Governess Gone Rogue

by Laura Lee Guhrke

  “Of course,” he interrupted, vivid memories of instruction in loathsome Latin coming back to torment him anew. “And your approach to mathematics?”

  “My approach is the same, my lord, regardless of subject. Memorization is the key to all learning. Drilling is what boys need. Drilling,” he repeated, pounding the fist of one hand emphatically into the palm of the other as he spoke. “The wearing of their minds into grooves of correct thought through constant repetition is what will prepare them for Harrow.”

  Having attended that lauded institution himself, Jamie had no doubt the other man was right, and yet, such teaching methods left him curiously dissatisfied. “That is the conventional wisdom, I know,” he said, and paused. Partridge was the best candidate he’d interviewed today, and yet, he couldn’t seem to utter the offer of employment. The man’s education was first-rate, his letters of character laudatory, and Jamie’s own situation desperate. What was making him hesitate?

  “Regimentation and memorization are all very well,” he said after a moment. “But don’t you have the desire to imbue your pupils with something more?”

  “More, my lord?” Mr. Partridge blinked, clearly taken aback. “But what more is there?”

  What, indeed. Jamie didn’t even know himself the answer to that question. Considering it, he rose and turned toward the window. Blinking a little against the bright afternoon sun outside, he shaded his eyes with one hand and looked down to where Colin and Owen were playing in the park across the street. They were attempting to fly kites and having little success, for the breeze today was not a strong one.

  Samuel was seated near them on the grass, watching, but doing little to assist their efforts. Jamie couldn’t blame him. The poor fellow was probably exhausted.

  He returned his attention to his sons, observing Colin as the boy started across the grass at a run, his box kite bouncing along the ground behind him. The toy managed to take flight, rising about twenty feet before it came hurtling back down, straight for a park bench, impelling the young man seated there to toss aside his sandwich and dive out of the way.

  The kite hit the bench right where the young man had been sitting. Hands on hips, he shoved back his brown derby hat, and stared at the mess of broken wood, torn silk, and kite wool for a moment, then he turned toward Colin and said something.

  For a moment, Jamie feared the man might be angry, but that didn’t seem to be the case. He was pointing at the kite and gesticulating with his arms, true enough, but it didn’t appear that he was scolding the boy. He seemed, instead, to be explaining something.

  Whatever he was saying, it must be interesting indeed, for Colin was actually listening. Owen, too, for he had stopped attempting to launch his own kite and was crossing the grass to join his brother.

  Jamie, equally intrigued, continued to watch as the young man removed his tweed jacket and his hat and tossed them onto the bench. He raked a hand through his unruly crop of dark hair, turned to Samuel, and nodded to the crate nearby as he began rolling up his shirtsleeves.

  He must have asked a question, for the footman gave a nod in return, and the stranger bent down to rummage in the crate. A moment later, he straightened, a diamond-shaped kite of blue silk in one hand and its attached skein of kite wool in the other. Giving a quick glance behind him, the young man dropped the kite to the ground, then he began moving backward across the grass at a rapid clip. Suddenly, as if by magic, the kite caught the slight breeze and jerked upward off the ground. The man continued to walk backward, letting out kite wool as he went, allowing the kite to climb into the sky.

  Seeming satisfied that it was high enough, the young man circled back around to where the boys were standing. There, he relinquished control of the kite to Colin and knelt on the grass beside him to help guide the toy and keep it from tangling in the tall elm trees nearby.

  “Lord Kenyon?”

  Mr. Partridge’s voice penetrated his consciousness, and Jamie turned from the window, reminded of the task at hand and the decision he had to make. But when he looked at Mr. Partridge across the desk, he knew that at least as far as this candidate was concerned, his decision was already made. Pat had been passionate about knowledge, education, and learning. She would not have wanted her boys to be drilled as if they were in a regiment of the army. He would keep looking.

  “I believe you have answered all my questions, Mr. Partridge,” he said, gathering up the other man’s excellent letters of character and holding them out across the desk. “Thank you for your time.”

  The other man took the dismissal with good grace. “My lord,” he said, accepting his letters and offering a bow. “I bid you good day.”

  Jamie started around the desk. “I will show you out.”

  “No, please,” Mr. Partridge said, causing Jamie to halt his steps. “Don’t trouble yourself, my lord. I am sure you are short of staff, with everyone in your family off to the country. I can find my own way down.” With another bow, he departed.

  Jamie bent over his desk, inked a pen, and scribbled a few notes next to Mr. Partridge’s name. Experience had taught him to take down his impressions of every person he interviewed to watch the boys, for there had been many over the years, and he couldn’t possibly remember them all. He also knew that because no one he’d ever hired stayed long, he might have to give those applicants he’d interviewed and rejected a second look at some point in the future.

  Setting aside the pen at last, he straightened and glanced at the clock, then at the list of appointments, noting in some dismay that he had only one remaining candidate to interview. Holding out little hope, he yanked the bellpull on the wall, indicating he was ready for Mrs. Richmond to bring the last applicant up to the study.

  While he waited, Jamie turned again to the window, but he found that the young man in the park was gone. Colin was still flying the kite, however, and with what was probably more luck than skill, he was managing to keep it out of the trees. Owen had pulled out another kite, one of a delta shape, and was running backward with it across the grass just as the stranger had demonstrated.

  “Mr. Adam Seton, my lord.”

  Mrs. Richmond’s announcement tore Jamie’s attention from his son. He turned, and at once, blinked in surprise, for the black-haired man coming across the room toward him hat in hand was the same young man from across the street.

  That is, Jamie amended at once, if he was a man. Upon closer inspection, he seemed more like a boy to Jamie’s eyes—slender and beardless and in need of a haircut, tugging at his high collar as adolescent boys were so inclined to do. Unlike most boys, however, his face was free of spots, his skin pale as milk but for a faint pink tint in his cheeks from the chill outside.

  He couldn’t be more than half a dozen years older than the boys he aspired to teach, but when Jamie looked into the younger man’s eyes, he found cause to wonder.

  They were strange eyes, dark umber green with lights of tawny amber, and they seemed far older than the rest of him. There was knowledge in those eyes, and experience, and a curious intensity of passion more suitable to a poet or political revolutionary than a tutor. Adolescent girls no doubt found the fellow madly attractive, and Jamie knew if he had any daughters, this interview would already be over.

  It might soon be over anyway, he thought, glancing down over an atrocious suit of brown tweed that was frayed, disheveled, and far too big. Jamie suspected his own sons might be to blame for its creased elbows and grass-stained knees, but nonetheless, Seton’s unkempt appearance underscored his age and lack of sophistication. Only very young men displayed such a cavalier disregard for their clothes.

  All in all, Mr. Seton did not seem capable of being the stern taskmaster London’s wildest pair of hellions required, but Jamie supposed it could do no harm to conduct an interview.

  He glanced past the other man to the servant by the door. “Thank you, Mrs. Richmond. You may go.”

  As the cook departed, closing the door behind her, Jamie returned his attention to the
youth opposite. “How old are you, Mr. Seton?”

  There was an infinitesimal pause. “Nineteen.”

  Jamie folded his arms, raised an eyebrow, and waited.

  “Seventeen,” the young man amended with a sigh.

  Jamie gave a laugh, his first impression confirmed. “You can’t seriously think I’d consider you as a tutor for my children. You’re far too young.”

  “I may be young, but I’m a very good teacher.”

  “Indeed? And where have you taught?”

  Those eyes slid away, and the silence answered his question.

  “I see.” Jamie unfolded his arms. “And why were you talking with my boys?”

  The young man frowned, looking puzzled. “How did you—” He broke off and glanced past Jamie to the window, then back again, comprehension easing away the bewilderment. “I was in the park, yes.”

  “And you were talking with my sons.”

  “I was.” The young man’s wide mouth tipped at one corner in a wry curve. “That is, if your sons have red hair, freckles, a passion for kites, and a loathing for nannies.”

  “My sons talked to you about nannies?”

  “No, we talked only of kites. But their anathema for nannies is widely known.”

  Jamie stirred, not appreciating the reminder. “Do you always converse in parks with children to whom you have not been introduced?” he demanded.

  “Do you always watch your sons play from a window across the street?”

  He inhaled sharply, feeling that shot like an arrow through his chest. “Take care, Mr. Seton,” he said. “Cheek won’t gain you the post. Answer my question, if you please.”

  “I like children. Is talking to them such a crime?”

  “A crime, no, but I can’t help being curious as to your intent.”

  That puzzled the young man. “My intent?”

  “Were you attempting to gain an advantage over other applicants by playing with my sons? Perhaps hoping they would bring their influence to bear on my decision whom to hire?” Even as he spoke, he knew he was being unfair, but the impertinent question about the window had flicked him on the raw—probably because it was so damnably perceptive.

  He wasn’t the only one flicked on the raw, it seemed. Seton’s chin lifted a fraction, displaying a hint of rebellion that harkened to the passion Jamie had sensed earlier. “First of all, I don’t curry favor with anyone, my lord. It is not, let me assure you, in my nature to do so. Second, I happened to be in the park, waiting for my allotted time to be interviewed. I was having my lunch and minding my own business when your son’s kite came crashing down and nearly landed on my head. I decided that before he injured anyone, he ought to be taught how to fly a kite properly.”

  “On a day like this, no one can fly a kite properly.”

  “I did.”

  That point, Jamie was rather chagrined to note, could not be argued. “I can’t think how. There’s scarcely any breeze today.”

  “A strong breeze isn’t necessary, not if one has the proper kite. A box kite’s no good on a day like this. It’s too heavy, which is why your son failed to successfully launch it. You need a diamond or delta-shaped kite when there’s so little wind. As I explained to your sons, it’s a matter of physics.”

  Jamie was a bit taken aback. “You were explaining physics to my sons? With a kite?”

  The young man looked back at him steadily. “Can you think of a better way to explain a fundamental principle of physics to a pair of children?”

  “No.” Jamie gave a short laugh, appreciating that he’d just lost an argument to a seventeen-year-old. “I can’t, actually.”

  He paused, considering, then went on, “Aside from your ability to fly a kite and explain to a child how it’s done, what makes you presume to believe you are qualified to teach my sons? They need to be groomed for Harrow. How can someone your age be capable of doing that? What preparatory school did you attend?”

  “I did not go to preparatory school, my lord. Nor any sort of school, actually.” Mr. Seton swallowed, tugging at his collar again, as if the admission had been a difficult one to make. “I was educated at home, by my father. I was . . . ahem . . . too sickly for school.”

  Given the twins’ exuberance, that was not a compelling reason to hire the fellow, and yet, Jamie was strangely reluctant to dismiss him. “So, your father was an educated man. What schools did he attend? Harrow? Eton?”

  “St. Andrews, in Cambridge. Massachusetts,” he added when Jamie frowned at the unfamiliar name.

  “Your father was American?”

  “Yes. After St. Andrews, he attended Harvard, receiving his baccalaureate. He then became a tutor there, and in time, a professor.”

  “And where is he now? Still in America?”

  “He’s dead.”

  “My condolences.” Jamie paused, for he didn’t want to be cruel in the wake of such a pronouncement, but facts were facts. “If you never went to school, I can only assume you’ve no one to vouch for your capabilities as a student, and you’re clearly too young to have much practical experience as a teacher. Have you any references to offer?” he asked, even as he wondered why he was bothering to put the question.

  To his surprise, Mr. Seton nodded. “I do, yes,” he answered, and bent as if to reach for something on the floor beside him—an odd thing to do, to Jamie’s mind—but then, he stopped, straightened, and reached into the breast pocket of his jacket instead. “I have two.”

  He pulled the folded sheets from his pocket and held them across the desk.

  Jamie took them and glanced over the first one. “And who is this Mrs. Finch?” he asked, looking up when Seton didn’t answer. “Is she a woman of prominence?”

  “I’m afraid not.” The young man’s lips twisted into a wry, sideways smile. “She’s my landlady.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “At my lodging house. It’s a respectable place,” he added as Jamie gave a disbelieving laugh. “I’m teaching her the piano, and—”

  “How useful for boys going to Harrow,” he cut in, tossing the letter aside.

  “I am also giving her lessons in French and German.”

  “That’s a bit more impressive than piano, I suppose,” he muttered, unfolding the second letter and glancing at its contents. “And Mr. Hugh Mackenzie? Who is he?”

  “He’s the pubkeeper at the end of my street.” The young man’s cheeks went red as Jamie laughed again. “I’m teaching him maths.”

  “You’re teaching mathematics to a pubkeeper? What on earth for?”

  “Perhaps because he wants to learn?” One of his straight black brows lifted, taking on a sardonic curve. “Or is it your opinion that only those of the peerage have a thirst for knowledge?”

  “In considering whom to hire, I will take your impertinent character into consideration, Mr. Seton.”

  The younger man bit his lip, suitably chastened, but if Jamie had expected an apology, he was fated for disappointment. “At first,” Seton said after a moment, “Mr. Mackenzie merely wanted to know how he could discern if tradesmen were cheating him, so I offered to teach him how to keep proper account books. Double-entry bookkeeping requires a solid knowledge of basic arithmetic. And the ability to use an abacus is quite helpful, too.”

  “You know how to use an abacus?”

  “I do, yes. So does Mr. Mackenzie, now.”

  Despite himself, Jamie was rather impressed. “Still,” he said, “a pubkeeper isn’t much of a reference, and my sons hardly need the education one would give a clerk.”

  “We’ve moved on to algebra and geometry now, if that makes you feel better.”

  Jamie frowned, but this time, he ignored the cheek. “Tell me,” he said instead, “are a landlady and a pubkeeper the only references you have?”

  Seton stirred, looking uncomfortable, giving the answer to that question even before he spoke. “Well, I am only seventeen, after all,” he muttered.

  “Just so. And my sons are the grand
sons of a marquess and the nephews of a duke. They require a tutor of far greater experience than you possess.”

  “If you can find one willing to teach them. Your sons are quite the hell-raisers, if the scandal sheets are to be believed.”

  Jamie did not appreciate the reminder. With an abrupt move, he gathered the letters and held them out. “Thank you, Mr. Seton, I’m afraid you won’t do, but I appreciate your time.”

  The young man hesitated, seeming inclined to say more, but thankfully, he checked the impulse. “I reside in Red Lion Street, Bloomsbury. Number twelve,” he said, taking his character letters from Jamie’s outstretched hand. “You can write to me there, my lord, if you change your mind.”

  “I shan’t change my mind. Why should I?”

  The youth hesitated a moment longer, then turned away. “Oh, I don’t know,” he said vaguely as he walked to the door and opened it. “After all,” he added, looking at Jamie over one shoulder, “servants can only tolerate so much itching powder in their underwear and so many firecrackers in the drawing room before they’ve had enough.” With that parting shot, and a decidedly provoking grin, Seton vanished out the door, leaving Jamie frowning at the doorway and wondering how in hell the scandal sheets had learned about the itching powder.

  Chapter 3

  Three shillings for the clothes, Amanda thought in aggravation as she walked up Park Lane toward New Oxford Street to catch the omnibus home. Money squandered in a useless endeavor. And it was all her own fault, for she’d been unforgivably cheeky.

  Do you always watch your sons play from a window across the street?

  As she recalled the impudent words that had come flying out of her mouth, Amanda grimaced. Employers, she feared, did not take kindly to criticisms of that sort.

  But damn it all, he’d made her angry with his accusation that she’d been sucking up to his sons in the park in order to obtain the post. And his dismissive tone when he’d spoken of Mrs. Finch and Mr. Mackenzie had added fuel to her fire. Toplofty snob, she thought with a derisive snort. Who was he to talk as if the recommendations of ordinary, middle-class people were somehow unworthy of consideration?