The Governess (Sisters of Woodside Mysteries Book 1)

by Mary Kingswood

  “You do not yet know what today’s lessons are to be,” Annabelle said.

  They looked at each other. “It is Saturday,” Florence said, puzzled.

  Annabelle smiled. “I daresay your mama had got into a routine, but I do not know you well enough yet.” The door opened with a crash. “Ah, Lady Dorothea. Good morning.”

  Dorothea glowered at her. “I don’t want to be here. I don’t want to learn, and you can’t make me. You’re not my mother, so you can’t make me.”

  Looking at her angry face, Annabelle could think only of the poor child being beaten or tied to her desk. All her intentions of firmness and asserting her authority flew away, and she could feel only compassion.

  “No, I cannot make you learn,” she said gently. “No one can make you learn except yourself. It is your father’s wish that you spend your days in the schoolroom, and there is learning to be had here for those who are willing, but I shall never force you.” Dorothea’s eyes widened. “But consider this — I do not want to be here, either. My father lost all his money and left me destitute. Fortunately, I chose to learn when I was a girl, and so I was able to find a position as a governess. Had I not learnt when learning was to be had, I should be in the work house now. So think about that when you decide whether you want to learn or not.”

  Dorothea nodded thoughtfully. “Papa has not lost all his money, though, and when I am grown up I shall have a large dowry and make a very good match. So I don’t need to be educated.”

  “And what man of sense will want an ill-educated wife? A gentleman looks to his wife to raise his children properly, and if she herself is ill-mannered and ignorant, with a poorly-controlled temper, he will look elsewhere, no matter how pretty she is or how large her dowry.”

  Dorothea tossed her head, and stormed off to the window seat. Annabelle ignored her. She would either come round in the end or she would not, but there was no point in trying to force the child to do anything against her will. If beatings had caused no improvement, then she would see what kindness might achieve.

  “Now, where shall we sit?” Annabelle said briskly to Florence and Frederica.

  After some astonishment at being asked, they decided that they would sit on one side of the table and she on the other, and they began the tasks she had settled on to determine their capabilities. Within half an hour, she had lost any respect for the late Lady Brackenwood’s skills as a teacher. The girls could read, although haltingly, as if they were unaccustomed to reciting, and could write very well, if copying or writing their own names. When asked to describe their own garden, they were completely flummoxed.

  “But you can see the garden, Miss,” Florence said.

  “Why would anyone want to write down what it looks like?” Frederica said.

  In numbering, they could add and subtract, but had never tackled money. When their breakfast arrived, they displayed their poor table manners. Their knowledge of the world was limited to what they had copied from Clark’s Guide to England, although they knew something of Scotland and France. They knew the King’s name, and all the royal princes. They could manage a curtsy, although they had no idea how to adjust for the different ranks, or how they would address a duke or a marquess, or, for that matter, the King himself. They had no notion of French or drawing or music.

  “Mother said we should start such subjects when we were twelve, if we were very good,” Florence said.

  “It is never too soon to begin,” Annabelle said. “We will start French lessons first thing on Monday morning, and drawing as soon as I have obtained enough paper and found pencils. Or charcoal, perhaps. The pianoforte will need to be tuned before we can begin on that, but I can teach you a few unexceptional songs that you might learn by rote.”

  “You are not our mother,” Dorothea said, from her perch on the window seat. “You have no right to change everything.”

  “I have every right,” Annabelle said. “Your father has charged me with the task of educating you, and I must do that in my own way.”

  “Look!” Frederica said. “It is snowing!”

  “May we go to the window and look?” Florence said.

  “Should you like to go outside? There is nothing so magical as snowflakes falling onto one’s face, as soft as can be.”

  “Yes! Yes, please!” they both cried.

  “Go and fetch your cloaks, then — and gloves, mind!” Dorothea jumped down from the window seat and started after them. “Not you, Lady Dorothea,” Annabelle said. “Your sisters have worked hard this morning, and have earned a reward for their endeavours. You have not — yet.”

  “I can read!” she said fiercely. “I can read better than they can, and write better, too, and not just copying.”

  “Oh, I should like to see that very much,” Annabelle said.

  Dorothea hesitated, and Annabelle held her breath. But then the girl said, “No, you’d just laugh. Go out without me, I don’t care.”

  And with a huff, she stalked back to her window seat. But later, when Annabelle and the twins had stood on the front steps until they were blue with cold, and come back blowing into their hands, and then tried to think of all the ways they might describe the sensation of soft snowflakes descending silently around them and on them, Dorothea leaned forward intently to listen. Annabelle was optimistic.

  ~~~~~

  Allan liked Sundays. No callers, no tedious business to deal with, a goose or turkey for dinner — he was very fond of turkey — no cards in the evening, and he could sit in his library all day, pretending to read sermons. The only small snag in this otherwise perfect scheme was the two hours spent in the chapel.

  The service was held at noon, in deference to his mother’s late rising. Mr Penicuik’s sermon was a bore, like the man himself, but still, there was pleasure in seeing the chapel full. It was the only occasion guaranteed to find all the family in attendance, even Great-uncle Jeremiah, sober for once, and the rows of servants with their shining faces and smartest uniforms. And his daughters, of course.

  His daughters. Dorothea, Florence and Frederica. They frightened him a bit. He never quite knew what to say to them. Dorothea was so sour-faced, without an ounce of charm, and how she was ever to find a husband he could not imagine, even with a good dowry. Would she suddenly blossom, as some girls did? His sister Mary had been a gangly hoyden, and even her own mother had described her as ‘well enough, if there be not too many candles’, but suddenly one day she was grown up and a beauty and all the local bachelors were loitering about the house. Whereas Lizzie had been a pretty child, yet made rather a plain woman. Still, what a match she had made! She had become rather a fine duchess, he thought.

  Now, Florence and Frederica had more potential than their sister. They were subdued around their father, but he heard them chattering and laughing sometimes as they went from one room to another. A little liveliness went a long way. A man liked some vivacity in a wife… No, he should not follow that train of thought.

  And then, for some unfathomable reason, his eyes strayed to Miss Winterton, sitting demurely reading her psalter. So prim she seemed, and yet he had observed a sparkle in her eyes that spoke of hidden depths. He would like to explore those hidden depths… No, no, no, this would never do! She was a governess, after all, and therefore quite out of his reach — too gently born to be his mistress, and too lowly now to make his wife. Not that he wished her to be either of those things, naturally.

  But still, he liked to observe her undetected like this, watching the rise and fall of her chest as she breathed, and the smooth line of her cheek, and her gently rounded form. How he admired her gently rounded form! She would fill his arms admirably, if only… He sighed audibly, and his mother turned to him with a disapproving frown.

  Mr Penicuik brought his sermon to a resounding conclusion at that moment, and, upon reflection, Allan was glad of it. Miss Winterton was filling his thoughts all too often, but it would not do. He must put her entirely out of head.

  6: The Heir (Februar
y to April)

  ‘30th January 18— Sagborough, Yorkshire. My dearest Annabelle, I am so happy to hear what you have to tell me of Charlsby. It sounds very agreeable and I am sure your young pupils will be amiable and eager to learn. You do not say much about Lord Brackenwood, but how sad he must be to have lost his wife when he has such young daughters to raise. How relieved he must be to leave them in your capable hands, for who better to teach them than you? And perhaps he will be so grateful to you that he will come to regard you as something more to him than a governess. Indeed, who could blame him, and if he is as amiable as you say, he cannot fail to do so, for you are so charming and clever and would make a perfect Countess. Your loving sister, Fanny.’

  ~~~~~

  Annabelle was ready early on Monday morning, sitting in the empty schoolroom awaiting her pupils. At such moments, with nothing else to occupy her thoughts, she could not prevent her loneliness seeping into her mind. All her life, she had been surrounded by her family — her sisters, in particular. Rosamund, always so sensible and grown up. Lucy, the chatterbox. Margaret, the quiet one. Sweet, gentle Fanny, with her romantic ideas. They had always been there. And Mama and Papa and Jeremy, too, but her sisters had filled her life with their hopes and fears and laughter. Now they were all gone, and the pain was almost too much to bear. If only—

  The door from the nursery shot open, and Florence and Frederica bounded into the room, then stopped dead.

  “A house!” Florence cried.

  “May we play with it?” Frederica said, hopping with excitement.

  There on the table was the baby house. One of the housemaids had spent a whole day cleaning it, carefully dusting and polishing and replacing every tiny chair in the dining room, and the gleaming copper pans on the miniature kitchen range, and the collection of tiny dolls who inhabited it.

  Annabelle pointed to the girls’ chairs.

  “Bonjour, mes enfants. Aujourd'hui, nous parlons en français.” They gazed at her in bewilderment. Behind them, Dorothea crept into the room. “Asseyez-vous, s’il vous please.” Again she pointed to the chairs, and the two girls slunk into their seats. “Très bon. Regardez, voici une maison. C'est une très petite maison. La porte est verte. Il y a—”

  “Miss, I cannot understand you,” Florence wailed, tears sparkling on her lashes.

  “Francais,” Dorothea said. “It’s in French, silly.”

  “Oui. Merci, Mademoiselle Dorothea. Nous parlons en francais,” Annabelle said, smiling. “Répète après moi… nous parlons en francais. Nous parlons en francais.”

  Florence and Frederica exchanged glances, but Dorothea huffed impatiently. “Just listen, you’ll pick it up. Say it again, Miss.”

  “Nous parlons en francais,” Annabelle said, very slowly.

  “Nous parl… parlons en francais,” Dorothea said. She pulled another chair to the table and sat down, turning to her sisters. “Go on, try it.”

  “Noo parlon fronsay,” Florence said.

  “Oui! Très bon, Mademoiselle Florence! Regardez, voici une maison. C'est une très petite maison. La porte est verte. Il y a une fenêtre ici et une autre fenêtre ici. Le toit est rouge et il y a beaucoup de cheminées.”

  “Chimney!” Frederica cried, and they all laughed.

  “Oui, mais parlez en français, s'il vous plaît.”

  “Cheminées,” Dorothea said.

  “Oh, it is almost the same,” Florence breathed, awed. “Cheminées. Cheminées.”

  “Un cheminée, deux cheminées, trois cheminées… beaucoup de cheminées.”

  “Beaucoup de cheminées,” Florence said happily.

  ~~~~~

  FEBRUARY TO APRIL

  Allan could see the change in his daughters as the weeks passed. Not so much in Florence and Frederica, but Dorothea smiled more, and was less inclined to flounce away. But perhaps it was the greater contact that made them more used to his company, and he to theirs. Instead of a strained half hour after chapel on Sundays, they now came regularly to the saloon before dinner, and twice Dorothea had been permitted to eat with the family. All Miss Winterton’s idea, and the biggest change was her doing too.

  “Your daughters would very much like to spend more time with you, Lord Brackenwood,” she had said one day. “They see you so rarely, and seldom in circumstances where they have your undivided attention. May I bring them to you in the library one afternoon?”

  “Whatever should we talk about?” he had said. “I have not the least idea what to say to them.”

  “You could read to them,” she said. “Or teach them to play whist.”

  “Whist? Are they not too young for such games? They are supposed to be learning the globes and French, not becoming dissipated.”

  “It is possible to play whist while speaking French,” she said gravely. “One is not constrained to one activity at a time. That is what we do in the schoolroom — while we sew, we converse in French, or we recite poetry while walking in the garden.”

  “I should like to help, but I still do not see what I can contribute to this pleasant scheme.”

  “Lord Brackenwood… I can teach your daughters a great deal, but there is much that they can only learn from you. Their place in society, for instance, your view of the world and your expectations for them. The better they know you, the more comfortable they will be in whatever role you envisage for them.”

  “They will marry, of course,” he said. “My sisters will bring them out and take care of all that.”

  “Yes, but do you expect them to marry to please you, or may they choose for themselves, within reason, of course?”

  “I— Miss Winterton, I cannot imagine discussing such subjects with girls of ten and eight while playing cards.”

  She laughed. “No, of course not. ‘My trick, I believe, and oh, by the way, be sure to marry a man with at least ten thousand a year.’ It is absurd. But the more time you spend together, the better they will get to know you and the better they will understand your mind and the principles which guide you. And then, when they are grown, you will not have to explain such matters to them, for they will know exactly how to go on, with your example before them.”

  He ran a hand tiredly across his forehead. “My wife would have taken care of all this. She spent all day with them—” He broke off, seeing a strange look cross Miss Winterton’s face, and he remembered the numerous times when Eloise had gone out for the day. Sometimes, he had found her in the saloon, composedly reading, telling him airily that she had set the girls their work for the day and the nursery maid would keep an eye on them. “I suppose she was not well,” he said, half to himself.

  So he agreed to see the girls every day at four, if he had no visitors and had not himself gone out calling. He read to them, from books which Miss Winterton supplied, and some of his own, and then they discussed what they had read. Mostly, he and Miss Winterton carried the discussion between them, but the girls asked intelligent questions and in time grew bold enough to venture their own opinions.

  He enjoyed it, that was the surprise. It made him feel like a father for the first time. He had admired his daughters when they were born, he had taken pleasure in watching them grow, he had loved them, but from a distance. Now he knew that Florence and Frederica still sucked their thumbs occasionally, that Dorothea sat straight-backed in her chair, just like her grandmama, and that the twins were so close that they invariably thought alike, and sometimes even finished each other’s sentences. Or rather, Frederica finished Florence’s sentences, for Florence was very much the leader. No wonder Dorothea was a little cross sometimes, being the eldest and yet somehow excluded from that perfect pairing.

  Easter brought his heir, George Skelton, to Charlsby. George was Allan’s cousin, a lively young man who was so enthusiastic about life that he made Allan feel a hundred years older than him, instead of a mere ten. George both played and sang, he flirted outrageously with Aunt Anne and Aunt Beth and even managed to keep Great-uncle Jeremiah awake for most of the first ev
ening. And he displayed an obvious admiration for Miss Winterton.

  “Where did you find her, cousin?” George said, lounging in the matching wing chair to Allan’s in the library the next day. “She would be a tasty armful, do you not agree? And she has roguish eyes. I think she likes me.”

  Allan very much agreed that the lady would be a tasty armful, but he could hardly say so. “I do not notice the roguish eyes, and nor should you, if you are sensible. Her sister has some connection to the Marfords — the Marquess of Carrbridge’s family.”

  “I know who the Marfords are, dear cousin. I have been on the town for three years now, after all. Not that I aspire to such circles, you understand. Far above my touch, the Marfords. Fearfully grand. They condescend to acknowledge me, because of your friendship with the marquess, but that is all. So you do not want me to chase the governess then… fancy her for yourself, do you?”

  And he grinned at Allan so impishly that it was impossible to be cross with him. “Of course not, but you can look much higher for a wife, as a future earl, George. Do you want me to increase your allowance, so that you can make more of a splash in town? You could have the pick of the debutantes. I should not say so, for you have too good an opinion of yourself already, but you have a certain charm that appeals to the ladies.”

  George laughed good-humouredly. “Cousin, making a splash is not one of my ambitions, and you are far too generous already. Besides, I have no wish to accustom myself to high living, for there is no danger of the title ever coming to me. You are young enough to sire a whole stable full of lusty sons yet. I know, I know, it is too soon to be thought of. But in a year or two you will find yourself a sweet young thing, and then you will cut me out, and I shall be making do on the modest competence Papa left me, and looking for a wife who knows her way about the kitchen. So you see, the comely Miss Winterton would do very well for me.”

  Allan was too honest to deny the logic of it.

  His mother was not about to let him wait a year or two, and seemingly planned to fill the summer months with a parade of sweet young things for him to choose from. A Miss Lorrimer arrived from Chester, no fewer than three Miss Waltons from Lancashire, and Miss Hunt and her friend Miss Barnett from Liverpool, all of them, Lady Brackenwood told him complacently, equipped with large dowries.