The Governess (Sisters of Woodside Mysteries Book 1)

by Mary Kingswood

  Margaret crept down the stairs, her face chalk-white, her eyes swollen from crying. Poor Margaret! She, perhaps, would feel the change more than anyone, for she was so shy that new society would quite overset her. Annabelle was so composed that she would be at ease anywhere. As for Fanny, her sweet nature must win her friends wherever she went. But Margaret was not so blessed with an easy manner.

  Lucy herself had shed all the tears she had inside her, and now faced the future with fortitude, she hoped. Outward fortitude, at least, for she felt like a jelly inside, her stomach churning with fear. Still, there was nothing to be done about their situation, after all. Papa had mortgaged the house and sold half his land to sustain his gambling habits, and now there was nothing left for his daughters. Woodside itself must be sold to pay the outstanding debts and they must all make their own way in the world.

  Annabelle and Fanny appeared as the appointed hour drew near, and then Janet, who was to stay with Lucy as her maid. The four sisters had shared her services before, but the others would not be going into company, so they had all agreed that Lucy would have more need of her own maid. One by one the other servants materialised from their fastness below stairs, the maids weeping and even Mrs Thompson, the cook, blowing her nose fiercely. It was a difficult time for them, too, for the house would be closed up and most of them must look for new places.

  Exactly on time, the carriage rattled up the drive, Robin’s valet Brast huddled on the seat beside the coachman. Rosamund whisked into the house, then Robin, to supervise the stowing of the boxes. At least Rosamund was safely married, and was not to be tossed out of her home into stormy seas, as her four younger sisters were. Her husband had helped them all find posts, since they would accept no other aid from him, and was now to convey them all to their new homes, first Lucy and Margaret to different parts of Shropshire, then Annabelle to Cheshire and Fanny all the way to Yorkshire.

  So far away! The sisters had never been broken apart before, and had not even travelled much. Rosamund had married, but lived most of the year not a mile from Woodside. Annabelle had spent but two brief seasons in London. Lucy herself had lived in the village when she married. And if ever one or two of the five were away, the others would still be at home, in the familiar Woodside routines. Now they would be scattered to the four winds, like seeds blown away from the tree, to land who knew where.

  “There now, the boxes are loaded and all is ready,” Robin said. “Time to go. We must make the most of the daylight.”

  Margaret bent her head, tears flowing again.

  “Now, now,” Rosamund said briskly. “No more crying, Margaret. You are to be living with relatives, after all. Aunt Letty and Aunt Pru will look after you.”

  But she only cried all the harder.

  Fanny put her arms around her. “Never mind, sister, we shall write very often, shall we not? You must tell me all the Shropshire gossip, and I shall tell you about Yorkshire, which is a very interesting county, I believe. And we are all going to very kind, good-natured people, I am sure.”

  “Come now, Margaret,” Robin said. “Lucy, will you go first? We cannot delay.”

  And so, somehow, between the sisters’ cajoling and Robin’s anxiety to be off, Margaret was got into the carriage, and Lucy beside her, the hot stones placed at their feet and the fur-lined rug spread over their legs. Robin and Janet sat opposite them, the door was slammed shut and the horses were in motion instantly. Lucy waved, but almost at once the curve of the drive hid the house from view and she could no longer see her sisters or the house that had been their home all their lives.

  At first, Margaret’s incessant weeping and the lowering winter skies subdued Lucy’s spirits, but before long they left behind the familiar roads and views, and she began to feel more cheerful. She, who had never left Brinshire before, would soon be in Shropshire, seeing new sights and making new acquaintances, and what could be pleasanter? Nothing, surely.

  “Oh, look, Margaret! Such a fine stand of elms over there. And is that a windmill in the distance? I believe it is. Why, a windmill, just fancy! We have only water mills in our part of the county, is it not so, Mr Dalton? Oh, such sweet little cottages! I do so love a cottage, do not you, Margaret? And they have chickens! I dearly love chickens. I had twenty two layers and a cockerel at Mill Place, and I so enjoyed feeding them every day. They would peck away around my feet… so charming. Oh, Margaret, do stop crying, dearest.”

  “Yes, it would be for the best,” Robin said. “Your head will ache abominably if you do not.”

  “That is very true,” Lucy said. “You are quite right, Mr Dalton, for it is always so when one cries a great deal. It makes one feel so dreadfully ill. You do not wish to be ill, do you, sister dear? Think what a bad impression it would give Aunt Letty and Aunt Pru. Although I am sure they are very kind.” She paused, realising that she knew nothing at all about them. They were Mama’s older sisters, but she had seldom mentioned them, and Papa not at all, so the image of two kindly elderly aunts was all her own invention.

  And then there was Uncle Arthur, Mama’s only surviving brother. What did she know of him, except that he had twelve children and lived in Market Clunbury? His wife’s sister was the lady whose step-daughters she would be chaperoning.

  “Mr Dalton, do you have with you the letter from Uncle Arthur?”

  He retrieved a neatly folded sheet from an inner pocket, and handed it to her.

  ‘West End House, Market Clunbury. 18th January 18— Sir, I am obliged to you for your letter setting out the good qualities of my niece. I had no doubt of her suitability, but your words of commendation will serve to reassure a mother’s heart that her daughters will be in safe hands. I am sure Lucy will do very well, and will take admirable care of the girls. It is a pity that my wife and I are unable to be of service in this way, but we are humble people who move in a different level of society from the Kingsleys. I will attempt to answer your concerns regarding the family she will be entering as best I can, although I know little enough of them. Kingsley is a private man, and speaks little of himself, so all that I know is through others. The Kingsleys live at Longmere Priory, the prettiest little estate imaginable with some excellent shooting. We dine there sometimes, and they keep a very good table, with plenty of game and fish every day. Kingsley has his wine sent up from London, from someone who has it from France, and does not go through the local vintner at all, and gets the best coal and candles - wax candles in use even in the servants’ hall, if you can imagine it. He is reputed to be worth five or six thousand a year, although not for long with such extravagances, I wager. He married a viscount’s daughter, who gave him his twin girls and expired thereafter, and he never took another wife until he saw Augusta, my wife’s sister, some four years ago. She is an amiable creature, who will treat Lucy quite as one of her own daughters, to be sure. Beg pardon, but the paper is at an end. Yours, Arthur Tilford.’

  Lucy laughed, and Robin smiled, too. “It is not very informative, is it?” he said.

  “Oh, but there is good shooting to be had, and fish every day, not to mention wax candles in the servants’ hall. What more is there to say of the Kingsleys?”

  “Only the important matter,” Robin said. “That Mrs Kingsley is ill and has been forbidden to rise from her chaise longue, so it is for you to take the step-daughters about. Easy work, I imagine.”

  “With two young ladies of eighteen? Perhaps,” Lucy said. “Well, I cannot tell much about the family from this, so I shall just have to discover all their little secrets when I arrive.”

  “I do not imagine they have any secrets worth the discovering,” Robin said. “Some cousins in trade perhaps. A bastard or two, no doubt. They are quite an ordinary family, I think.”

  “Even ordinary families have secrets,” Lucy said, smiling.

  They changed horses once and then they were into Shropshire, and the country seen through the windows became noticeably different, although Lucy could not say how. Nevertheless, she exclaimed over e
very vista brought into view by a bend in the road or a slight incline, admired the empty fields and bare trees, and declared the cottagers the stoutest and healthiest she had ever seen. Eventually, Margaret stopped crying and nodded off to sleep, Janet had been dozing off and on all day, and even Robin leaned back against the squabs, at great risk to his coiffure, and closed his eyes.

  He was an odd sort of man, Lucy had always thought. He took prodigious pride in his appearance, and always looked very fine, as if he had been transported directly from the saloons of London without so much as ruffling his hair. Lucy could imagine him strutting about the great houses of the capital, and mingling with the highest in the land. Well, he was to be a baron one day, when his father should quit the mortal sphere, Lord Westerlea of Westerlea Park, so that was appropriate. And Rosamund would be Lady Westerlea — how grand that sounded! And although Rosamund would always be her familiar self and not give herself airs, and Robin had turned out to be a kind brother and a devoted husband, Lucy was a little in awe of both of them.

  Late in the afternoon, when Robin was beginning to grow fretful at the slow pace, they came to the bustling town of Market Clunbury, with its fine old buildings clustered around a cross. After a brief stop at an inn to bespeak rooms for Robin, Margaret and Brast for the night, they drove on through the town and into the darkening countryside. But they had not far to go, for the gates to Longmere Priory were no more than a mile from the outskirts of the town, and in no time they were turning in past a lodge with lamps already cheerfully lit, and then rounding a large and very ugly fountain to pull up outside a starkly modern house.

  They were clearly expected, for two footmen and a butler emerged from within, and began unloading boxes. While Robin instructed them, Lucy stood uncertainly, looking up at the house in some disappointment. The name of it, Longmere Priory, has excited hopes of a quaint medieval house, perhaps something like Willowbye in Brinshire, all odd, twisting passageways and low ceilings and uneven floors, not to mention a great hall. There was something appealing about a great hall, with its history of ancient barons lording it over the serfs and dogs sitting amongst the straw, the walls adorned with battle flags and musty tapestries. The clean lines of this building looked to be no more than fifty years old.

  Three ladies now emerged from the house, bundled up in heavy shawls.

  “Come in, come in, Mrs Price, do come inside out of this horrid cold,” called one of them, almost bouncing with excitement, and Lucy rushed to comply, for the three were hardly dressed against the winter weather.

  All four ladies hastened into the hall, a great echoing room, much adorned with statuary, where several servants waited. There was a blazing fire in a massive marble hearth, which drew Lucy to its welcoming warmth.

  “Yes, do warm yourself, Mrs Price. You must be frozen. Travelling in winter is so unpleasant, is not it? There now, how delightful to— Oh!”

  Lucy looked at the speaker properly for the first time, seeing a woman of very much her own age, very pretty and dressed in a stylish manner, although perhaps not quite in the latest London fashion. She wore a matron’s cap, but this could not be Mrs Kingsley, who was confined to her chaise longue. A relative or companion, perhaps. The other two women were, she now saw, a little younger and wore identical simple woollen gowns. These were presumably the two step-daughters.

  “Oh, but my dear!” the lady said mournfully. “You poor dear thing! So young! I had imagined a lady of mature years, but… oh, how tragic to be widowed at such a young age, how dreadful for you.”

  “No, no, you must not—” Lucy began, but to her dismay two great tears rolled down the matron’s cheeks.

  “Oh, my dear!” she wailed, enveloping Lucy in a great hug.

  The two younger ladies sighed and rolled their eyes.

  Lucy’s boxes began to be brought into the hall, followed by Robin, who waited politely to be introduced.

  “Ma’am, this is my brother-in-law, Mr Dalton, who very kindly conveyed me here.”

  “Oh, indeed, most kind, most kind. You are most welcome, sir. Which are your boxes, sir, so that the footmen may take them to the correct room?”

  “I have engaged rooms at The Lamb and Pheasant for myself and Mrs Price’s sister, Miss Margaret Winterton, who travels with us,” he said.

  “The Lamb and Pheasant? Nonsense! I shall hear of no such thing, Mr Dalton. You will stay here for tonight, and Miss Winterton also, I insist upon it. John shall run to the inn to tell them of the change in plans.”

  “You are too kind, but we would not for the world inconvenience you—”

  “Oh, it is not the least inconvenience, and you will not mind taking your pot luck with us, I am sure. I will not hear of you going off to an inn, it is quite unthinkable. I am quite decided upon the matter, and will entertain no dispute.”

  “You are most kind, ma’am, to poor, weary travellers.” He made her his most respectful bow, and she coloured up like a girl. “I shall bring Margaret in, and arrange for the rest of the boxes to be unloaded.” With another small bow, he whisked out of the door again.

  “Well… well now… goodness me! Such delightful manners! London polish, I dare say.”

  One of the twins coughed, and tugged at her sleeve.

  “Oh! Oh yes, how foolish of me! Mrs Price, may I present to you my step-daughters, Miss Kingsley and Miss Winifred Kingsley.”

  The two girls made perfectly demure curtsies, then spoilt the effect by giggling.

  Lucy was almost too surprised to make her own curtsy. So this lady, of much her own age, was Mrs Kingsley, the lady whose illness was supposedly so severe that she must not exert herself in the slightest. Yet here she was, in the very bloom of health, fairly exuding energy and wellbeing. It was a puzzle.

  Robin returned with Margaret, Brast slinking in behind them, and this time Lucy made the introductions, noticing Robin’s eyebrows rise a little as she named Mrs Kingsley. He too had supposed her to be a companion of some sort.

  “Let me show you to your rooms,” Mrs Kingsley said, and set off directly for the stairs.

  “Ma’am, should you not be resting?” Lucy said in some alarm.

  Mrs Kingsley turned, her face crestfallen. “Oh dear! I suppose I should, but I was so happy to see you… I keep forgetting, you see. Peter will be so cross with me.”

  “Perhaps the Miss Kingsleys would be so good as to show us the way, so that I may get to know them a little?” Lucy said.

  One of them — was it Winifred? — looked cross, but the other said, “Oh yes, let us show you the way! May I put them in the tower, Mama?”

  “Oh, well… Mrs Price, certainly, the Queen’s chamber, as we discussed, but Mr Dalton and Miss Winterton… I had thought the blue room and the lilac room? Those are always prepared, you know. There will be not the least dampness in the air, you see, dear. And those narrow stairs in the old house are so awkward for the servants.”

  Deirdre said silkily, “It will not take a moment to light the fires and make up the beds, and the servants may use the regular service stairs and then along the upper passageway. It is not very much further.”

  “Oh, very well, very well. Mrs Hapmore, prepare the priest’s room for Miss Winterton and the great chamber for Mr Dalton. Oh, I do hope the rooms will be warm enough.”

  “I am sure we shall be very comfortable, Mrs Kingsley,” Robin said smoothly.

  Lucy thought so too, and could not help smiling to herself. The tower? A priest’s room? The Queen’s chamber? That sounded perfect! She was going to like it here.

  END OF SAMPLE CHAPTER of The Chaperon.

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