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

by Linfield, Emma

  “Is there anything I can get Your Grace?” she asked, her face almost invisible in the near dark. “Laudanum?”

  “I fear that will not kill this pain, Miss Brent.”

  Folding her hands together, she stood near, waiting for his next order. “Please, sit.”

  Pulling her chair closer to the bed, Miss Brent sat down, arranging her skirts around her legs properly. “Thank you, Your Grace.”

  It occurred to him to ask her to call him by his name, and the impulse came on so strongly he almost did. He bit back the urge, and stared up at the ceiling. “Will you talk to me, Miss Brent?”

  “About what, Your Grace?”

  “Anything. Anything to get my mind off this – grief. Will you tell me about your life in London? At the orphanage?”

  In glancing at her when she did not speak right away, he found her staring at her hands again, something she did when she felt uncomfortable. “I – I am not sure that would be a very good distraction, Your Grace.”

  He closed his eyes. “You are right. I should not ask you to reveal your pain just to assuage my own.”

  Long moments passed in which he considered trying to go to sleep. Her voice, low, reluctant, made him open his eyes again. But he suspected that if he looked at her, she would stop speaking.

  “I was eleven years old,” she said, “when a small child, a girl, was brought to the Foundling Hospital. By then, I was old enough to help care for the children younger than myself, and thus she became my responsibility. She was, perhaps, four years old, but much smaller than other children her age, and very malnourished. She seldom cried, and also seldom smiled. But over time I grew to love her, and she began to smile more often.”

  “What was her name?”

  “Catherine. I looked after her for perhaps a few months, and she gained weight with decent food, started to talk and even laugh. I thought of her as my sister. I loved her so much.”

  When Lucretia ceased her tale, Sampson risked a glance at her. She gazed at the lit lamp, and did not seem to notice. “What happened?”

  “Her father came to claim her,” she said, still gazing at the lamp as though talking to it and not him. “He was drunk, and clearly a ruffian. He hit several boys who got in his way, and the Master at that time also tried to stop him to talk to him, but the man hit him and knocked him down.”

  Sampson dared not breathe for surely if he did she would cease talking and he would never hear another word of the tale. While he could guess what happened, he wanted to hear it from her.

  “He said Catherine was his child, and I knew she recognized him, but she cowered in fear behind me. He grabbed her by the arm and dragged her from the orphanage as she screamed.”

  Miss Brent paused, her face turned away from the lamplight, her face hidden. Sampson suspected she had more to say, and waited, not rushing her. He feared that if he spoke, she would find an excuse to smile and change the subject.

  “Catherine died,” she continued at length. “Of neglect and malnourishment. Her father took her from me, the orphanage, and spent his coins on his ale rather than sufficient food for his daughter. I wept for weeks, knowing I could have saved her.”

  “Dear God.”

  Miss Brent smiled. “God was not there that day. The father was later sent to gaol for killing a man. Catherine was buried. I saw her body before the funeral for her, and I became very ill. I lay in the infirmary for weeks, hoping I would die as well. As you can see, I did not.”

  “You blame yourself.”

  Sampson did not know how he knew, but he did. As sure as dark followed day, he recognized in her the guilt for not doing enough to protect a small child from her own father. She had told him that an orphanage was not a nice place, but he had no idea such things went hand in hand with one.

  “I do blame myself. There were so many things I could have done to protect her. Picked her up and run away. I knew of hiding places and that man would never have found us.”

  “And been gaoled yourself once you were caught. You know that.”

  “Yes,” she replied, her tone musing. “I do. Everyone knew what her fate would be once her father took her from us, but none had the power to stop him.”

  “And now you see it as your duty to protect children.”

  “Your Grace is astute. Yes, that is quite true. I vowed to offer up my own life before I permit another child under my care be hurt. I vowed to never see another child harmed, either by neglect, or any other danger.”

  Despite his pain and grief, Sampson smiled. “I will say you have lived up to that vow thus far.”

  Miss Brent did not smile in return, but she did turn her head to look at him for the first time before beginning her narration. “Perhaps. The way I see it, as long as there is a threat to Lady Henrietta, there is a threat to me as well. For I will die before I let anything happen to her. Never again will I watch a child I love be killed.”

  “Then I will make a vow to you, Miss Brent,” Sampson said, his smile fading. “You will not die, nor will my sister. We will find whoever is behind all this, and he will be punished.”

  “I feel in my heart you will, Your Grace,” she replied. “However, I also feel that your foe is quiet and cunning. He will continue to try to wreak harm to you and Lady Henrietta from the shadows, and will not confront you directly.”

  “I believe you are quite correct,” Sampson said. “How do I fight a shadow?”

  “Become a shadow.”

  Frustrated, Sampson bit back a sharp retort. Before he opened his mouth to frame another reply, Miss Brent continued.

  “You are on the right path, Your Grace,” she said. “By keeping all in secrecy, and not telling even your close friends, you gain a tiny advantage.”

  “How so?”

  She smiled slightly. “Think of it another way, Your Grace. Should you raise a hue and cry over these attacks against your person and that of Lady Henrietta, the entire region will be talking about it. Your enemy might then flee into the hubbub, and perhaps try again when you are less on your guard.”

  “But what do I gain by keeping it secret?”

  “What would you think, Your Grace, were you in his shoes? You want someone dead, Your Grace, but you continue to miss your target. Yet, the person you want dead continues to live and act as though nothing were wrong. What would you do?”

  Sampson had no need to think about his answer. “I would be in a state of near panic, frantic to kill him, because what if he knows it is me?”

  “Precisely, Your Grace. And a man in a panic makes mistakes. By becoming a shadow among shadows, he knows not how to strike at you.”

  “Miss Brent,” Sampson asked, his tone serious. “Were you perhaps a military genius in another life?”

  She smiled. “I think not, Your Grace.”

  “A pity. I believe the Duke of Wellington could use you on the battlefield.”

  “Your Grace flatters me unnecessarily.”

  “I do not believe so.” Sampson, once distracted by her story, now felt his pain and grief steal through him, and he knew he needed sleep if he was to heal quickly and find a way to uncover this foe determined to kill him and his sister. “I would ask another service of you this night, Miss Brent.”

  Her eyes gleamed under the light of the lamp, her hair cascading over her bosom, making her look ethereal and ghostly. She is so beautiful and kind and fearless. He knew what he planned to ask of her went against social protocol, but he would ask her anyway.

  “Of course, Your Grace.”

  “Will you hold my hand until I fall asleep?”

  Chapter 16

  Two days later, His Grace declared himself healed enough to resume his duties, though if he winced occasionally, no one commented. His close friends, George of Gillinghamshire and Oliver of Egerton, also healed fully, accompanied him to his stud farm to select a new mount. Lucretia watched them ride away over the green hills, and was not surprised to see James riding with them. She turned from the solar window.
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  “Now, Henrietta, let us try that again. Let me hear you say, ‘I am Henrietta of Breckenridge’ in Latin.”

  Henrietta leaned her elbow against the arm of her chair, toying with her quill pen. “If no one speaks Latin,” she complained, “why do I need to learn it?”

  “It is the language of the church and of science,” Lucretia responded. “Latin is a dead language, yes, but it is still used enough that you should have a basic understanding of it.”

  “I want to practice my French,” Henrietta said, “at least people speak French.”

  “After your Latin lesson. Perhaps as you learn Latin, you will find out how much it can resemble French and Italian.”

  Henrietta, pouting, spent an hour stumbling over her Latin, but made enough progress that Lucretia wanted to reward her for her powerful effort. “Perhaps if you ask Rosemary nicely enough,” Lucretia said to her, “she will go to the kitchen and make a picnic lunch for us. Then we can eat in the garden.”

  Henrietta’s face brightened considerably. “Oh, please, Rosemary, will you? Will you make us a picnic?”

  Rising from her chair, Rosemary set aside her knitting. “What a wonderful idea, My Lady. I will make arrangements with the cook right now.”

  Adjusting her white cap, Rosemary walked through the door as Lucretia held out her hand to Henrietta. “Let us go into the garden, and wait for our lunch. I believe the roses and the peonies are blooming right now.”

  Henrietta accepted her hand. “Do you think we might see a butterfly?”

  “Would that not be wonderful if we did?”

  Passing servants and footmen, all who bowed or curtseyed to Lady Henrietta, they made their way through the house to a side door that opened upon the wide garden. Hemmed in by tall hedgerows, it possessed a few acres of green, neatly trimmed lawn, numerous flower beds, a rock garden with a fountain, trees with nesting birds, and many benches to accommodate admirers who wished to sit while gazing at the beauty.

  A flagstone path marked the way from the house to the garden, and a spilt in the tall hedges permitted entry onto the expansive lawns. Henrietta, her skirts bouncing, skipped ahead, pointing at a robin that burst from the hedgerow. The sunlight flashed against something bright in the shrubbery at shoulder height to the little girl, but she paid it no heed.

  Lucretia did. Her blood raced, her mind working almost as fast.

  Keeping her voice cheerful, she called, “Henrietta, a moment. I want to show you something.”

  Instantly, a foot from the bright spot, Henrietta turned back, and trotted toward her governess, her small face smiling eagerly. “What, Luce? What did you see?”

  Mentally marking the spot where she saw the odd gleam, Lucretia smiled as Henrietta came to her. She pointed to the ground. “See that?”

  Henrietta peered down, then suddenly jerked back. “Oh, no, it’s a snake.”

  “Yes, it is a snake, sweetling. Now what do you know about snakes?”

  “That they are dangerous.”

  Lucretia smiled, and gingerly picked up the small serpent. “No, that is not always true, sweetling. Most snakes, like this one, are harmless. Do you know why people need snakes around?”

  “No.”

  “This is a garden snake. It catches mice and small rats. Why do we want snakes to kill mice and rats?”

  “Because those are nasty.”

  Lucretia laughed. “That is one reason. But rodents also eat the grain we need, and also carry diseases. So this small snake helps us, right?”

  Henrietta looked dubiously at the creature. “Perhaps. But you should wash your hands before you eat lunch, Luce.”

  “Yes, I will. Will you run back into the house and fetch me a cloth and a bit of water? I want to release our friend here in the garden.”

  “Very well.”

  As Henrietta dashed back into the house, her skirts hiked almost to her knees, Lucretia walked slowly toward the hedge, seeing once more the silvery flash of light. Putting the snake down under the hedge, she closely examined the object.

  A needle.

  Cursing under her breath in Italian, Lucretia broke the stem from the hedge the needle was tied to, and held it up. No doubt, it had been tied in such a fashion that whoever walked down the path to the garden was certain to get scratched. Glancing over her shoulder to make sure Henrietta had not yet returned, she carefully bound the branch and needle into her handkerchief, and placed it in her pocket. After checking for more possible traps, she breathed a quick sigh.

  “What are you doing, Luce?”

  “Just making sure our little friend will not get stepped on.”

  Henrietta handed her a small soapy cloth, then skipped once more through the hedges and into the garden. Cleaning her hands, Lucretia followed, wondering how she could possibly keep her charge safe. It was pure luck the sun flashed off the needle before Henrietta was scratched by it. No doubt, whoever placed it there poisoned it, and no one would ever know why, when Henrietta sickened and died.

  What if we had come at another time of day? What if the sky had been cloudy? That it had been intended for Henrietta, Lucretia had no doubt. It was common knowledge that the two of them often went to the garden on pleasant afternoons. And it was also well known among the staff that Henrietta charged through first.

  Rosemary brought their lunch to them, but declined to join them as Lucretia and Henrietta sat on a cloth spread upon the grass. Trying to maintain cheerfulness while pondering how to keep Henrietta safe from a murdering mind, Lucretia ate her lunch as her stomach churned with worry. His Grace might forbid Henrietta from leaving the house. Lucretia explored that possibility in her head, but wondered if even that would keep the girl safe. It will not if the murderer is among the servants.

  Half-listening to Henrietta’s happy chatter between bites, Lucretia examined that angle. Who among the staff had the cleverness and subtlety and motive to kill the Breckenridge siblings? No one else, except the stable, had been targeted. Only those two.

  “Luce, there is a butterfly!”

  Lucretia feigned delight as her thoughts raced. Motive. Who has the motive to kill the Duke of Breckenridge and his sister? She realized that if they had the answer to that question, the murderer might be revealed.

  She clicked her way through the staff and what she knew of them. Most, like the grooms, the scullery maids, the house maids, the kitchen maids, she dismissed out of hand. They neither had the cleverness nor the motive. Thomas the butler – absolutely loyal, and where was his motive if he killed His Grace? Nowhere, as he would lose his position upon the death of the Duke. James? Of course not. He was far too loyal, and loved the Duke as his own son.

  The Duke’s friends? She dismissed them as well, for neither had anything to gain by murdering His Grace, and the three were as close as brothers. The housekeeper? Lucretia shook her head. While she may be carrying on an affair outside her marriage, that was hardly reason to want to kill the Duke or Henrietta. She, too, would be out of her cushy position should the Duke and his sister be slain.

  Lucretia pondered the possible motives of the other members of the staff. One of the footmen, perhaps? Again, she reasoned that they had far more to lose than they would gain if one of them murdered their employer. And why? Petty revenge against His Grace might be sufficient motive, but why kill Henrietta? If she inherited his estates, they stood a chance of keeping their jobs.

  Munching bread and cheese, Lucretia turned her thoughts around the other way. Most here stood to lose everything if the Duke and his sister died. But who stood to gain? She eyed Henrietta sidelong as the girl happily pointed out birds and butterflies while eating her lunch. Should both siblings be killed, the next in line inherited the dukedom and the vast estates and wealth. Who was that? A distant cousin? A nephew? If there were any relatives, they certainly were not here. Nibbling her lip as well as her lunch, Lucretia wondered if the relation remained out of town and out of sight while directing the assassin from afar.

  Lucretia sho
ok her head. The man who took the shot at Henrietta did not appear to her to have the subtlety or intelligence to poison a needle and plant it in a hedge. But maybe his master did. Perhaps hidden in Tewkesbury, or some other nearby village, a villain plotted against His Grace to kill him and Henrietta, and walked in to inherit once the funerals were over and done with. After each failure, the mastermind planned something else, something more cunning, creative.

  “Look, Luce,” Henrietta cried. “Sampson is back. I want to go see him.”