The Impossible Governess

by Margaret Bennett

  “Perhaps I can help you, Miss Forsythe, if you would explain what did happen.”

  Gazing intently on the deep grooved scratches that adorned the front of the old desk, Georgeanne remained silent for a full minute before she dispassionately confessed, “He offered to make me his mistress.”

  “Did he force himself on you?” Mrs. Hawkins asked carefully.

  Shocked emerald eyes flew up to meet with wiser, sympathetic ones.

  “Never!” Georgeanne replied emphatically.

  “Well, what’s to be done with you now?” asked Mrs. Hawkins pragmatically.

  “I will not go back.” Again, Mrs. Hawkins recognized the defiant tilt of the girl’s chin.

  “No, no, I don’t expect you to, Miss Forsythe. In fact, it would be most unwise of you to do so. The problem is where can you go? As you say, it is impossible for you to return to Curzon Street. But if you will recall, you have gone through three employers without the benefit of receiving a single recommendation.”

  “Then you will help me?” asked Georgeanne, brightening somewhat.

  “Miss Forsythe, the matter is not whether I want to help you, but what can be found for you to do. You have proven yourself unfit as a lady’s companion as well as a governess.”

  “That is untrue,” Georgeanne spoke up, stung by the unfairness of the accusation. “I am a governess. Marissa and I got along very well, and I truly did not wish to leave.”

  “Perhaps, but you are like a magnet with your deplorable tendency to draw undesirable attention from the males in a household. The sad fact is, every one of the requests I have for governesses have males in residence.”

  “But it was never my fault. That is, I never once tried to encouraged Mr. Fench or Lord Raynor.” But Georgeanne felt a betraying blush suffused her cheeks as she recollected how from the very first she’d been attracted to the haughty peer with the result that she had shamelessly accepted, even encouraged, his advances.

  And wasn’t the very reason she was here because she feared she’d forget who she was, a lady of Quality, and become instead the mistress of the man she loved. That she could never let happen, she vowed to herself, bringing her chin up in a resolute gesture.

  Without commenting on Georgeanne’s argument, Mrs. Hawkins regarded her with a speaking look over the rim of her spectacles. “Nevertheless, your good looks pose a definite problem.” She reached for a stack of cards on the corner of the desk and began methodically thumbing through them, discarding each in turn to form a neat pile in front of her. At last her hand stilled and she pulled one out to further study it.

  “There is one possible opening, though I must caution you. It will be most taxing, to say the least.”

  “Anything,” pleaded Georgeanne, scooting up on the edge of her seat.

  “Merchants.” Eying Georgeanne, Mrs. Hawkins spoke the word without any intonation.

  Georgeanne understood that Mrs. Hawkins was waiting for her to react with disgust. It was well known how the nobility regarded with disdain the increasing number of average citizens who acquired riches and power through trade.

  When she accepted this pronouncement without so much as a blink of an eye, the older woman nodded her head approvingly. “There are six children, ranging in ages from eight years to an infant. Horrible family I’m told, but they have one undeniable advantage in their favor. The master of the house, Mr. Ignatius Kidd, had a stroke two months ago and has been incapacitated ever since.” She paused, then added meaningfully, “He is completely bedridden, my dear.”

  “I will take it,” Georgeanne said, eagerly extending her hand for the card.

  But the agency owner made no move to relinquish the card. “There is, of course, the problem of your references, or rather, the lack of them. It will be up to you to convince Mrs. Kidd of your competence.”

  “Oh dear.” Georgeanne sank back in her chair. “Is there no other way?”

  “This may not be as hard as it sounds, Miss Forsythe,” replied Mrs. Hawkins with a Machiavellian glint behind her spectacles. “The, ah, lady is said to be a toad eating social climber. If you were to drop a few names, flaunt your birth, so to speak, let her know how blue your blood is, it might just do the trick.”

  When Georgeanne did not demure over the crass suggestion, Mrs. Hawkins scribbled the address on a piece of paper and handed it to her.

  Georgeanne rose, prepared to leave, when a thought struck her, and she froze in place. Taking a step toward the desk, she regarded the agency owner squarely in the eye. “Mrs. Hawkins, may I have your word that no one will learn of my direction?”

  Georgeanne held her head high with what she hoped was a determined expression as the proprietress’s shrewd eyes examined her.

  “Do you expect trouble?”

  “No, not really, but because of the child, inquires may be made.” Her heart seemed to actually flip over painfully at the truth of these words. The only reason Raynor would bother to seek her out would be to placate Marissa. She was wise enough in the ways of the world to know that no man would present such a sordid offer to a woman he truly cared for. Though it pained her to think of Marissa once again alone, for her own sanity, Georgeanne could not go back, now or ever. Besides, Raynor surely learned a few things about caring for his niece over the past several weeks. And there was always Lady Ashbury who could help comfort the little girl.

  “Your whereabouts will be safe with me,” Mrs. Hawkins replied with an assuredness that left Georgeanne satisfied that her destination would remain confidential.

  Still, a hollow feeling invaded her weary heart. She emerged from the austere agency office into the gloomy mist that still shrouded the city and pulled her black velvet pelisse more closely about her. With a clamor the door banged shut behind her, sounding a note of finality, giving her the sensation that she had severed her own heart in two.

  ~~~~~

  Mrs. Kidd, formerly a popular dancer at Covenant Gardens whose stage name was Miss Fannie Hynes, was entrenched in her spacious though cluttered drawing room. For all the fine appointments of the stately chamber, the grandeur of the woodwork and Adam’s fireplace were almost completely eclipsed by the crowded furnishings, all of the finest workmanship money could buy.

  Unfortunately, the two elephant tables, the two chairs with claw feet, and the pair of zebra striped sofas—Mr. Kidd always said if it was worth having, then he should have at least two of everything—clashed dreadfully with the Chinese motif of the red and gold wallpaper and the four black lacquered high back chairs. (They had been just too good of a bargain to purchase only two). Plus, there were any number of glass vases, porcelain figurines, wood carvings and other bric-a-brac littering the table tops and the fireplace mantle.

  An Egyptian day bed was situated by a tall, heavily draped window in crimson brocade that commanded an expansive view of the street. There Fannie Kidd lazily lounged, munching on marchpanes while surrounded by mounds of fashion magazines, stacked on the floor as well as the two tables that resembled elephants’ feet at either end of the couch.

  In her early thirties with a mass of red hair of a most unnatural shade piled atop her head, she was not unattractive. Due to overindulgence and motherhood, her once curvaceous figure had blossomed into plumpness, and she tended to look blousy, the cumulative effects of the hard life she’d led prior to catching the lecherous eye of an aging, very prosperous textile merchant. She was very proud of her exalted position along with the fact that she had done her wifely duty by the old geezer, although she often lamented the fact that their union, though fruitful, had been blessed with only one male offspring.

  And now Ignatius Kidd, the patriarch of this brood, after being struck down by a stroke two months ago, could do little more than lay in his bed, wasting away. His wife, a veteran survivor of some of London’s toughest back streets, had made it a point to be well informed of the contents of her husband’s will, which left everything to his only male child with his lawyers as executors of the estate.

&
nbsp; Thus, it was easy to understand why of late she coddled the heir with his every wish and went into a panic whenever the child so much as sniffled in front of her. She also knew that if anything should happen to the precious Geoffrey, all would be inherited by her husband’s business partner, his miserly younger brother.

  When it came to money, Mr. Kidd, it seemed, didn’t trust a single farthing to a woman, whether she be his wife or one of his five daughters.

  Between bites on a bonbon, Fanny reflected on the tedious chore of once against selecting a governess for her brood. The last creature, a quarrelsome woman with pinched features, had given no notice, claiming she’d preferred slaving for her brother in his butcher shop than looking after the bunch of snotty nosed brats.

  Well, so much for benevolence and trying to give a helping hand to her own kind, thought Fanny. This time she’d applied to the Hawkins Employment Agency for Domestics, which was reputed to cater to the beau monde. She did wonder, though, why it was taking so long for a replacement to be found.

  About then, Fanny espied a hackneyed carriage drawing up to the curb. While the black bonnet obscured the woman’s features, the visitor who alighted appeared fashionably dressed, though in an understated way which ran contrary to Fanny’s tastes as well as that of her friends.

  Popping the final morsel of chocolate pass her rouged lips, then licking her fingers thoroughly, she waited patiently for the starched up butler to announce the unexpected guest.

  “Begging your pardon, madam, but the employment agency has sent over a young woman who wishes to apply for the position of governess.” Though not a large man, the butler’s overly correct posture gave him the appearance of looking down his nose at his employer.

  “A young woman, you say?” A frown puckered her forehead while her eyes narrowed thoughtfully. “Well, send her in.”

  One look at Georgeanne and under normal circumstances Fanny Kidd would have dismissed her out of hand. But the children’s nurse was becoming tiresome, constantly sending messages that she desperately needed help in the schoolroom or she’d quit. And since motherhood was not one of Fanny’s better attributes, she could not afford to have that happen.

  “Your references, Miss Forsythe,” demanded Fanny after introductions had been made.

  “I have none, madam.” The young woman squared her shoulders and stood with her hands clasped in front of her.

  “I fail to see why you are here, then.” Fanny’s scowl had deepened upon determining the young woman’s eyes were actually green, the deep rich green of a leaf.

  “You did request a lady of impeccable background?” When Fanny begrudgingly acknowledged the question with a slow nod, the young woman said, “Mrs. Hawkins had implied no references were necessary since I had a Season and even made my bow in the Queen’s drawing room before the Prince Regent himself.”

  “Did you now?” Fanny Kidd took another look at the young woman before her. Yes, she detected breeding in the girl’s stance. “Who are your parents?”

  “Both are now deceased, but my mother was the former Prudence Ingalls, a vicar’s daughter, and my father was Sir Edmund Forsythe and distantly related to the Duke of Rutledge.”

  Now that Fanny had time to study it, the chit’s nose did have that aristocratic tilt. If only the girl weren’t quite so pretty. Of course, there was little worry that Mr. Kidd would become attracted to the dasher standing before her. After all, the stroke had deprived her husband of most of his facilities so that he might as well be dead, except for the way his beady eyes followed everyone about the room. Besides, the chit would be stuck up in the attic with her young brood of six.

  Fanny heaved a satisfied sigh. Wouldn’t she just be the envy of all her friends with a real blue blood for a governess? She never considered asking Georgeanne about her qualifications as a teacher since she had none herself. If her governess’s ancestry accomplished more for her own social standing within her circle of friends than the advancement of her children’s education, well that was just another accepted fact of life.

  *** Chapter 15 ***

  One week later, Janie, a wholesome, freckled faced young woman sitting behind the reception desk, was not particularly surprised when she looked up from her task at the sound of the outer door of the employment agency opening. Coming in from the street was a well-heeled handsome gentleman. In most instances, she expected a liveried footman ferrying his employer’s instructions, but on occasion a well-to-do gentleman or lady would appear, especially if there was a particularly delicate matter to discuss with Mrs. Hawkins. Upon further examination, she realized the gentleman was most definitely Quality. There was no denying his aristocratic bearing with that most handsome countenance.

  “I am here to see the agency owner,” the gentleman replied to the secretary’s inquiry as to how she might assist him after he presented his calling card to her. If he saw her eyes widen in astonishment once she read his name, he made no indication but turned his back to inspect the rest of the room. Except for the secretary’s desk, only a half dozen ladder back wooden chairs lined the plain walls. The gentleman turned back toward the desk and remained standing.

  After a moment of indecision, the girl jumped up and scurried over to the only other door besides the entrance. Tapping lightly on it, she ducked inside, not waiting for the usual summons to enter.

  “Ms. Hawkins,” she whispered hoarsely, her nervousness betraying her Cockney background. “It be him, ‘e’s come!”

  Mrs. Hawkins, being the savvy business woman she was, had a very good suspicion of just who “’e” was. Nevertheless, she asked, “Who, Janie?”

  There had been a number of inquiries made over the past week about the whereabouts of Miss Georgeanne Forsythe by persons acting as Lord Raynor’s agents.

  “That Miss Forsythe, ‘er gent’s ‘ere.”

  “Calm yourself, Janie,” Mrs. Hawkins said curtly and stood to smooth the wrinkles out of the front of her gown, a ploy to cover her own agitation. Pushing the wire-rimmed spectacles up over the bridge of her nose, she instructed the girl in an authoritative voice, “Well, by all means, show his lordship in, Janie.”

  The proprietress carefully scrutinized Raynor as he came through the doorway, expecting to spot some flaw. There were always rumors circulating about him, of course, since he was one of the most eligible parti on the Marriage Mart. Still, she was surprised by his commanding height and the elegance of his impeccable attire. Frankly, she was amazed that the Forsythe chit had resisted the amorous advances of a man with such a strong, compelling countenance. Those blue eyes, though hardly friendly, combined with that handsome face and tall athletic build would set the pulses of many a maiden to fluttering.

  Stilted introductions were made before he declined taking a seat. Instead, he came immediately to the point.

  “I believe you have a young woman, Miss Forsythe, currently on your roster. Until recently, she was governess to my niece. I want to rehire her.”

  “That is not possible, my lord.” She noted how the muscles of his square jaw clenched upon receiving her contrary reply and inwardly flinched from his icy blue stare. This one wouldn’t easily accept defeat. Good heavens, what was it about the chit that aroused such interest in nearly all the gentlemen she encountered. Ah well, what did it matter, anyway, thought Mrs. Hawkins prosaically. The blasted girl was going to cost her another excellent client.

  “She has already accepted another position, my lord.”

  “Who is her current employer?”

  “I am sorry, but I am not at liberty to say.”

  “Why not, madam?” His haughty tone reflected his annoyance while those black eyebrows had drawn together, giving him an extremely fierce appearance.

  Oh yes, it was clear her agency would lose his patronage. Mrs. Hawkins looked over the rim of her wire-rims at his lordship. “If it is a governess you seek, my Lord Raynor, I have several women who have excellent recommendations you could interview.”

  “I am not intereste
d in another governess. It is Miss Forsythe I seek,” he said angrily, making him clip his words. He drew himself up straighter, then tried for a more placating tone. “In the short period of time Miss Forsythe was with us, my niece became very attached to her. Indeed, the child is almost beside herself with grief, and I am afraid no one else will suffice.”

  “Oh dear, that does present a problem, my lord. Miss Forsythe made specific reference to you when she requested I not release her direction.” Let him chew that one over, she thought with a measure of satisfaction as he blanched at the implied meaning.

  “I see,” he muttered so softly she strained to hear him. He took a seat then, resting an elbow on the arm of the chair, his chin in his hand. He appeared lost in thought, and several moments passed before he apparently came to a decision. Leaning forward, his blue eyes were fixed intently on hers.

  “I do not know what Miss Forsythe has revealed to you, Mrs. Hawkins, but let me give you the facts with no bark on it. It is no small matter that Marissa is having trouble adjusting without Georgeanne, er, Miss Forsythe, but so am I. My regard for the lady is sincere.”

  “She did explain that she had encountered some, er... misunderstanding, my lord, and that is part of the reason why I am honor bound not to break her trust.”

  “Ah,” he said, his scowl lifting with enlightenment. “Then you are aware that I behaved in a less than gentlemanly fashion. At any rate,” he continued, not waiting for her to concur, “I have come to realize just how much I do care for Miss Forsythe and hope she will accept an honorable offer from me.”

  This public declaration had come with an obvious cost to his pride, and it helped to raise her estimation of his character considerably. And as he still held her gaze, she saw that he was indeed sincere. In that moment, she made a decision.

  “You will understand that I have given my word,” she replied gravely, while her eyes searched the top of her desk. She reached for a stack of cards and placed them directly in front of her, then lowered her head to direct a meaningful look at him over the wire rims of her glasses again. “Of course, there are always alternative means of obtaining information, is that not so, my lord?”