A Governess of Great Talents

by Murdoch, Emily E K

  Chapter Twenty-One

  October 7, 1812

  Dear Miss Clarke,

  I hope this letter finds you well, and the Governess Bureau is continuing successfully.

  I wished to inform you, before my current employer sends word, that I have been falsely accused of a crime I most certainly did not commit. The Governess Bureau would never tolerate a thief, Miss Clarke, and you know me to be a most trustworthy and honest soul.

  You must believe me, Miss Clarke. I would never betray you and the Governess Bureau, nor risk my place at

  Meredith looked at the progress of the letter she had been attempting to write to Miss Clarke for the last twenty minutes. It was difficult to encapsulate her despair adequately, and now she read the words, they did not exactly sound promising. On the contrary, they looked instead as though she was attempting to protest too much.

  Meredith crumpled up the paper, dropped it to the floor, and sighed as she examined a blank, white page. Dipping her quill into the ink, she started again.

  Dear Miss Clarke,

  I hope this letter finds you well, and the Governess Bureau is continuing successfully.

  I wished to inform you personally that my employment in the home of the Duke of Rochdale has been terminated. This is due to a false accusation of theft which I have not been given the opportunity to refute. You know I would never

  Meredith heaved a sigh. No matter how she attempted to relay the information, it always ended the same way: a desperate plea to be believed, as she had not at Rochdale Abbey.

  If she was unable to convince Miss Clarke of her innocence, she would not only lose her place in the Carmichael family, but in the Governess Bureau itself.

  True, there may be a few families who would accept a governess who had been delicately let go by another. There were always differences in temperament to be considered, after all, and accounting for taste.

  But by a duke? Returned to London in disgrace, forced from the Governess Bureau?

  Only families who had no other options, would pay poorly, and likely leave her unprotected from some of the male servants would consider her.

  Meredith bit her lip. Miss Clarke knew nothing of her family background, nothing about the Glasshand Gang, nothing about her connection to them. There was a chance, though small, Miss Clarke would believe her against the word of the Duke of Rochdale. Alfred had no proof of her guilt—how could he, when she was innocent?

  But that may not matter to Miss Clarke. Any stain on one of her governesses was a stain on the Governess Bureau itself, and that would not be tolerated. Meredith knew she would be off the books, forever.

  She leaned back in the wooden chair in the small room she had taken in the King’s Head. This was why she had changed her name. This was why she had removed every blot of that family name from her history, why she had lied about her past whenever necessary.

  The prejudice. She had lived with it all her life as Meredith Glasshand, and with the emergence of Meredith Hubert into the Governess Bureau, had been sure she had escaped it.

  But obviously not. Perhaps it was in her very nature, she thought dully. Blood would out, that was what her father had always said. It could not be mere coincidence that the only crime she had ever been accused of was theft.

  Her gaze fell to the third letter attempt which now lay on the small desk before her. It had been good, until that last sentence. She could not defend herself, it seemed, without sounding as though she was begging for forgiveness.

  She could not send a letter like that; it would undoubtedly incriminate her in Miss Clarke’s mind, rather than convince anyone of her innocence. And she would never go to prison, not after how hard she’d worked. She had escaped that life, and she would never return.

  It was getting dark in the pokey room she had taken for just three shillings a night, and Meredith glanced at the window. The nights were drawing in so much earlier now. She would have to go downstairs to get a candle or a lamp, if they had one. It would undoubtedly cost more than the room, but there it was. Light was a luxury.

  Just as she had risen to make her way downstairs, there was a knock on the door.

  Meredith’s stomach lurched. It would not be Alfred, no matter how much her heart secretly wished it would be so. He would not demean himself to see her in a public house. Not after being so convinced of her guilt, with no cause.

  “Come in?” she said hesitantly.

  The door opened and revealed a maid. She bobbed a nervous curtsey. “Came to light t’lamps, Miss.”

  Meredith blinked and then noticed the lamps in her hands. Her heart sank. She had only a little money saved, and the last months’ worth of her wages was, as yet, unpaid.

  “Right,” she said. “How much…”

  “Included in y’room, Miss,” said the maid with a look of astonishment that anyone would be charged extra for light. “Here, let me.”

  The maid placed one of the lamps on the small desk and one on the bedside table. She took out a tinder box, lit both lamps, and moved to the doorway.

  “Anything else I can get you, Miss?” The maid bobbed another nervous curtsey.

  Meredith almost smiled, though a flush tinged her cheeks. She knew precisely what the maid was thinking—what everyone in Rochdale was probably wondering.

  The duke had got rid of his governess—why? What had happened in Rochdale Abbey?

  Notoriety was something she had left behind a long time ago, when she had finally broken with her family and tried life on her own, yet there was something about it that never quite seemed to leave you. There was something about her that attracted it, no matter how respectable she became.

  “That will be all, thank you,” she said quietly.

  The maid closed the door behind her.

  Meredith glanced at the two lamps as she pulled the curtains closed over the window. Well, every time she forgot she was miles from London, she was given further proof of it. Two lamps, and absolutely no additional charge? She had been robbed before, that was for sure.

  Returning to her seat, Meredith closed her eyes and lost herself in the memories of the last few months which had given her such joy but were naught but painful now.

  The kiss in the library. The way Alfred had made her feel, the joy he had given her in the kitchen. Their many rides together. It was astonishing, really, how easily she had been swept up it in all, despite knowing she should not be doing anything of the sort.

  You must never fall in love…

  It was wicked to dwell on such memories, particularly when she had been risking so much creating them in the first place.

  But Meredith could not help it. All she had was memories now, and though they pained her, she would treasure them still. Treasure the moments she had believed, perhaps, that things could have ended differently.

  That she could have married Alfred…

  Meredith opened her eyes. He had not even broached the topic. The gulf between them, of class, of occupation, of honor, had been too great. Even their great attraction to each other could not bridge it.

  The room she had taken at the King’s Head was small, it was true, but it was no smaller than the bedchamber allotted to her at Rochdale Abbey, and neither were different from her chamber with the Marnmouths. Governesses it appeared, Meredith thought ruefully, did not require much space to breathe.

  Though she was but ten miles from him, Meredith felt she could have been a million miles away.

  She cared about him. She had thought he had cared for her—but that could not be, or Alfred would have believed her when she had said she was not the thief.

  “I have done nothing wrong.”

  Meredith looked back at her letter to Miss Clarke. Where had she got to?

  I wished to inform you personally that my employment in the home of the Duke of Rochdale has been terminated. This is due to a false accusation of theft which I have not been given the opportunity to refute. You know I would never.

  She almost laughed. Never wh
at? Never steal? She certainly had in the past. Never fall in love with her employer? She could not write that with any integrity either. She had already broken one of the Governess Bureau’s most sacred rules. Why would Miss Clarke believe her?

  Meredith’s stomach rumbled. She had not eaten yet that day, saving her pennies for a large, stodgy, evening meal she was certain the King’s Head would provide.

  But before she went downstairs, she had to decide how to continue with her letter. How could she convince Miss Clarke of her innocence?

  Picking up her quill, Meredith wrote:

  You know I would never do anything to bring the Governess Bureau into disrepute. I have been most grateful of the trust you have placed in me, and I would not.

  She hesitated. She had no wish to lie, but every time she approached the truth, her quill stopped and she was unable to continue.

  Meredith could never have predicted meeting a man like Alfred. The titled gentlemen she had interacted with were few, to be sure, and most of them had been happily—or unhappily—married, and at least two decades older than her.

  Yet despite her place, she had never felt inferior when speaking to Alfred. He had always treated her as…as someone to be desired. She had never felt more at home than when in his arms—nor felt more betrayed until he looked at her so coldly, as if he did not know her.

  “Do…do you think I fall in love with every female servant who crosses his threshold? Do you think me some sort of cad who just goes about seducing young ladies in my care and keeping, and then just throws them away?”

  He did not know her. Not entirely. She had lied, kept her history a secret from him, never revealing the whole truth of who she was.

  She had not felt able to at first, and now Alfred had proved to her beyond any doubt that he could not be trusted. He did not trust her, and she did not trust him. How had she managed to convince herself that was the appropriate beginning to a marriage?

  Meredith’s stomach rumbled a little more urgently, and she looked down at the letter and sighed before screwing it up and dropping it on the floor.

  She had but two pieces of paper remaining from the small supply she had brought with her to Rochdale Abbey. There had been copious amounts in the schoolroom, and she had been tempted. It would have been far easier to just take it. Who would know?

  She would. Meredith was not a thief, not anymore. But the fact of the matter was that paper was expensive, and undoubtedly difficult to procure in a small town such as Rochdale. She needed to write to Miss Clarke soon, for it would not be long before Alfred did so, and she had to tell her side of the story first.

  She could not merely turn up outside the Governess Bureau in London, with no appointment and no assignment!

  Dipping her quill into the ink pot that was now looking perilously low, Meredith tried to concentrate as she wrote another letter to Miss Clarke.

  Dear Miss Clarke,

  I regret to inform you that my appointment with the Duke of Rochdale has been unfairly terminated due to

  There was no way for her to explain it, no way to prove she had not taken those things.

  Losing her employment at the Governess Bureau would mean losing everything. She could not, would not permit it to happen.

  “You are leaving?”

  Meredith sighed as she recalled the words spoken by Archibald. She had not wished to go, but she could not stay that house after being accused falsely of such wrongdoing.

  All the servants knew, she was certain. She was almost sure someone had been in her bedchamber at the abbey, though that too would be difficult to prove. Her riding habit, however, had been quite crumpled when she had returned after putting Archibald to bed one night, and she would never have left it in such a state.

  Well, there was nothing she could do about that. The servants of Rochdale Abbey could go on thinking whatever they liked about her, Meredith thought viciously as she laid her quill down for the final time that night. She knew the truth, much good it would do her.

  Leaving the letter where it was, abandoning it for the certain knowledge that unless she ate soon, her brain would be useless anyway, Meredith smoothed down her skirts and looked for a shawl to place around her shoulders.

  Perhaps after a plate of whatever was being cooked this evening, she would have the strength to return to her letter. It at least could not get any worse than it was at the moment.

  The staircase was full of noise and chatter as Meredith stepped down it, noise echoing up from those eating and drinking and from the numerous rooms that opened out on the landing.

  She had never been in the King’s Head before. It wasn’t right for a young woman to enter it alone but she had no choice now. Heads watched her as she entered the dining parlor.

  Most appeared to be farmers she recognized from St. Matthews. The elder Mr. Johnson even inclined his head to her. So. It appeared that the rumor of her thievery had not yet reached the townspeople.

  “Good evening, Miss Hubert!”

  Meredith turned to see the beaming innkeeper, Mr. Morgan. “Good evening, sir.”

  “You have everything you need?” asked Mr. Morgan jovially, coming around the bar to greet her.

  Meredith politely thanked him for all he had done to make her stay so enjoyable. It could not be more obvious the man was fishing for clues as to why she was staying at his inn in the first place, but she was not going to fuel any rumors, save her mere presence alone.

  “And how long do you think you will be staying with us?” Mr. Morgan asked.

  Meredith hesitated. She had not entirely formed her plans, but knew she could not remain for long. Every day increased the chances Alfred would let slip his accusation to someone outside the household, and write to Miss Clarke with the false allegation.

  “At least one more day,” she said slowly. “Perhaps two.”

  The temptation to stay longer was a strong one. The moment she left Rochdale, there was no coming back. It would mean accepting that it was all over between her and Alfred—whatever it had been, or could have been.

  She should really return to London. Then she could make her case to Miss Clarke in person, which would surely improve her chances of being believed.

  But she was a coward. Meredith knew this about herself. If she was not so fearful of facing Miss Clarke, she would have left straight away, rather than taken a room here in the inn.

  Just a few more days, and she would have sufficient time to think of the right way to word that letter. Assuming she could purchase some paper.

  “Just a day or two more?” Mr. Morgan did not bother to hide his surprised expression. “Well, that’s fine, Miss Hubert, that’s fine. You just tell me or my missus the day you wish to leave, and we will ensure your room is perfect for you until then.”

  Meredith smiled weakly. “Thank you, Mr. Morgan. I actually was thinking about some dinner.”

  The innkeeper spread out an arm. “Say no more, Miss, say no more—sit where you like, and I’ll bring out some of the stew our Betty has cooked up. Sorry ’tis not something more fancy, like you would have up at the big house.”

  He looked a little discomforted at these words, as though remembering she would be accustomed to much finer fare.

  But Meredith sought to put him at ease. “I do assure you, Mr. Morgan, stew is quite my favorite and I am sure your Betty has created something delicious.”

  The man beamed, and Meredith escaped his presence without revealing any more.

  The inn was bustling but not busy, and Meredith had a great deal of choice as to where she could sit. After scanning the room for a moment, she chose a quiet corner relatively distant from everyone else. The last thing she wanted was to answer any more questions. The last few days had already been an ordeal.

  Farmers stood around the bar, buying each other half pints and continuously saying to each other that they must only have one more, or their wives would have their guts for garters. This did not seem to slow down their consumption of the half pints, n
or prompt any of them to make their way to the door.

  Meredith hid a smile. Some things never changed.

  There was a table crowded with people who appeared to be the inhabitants of a mail coach. One lady there looked most unhappy to be seated alongside a clerk, from what Meredith could make out, but they were eating away happily and the scent of the food wafted over to her, making her mouth water.

  “Here you go!”

  Meredith started. So interested had she been in those around her, she had not noticed Mr. Morgan approach with a large bowl of stew and an almost clean spoon in the other hand.

  “Thank you, sir,” Meredith said with a smile. “That…that is all I require.”

  Mr. Morgan bobbed a little bow, and returned to the bar.

  Meredith wiped the spoon surreptitiously on her skirt, and started to eat. The stew was heavenly; packed full of flavor, with plenty of meat which was not always guaranteed. It was just the sort of meal she would have had on the road with her parents when she was younger, and her great appetite meant she had eaten almost a third of the bowl before forcing herself to slow down. A stomachache would be quite the way to end the day.

  Partly in an attempt to slow herself down, Meredith looked out again at the inhabitants of the inn. The mail coach party had been brought a rather large pitcher of red wine, from what she could see, and the lady and the clerk were getting along famously now.

  Meredith hid another grin. It was amazing how alike people were, when the trappings of society were removed.

  There was a pair of gentlemen in one corner playing chess, or something that looked similar to chess. Meredith recognized the younger Mr. Hemming, and hoped he had not seen her enter. It would not do for him to inform his father and cause a panic before the election.

  Meredith sighed as she swallowed another mouthful of the delightful stew. After all that he had accused her of, she was still concerned about Alfred’s election campaign. He did not deserve her.

  Then her eyes fell onto someone far more interesting, a woman about Meredith’s age, seated alone. It was such an unusual sight in an inn or tavern that Meredith’s gaze lingered on her for a moment, and the woman looked up and caught Meredith’s eye. She smiled.