The Extraordinary Tale of the Rebellious Governess: A Historical Regency Romance Novel

by Linfield, Emma

  Two days later, Sampson led his men across the border into Wales. He and George had returned to their previous friendship and bantering, yet underneath, Sampson sensed something had changed. And not for the better.

  While telling himself it was his own flighty imagination, he knew George watched him with jealousy and suppressed resentment. Yet, in all the years he had known the man, as a boy and then into adulthood, he had never known George to retain any resentment over anything. They had fought, in the past, far more bitterly over who won a horse race than over the incident involving Miss Brent. Thus, his friend’s animosity both confused and alarmed him.

  He will get over it eventually.

  Once he did, they would return to their normal relations as close friends. Sampson observed Oliver, always sensitive to nuances, and the ebb and flow of their friendship, watching George closely. That also set Sampson’s inner alarm bells to ringing. Oliver had never watched either of them like that.

  Leading the way down a wide dirt road, Sampson led his party ever westward. His estates lay in Monmouth, well across the border. As he rode, he kept a watchful eye out for trouble, as the Welsh were not exactly happy with their English neighbors, or the Prince Regent. Rumors of English being waylaid by Welsh brigands populated the gossip channels, and the Prince Regent sent troops into Wales to quell any uprisings before they happened. Of course, the Welsh resented what they considered to be an invasion, and often waylaid the troops.

  Seeing a telltale dust cloud ahead of them on the road, Sampson signaled a halt. Within moments, his own outrider galloped fast toward them, spurring his already lathered horse.

  “Your Grace!” the man yelled. “Armed Welshmen approach. Your Grace!”

  Chapter 8

  “I want to go pet my pony.”

  Lucretia glanced up from her needlework, seeing Henrietta rise from her chair in the solar and walk to the windows. They overlooked the stable and its yard where grooms exercised the valued Breckenridge horses. Outside, the sun shone down brightly, yet she had seen the clouds on the horizon that indicated the rain sure to follow.

  “Have you finished your poem?”

  “Yes.”

  “May I see it?”

  Henrietta nodded, and, turning, picked up the piece of piece of paper where she had inked a short verse regarding a purple flower in the garden. With Lucretia offering encouragement, Henrietta had pursed her small rosebud mouth as she carefully wrote the words. The work had taken her more than an hour as she did not want to cross anything out and rewrite them. Lucretia read the poem, and smiled, taking the girl’s hand.

  “This is a lovely poem, Henrietta. I am very pleased.”

  “Can we go outside? I have not seen my pony for ages.”

  “Yes, you may.”

  Accompanied by a liveried footman, Lucretia held Henrietta’s hand as they made their way out of the house. “Would you please ask a groom to bring out Lady Henrietta’s pony?”

  Bowing to them, the footman walked across the broad yard to the stable, spoke to a groom who currently did not have a horse in hand, then returned. The groom vanished into the huge stable.

  Bowing, he said, “He will return with your noble steed, Lady Henrietta.”

  He and Lucretia exchanged a small smile as Henrietta clapped her hands. “Have you seen my pony, Luce?” she asked, gazing up. “She is white and perfect.”

  “I do not believe I have, Henrietta. Do you ride her?”

  “When Sampson is not too busy, he gives me lessons,” she replied, watching the stable door avidly. “But not since Mother died.”

  “Ah, that is too bad,” Lucretia said. “I do not know how to ride.”

  The little girl, her blonde hair tied with a pink ribbon, frowned slightly at this news. “Perhaps Sampson can give you lessons, too.”

  “I am sure your noble brother is far too busy to teach me how to ride a horse.”

  The groom reappeared leading a small white pony on a lead, her short legs trotting to keep up with his long strides. Her thick mane fell almost to her shoulder while her long forelock hid her eyes. Even at that angle, Lucretia saw her tail dragged the ground behind her. “Is she not beautiful?” Henrietta asked, tugging on Lucretia’s hand to urge her toward the approaching groom.

  “Yes, she is indeed.”

  Releasing her hand so Henrietta could hug and kiss the tiny mare, her small fists burrowing into the thick mane, Lucretia watched closely to make certain the pony was not the type to nip. The groom nodded to her respectfully as Henrietta talked to her special pony in an odd mixture of baby speech and words.

  “As docile and kind as a spring mornin’, mum,” he said.

  Lucretia smiled, and relaxed, taking the opportunity to enjoy the sunshine on her hair and skin. Sighing deeply, she gazed around at the fabulous beauty of His Grace’s residence, the colorful flower beds, that apple trees in the orchard, and the rolling hills not so far away. Though she had dreaded to come here, into the unknown, she now felt so happy that she had. Silently blessing His Grace for bringing her here, she turned back to Henrietta, the footman, and the groom.

  The footman stood several feet away, his back stiff under his livery, his powdered wig impeccable on his head. His eyes on Henrietta, she knew he guarded the girl even as much as she herself did. Thinking to walk toward him and ask him his name, Lucretia’s eyes chanced upon a horseman sitting atop his mount at right angles to the stable. From there, the grooms could not see him, nor did he seem to be exercising as the others were.

  What is that groom doing way over there? I did not think they are allowed to ride the Duke’s horses.

  Her eyes widened. The rider lifted a long flintlock and set it to his shoulder, aiming. Straight toward them. And Henrietta.

  Oh, good Lord, no!

  “My Lady!” Lucretia screamed, and lunged forward.

  Grabbing the child into her arms, Lucretia spun around, putting herself between Henrietta and the shot she feared would follow. Pain burned through her upper left arm almost simultaneously with the sound of the flintlock’s sharp bark.

  “Get down,” the footman yelled, pushing them both to the ground, his body atop theirs. The groom also shouted, but pinned as she was, Lucretia saw only the pony’s dark hooves dancing away as the man dropped her rope and sprinted for the stable.

  “After him, lads,” the groom hollered. “There, on the horse.”

  Lucretia heard more shouts and the sound of running feet. Under her, Henrietta cried, almost screaming in fear, trying to wriggle out from under both her and the footman. “Stay still, sweetling. Please stay still.”

  “He is riding away,” the footman said, rising, taking his weight off of them. “The grooms will not catch him, but they chased him off.”

  His strong hands helped them both up from the ground, his face a mask of worry and concern. “Lady Henrietta, are you all right? Are you hurt?”

  The hot pain lanced through Lucretia’s arm, but she ignored it as she helped Henrietta to stand. “My Lady, are you hurt? Are you bleeding?”

  Still crying, her small face red, Henrietta shook her head and wrapped her arms around Lucretia’s waist. As she and the footman examined her small body for injuries, they both sighed in unison when they found none.

  “I think Lady Henrietta is all right,” the footman said. “But you, Miss Brent, are not.”

  “What?”

  Following his gaze, Lucretia found the sleeve of her beige and cream gown soaked in blood. The light wool had been cut as though by a knife.

  “You saved Lady Henrietta’s life, Miss Brent,” he said. “Had you not moved so quickly–”

  “I was going to speak to you,” she said, dazed, “and I saw the man on a horse. He aimed a flintlock right at her.”

  Grooms without horses hurried toward them, their expressions anxious, worried. “He be gone now, mum,” the man who brought the pony out said to her. “Is Her Ladyship hurt?”

  “No, no,” Lucretia said, holding Henriett
a tightly. “Just badly frightened.”

  “We should return inside, Miss Brent,” the footman said. “Your arm should be seen to, and Lady Henrietta guarded.”

  “Yes, of course.”

  The groom picked up the little mare’s rope, but the grooms accompanied them as Lucretia urged Henrietta to walk beside her, holding her hand. Who would want to harm this sweet little girl?

  She did not dare ask the question aloud, for it would frighten Henrietta all over again. She had reduced her sobbing to short hitches of her chest and sniffles. But the footman caught her eye and shook his head, his face tense.

  The grooms left them at the door, but two more footmen and Thomas, His Grace’s butler, came out the door, drawn by the noise. “Miss Brent?” Thomas asked, glancing from her face to Lady Henrietta’s still red cheeks to the footman and back. His eyes widened upon noticing the blood on her sleeve. “Is Lady Henrietta all right?”

  “She is unharmed,” Lucretia answered, shaking her head to forestall any more questions that might frighten the little girl. “My Lady, I will take you to your rooms. Would you like to lie down?”

  “No,” she cried, holding onto Lucretia’s arm as though drowning. “I am afraid, Luce. I want to stay with you.”

  “But, sweetling,” Lucretia said, “Rosemary will protect you. As will His Grace’s footmen. I promise, I will come see you quite soon.”

  “Promise?”

  “I do promise.”

  Nodding to the concerned Thomas, accompanied by the footman, Lucretia praised Henrietta’s bravery and how wonderful her poem was as they walked through the huge house and up the broad staircase. Henrietta calmed further, her tears finally drying, and Lucretia suspected the girl would indeed lie down for a while. Like Thomas, Rosemary’s eyes widened in shock as the pair entered Henrietta’s rooms. But she had the good sense to not ask questions.

  “Lady Henrietta is very tired, Rosemary,” Lucretia said as the plump abigail took Henrietta’s hand.

  “Come, My Lady,” Rosemary said, drawing the girl inside. “I will look after you.”

  “And I will be back soon,” Lucretia called.

  Henrietta turned, and offered a sad, weary smile over her shoulder.The footmen closed the door behind them and took up stations outside her room like soldiers on guard. Her pain increasing now that her initial fears had vanished, Lucretia walked with the tall footman back down the corridor.

  I must be quite the sight, disheveled and bleeding. She smiled to herself at the thought.

  “I will take you to His Grace’s physician, Miss Brent,” the footman said. “He arrived to care for the late Duchess and His Grace kept him on.”

  “Thank you. This is all so strange. Who would want to kill His Grace’s sister? She is but a child.”

  “Are you certain the flintlock was aimed at her?’

  “Absolutely. There is no doubt in my mind.”

  The walk to the physician’s room was a long one, and by the time they arrived, Lucretia felt quite ill, her stomach in turmoil. Black spots danced behind her eyes as her head spun slightly in dizziness. As the footman knocked on the door, she tried to distract herself from her pain and weakness.

  “May I ask your name, sir?”

  The footman smiled. “John Kelley, Miss Brent.”

  “Pleasure to meet you, Mr. Kelley.”

  The physician, Charles Kirkwood, whom Lucretia had only met a few times, answered the door. His brows rose upon seeing the blood on her sleeve as Mr. Kelley bowed and Lucretia curtseyed. “In God’s name, what happened?”

  “Someone tried to shoot Lady Henrietta, Mr. Kirkwood,” Mr. Kelley replied. “Miss Brent was injured saving her life.”

  “Good God. Come in, come in. Mr. Kelley, please send for hot water.”

  Ushered into his room, similar to His Grace’s study, Lucretia glanced around before Mr. Kirkwood indicated she should sit in a nearby chair. His desk was littered with papers, and a quill pen stuck up in the ink jar as though he had been writing when they knocked. Past a curtain, she glimpsed a table, chair and the end of a wide bed.

  “I am afraid I must tear your sleeve further, Miss Brent,” Mr. Kirkwood said, distracting her from further inspection of his private room.

  “That is quite all right.”

  Glancing down at the blood made her dizziness increase until she could hardly see. The walls closed in on her vision, growing darker and darker. “I think – I am going to – faint.”

  Chapter 9

  Immediately, Sampson’s footmen surrounded him at the same moment George, Oliver, and James flanked him. Drawing his blunderbuss from his saddle scabbard, Sampson cocked it as his men did the same. Casting a rapid glance at the terrain, he decided the small hill they stood upon would suffice for a defense if the Welshmen decided to attack.

  “Let us not be hasty, gentlemen,” he said. “If they desire a conversation, we will oblige them. If they wish for a fight, well, we will give that to them, as well.”

  Mutters of agreement rose from all around. Oliver grinned. “I always wanted to know what the insides of a Welshman looked like.”

  Sampson rolled his eyes. “I hope this is not the chance you were waiting for.”

  A small cloud of dust heralded the approach of the Welsh, and was not as large as he expected. “How many did you see?” he asked the outrider.

  “Five, perhaps six, Your Grace,” he answered. “But well-armed just the same.”

  Oliver puckered his lips like a small boy. “That will not be much of a fight. We should just ride right on past them.”

  Sampson eyed him sourly. “Even with the odds in our favor,” he said, “some of us may be killed or injured. Wounded or dead men slow me down.”

  “Sampson, you truly know how to take the fun out of life.”

  Shaking his head, Sampson sat his stallion, watching as the Welsh drew closer, approaching at a trot. Upon sighting the English upon the hill, in the middle of the road, they reined in, six of them. By the way their heads turned, Sampson suspected they discussed the situation. In his mind, if the enemy needed time to talk, then they most likely had no plan to attack his party.

  Standing in his stirrups, Sampson called out, his voice rolling through the hills. “I am the Duke of Breckenridge. I am not seeking a fight. Will you give me the road?”

  The Welsh listened, then spoke amongst themselves again. Oliver sighed. “I do believe they plan to talk us to death,” he commented in a dry tone.

  “Perhaps we should do as he said,” George added. “Just ride on past.”

  “We will wait another few moments,” Sampson said, lifting his gloved hand. “Look. They are sending a rider out. I will go down and speak with him. Wait here.”

  Nudging his stallion, Sampson trotted down the hill. Hearing the clatter of hooves behind him, he half-turned to find Oliver joining him.

  “Not alone,” he said.

  As Sampson and Oliver met the Welshman between the two parties, the man bowed in his saddle. In a gesture of civility, Sampson nodded in return. The man, well-armed in truth, also wore the livery and coat of arms of the Earl of Montgomery. Wondering what the man was doing so far from his master, Samson sat back in his saddle to wait.

  “Greetings,Yer Grace,” he said. “We do no mean you no harm, God’s truth. But I would ask ye, what brings ye to Wales?”

  “Though I do not answer to you,” Sampson replied, “I will answer your question. I merely seek to inspect my estates in Monmouth.”

  “Ah, I do see,” he said. “And we grant ye the right of the road and right willingly. However, if ye care to listen a moment, I feel we must warn ye.”

  “Warn me about what?”

  “Brigands and discontents roam Wales, lookin’ to stir up resentment against ye English.”

  “Yes, I had heard about that.”

  “Aye, but what ye may not know, Yer Grace, is that they dress as English soldiers.”

  Sampson glanced at Oliver. “Do they indeed?”


  “Aye, an’ I have no wish for a war between England and Wales, so thus I told ye. Ride right careful, Yer Grace, and hasten back across the border when yer errand be through.”

  “Where might you be bound?” Sampson asked.

  “To the Prince Regent with letters, Yer Grace. My master, LordMontgomery, seeks His Royal Highness’s council.”

  “Then I will not keep you waiting,” Sampson said, turning in his saddle to wave his men down from the hill. “Thank you for your news.”

  “Yer Grace.”