shall shout the rafters down should he attempt anything of the sort."

  Jane didn't answer, and Clarissa had the uneasy feeling that her friend was mulling her reply over in her mind before answering. Had the scoundrel done more than kiss her?

  "Just remember if he touches you, Clary, you must get away from him and run home. Promise me."

  "I promise that is what I shall do. But for heaven's sake, Jane, don't breathe a word about Mr. Black to Papa and Olly, or both of them shall be at the Priory the next day dragging me back here! You know what Olly is like. She would have an apoplectic fit if she knew he approached you—let alone me—after I am settled at the Priory!"

  Clarissa continued to argue. “You have nothing to lose, Jane. You cannot go near Lady Beatrice once I tell them you are laid low with the measles. I declare, if the marquess refuses the offer and decides they can do without a governess for a few weeks, I will just come back here. It's as simple as that.

  "Now just sit here and relax. I am going to the kitchen to talk to Olly. She will find you something to eat. Make yourself comfortable, Jane, and do not worry about anything. I will cope with Mrs. Pritchett, the marquess ... and Mr. Black. In that order.” Clarissa's words blithely tripped off her tongue as she spoke and left the room, not waiting for further protests from Jane.

  Chapter Six

  As it turned out, Mrs. Oliver was a bit more difficult to convince than Jane.

  "Clarissa! What in the world were you thinking, young lady? You cannot just up and leave without telling your father you are going to stay in a stranger's house for a whole month!"

  "Olly, I am not going there as a guest. I am merely taking Jane's place as governess for a few weeks, that's all. You know I once thought to try my hand at it. Now, I have a chance to see if I like doing it."

  "But, you are not meant to be a governess. You are a lady—"

  "A penniless, well bred lady, Olly. At least I shall see how the rest of the noble world lives. I shall be invisible there as ... well, just as any other employee of the marquess is,” she fibbed, crossing her fingers behind her back and remembering Frederic Black.

  "Jane is terribly unhappy there and needs my help to seek a new position. Believe me, while in the marquess's household, I shall be unimportant in the daily scheme of things and quite safe."

  * * * *

  After Clarissa brought Jane a tray of biscuits and a pot of hot tea, Mrs. Oliver followed Clarissa to her room, continuing to argue.

  Determined to go to London, Clarissa kept packing. She remembered to include her diary in order to note everything she saw and learned at the Priory—the house, the grounds, the guests, their mode of dress, their jewels, the balls or parties held by the marquess while she was governess there—all of it.

  She next went to her father's bedchamber and opened the bottom drawer of his wardrobe. She rummaged around amongst things belonging to her grandfather. In one drawer underneath her father's shirts, she came upon a locket containing a pair of painted miniatures. They were portraits of her grandparents on her mother's side. Running a fingertip over them lingeringly, Clarissa felt a twinge of sadness. She never knew any of her ancestors. All four grandparents had died before she was born. She wished often she knew more about her roots.

  Clarissa also found several rolled up watercolor sketches in the back of the same drawer. She untied the blue ribbon that bound them. Her mother must have painted them when she was young. Glancing through them, Clarissa smiled at the memory. She retied the ribbon and put them back. Digging further, she found what she was looking for—a shiny, long-barreled dueling pistol.

  Long after the sale of her grandfather's estate, Clarissa's father had brought out the pistol and showed it to Clarissa. “I treasure this pistol because my father once won a duel with it during the reign of King George, Clary. I am afraid the duel was over a very beautiful lady that both my father and another man were courting at the time,” he explained.

  "Who won?” Clarissa asked.

  "I am happy to say that your grandfather did, young lady. And he married your grandmother. Otherwise, neither of us might not have been here at all,” her father added with a sage chuckle.

  "Oh, Papa, how exciting and romantic!” Clarissa exclaimed. “Grandfather must have been quite dashing and reckless to be involved in a duel!"

  "Perhaps, he was,” her father replied. “But duels are no longer permitted, as you know, so we have no use for the pistol. I simply keep it as a reminder of our past history."

  Some days later, Clarissa had persuaded her father to let her fire the pistol. She drew a circular target on one of the nearby oak trees with whitewash. Although she had no wish to kill anything, her father showed her how to aim and shoot. His brows rose when she hit the center of the target.

  "My, my!” he exclaimed. “Not that you are likely to fight any duels, my dear, but it's not a bad idea for a female to know how to defend herself."

  "Against whom, father?” she had inquired innocently. There was some hesitation and not a little embarrassment before her father replied. “Well, the most obvious answer is against thieves and robbers. So you'd best be aware, daughter."

  Clarissa instinctively knew her father meant to beware of males who approached her for other than friendly reasons or deviled her with unwanted advances. Mrs. Oliver, too, had warned Clarissa against much the same thing.

  Reminded about Jane's stories concerning Frederic Black, Clarissa tucked the pistol and a pouch of ammunition into her valise amongst her clothes. Its presence was reassuring. Jane might be too afraid to threaten Mr. Black with it even if she owned one. But I won't be, Clarissa vowed.

  Though young and untried, Clarissa was not totally naïve. Immersed in Miss Burney and Mrs. Radcliffe's gothic romances, she read the unsavory things espoused by villains in those stories. They gave her knowledge about certain propensities of noble members of the British elite. For example, the kind of lecherous behavior of Mr. Black should she encounter him.

  Without pride or vanity, Clarissa realized she was pretty and might attract such a man's attention. The reflection in the cheval mirror in her room told her so, but she was not one to linger on her appearance. She believed beauty was a gift she had inherited from her mother, just as her father inherited his title from his father before him.

  No one denied that Clarissa's mother had been both charming and lovely. Clarissa inherited her mother's locks. More red than brown, the shiny tresses enhanced the girl's oval face and clear complexion with a fiery glow. Her best attribute, however, was her eyes. They were large and of a most startling shade of green, stippled by a layer of gold flecks when she was happy, and changing to a deep emerald when she was sad or emotional. Her breasts were womanly, her waist tiny, and her hips shapely. She stood taller than average height.

  Lord Reverend Bosworth, Roland Manning, was still a relatively young man, one of a few unattached males left in the parish. Several of the women who came to the church services in Lower Cadbury obviously admired Clarissa's father. He looked so handsome in his surplice of a Sunday when he sermonized. The women listened with rapt attention, even when he preached those rather long, dull diatribes. They dawdled afterward to talk with him outside the church. It was only recently that Clarissa had wondered if her father might marry again.

  Chapter Seven

  Clarissa felt a twitter of nervous excitement as the marquess's well-sprung carriage turned into the drive leading to Warner House in Park Lane. Even before she left Lower Cadbury, she knew Jane still worried. Why did she hem and haw so? Clarissa mused. Jane ought to be glad not to face either of the intimidating males residing at the Priory. Clarissa had been clever as a child, with a gift of persuasion. She believed she could convince the marquess and Mr. Griggs about replacing Jane. Electrified by a month-long a
dventure ahead of her, had she not convinced both Jane and Olly? Her only concern now was that Lady Beatrice's nanny might be a stumbling block.

  The four snorting horses pulling the marquess's fancy conveyance brought Clarissa back to reality. Slowed by the glut of traffic in London proper, the carriage finally entered the fashionable district of Mayfair where most wealthy aristocrats lived. Clarissa straightened up, gazing out the window to admire the large homes they passed. The posh area extended from Park Lane to Regent Street, from west to east, and from Piccadilly to Oxford Street, north to south.

  The shiny black coach with the Chester crest on its door halted and slowed. Brightening, Clarissa knew she had reached the marquess's town house.

  A footman in dark blue and yellow livery hurried down the mansion's front steps to open the carriage door and let down the metal steps. The house stood back from Park Lane, enclosed by a wrought iron fence with a garden both in the front and rear.

  This will be a test as to whether I am allowed to stay or not.

  Clarissa summoned a tentative smile for the footman and made her way quickly up the stairs leading to the impressive entry.

  It must be nice to be so rich one can have a house this big in London and another huge estate in Kent.

  Before she could rap on the door with the polished, brass knocker, almost immediately, an officious-looking butler opened the door.

  "I am here to see Mrs. Pritchett,” Clarissa declared, using a tone of authority that had always been a part of her as a youngster. “I understand she is with Lady Beatrice.” Clarissa expected him to question her since she was an unknown person stepping out of the marquess's elegant carriage.

  "Oh,” she added, “and would you be good enough to have my trunk brought inside?"

  The Warner House butler looked down his rather long nose at Clarissa from his imperious height. “Do you have a card, miss?” Bellows asked, sniffing audibly.

  "No,” Clarissa replied. “I am afraid not. I did not have time to have one printed."

  He scowled, but he answered, “I see. Well, I shall notify Mrs. Pritchett that you wish to see her. Be good enough to advise me who is calling."

  "Miss Clarissa...” Clarissa hesitated, not wishing to give her correct name in case the marquess was acquainted with her papa's title. “M-Marrick,” she said. “I am a friend of Miss Hornsby."

  "Thank you, Miss Marrick."

  The butler led Clarissa across the foyer then ushered her into a small front parlor. “Please wait here,” he said, unsmiling, turned on his heel, and left her.

  While she waited, Clarissa wandered around the room. It was attractively furnished in an elaborate French style. Examining the artwork adorning the walls, Clarissa realized the paintings were by famous artists such as Turner, Van Dyke, and Reynolds, and must be worth a small fortune. If sold, fine art such as what she saw hanging there could keep her and her father in comfort—perhaps, luxury—for several years.

  The door opened abruptly, and the butler returned. “Mrs. Pritchett asked that you see her above stairs. She cannot leave Her Ladyship alone."

  Clarissa followed Bellows up an impressive carved staircase to a broad landing. From there, he led her through a less than conspicuous door, and together they mounted another set of stairs to the next storey. Arriving there, Clarissa was faced with a number of doors she assumed to be bedchambers. She trailed Bellows down a long corridor. At the end of it, the butler knocked on a door that was quickly opened by a middle-aged woman. Clarissa immediately realized without hearing her name that she was Beatrice's nanny.

  She was nothing like her own former nanny, Mrs. Oliver. Emma Pritchett was tall and spare. Her lips were set in a thin line. Her square jaw reflected years of issuing orders—orders that expected to be obeyed. A dress fashioned of a drab gray color was buttoned at the neck by a starched white collar. A silver buckle cinched the waistband in front. The gown's crisp white cuffs were closed with pearl buttons. Steely gray hair was severely drawn back from the woman's angular features and covered by a white cap that tied under her chin. No hint of softness showed in her eyes or her expression. Everything about the woman was of the same bland tone. Mrs. Pritchett looked like a ferret, Clarissa thought. Even her eyes were gray, though they displayed a spark of interest before she asked in an unfriendly tone, “You wished to see me?"

  "I have just come from Jane Hornsby. I need to explain something to you, Mrs. Pritchett,” Clarissa said. “May I come in?"

  "You are a friend of Jane's—er, Miss Hornsby?” She looked suspicious.

  "Yes,” Clarissa answered.

  A little reluctantly, the older woman opened the door a bit wider. “Come in, then,” she invited. “But do keep your voice down. Her Ladyship is sleeping. She has been terribly uncomfortable all day, and I don't want her disturbed."

  "Of course. Jane told me ... uh ... that Lady Beatrice was plagued by an abscessed tooth."

  "The heartless beast of a tooth puller hurt her.” She glanced around at the sleeping child, her face finally softening. “The poor baby."

  Inside the bedchamber, Clarissa saw it was quite large and very elaborately furnished, much like the parlor in which she had waited below stairs. Obviously, it was not the usual nursery room, but one of the guest rooms in the marquess's town house. Clarissa wondered why they would not use the nursery. Didn't he have such accommodations in Town for his daughter?

  "You may sit down,” Mrs. Pritchett told her.

  Clarissa chose a small settee covered with a brocade fabric. The nanny took a seat in a chair facing her.

  "You had best tell me what this is all about."

  "You may be overset by what I have to say,” Clarissa began.

  "Oh? What happened? An accident?"

  "No, nothing like that, Mrs. Pritchett. Jane ... Miss Hornsby ... visited me in the country earlier today. When she arrived, I thought she did not look well. In fact, I sent for a neighbor who is a physician to stop by to see her."

  Clarissa met Mrs. Pritchett's cool, curious gaze.

  "He thinks she has the measles."

  "Measles!” the woman gasped, then stopped short, fingers of one hand reaching toward her pristine collar. “Oh, it's all right,” she calmed down. “Her Ladyship has had them!"

  Fiddlesticks! The measles story did not seem to discomfit her.

  Clarissa knew she had to expand on her Banbury tale. “Oh, I am so glad,” she gushed, allowing a relieved expression to brighten her face. “Jane was afraid she might have infected the child."

  "I see.” The nanny thought for a moment. “There are several servants at the Priory who have never contracted the disease,” she went on. “Including one of the maids who works in the schoolroom."

  Clarissa thought on her feet, quickly jumping in to say, “Of course, Mrs. Pritchett, that was another reason why Jane was so worried."

  Oh, Clarissa had to wangle herself into the governess position. Think what an adventure it would be, living at the Priory, watching the marquess and his noble guests in action. All grist for the mill in a novel she was determined to pen. Rare sights she would never otherwise be able to describe in her book. Nowhere else could she gain such keen knowledge of how decadent members of London's Polite Society live and behave.

  "I am sorry to hear that,” Mrs. Pritchett commented about Jane's contagion..

  "Doctor Twilly advised Jane to suspend her teaching for now. She is to rest frequently. She should be rid of the ugly-looking measles in a few weeks."

  Mrs. Pritchett grimaced and nodded in agreement.

  "I've had them,” Clarissa added, watching the woman's face. “The measles, I mean.” She hadn't, but she was not going to tell Mrs. Pritchett that, or she would be on her way back to Lower Cadbury as quick as a wink.

  "Jane wishes to make amends for any inconvenience to the marquess. For that reason she recommended that I take her place as governess. Temporarily. So you see, that is why I am here."

  The woman stiffened, looking doubtful. “It w
ouldn't hurt for Her Ladyship to have a short holiday from her lessons."

  Suspecting something like this might happen, Clarissa turned on the charm. “I am sure Lady Beatrice would rather spend all her time with you, Mrs. Pritchett. Jane tells me you are a wonderful companion.” Clarissa smiled into the older woman's eyes. “If I keep Her Ladyship amused a few hours a day, it would make it easier on you, though, would it not?"

  The woman seemed surprised by the young stranger's attitude. Almost grudgingly, she agreed, clearing her throat. “What did you say your name was?"

  Clarissa replied with a stutter. “M—Marrick, Mrs. Pritchett. My name is Clarissa ... Marrick."

  The woman peered at Clarissa sharply as if she detected a speech problem, then continued. “Well, Miss Marrick, none of this is up to me,” she replied briskly. “It is for His Lordship—or rather, Mr. Griggs, who hires staff at the Trury Priory—to decide."

  "Oh! I do hope he will allow me to stay. I am so looking forward to seeing the Priory after what Jane has told me about it,” Clarissa added, cajoling. “Jane said she felt very fortunate to work in such a historic place.” She paused before adding, “And to work with someone as kind as you have been.” Clarissa forced a warm smile, sure that Mrs. Pritchett was nothing of the sort.

  "There is time to spare before supper is sent up, Miss Marrick,” the gray-haired woman replied crisply. “I'll ring for Bellows, the marquess's butler. He'll have someone show you to a room. You may wish to remove your outerwear and freshen up.” Beatrice's companion-nanny pulled the bell pull and gave it a good tug.

  "You arrived on our doorstep without warning, but I suppose I must ask you to stay the night."

  Yes! Yes! Hallelujah! Mrs. Pritchett is not turning me away!

  "That is very kind of you, Mrs. Pritchett."

  At least I won the first round. Now what?

  Chapter Eight

  Young Lady Beatrice Warner was much as Jane described her—a pretty golden-haired child with blue eyes that added to her angelic countenance—but at the moment, with less than a pleasant expression on her face, Clarissa noted.