If the Slipper Fits

by Olivia Drake

Drawing back the drapes, she found the cat curled up in a patch of sunlight on the sill. He glared balefully at her and bared his teeth in a hiss. “Nice Mr. Tibbles,” she murmured, leaning closer, the pillowcase at the ready. “I do need you to be a good boy—”

  The cat’s paw lashed out, leaving four stinging red lines on the back of her hand.

  Annabelle sucked in a breath through her teeth. Then she threw the pillowcase around the little devil and scooped him up. Immediately he transformed into a wriggling, spitting ball of fury. She grimly held on to the cat, the bleached white linen protecting her from the full force of his indignation.

  “I did try to do this nicely,” she told the tabby, while carrying him into the dressing room. “It was you who declared war.”

  Without further ado, she opened a clothes press at random and dropped the bundled cat onto a pile of petticoats. She yanked off the pillowcase and shut the lid quickly.

  He howled and scratched inside the chest. But there was no way he could escape. He’d be safe enough for a few minutes, she reasoned, until Mrs. Baxter came charging to his aid.

  Annabelle retreated down the stairs, this time going all the way to the ground floor where she peeked out into the corridor. Her gaze swept past the landscape paintings darkened by age and the straight-backed chairs set against the paneled walls, to the closed door at the end of the passage. To her surprise, no queue of hopeful teachers waited outside the parlor.

  Alarm niggled at her. What if she had trapped Mr. Tibbles for nothing? What if Lady Milford had hired the very first applicant? What if Mrs. Baxter had recommended Mavis Yates for the post and the matter was already settled?

  No, surely the lady would wish to view all the prospects. Deciding upon a duke’s governess had to be serious business. Not that Annabelle knew much of the ways of the aristocracy. She’d never had occasion to meet any nobleman beyond a stuffy old viscount who had once delivered his daughter to school here.

  The thought rattled her confidence—but only for a moment. She adjusted the spinster’s cap that covered her dark hair and then used her fingertip to rub away the traces of blood left by Mr. Tibbles’s claws. Nothing could be gained by dithering. It was time to seize her future.

  Her arms swinging, she strode boldly down the corridor. She would knock on the door, send Mrs. Baxter off on the rescue mission, and then use the opportunity to beg an interview.

  The ploy would work. It would.

  She had nearly reached the parlor when the rustle of fabric caught her attention. From out of a nearby chamber stepped Mavis Yates.

  Chapter 2

  Mavis sprang forward to block the door. The long brown ringlets that framed her dark eyes and narrow face brought to mind a floppy-eared hound. A russet gown sheathed her stocky figure, and her nostrils flared as if she were sniffing for vermin.

  “You were ordered not to come here,” she said, her chin tilted high. “I was correct to assume you would disobey.”

  Annabelle fabricated a pleasant smile. The last thing she needed was a guard dog standing in her way. “Lying in wait for me, were you? Are you so doubtful of your own ability to earn the post of governess?”

  “Certainly not! Lady Milford will choose me, she made that quite clear by her praise for my many superior qualities.”

  So Mavis had had her meeting already. Annabelle glanced at the polished oak door. Who was in there now? “Yet the lady is presently interviewing another contender, is she not?”

  Mavis curled her lip. “That is merely a formality. Mrs. Baxter has promised me a glowing recommendation.”

  “How wonderful for you.”

  “Indeed, her ladyship was most impressed by my impeccable lineage.” Mavis cast a superior look at Annabelle. “My father was a vicar, and we can trace our ancestry back to the finest families in England. Of course, one must pity those poor souls who were born on the wrong side of the blanket and know nothing of their heritage.”

  “Mmm.” Annabelle knew better than to react to the slur. “Well, perhaps I should point out that all your hopes will be for naught if the door opens and Lady Milford catches sight of you lurking out here.”

  “Lurking—”

  “You will appear to be a snoop, and that would hardly speak well for your character, would it? The position of duke’s governess requires someone who is exceptionally discreet.”

  Swallowing the bait, Mavis edged away from the door. “Hush! Do keep your voice down.”

  “It might be wise for you to leave here at once. That will solve the problem altogether.”

  Annabelle shooed the other teacher down the corridor. Her brow furrowed in worry, Mavis complied, but only for a few steps. Then she stopped dead and planted her fists on her wide hips.

  “Hussy!” she snapped. “You want me out of the way so that you can lie to her ladyship and steal my new position. Well! Your plan will fail, Mrs. Baxter will see to that.”

  “I’m sure you’re right. Which is why you may safely depart from here without a care in the world.”

  Annabelle reached for the door handle, but Mavis dashed to stop her. “No! You can’t go in there. You mustn’t—”

  The door opened abruptly. On the threshold stood Prudence Easterbrook, her dumpy form squashed into an olive-green gown with too many ruffles. Her squinty brown eyes moved to Mavis—who had flattened herself to the wall beside the door—and then to Annabelle.

  “What’s this?” Prudence said stupidly. “No one else is supposed to interview. I am the last one.”

  “I’ve an urgent message for Mrs. Baxter.” To Mavis, Annabelle whispered under her breath, “Do stay out of sight. May I remind you, eavesdroppers do not make trustworthy employees.”

  With that, Annabelle brushed past them and stepped into the parlor. The cloying odor of beeswax and wood smoke stirred an echo of dread in her. As a girl she had endured many a scolding here and an occasional whipping with the willow switch that was stored in a tall vase beside the door. The punishments had been her own fault for being cursed with a tart tongue. Eventually she had learned to control her headstrong temper, swallow her pride, and behave with humility.

  She did so now, assuming an expression of modesty as she approached the two women sitting by the fireplace. In contrast to the spartan furnishings accorded to the teachers and pupils, Mrs. Baxter’s private parlor was decorated as richly as her upstairs quarters. Red velvet hangings framed the tall windows. A rosewood desk sat against the wall. Every table and shelf bore china shepherdesses and porcelain cats and other bric-a-brac. A grouping of chairs and chaises stood before the marble mantelpiece, where a wood fire crackled merrily.

  Annabelle’s gaze settled on Lady Milford, who occupied an ornate chair rather like a throne. Her posture was perfect, her gloved hands resting on the gilded arms. The peacock-feathered hat still sat at a jaunty angle atop her head, but the black veil was drawn back to reveal a face of arresting beauty. She had dark hair and violet eyes, and her skin bore fine lines of age that gave her features a look of distinction.

  When she turned her head toward Annabelle, one slender brow quirked upward. It was an expression not of haughtiness, but of keen interest. The scrutiny made Annabelle feel as if she were being assessed and evaluated. Discomfited, she saw herself through Lady Milford’s eyes, a too-tall woman in a much-mended dress of unflattering gray.

  In an effort to redeem herself with good manners, she sank into a deep curtsy. “My lady,” she murmured.

  “Miss Quinn! Whatever is the meaning of this?”

  Mrs. Baxter’s strident voice pierced the air. Her skull-like features were drawn with displeasure. It would take just the right words to avoid making her suspicious.

  Annabelle rose to her feet and schooled her face into a look of concern. “I beg your pardon, ma’am. Something has happened that requires your immediate attention.”

  “Whatever it is can wait until my guest departs. Now run along.” With a dismissing wave, she turned to Lady Milford and her voice took on a syru
py sweetness. “My lady, pray forgive the rude interruption. It’s such a trial to have insolent servants who do not obey orders.”

  Annabelle gripped her fingers into fists at her sides. Servant! How demeaning to be placed beneath the rest of the teaching staff. The slight made her all the more determined to succeed in her scheme.

  She took a firm step forward. “I’m afraid this is terribly important. It’s about your cat, Mr. Tibbles. He’s trapped.”

  Mrs. Baxter’s face went pale. She lurched to her feet, a lace handkerchief pressed to her thin lips. “Trapped? What do you mean?”

  “He somehow climbed into one of your clothespresses. Perhaps one of the maids left it open and then he knocked the lid shut. I heard him yowling when I passed by your chamber a moment ago.”

  Mrs. Baxter hastened forward. “He isn’t injured, is he?”

  Annabelle pictured the fat old tabby sulking on a soft bed of petticoats. “I can’t say, but he was mewling most pitifully.”

  “Useless girl, why didn’t you let him loose?”

  Annabelle displayed the scratches on her hand. “I did try, ma’am, but you know how he snarls and lashes at everyone but you.” She paused, then added the coup de grâce. “With the way he’s carrying on, I fear he could cause himself a great harm.”

  “Oh!” Gasping, Mrs. Baxter turned to her guest. “Pray excuse me, my lady. This should take only a few moments.”

  A bubble of elation made Annabelle giddy. Praise God, her plan had worked. But her triumph was short-lived.

  As the headmistress started toward the door, she seized Annabelle by the arm. “Come along. You’re not needed here.”

  The glint in her eyes revealed mistrust. Even in a dither about her cat, Mrs. Baxter had the wits to keep Annabelle firmly in her place.

  “Oughtn’t I stay?” Annabelle said. “My next class doesn’t begin for another half an hour. Perhaps her ladyship wishes for me to bring her refreshment.”

  “She needs naught from a lowborn chit like you.” With a firm grip, Mrs. Baxter yanked Annabelle forward. “Now, silence that impertinent tongue of yours. It’s time you learned to speak only when spoken to.”

  Annabelle wanted to dig in her heels. Yet creating a scene would only serve to discredit her in Lady Milford’s eyes. Bitterly, she acknowledged that Mrs. Baxter had already besmirched Annabelle’s character. Now she might never have a chance to present her credentials and win her escape from the school.

  “Let her stay.” Lady Milford’s dulcet voice held an unmistakable ring of command.

  Looking dumbfounded, Mrs. Baxter turned, still clutching Annabelle. “My lady?”

  “You said that I had interviewed all the teachers. But apparently you have forgotten this one.”

  “Because she’s eminently unsuitable. Surely you cannot wish to hire a governess of questionable birth—”

  “Nevertheless, I will have a word with Miss Quinn. You may go now.”

  Mrs. Baxter reluctantly retracted her claws from Annabelle’s arm. She skewered Annabelle with a warning glare before scurrying out of the room.

  “Pray close the door so that we may converse in private,” Lady Milford said.

  Annabelle hastily obeyed. In the doing, she caught a glimpse of Mavis and Prudence dashing after Mrs. Baxter, no doubt to complain about the unfairness of Annabelle being allowed an interview. Let the biddies squawk. For once, Annabelle had the upper hand and she intended to use it to her best advantage.

  Fortified by the thought, she rehearsed her qualifications as she approached Lady Milford. She halted in front of the noblewoman and stood with her hands clasped in a respectful pose. It was vital that she accomplish her purpose before Mrs. Baxter returned.

  “My lady, I—”

  Lady Milford held up a silencing hand. “One moment. You will have ample time to speak.”

  She sat gazing up at Annabelle, assessing her critically, and Annabelle tried not to stare back for fear of being rude. By what criteria did Lady Milford judge the applicants? If it was fashion sense or pedigree, then Annabelle was doomed.

  Her confidence faltered. Never before had she met anyone so elegantly lovely. In the turquoise gown and black hat with its peacock feathers, Lady Milford brought to mind an exotic creature from a foreign land. What had attracted such a refined noblewoman to this remote country school when she might have hired someone from London? Was she perhaps visiting friends or family in the area? The answer didn’t signify. All that mattered to Annabelle was securing the post for herself.

  “Miss Quinn, I’ve a suspicion you devised that excuse to come in here,” Lady Milford said. “May I presume you are interested in the position of governess for the Duke of Kevern?”

  “Yes, my lady. If it isn’t too forward of me, I’d hoped you might consider my application.”

  Lady Milford inclined her head in a slight nod. “It is essential that I interview every teacher on staff so that I might make the best choice. Serving a duke is a great honor, no matter how young he might be.”

  “How old is His Grace, if I may ask?”

  “Nicholas is eight and the great-grandson of a very dear departed friend of mine. The child will be going off to boarding school in a year or so, and I worry about his readiness to leave home. You see, he lost both his parents last year in a tragic accident.”

  Annabelle had surmised his father was deceased, else the boy wouldn’t have succeeded to the title. But she hadn’t realized he was an orphan. Her heart ached to imagine his loneliness. Perhaps she herself was lucky never to have known her parents at all. “I’m so sorry to hear it,” she murmured. “That must have been a dreadful time for His Grace.”

  “Quite so.” Lady Milford glanced over at the dancing flames on the hearth. “Nicholas was always a rather quiet boy, and now he has withdrawn even more. That is why I believe he needs more than just tutors and nursemaids.” She looked straight up at Annabelle. “I believe he needs the affection of a mother.”

  A mother? Annabelle’s mouth went dry. What did she know about mothering? Of all the requirements that could have been named, that was the one in which she lacked even a smidgen of experience. The one in which the other teachers held the advantage over her, for they all had come from families in the area.

  “Surely the duke has aunts or cousins who might fill that role.”

  “I’m afraid there’s only an uncle, his guardian, Lord Simon Westbury. He is a rather … difficult gentleman.” Lady Milford smiled enigmatically, then waved a hand at the chaise. “Now do sit down, Miss Quinn. You are quite tall and I’ve no wish to strain my neck.”

  “Oh! Of course.” Annabelle quickly lowered herself to the edge of the cushions and folded her hands in her lap. Truly, the interview was not going as she’d envisioned. Her ladyship might very well believe one of the other teachers more suited to the task of mothering an orphaned boy. It would be wise to emphasize her strengths before Mrs. Baxter returned to malign Annabelle’s character even further.

  She took a deep breath. “My lady, please know that I’m prepared to devote myself to watching after the duke. Let me assure you I’m more than capable of guiding his education, too. I’m knowledgeable in the subjects he will be studying: mathematics, botany, literature, geography, and much more. Whatever it is you wish for him to learn, I should be more than happy to work diligently with him until he masters the—”

  Lady Milford held up her gloved hand. “I’m sure that is all quite true. I am an excellent judge of character, and you strike me as an intelligent woman, someone who is eminently qualified to teach the boy. That is why I would rather spend this time learning more about you.”

  Annabelle hardly knew whether to be jubilant at the praise or worried at the prospect of any probing into her background. Cautiously, she said, “What do you wish to know?”

  “First, what is your Christian name?”

  “Annabelle, my lady.”

  That slight, inscrutable smile returned to Lady Milford’s lips. “How very pret
ty. Is it a family name?”

  “I … I have never been told so,” Annabelle hedged.

  “I see.” Lady Milford tilted her head to the side. “I find myself curious about your connections. From where do you hail?”

  Annabelle kept her fingers laced tightly in her lap. The last topic she wanted to dwell upon was her pedigree—or lack thereof. Her only hope was to skirt the issue. “I’ve always lived right here in Yorkshire, my lady. Perhaps that’s the source of my desire to seek another position. I should very much like to experience life in another part of England. I would be very content to devote myself to the care of His Grace.”

  “How did you come to be an instructor at this school?”

  Clearly, her ladyship would not be distracted. All manner of fibs and tall tales raced through Annabelle’s mind. She had prayed that a miracle would happen and she would not be asked about her past. But perhaps there was no escaping the truth. If she didn’t confess, then Mrs. Baxter surely would do so upon her return.

  She lifted her chin, prepared to be rejected for her misbegotten birth. “I’ve been told, ma’am, that I was left here on the doorstep of this school as a babe in swaddling clothes. I do not know by whom.”

  There, she had spoken it aloud. Would her ladyship assume her to be of the same low moral fiber as her nameless parents? Most people did. Her mother must have been a fallen woman. As to her father, for all Annabelle knew, she might be the daughter of a plowman or a blacksmith or even a highwayman. And as such, she would be unacceptable as companion to a duke.

  Lady Milford leaned forward slightly. “Did Mrs. Baxter ever attempt to find out who had abandoned you?”

  Abandoned. The word stirred a faint bitterness in Annabelle as she shook her head. “She wasn’t the headmistress at the time. The school had a previous owner who died when I was not quite five.”

  Annabelle glanced down at her entwined fingers. She hadn’t thought about that in years. From out of the past came vague memories of a soft voice crooning a lullaby, of gentle hands brushing her hair …

  “A pity,” Lady Milford mused. “I don’t suppose you will ever know, then.”