A Court of Thorns for Lady Ambergrave: A Historical Regency Romance Novel

by Emma Linfield

  Benedict frowned. It was unlike the old woman to speak in such a halting manner.

  “What is it, Mrs. Harrison?”

  “Well, I was going to speak to you about my cousin who…”

  She could go no further as they were all startled from the commotion outside. They heard a loud shriek, followed by some rather unladylike language being uttered by a woman.

  “By Jove! Tradegrove, look at that sight,” Winterton laughed as he looked out the window. Hesitantly, Benedict joined his friend, followed in short order by Mrs. Harrison, who gasped.

  “That poor woman.”

  Benedict had trouble controlling his laughter. Outside, the nurse, Miss Babette, was walking toward the house, covered from head to toe in mud. Henry was nowhere to be seen which, given the nurse’s expression, was perhaps best.

  Benedict watched, his eyes wide, as the nurse made her way across the garden and up the stairs. Her face was like thunder and when he caught a glimpse of her eyes, the laughter froze in his throat. Upon seeing the nurse’s face, Winterton turned to Benedict.

  “I believe you have a full plate, old chum. I shall bid you farewell. And I will ask Mrs. Lester for the recommendations, as it appears you may need them sooner rather than later. Mrs. Harrison,” he tilted his head to the housekeeper and went out the door, just as the nurse entered.

  Her pale face was caked in mud, only her amber eyes were visible and they were positively aflame with anger.

  “Your Grace!” She said loudly, stomping one mud covered foot on the already dirty floor. “This is too much. There are not enough guineas in the entire realm to make up for this. I have had enough. I shall resign at once.” She stomped once more, sending mud flying around the room and then stormed away the way she had come, leaving Benedict behind and unsure if he should laugh or cry.

  Chapter 3

  Lucretia returned from her last lesson of the week and found Mary already in their chamber. Sitting on her bed, her friend had her head in her hands and sobbed quietly. Lucretia sat beside her and wrapped one arm around her, rubbing the other along her forearm.

  “All will be well, believe me.”

  Mary looked up, her face and her eyes red from the tears she shed almost daily over the last two weeks.

  “How? The postman has just left and I’ve had another rejection, this time for Mrs. Marvis’ School for Little Ladies. Nobody is looking to hire a teacher in the middle of the school year. What are we to do? We have only a fortnight before we are homeless. We shall be sleeping in the streets like beggars. Oh, Lucy. I will end up a lady of easy virtue.”

  Mary had spent the past two weeks in an utter state of despair. First, the death of Mrs. Doringcourt had shaken teachers and students alike, for she was an immensely popular lady, and then news that the school was to close by month’s end had been announced.

  It appeared as though the good Mrs. Doringcourt had not only not secured a successor to her position, but she had used much of her own fortunes to purchase school supplies, leaving nothing in reserves to pay for the property.

  More than half of the students had already departed, and the ones who remained would soon be collected by their parents as well. All of the remaining teachers, Lucretia included, had sent letters to other schools, looking for employment. But Mary was right, nobody was looking to take on new teachers in the middle of the school year.

  What shall we do? Certainly, we will not be made homeless. Certainly, the owners of the building will show mercy and allow us to stay. Someone will surely need a tutor for their child. I cannot believe how our lives have been upended in so short a period of time.

  “Mary, have you thought of writing to Almack’s, in London? It is the London season soon and perhaps they may know of some young lady in need of a dance teacher? Or a harp teacher?”

  Her friend looked up and wiped her eyes.

  “Faith, Lucy. I do not think that is how Almack’s works. They do not concern themselves with hapless women such as ourselves. They have their own established tutors for the ton. No. I shall have to go into the poorhouse. At least you can return to the nuns, if you must.”

  Lucretia swallowed hard. She had considered it, though she was not certain they would take her back.

  “I do not believe I can. Not unless I wish to become a nun. Sister Agnes, the Mother Superior, passed away some years ago, and Sister Marie, her successor, does not care for me. She has held a grudge against me ever since I refused to eat her dreadful pottage as a child. No, Mary, I am afraid we shall both be headed for the poorhouse, my dear.” Her friend shook her head.

  “This is a travesty. All of it.” She turned to face Lucretia.

  “You have had some letters also. Yolanda placed them on the desk for you. Perhaps you shall have better luck than me.”

  Lucretia got up with a heavy sigh and picked up the letters from the rickety old desk by the door. She ripped open the first one and found herself rejected from a girl’s school in Brighton, after having already been rejected by all the schools in Bath. She dropped the letter in the garbage can. It was soon joined by another, this a letter from a family she’d hoped might take her on due to her having given their daughter private tutoring lessons in French earlier in the year.

  “I am sorry, Lucy,” Mary said as she shook her head.

  Lucretia shrugged and picked up the last letter. Her heart skipped a beat when she realized it was not a letter from a school or a private family she’d applied to. No! It was from Betsy Harrison, her mother’s cousin. Lucretia sat down on the old wooden chair and opened the letter with shaking hands. She read the few lines her cousin had written in her neat, tiny script and clutched her chest.

  “What is it Lucy?” Mary jumped up and was by her side in no time at all, placing a hand on her shoulder as if to comfort her.

  “It is from my mother’s cousin, Betsy.”

  “The one who works for the Earl, down in Gloucester?”

  “He is a Duke, but yes, she is the one. I wrote to her last week, utterly desperate and in hopes she might be able to help me find employment among one of the families in her area. Faith, I would work as a scullery maid to avoid being out on the streets.”

  Mary bounced up and down beside her. “As would I. Now, what does the letter say? Is it good news?”

  Lucretia nodded. “It is. Let me read it to you.” She raised the letter up and shook it to straighten the paper.

  My dearest Lucretia,

  I was overjoyed to receive your letter, as it has been too long since you last wrote to me. I am ever so sorry to hear of the events at Mrs. Doringcourt’s School for Young Ladies. I know you were fond of the headmistress. Alas, you must look forward and secure a position for yourself. As you know, I would never allow a family member of mine to fall into a desperate position and would certainly do all I can to assist you. To that end, I am pleased to report that His Grace, Benedict De Clare, The Duke of Tradegrove, has agreed to give you an audience and discuss possible employment here at Amberley Manor, as governess to his son, Henry De Clare, The Marquess of Tenwerth, five years of age. Bring proof of your qualifications and come at once.

  “I am to report immediately. Can you believe it?”

  Mary clasped her hands in front of her mouth and then went to hug her friend tightly.

  “Faith, Lucy. You must collect your papers at once. And find a coach. I am so pleased for my dearest friend.”

  Lucretia looked at her friend’s bright face and while she was greatly relieved at the prospect of finding employment, she felt a sense of sadness. Indeed, she felt guilt. She was perhaps saved from the poorhouse, but what of Mary? What would happen to her best friend?

  Mary, always seemingly one step ahead of her friend, placed a hand on Lucretia’s shoulder.

  “Do not worry about me, my dear. The worry is written all over your face. I shall be fine. Any day now I shall receive a letter myself with a wonderful offer. You’ll see.”

  “If you do not, I shall find you a placement
, if I am fortunate enough to receive this position. We shall plan it all when I return.”

  “We shall.”

  The two friends embraced, and Lucretia set out in search of a coach that would take her to the Duke’s manor.

  Lucretia rushed to the hackney station and haggled with the jarvey for a fair price to take her to Gloucester, given that it was a fair distance and very late notice.

  She boarded the coach, dismayed to find that it was dirty inside. She wiped the seat and found a considerable amount of dust flying into the air. With a sigh, she sat.

  The journey to Amberley Manor, while taking some hours, was rather adventurous. The jarvey directed the coach along a side road which proved bumpy, sending even more dust into the air. In addition, Lucretia discovered that the window was broken and could not be closed. This, at first, proved to be enjoyable. The coach was hot and her gown, while of a light material, had begun to stick to her skin in an uncomfortable manner. The light breeze that came through the broken window helped ease the burden of the summer’s heat on the passengers.

  Alas, a half hour into the journey, the weather changed and the breeze swiftly turned into a strong wind which whipped into the carriage, causing Lucretia’s mop cap to fly off her head. Her hair, arranged in an elegant half-up do by Mary, began to come loose as strands hung in her sweaty face. Soon enough, rain began to pour and—to the passengers’ great dismay—the roof of the coach proved leaky.

  Droplets of water soon turned into a steady drip overhead. Lucretia found herself pressed against the side of the coach as her fellow passengers attempted to avoid the water that now poured from the ceiling.

  I shall smell like a wet dog by the time I arrive in the Manor. What a disaster. I must impress the Duke, for certainly he will not want to hire a governess who looks as though she was dragged to the manor by wild horses. Perhaps Betsy can assist me.

  By the time the coach stopped on the road outside the Manor, Lucretia was well and truly frazzled. Her hair had come undone and while the rain had stopped, the water dripping inside the carriage had left dirty stains on her pale blue gown.

  She made her way along the driveway, all the while scrubbing at the stains on her gown. When she realized there was nothing to be done about it, she decided to fix her hair as best she could. By the time she arrived at the Manor, she felt somewhat dejected and hopeless. Certainly, the Duke expected someone much more sophisticated.

  With a heavy heart she knocked on the front door, and to her delight, was met by Betsy Harrison, her mother’s cousin. She had not seen her in years, but recognized her at once. She had brown eyes with a small speck of amber in each eye, similar to Lucretia’s own. Her old face was wrinkled but kind, and the smile on her face when she saw Lucretia warmed her heart.

  “Lucretia! My darling! Come here, let me hug you.” Lucretia bent down, for Betsy was nearly one whole head shorter than her. “Faith, Lucretia, what has happened to your gown?” Betsy asked. Lucretia’s smile fell off her face and she cast her eyes down. “And your hair.”

  “It has been a difficult journey. Oh, Cousin, can you help me clean up before the Duke sees me?”

  The old woman’s kind smile returned and she beckoned her younger cousin inside.

  “We haven’t much time for the butler, Mr. Swindon is his name, has already informed the Duke of your arrival. But come…” She led Lucretia through the large hall which was adorned with antique columns and lined with magnificent marble tiles. They arrived at a small staircase that led downstairs, to the servant area.

  Lucretia followed along a narrow path, past an array of maids and footmen and past the many servant quarters until they arrived in Betsy’s office.

  “Sit, sit,” Betsy motioned for a chair. With quick, steady hands she pinned Lucretia’s hair up around her head in a style more often seen on maids than on ladies. Still, it was much better than the messy state Lucretia’s hair had previously presented itself in.

  “Mrs. Harrison!” A voice bellowed along the hall.

  “That’s Mr. Swindon now. The Duke will be ready for you, my dear. Here.” She pulled a white apron from a hook by the door and threw it over Lucretia’s neck. She tied it behind her, covering most of the stains on the gown. She clapped her hands together.

  “Very well. It shall have to do. No matter. His Grace invited you due to your credentials, not due to your looks. Now, when you speak to him, address him as Your Grace, never with My Lord or anything of that nature. Highly disrespectful. Keep in mind, Dukes are only one step below the Royal Family itself. Show respect, answer when questioned, and you shall be fine. You are what he needs, and we shall convince him of it.”

  “Mrs. Harrison! Where are ye? Where is this governess of yours? His Grace…”

  A man stopped outside Betsy’s office. “Is this her? Well, then. Let us go. His Grace is waiting.”

  Lucretia followed Mr. Swindon along the narrow staircase and through the parlor. They walked down the Hall which was lined on both sides with a collection of portraits. At first glance, they all appeared to be of the same lady, the Duchess, presumably.

  She was a gorgeous woman with pale skin and luscious, thick golden hair which was complemented by lovely, rich gowns. Her eyes were of a deep blue.

  The more paintings she saw, the more apparent it became that the woman in them was not the same at all. No, they were simply women who resembled one another.

  In some, the woman had a heart-shaped face and in others it was round. Sometimes, her eyes were very close together and others far apart. How curious it all was. Lucretia frowned.

  The Duke seems rather fond of blondes. Not a painting of a dark-haired woman anywhere to be found. I hope he is not by nature opposed to brown hair, for I shall have no hope of getting this job. I am as far removed from a blonde-haired, blue-eyed beauty as one can be.

  The butler walked down a smaller hallway and stopped outside a large double door. He knocked and then opened the door after receiving word from within.

  “Your Grace, Miss Lucretia Nelson has arrived.”

  He nodded his chin for her to enter as she followed. Too closely as it turned out, for she accidentally kicked him in the heel with her toe, causing both of them to stumble forward.

  “I am ever so sorry,” she mumbled as Mr. Swindon glared at her. Ahead of them, she saw a man sitting behind a large, dark oak desk with his head buried in papers. He casually waved one arm in their direction, unaware of the small scene that had just occurred.

  “That will be all, Swindon.”

  The butler nodded and turned, glaring at her once more before closing the doors behind him.

  Lucretia stood there and waited for the Duke to lift his head. As she stood, she attempted to smooth her wrinkled gown. While the apron her cousin had given her covered some of the stains, the rest of the gown was still wrinkled from the journey. Giving up on the venture, she instead opened her reticule and retrieved her papers of reference when at last the Duke looked up.

  She felt startled at once, for he was much younger than she had expected him to be, given Betsy’s description. His face was pale, as if untouched by the sun. His eyes were blue, not unlike those of the ladies in the paintings. However, there was darkness in them. She recognized it at once, for she’d seen it many times in the eyes of the nuns who’d spent their time caring for the sick and dying. It was sorrow.

  “Miss Nelson, I presume?” he said at last. His voice was deep and smooth, almost soothing.

  She nodded at him and their eyes locked for a long moment before she realized—he was waiting for her to curtsy.

  Lucretia found herself utterly discombobulated, for she could not remember the proper way to curtsy to a Duke. She knew there were a multitude of different curtsies, depending on who you were curtsying to.

  She decided to bend as low as she could go, for as Betsy just told her a Duke was but a step removed from the Royal Family. She ended up wobbling and tumbling forward as she went, earning a smirk from the Duke who mo
tioned to the chair across from him.

  “Are these your papers?” He pointed at the reference letters in her hand.

  “Yes, My Lo…I mean Your Grace.” She leaned forward to hand them to him, upset with herself for almost using the wrong form of address.

  He did not appear to mind, however, and instead inspected her letters.

  “Your aunt has spoken of you with the highest regards. One would be led to believe you are fit to tutor the Prince Regent’s children.” He chuckled a little at his own joke and Lucretia forced herself to smile. She wanted to correct him, to let him know that Betsy was her cousin, not her aunt, but she suddenly felt very aware of just what high a position this man held within the peerage. Surely one did not correct a Duke.

  By Jove! He likely knows Prinny personally. Perhaps they are even friends. Could it be? Faith, does the Regent ever come visit? No. Don’t make a cake of yourself, Lucretia Nelson. Betsy would certainly have mentioned if he did.

  Lucretia shook her head to chase away her rapid train of thought, for she knew her entire future depended upon this interview.

  The Duke flipped through her letters of recommendation with some interest and then glanced up at her, his blue eyes wide open.

  “You speak Latin and Greek, as well as French and Italian? That is rather impressive.”

  “The nuns taught me all but the Italian. Our dearly departed headmistress taught me that. Along with history and needlework.”

  The Duke grinned, and for a moment the sadness disappeared from his eyes.

  “Well, my son won’t be needing your assistance in needlework. As a future Peer of the Realm, I should like him to learn history. Not just ours, but the continent’s as well. Arithmetic, too. And I see you are well-versed in all of that.”

  “Indeed, I...” Before she could continue, he rang a little bell and a moment later, Mr. Swindon appeared.

  “Swindon, please take our new governess to her chamber. Miss Babette’s former quarters will do.” He turned to her. “You will start his lessons in the morning. Let Swindon here know of anything you require. He can arrange to have your belongings collected from Mrs. Doringcourt’s School and brought here.”