A Temporary Governess

by Blaise Kilgallen

  "Humph!” the nanny snorted. “Birds dirty the place,” she muttered unhappily. “What will you think of next, Miss Marrick?” Mrs. Pritchett turned and stormed out of the schoolroom.

  Beatrice's eyes locked with Clarissa's. Happy that she again got her way, the youngster smiled broadly.

  Beatrice should not expect to have her way all the time, Clarissa knew, but she agreed with the girl this time. So while Beatrice practiced her whistling, Clarissa read from the bird book. The pair in the schoolroom also cooed to him softly, because the bird seemed upset and agitated by the abrupt move above stairs from the Orangery.

  Chapter Twelve

  Clarissa studied the bird book more thoroughly later. She learned it was wise to cover the bird at night to keep out any sudden drafts. So, before going to bed, Beatrice draped a thin blanket around the birdcage where it sat on its stand, then wished the bird a cheerful ‘goodnight.'

  Supper eaten and Beatrice put to bed, Clarissa sat alone at the table in the schoolroom. She tipped a sharpened quill into ink, and began to put down additional impressions she remembered from today.

  April 30, 1811:

  Trury Priory is indeed a wondrous place, both inside and from the view I had from a hilltop today. The estate is stately and so beautiful. There is so much to explore. I only wish I were permitted to stay here longer than a month.

  She scribbled some brief notes about the plants, flowers, and birds in the Orangery.

  The plants in the Orangery were lovely, exotic, and different, but I had little time to examine them as extensively as I would have wished. I was surprised and excited when I saw the large cage of colorful birds. Beatrice explained what they were and how they got here. She asked if we might keep a bird in the schoolroom, and told her I would ask permission. Which I did and was told she might have a bird for a pet.

  She then described some of the shields and weapons she noticed on walls in the Armory, and made especial notes about the extensive book-filled library.

  Glancing up from her diary for a moment, Clarissa's eyes roved over the dimly lit schoolroom before bending her head to pen additional musings.

  Lady Beatrice—Beatrice—and I came to some agreements, she wrote. She still behaves like a spoiled bratling at times, but I hope and pray she will change for the better. I will not allow her to bully me the way she does her nanny. Now that she has another creature to care for as well as her pony, I am anxious to see if she remains interested.

  Meanwhile, I am crossing my fingers that the weather will clear and Beatrice and I shall be able to go riding tomorrow.

  Clarissa quickly added more notes to the page.

  I almost forgot. I overheard two of the marquess's guests talking on the path on my way back to the Priory. Thank goodness, they did not see me, or I would have been embarrassed if I was caught eavesdropping. The lady seems anxious about her interest in the marquess and he in her. Is she his fiancée? Or does she hope to be? Is she invited to the Priory often? And who was the man with her? Unfortunately, I did not see her face or what she was wearing. Nor his. Neither did I hear any names mentioned. Perhaps, I shall be able to put names to their voices another time soon.

  She was about to put down her quill and close her diary when she added a few more lines.

  Oh yes! I recall Jane mentioning a person from the library, and today I met Daniel DeLand, a distance relative of the Marquess of Chester. He is caretaker of the many volumes I saw on the library shelves. To my mind, he is in his early forties, tall, lean, and with silver hair. I noticed he uses spectacles for reading, but leaves them sitting on top of his head. I wonder if Jane has some interest or affection for him and he with her, because he seemed quite concerned about her health.

  * * * *

  Time flew, and Clarissa had been engrossed in writing impressions in her diary. It was nearing midnight when she finished. She snuffed all but one candle left in her bedchamber, and made ready for bed. The schoolroom was dark. The second storey was quiet. Then she heard scuffling and muffled laughter coming from the hallway outside.

  Omigod! Was Mr. Black coming to pester me the way he bothered Jane?

  Forgetting about the pistol, Clarissa hurried back into the schoolroom with the single lit candle to assure herself the door to the hall was locked. Jiggling it, she sighed in relief when it was secured. She pressed an ear against the wood and listened. Was Mr. Black still lurking outside? Perhaps she should give him a piece of her mind. She wasn't afraid of him, and he shouldn't be menacing a timid female like her friend, Jane.

  Gathering her courage, Clarissa turned the key in the lock and slowly cracked the door open a few inches. There was no sound, no further scuffling. Following her nose, she stepped outside a bit farther. The hallway was very dim, deep shadows lining its width and length. Glancing in both directions, it appeared empty. Unexpectedly, she felt a cool draft of air sweep down the length of it. Her candle suddenly fluttered wildly, then the flame guttered out, leaving the area near the schoolroom in semi-darkness.

  "In here,” a male voice coaxed at the same time a pair of strong arms grabbed Clarissa around the waist and pulled her into a doorway across the hall. Stunned, she was both speechless and breathless for the moment.

  Before she could open her mouth to call out for help, a pair of demanding lips descended on hers. Arms crushed her against a solid wall of masculine flesh. She had drawn in a quick breath, and smelled and tasted the pungent tang of liquor that had invaded her mouth.

  "Hmp—phhfph!” She sputtered first, then squealed aloud.

  "Nooo!"

  Pushing hard against his chest with both hands, she fought for air, hoping to be heard. But unfortunately, no one came to her aid. The attacker's arms did not ease; they still wrapped tightly around her. The man had sealed her lips with his, ravishing her mouth until she ran out of air. She heard him chuckle wickedly, then finally drew back. Clarissa summoned renewed strength with enough temerity to swing wildly to where she judged his face might be. Her closed fist connected to warm flesh. She landed a punch of some force, probably on his cheek. So surprised by her expertly aimed fisticuff, her attacker released her immediately.

  "You mangy, yellow-livered bully! Oh, you ... you black-hearted scoundrel! How dare you grab me that way?” Clarissa exploded.

  Ripping herself out of his loosened grasp, Clarissa quickly stumbled back across the hall, fumbling frantically for the doorknob to the schoolroom. Finding it, she almost fell inside and slammed the door behind her. She never saw her attacker, but she knew who it must have been: Mr. Black.

  Breathing hard, she relocked the door, then braced her back against it. She was trembling more from fury boiling through her veins than through fright. Pulling in open-mouthed gulps of air, her eyes squeezed shut, her back and head pressed against the wood, she pounded her clenched fists against the thick oak door.

  How dare he accost me!

  She heard a series of muttered curses, smothered grunts, and garbled, unintelligible rants outside the schoolroom door. Next, she heard footsteps lurch down the hall, fade away, and finally die.

  Good Lord! I was attacked by the nefarious Frederic Black in the hall!

  "Poohey!” She spit the word out and wiped across her lips with the back of one hand. Knowing she hit the scoundrel quite hard, she knew she had struck a blow for herself and managed one in retaliation for Jane's upset, too. Straightening away from the door, Clarissa laid a shaky palm over her fluttering stomach. She slowly inhaled a long, taut breath.

  What a ninny you are to wander the hallway at night, she chided herself. You should have known better. Didn't Jane warn you, you silly crackbrain?

  Going over the episode, Clarissa couldn't believe Mr. Black's dastardly attack on her person. She was flabbergasted, reflecting on how his lips felt against hers. She had never been kissed like that. She read about such things in Miss Burney's novels, but a peck on the cheek from her fond father was all she knew. And that, of course, was quite admissible.

&nb
sp; Recalling how frightened Jane must have been and what she endured until she had to leave the Priory, Clarissa could now understand why.

  Discomforted, but not quite disgusted, however, she realized she was curious. Tentatively, her fingertips grazed her mouth. Clarissa relived that sudden jolt of anger and even fear that stabbed through her as a pair of strong arms and seeking lips reached and found hers in the dark. Enveloped by someone in the hallway, she was smothered by her attacker's powerful, masculine presence. She still recalled the strong odor of raw liquor on his breath. Was he totally inebriated? Was that why he decided to grab her and ravish her? Had he planned to do other things—more dastardly things—to her if she had not walloped him and managed to get away from him?

  Clarissa leaned back against the door again. A rush of heated sensations rippled up her spine like trickles of water, quite unwanted, and yet ... strangely exhilarating. The initial, powerful surge of excitement and fright that skittered over her as he wrapped his powerful arms around her and held her against him—well, oh my! She remembered how warm and caressing his lips were, sliding over hers at first—then more persistent and demanding as he tried to coax her lips to open. By that time, she really clamped her mouth shut. All of that was definitely wrong—quite shameful—scandalous—on her part—and more than scurrilous and reprehensible on his.

  Her wildly palpitating heart thudded in double time against her ribs for a few more moments before slowing. Scolding herself silently, Clarissa vowed to be more careful in the Priory's hallways at night.

  Her breathing and heart feeling normal, she retreated to her bedroom. She even locked the portal between the two adjoining rooms. It took a long while for her to fall asleep.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Beatrice beamed when Clarissa entered the girl's bedchamber the next day. “Nanny says I may ride Snowy this morning, Miss Clarissa. We can go together if it is all right with you."

  Oh my, Clarissa thought. The little miss is learning some polite manners after all.

  "That's wonderful, Beatrice. I am thrilled. You must help me choose which horse I should ride."

  According to Jane, the marquess's stable was of superior quality. Clarissa brought along a dark green riding outfit on the possibility she might be able to wear it. Her riding outfit was shabby, out of style, and gaped across her chest, but it would have to do.

  Strolling to the stables with Beatrice, Clarissa's long reddish hair glinted in the sun and flowed down her back like fiery molten lava. She had pulled it back, tied it with a piece of faded ribbon. No lady should be seen without a hat, but she didn't own one appropriate for riding. Clarissa had no idea how lovely she looked that morning, a flush on her cheeks and her greenish eyes shining in eagerness to be mounted on a spirited hack.

  Beatrice skipped down the gravel path in front of her temporary governess. Loss of a childish tooth obviously did her no harm, and she had recuperated rather quickly. She learned to speak more clearly after its sudden loss, though she still had a slight lisp.

  The stables were as magnificent as Clarissa expected them to be. The marquess's riding horses were extraordinary as well. She walked from stall to stall, running out of adjectives to praise his cattle. Ferris, the head groom, was delighted by her comments and her appreciation.

  "How fortunate you are, Beatrice,” Clarissa said, her rapturous tones ringing true in her voice as she kept pace with the girl beside her in the stable's aisle.

  "'is Lordship ‘tis a fine judge o’ ‘orseflesh, if'n I do say so meself,” Ferris said, walking with them. “Oi'll show ye the stallion ‘e bought at Tattersall's just last month."

  He pointed out the tall chestnut with the white blaze standing in the end stall. “'e's one o’ the finest thoroughbreds Oi've ever seen come into the master's stable. Bred ‘e is, to a straight line from Eclipse."

  "Do you think it would be possible...?” Clarissa hesitated, her eyes glistening with hope. “For me to ride him?"

  The head groom shook his head, his frown backing up his words. “Oh, no, Miss. Oi'd ‘ave to ask ‘is Lordship were me to ask, but Oi'd think not. This ‘ere fella's a bit of a ‘andful, ye see."

  "Yes, of course. I understand, Mr. Ferris. How very unwise of me! The marquess would never trust a handsome fellow like that just to anyone. Do forgive me. I never should have asked.” Clarissa paused and again queried the groom. “Perhaps you and Beatrice can choose a suitable hack for me this morning. I do prefer something with a bit of spirit."

  Ferris chortled and showed her a horse named Glory—a rangy, bay gelding which Beatrice agreed was a fine substitute.

  "Did you ever have a horse of your own, Miss Clarissa?"

  "Well, not since I was very young, Beatrice,” she replied to the girl's question. “I shared a horse with my mother. When he died, we could not afford to replace Prince George. That was his name.” Clarissa smiled, remembering the aged dappled gray.

  "Were you poor?"

  She and her father would certainly be termed poor nowadays if anyone compared now as to the time when she was born. Unfortunately, her father's troubling circumstances changed drastically, and wouldn't change until her grandfather's debts were paid.

  "I'm afraid so,” Clarissa replied.

  The girl was quiet for several moments. “It doesn't seem fair that we have dozens of horses, and though you love them, you do not possess a single one."

  Clarissa was astonished by the girl's thoughtful insight. Perhaps she was not as selfish as she thought her to be, brought up in such lavish surroundings. “We all have compensations of some sort I expect, Beatrice. I do not know what mine is destined to be."

  Riding on Glory with Beatrice beside her on Snowy, Clarissa thought she had been handed one compensation just today. It was indescribably delightful to be able to ride the most magnificent animal she had ever been on. The sun was warm on her back, and she was being given sufficient time to enjoy herself with Lady Beatrice.

  Recurring thoughts about Mr. Black and his kisses had bothered Clarissa during the night. She was almost certain she had dreamed of him, but she couldn't call the dreams back this morning. She was not as yet truly afraid of him since his unseemly behavior was to be expected after Jane's reports. Besides, she had given him a harsh lesson—one she hoped he would remember—and not bother her again.

  Dismissing Mr. Black from her thoughts, Clarissa concentrated on enjoyment of the ride and the spring weather. Once again, she believed she had entered fairyland. What if it would only last for a month? She would record every delicious moment—every delightful impression—in her diary. If she encountered the nefarious Mr. Black in the hall again, well, he did nothing more horrendous than kiss her. So, she should forget the episode—and him—and get it behind her.

  "Shall we go a bit faster, Beatrice? You told me that pony of yours is fast. Are you up to a little race?"

  Her face wreathed in smiles, Beatrice dug her heels in the pony's sides. Reining the gelding in until the girl was well ahead of her on Glory, Clarissa finally loosened the reins and permitted the big horse to jump into a controlled canter.

  The open field was large and interspersed with bramble bushes and heavy brush. Out of nowhere, a beady-eyed, furry animal popped its head out of a hole almost under the horse's nose. The gelding zig-zagged quickly to avoid stomping on the hedgehog. Clarissa lost her grip on the reins. The horse took out after the pony that was racing headlong across the field. Beatrice never looked back, and kept on going.

  Meanwhile, Clarissa did her best to cling to the sidesaddle.

  * * * *

  Alex had arrived in the stable yard and asked to have Thunder tacked up for a solo ride. The debauchery during last night's party left him with a dull, throbbing headache—too much to drink and too little sleep. He hoped a brisk canter would clear the muzziness plaguing him. As he rode, the marquess maintained a distance behind two female riders in the field ahead of him, keeping an eye on them. Suddenly, he realized what might be a very serious accident
.

  Wild, erratic heartbeats slammed beneath Clarissa's ribs. Hearing thundering hoofs pounding behind her, she looked over her shoulder. In mere seconds it seemed, a man on a rust-colored horse with a white blaze caught up to Glory. The man leaned from the saddle quite recklessly, and grabbed the gelding's bridle, quickly barking loud, terse commands aimed at both her and the horse. He brought the bay to a rapid halt, then leapt from his own horse. His reaction was so swift, his movement seemed almost a blur as he appeared at Clarissa's side.

  Her open lips formed a helpless ‘O', and no words popped out of her mouth. Long, strong fingers spanned her waist as her rescuer lifted her off the sidesaddle. She landed on her feet, then was pulled tightly against him—breast to chest, hips to thighs.

  "Ooumph!” A surprised exhale escaped her lungs, leaving her gasping physically as well as mentally. The man's hands held her upright, now locked onto her upper arms in a firm grip, or she might easily have collapsed in a heap. The broad chest against which she was pressed felt like a stone wall. He had braced his legs to gain his hold on her, and she felt their muscular warmth lying against her thighs under her riding clothes.

  Still, the stranger did not let go of her.

  Without thinking, she looked up and met his gaze. His eyes were a silvery gray. While she watched, they changed, ringed by a darker shade of gray, emphasizing the unusual color of his irises. His stern expression, concentrated and stormy-looking, sent a peculiar thrill ricocheting around in her palpitating core.

  Alex's swift, rakish appraisal fell first on Clarissa's oval face, then her tumbled hair, and finally on her tall, well-endowed figure. He both saw and felt her womanliness, and ignored the dowdy riding outfit she wore. What his hands had felt, he realized she did not wear a corset.

  Good Lud! Gazing down at her was like taking in a breath of fresh air after the stultifying atmosphere of London's ton drawing rooms. Her complexion was creamy and untouched; neither powder nor paint sullied her cheeks or lips. The whites of her eyes were bright and clear, unblemished, unlike, he knew, what his bloodshot ones must appear after last night's debauchery. Alex inhaled unconsciously, shaking free of the spell she cast on him with green, witchy eyes, framed by extravagant, thick lashes. Stunned by her beauty, he could not think properly, and therefore, did not yet release her.