The Perfect Rose

by Diane Greenwood

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  Awe-Struck E-Books

  www.awe-struck.net

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  Dedication

  To my Mom, for putting up with me for all these years

  Prologue

  The baby girl was beautiful. Her mother thought so. Her father thought so. But it was not just parental dotage. Everyone thought so. And as she grew older, she grew more beautiful. The golden curls lengthened and grew thick and glossy. The sparkling green eyes and peaches and cream complexion did not alter in teen years and the slender form blossomed forth into womanhood. A brilliant match was anticipated. Indeed, it was scarce a fortnight till she would be whisked off to London for her coming out; a great affair to be the most important event of her life. But tragedy, as it often does, interfered and the silver threads of her ball gowns were exchanged for the black bombazine of mourning. Her beloved parents were snatched from her by a careless whip that caused their carriage to careen madly; finally overturning, snuffing the life from its occupants.

  It was off to an aunt's crowded household for the beauty. An aunt with more children than good sense. With four older daughter's of her own and none with half the looks of her young niece, Magdahlia Charston could not launch the interloper into society until her own daughters were safely married. And no man would marry her direct blood once he looked upon such a comely face. So her niece was put on the back of the pantry shelf. The beautiful gowns sent from her sister's estate were altered for different, less shapely forms. Some were let out and shortened; some were taken in and lengthened with lace edging and flounces. The small but adequate stipend of an inheritance was diverted to the insatiable expenses of a feminine household and there was little left to sustain its intended recipient.

  The comely niece was not one to bemoan her circumstances. She had a knack for children and her aunt had, besides four older daughters, three younger ones still in the schoolroom. To save expenses, not to mention keep her out of sight, it was deigned the orphan should take up lessons and tutor her small relations.

  All in all it worked out well; at least for the first few years. With two of her daughters married off Madam Charston could almost breath a sigh of relief. Almost ... There were still two of marriageable age left in the nest and it looked as if they were not going to attract much above merchants for husbands. And merchants were not the sons-in-law she envisioned branching off the family tree.

  It could be men were not receptive to a woman with a lisp, but if Emily set her tongue properly and avoided S words, it was barely noticeable. And Lally's twitching eye was a come hither attraction if looked at in muted light. And just when all was said and done, there would come the younger ones. Egad! Would it never end?

  It would be different if there was money to be offered, but the dowries of her first two daughters had depleted the estate and her sister's trust had nearly run dry. There was always Grand Dame but she shied away from the family ever since the coach accident had taken Amelia. Amelia had always been everybody's favorite and her daughter would have been given the same honor. But see what that got anyone. Amelia was dead and her daughter a poor relation.

  Well, it was a Charston's duty to help a destitute niece and Magdahlia had more than done her duty to her way of thinking. It was only right that her very own daughters’ future's come first. Besides, she was doing the girl a favor keeping her from sight. Beauty was trouble and that girl was sinful in looks! Without money, men were not going to think of honorable proposals; and Magdahlia's generosity did not extend to brats born on the wrong side of the blanket. Why, if the girl showed any inclination to light behavior Magdahlia would throw her out before it should infect her own little cherubs!

  And so it was at this time that a prospective suitor came to call on the next-in-line Charston sibling. And not just any suitor but a titled one! Never mind he was merely the son of a baron; the Hon. Percy Smythe was as Madam Charston came to realize the last breath of hope in her Emily's future.

  It was of no consequence if he was not a Corinthian of the first water and his clothes were less than immaculate. He came with a card from Grand Dame vouching his credentials and that said something for the man. It was the least the tight old woman could do for the remaining Charston's, Magdahlia thought ungraciously.

  Supper was to be served and with it all the pretense of a horn of-plenty in a house of rusty brass. What was left of the silver was polished; the crystal buffed. The unblemished pieces were carefully placed where the Hon. Percy Smythe would be sitting; the candelabra fully lit to display that half of the table. The marred pieces were set in the shadows; the candles snuffed as if a breeze had wreaked havoc on an otherwise perfect banquet. The smaller children ate in the schoolroom, tucked away from eyes and ears on the second floor. Of course someone must supervise their nourishment—and the poor relation was expected to earn her keep.

  The supper went well. Emily's blotchy complexion was complimented by the near darkness on her side of the table. Likewise her somber gray, high-necked frock was flatteringly discreet; hiding the dreaded freckles that peppered her person. And she was able to fend off the letter S. Of course this meant not referring to the Hon. Percy Smythe by name, but it was only their first meeting after all and she did not want to appear too bold!

  After supper there was a light game of piquet voleur and an even lighter glass of sherry, watered down in case a second glass was requested. Fine liqueur was expensive but necessary. It would not do to appear stingy on the basics.

  The Charston's did not keep late hours; oil was expensive and candles messy. The Hon. Percy Smythe took Magdahlia's smothered yawn as the intended hint and excused himself. The length of his stay was dependent on two things, Madam Charston's hospitality ... and the magistrate's memory. He'd left London for the country in haste, dun-plagued; his notes due on demand. His voucher from Grand Dame was authentic but she was old and relied on his family's reputation.

  The maid, who'd been with the family for decades and was near deaf as a post—but hearing was no object for Lady Charston and working for board and no wages was—led the way to the second floor. Unfortunately the elder servant was also poor of sight and easily turned around. She led the gentleman with assurance down the hall, turning left instead of right; halting in front of a faded oak door, and throwing it open with a flourishing motion. Not knowing better, the Hon. Percy Smythe stepped within and the servant bowed out, closing the door behind her.

  The room was dimly lit. But even so it was obvious as soon as he glanced about there had been an error and this was no bedchamber. Toys and large picture books were strewn about. Chalk caricatures were drawn on the bare walls. Small nap pallets were in a neat row, but void of occupants. Smythe realized the light was not coming directly from the room but rather through the adjoining doorway. For want of choice he approached the doorway. He could hear a low, soft voice, lulling to the ears, reading aloud.

  At the doorway he could only stare in wonderment. Perched on the edge of the bed, reading to three small, sleepy children, was the most wondrous sight he'd ever seen. An angel in white, blonde tresses hanging freely to her waist, her shapely form highlighted by the shadowed light, sat unaware of her audience.

  Her breathy voice read on, it's husky quality as stirring as the rest of her. Her face could not possibly match such perfection. He shifted his weigh
t to the other foot to lean forward for a better look. A board beneath his foot creaked causing the girl to start and turn to face him, leaving off in mid-sentence. Egad! What a face! More beautiful than any he'd ever glimpsed!

  She rose and glided toward him, unselfconscious of her flowing nightdress, while murmuring reassurance to the children. Mr. Smythe's breath caught in his throat as she approached. She was not quite as young as she had appeared from a distance, perhaps eighteen or twenty. As a governess she was a waste, he appraised; as a woman she was exquisite! He reached out a hand. She, not knowing any different, took his. A plan formed in his mind. He had to have this woman! She was a mere governess; what trouble could come of it?

  "Miss. I am the houseguest, Mr. Smythe. Percy to you. I am afraid the senile maid brought me to the nursery by mistake. But I see it was a blessing in disguise for I would rather perish than give up this moment with you."

  The angelic young woman smiled. Unused to pretty speeches she was quite taken by the charming man, nattily dressed as he was in casual, understated elegance. Or at least it appeared so in the dim light.

  Smythe was blinded by her sincere smile. His hand shook with a tremor that traveled through his body like lightning. His forehead beaded with sweat. “If you would be so kind to show me to the guest chamber, I will trouble you no further."

  The angel tugged gently, guiding him to the doorway, then down the hall, a lit candle in hand to light the way. Smythe's thoughts were anything but honorable as he lecherously eyed the gentle sway of her hips as she walked ahead, still grasping his hand in what she thought was an innocent expression of trust. She seemed to know the way as she without hesitation threw open double, well-oiled oak doors.

  The room within was huge, lit by a single lamp by the bedstead. Smythe was beginning to suspect frugality was a Charston trait. When the angel would have turned loose of his hand and withdrawn, he tightened his grip and pulled her within the room and into his arms.

  Because she knew no better she did not struggle until he placed a slobbery kiss against her lips, his hands taking liberties no one had ever taken before. Then she did struggle, beating her fists against his chest. This seemed to incite him all the more and he ignored her panic, as if she were a mere butterfly beating her wings against him.

  His tongue was against her full lips. She did not know why she did it but she opened her mouth. He chuckled over her capitulation. She bit down as his tongue defiled her. He screamed, drawing back. The flat of his palm caught her across the cheek. She stumbled back further into the room. He came at her like a jungle cat after prey. The back of her knees hit the bed and she fell back, not uttering a sound; so shocked was she. He fell on her, ripping and tearing at her nightdress like a possessed, crazed beast.

  Neither noticed the doors were still open. Neither saw the still horrified features of Magdahlia Charston still clad in her gown of puce satin, her turban slightly askew. She saw her niece prostrate on the bed, not crying out. She saw her prospective son-in-law fall on top of her. Then she screamed. The cry of an eagle, piercing and shrill. The dishonored Hon. Percy Smythe came to his senses and climbed to his feet.

  The angel, in a state of semi-undress, her nightdress torn and tattered, shrank across the bed and climbed from the other side. Madam Charston pointed a talon at her. “You harlot! You seductress of the devil! Pack your belongings and get out! My dear, departed sister would roll over in her grave! I wish never to set eyes on you again. I can only hope you have not turned my little ones into strumpets such as yourself. Get out, I say!"

  Chapter One

  The cumbersome coach-and-four stopped outside the inn to water the horses. If you would dare lump the four cobs pulling the coach in the category of equine. Public transport did not have access to fine bloodstock. The gentry and dandies took the best. Merchants and tradesmen claimed the mediocre and public transport chose from what was left. If they were to be saddle mounts they would have been shot or sold to the kitchens, but it was not a prerequisite to have a fine gait to pull a public hack.

  Once the badly sprung, paint-chipped coach came to a standstill the small side door was unlatched and a feminine figure heavily cloaked and hooded emerged. This was not uncommon, but once inside the inn the figure did not remove the cloak. The worldly innkeeper suspected a clandestine meeting of lovers. He had no way of knowing she had arrived by public transport. But as he ran experienced eyes over the attire, he noticed a mended rent in the faded, red cloak. Nay, it was not a titled lady cuckolding a rich husband. She further revealed her dire straits by not ordering refreshment. Instead, she asked in a breathless, husky voice that made the innkeeper all the more curious. “How much further is Lairdscroft?"

  "Well lass...” He waited but she did not correct the title. This was more curious still. He tried to peer under the hood. She turned away. A single woman going to Lairdscroft was cause for gossip. He scratched at the motley stubble growing at his jaw. “Tis not a stone's throw, but not far enough for a boulder to get up fair speed."

  This either satisfied the mysterious figure or exasperated her for she made no comment as she exited the inn, pulling the cloak tight about her as she passed the coachman on his way in to wet his whistle before continuing the journey.

  "What's her story?” The inquisitive innkeeper tried to sound mundane.

  The grubby coachman shrugged his stooped shoulders. “Lairdscroft’ s new governess. Draw me a pint."

  The stout innkeeper waddled to do his bidding. “His lordship ain't in residence. Only the two boy's and the nanny is."

  "Don’ know ‘bout that. I just deliver the mail and my orders were, deliver that bit of pock-marked baggage to Lairdscroft,” the coachman replied sourly.

  "The pox marked her? That explains it all. Poor lass."

  The coachman spat leaving a thin stream of spittle running down his chin. “Bah. I find those that are visited by the curse are disfigured for their sins."

  By the time the coach pulled out, the loose-tongued innkeeper had passed on the news to his wife who in turn passed it around her sewing circle. The small village was abuzz with the sympathetic gossip of the disfigured governess. All agreed the small motherless boys of Lord Lairdscroft were outgrowing the need for a nanny, but they had hoped his lordship would remarry and the next woman that came to Lairdscroft would be as a wife and not merely a pock-marked governess. Ah, well. At least Lord Lairdscroft took care of his bairns and saw to their upbringing.

  The coach deposited both the mail and its occupant in a well-kept courtyard. It was gone in a puff of dust that caused the cloaked figure to cough delicately. No one was there to greet her, leaving the awkward task of showing up on the door stoop a dusty, travel-weary figure, toting the rope handle of a small trunk in one hand and a packet of mail in the other. She dragged the trunk up the imperiously daunting wide stone steps, onto an entryway supported by massive columns. Her white-gloved hand turned loose of the trunk to rap boldly on the huge crest-embossed double oak doors. Self-consciously she put the hand in the deep pocket of her cloak. It would not do for her new employer to see the gloves had been mended and the stitches had torn again.

  There was no answer. What had she expected? She was a week early. Perhaps no one was at home. What would she do if that were the case? She was pondering the answer when she heard a rustling in the cropped bushes to the side of the elevated entryway. Like an unseen ghost, peals of laughter floated to her ears. Suddenly two young boys broke into the open. They stopped short when they saw the cloaked figure staring at them. One boy, uncommonly handsome for one so young, with longish brown hair tied back in a velvet black ribbon and inches taller than his sibling, stepped in front of his brother protectively. “Who are you?” he demanded, the laughter gone, his arms akimbo, hands resting arrogantly on the hips of creased trousers and rumpled blue shirt.

  The voice from inside the cloak soothed his fears. It was music to the ears, low, husky and lilting. “I am the new governess. Your governess, I believe."
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br />   The smaller but stouter boy with sandy hair and clad in durable nankeen from head to toe peeped from behind his brother. “Why are you wearing your traveling cloak? Aren't you staying?"

  "I have only just arrived. But there seems to be no one home."

  "We're home,” the older boy asserted. “My Father, Lord Lairdscroft is not. He will arrive in three days time."

  "Surely you two are not alone? Where are the house servants?"

  "You weren't expected yet. Most are in the village making purchases for father's return. We are able to take care of ourselves."

  "'Side's, there's Nanny Ada.” The younger boy came out from in back of his sibling.

  "She's old and half-blind. She sleeps more than she's awake.” The older boy laughed. “We snuck out to play in the maze. You won't tell on us, will you?"

  "Apparently there's no one to tell. If you would be kind enough to show me to my room, I would like to get settled and wash away the dust of travel."

  The older boy remembered his manners and in a proper Lord-of-the-Manor tone he introduced himself, “I am Justin McLairdin and this is my brother Brodie. I'm twelve. He's six. Father says we're precocious and need a governess. That's why you're here."

  Brodie ran up the steps, brushing past her and opened the front door, turning the knob by using both his small hands. “Come on in."

  More sedately Justin climbed the steps and took the rope handle of the trunk and dragged it inside. “You can leave it here. It will be brought up later Miss..."

  "Beauclaire. Victoria Beauclaire. But you can call me Torie."

  "Torie. I like that.” The older boy flashed a grin that was as charming as it was sincere.

  "You are going to be a heartbreaker Master Justin. Has anyone ever told you that?” She handed him the packet of mail.

  "They say I am the spitting image of father when he was my age. But I will not let good looks interfere with my studies."