The Defiant Governess

by Andrea Pickens

  “Everything all right, Miss?” whispered the figure.

  “Yes. I’m sure no one saw me leave.”

  The figure grunted in reply and scrambled up beside her. “Well then, let’s be on our way.”

  The cart bumped over the rough track as the person beside her twitched the reins, urging the horse to as great a speed as he dared. “I’m sorry for the discomfort, Lady Jane,” he said. “It will get better when we reach the main road.”

  “It doesn’t matter,” smiled Jane as she reached over to pat the driver’s arm “And I can’t thank you enough for your help, Martin. I shall never forget it.”

  Martin returned her smile gamely but she saw how nervous he was. “After all you have done for my Mary, ‘tis the least we could do for you.”

  He looked back over his shoulder into the pale mist rising off of the fields. “The stage arrives at Hinchley at half six and you should be safely away before any of your people are any the wiser. And hopefully no one will take notice of a simple farmer’s wife—begging your pardon, milady.” He tugged his own hat down low over his brow as he spoke.

  “Do not be nervous, Martin. No one will know of your part in this, I swear. I promise you that you will not suffer for helping me—and Mary will tell you that I never break a promise.”

  “Oh, milady, it ain’t the Duke I’m worried about. ‘Tis Mary that’ll have my head if I don’t get you away safely.”

  Jane laughed softly. “Well, put your mind at ease. All will go well. And now,” she added as the cart turned onto the market road,” I think you may put us to a trot.”

  Martin did as she suggested, bucking up his own spirits at the calm assurance in her voice. They rode the rest of the way in silence, arriving at the staging inn with plenty of time to spare. Martin kept to the edge of the stables and reined in behind two other farmers’ carts. There was just one other person awaiting the coach, a short heavy man dressed in a greasy coat, with two equally grubby burlap bags at his feet that moved in a most peculiar fashion. He blew into his stubby fingers to ward off the early morning chill and stamped impatiently in the dirt and chaff, sending up little clouds of debris with each smack of his worn boots.

  Jane momentarily blanched at the idea of sharing a coach with such a person but then chided herself on such weakness of spirit. She had better get used to such things, she reminded herself—from now on she was no different from that man.

  A sharp horn blast punctuated the stable sounds, announcing that the mail coach was fast approaching. Martin helped Jane down from the cart. She caught him about to bow his respects and threw her arm around his shoulder to forestall any such display.

  “None of that, Martin.” she whispered in his ear. “You must hug your wife goodbye and hope that her mother’s illness passes quickly so she may return to you and the children.” She noticed a faint blush spread across his cheeks.

  “Lady Jane, I couldn’t…” he began, but realizing she was right, he took her arm and walked towards where the mail coach had lumbered to a stop. Raising his voice he announced, “Now off with ye, Mary and here’s hoping yer mother recovers soon.” He winked broadly at the coachman. “‘Course the children will miss ye, as will I.”

  He tossed the valise to the roof of the coach and helped Jane into its dark interior, giving her a pat on the backside which would have sent her into a fit of giggles if her throat hadn’t felt so constricted. She settled in between the greasy farmer and an older woman who was snoring loudly through an open mouth. The heat of their bodies and the musty smells of unwashed clothing and stale tobacco overwhelmed her senses. She closed her eyes to hide the shine of tears from anyone who might care to notice, hoping she might as easily close out her past life. It was but a small price to pay for her independence. That thought revived her sagging spirits—how many young ladies of Quality would have been cork brained enough to consider going to work as a governess as freedom? Suppressing a small smile of irony she sank back against the seat and tried to sleep, telling herself not to think too much about what the coming days might bring.

  * * * *

  The coachman knocked on the massive oak door, and from behind his shoulder Jane saw it swing open slowly to reveal an elderly butler, stooped yet still tall, attired in somber clothes.

  “Miss Langley has arrived.”

  “Thank you, William. You may put her valise in the hallway.”

  Jane was left alone to face the butler. She searched his visage for any reaction to her arrival, but his features were impassive, as was his voice when he finally spoke to her.

  “We have been expecting your arrival, Miss Langley. Come inside while I inform Mrs. Fairchild that you are here.”

  Jane stepped into a capacious entry hall whose polished oak floors and handsome carved paneling and furniture were redolent of beeswax and lemon oil. As she glanced through the open morning room door at the elegant drapes and carpets she noted that though the master of the house may rarely show his face, the estate was being managed by someone who cares...”

  Her thoughts were interrupted by the jangling of keys, then the opening of a door. She turned towards the sound to meet the gaze of a stout woman with rather plain features, no taller than Jane’s chin. Her grey hair was pulled back in a simple bun though some stray strands had loosened themselves from under the white mobcap, giving her the air of someone in perpetual motion. From her ample waist hung the source of the noise, a huge iron ring with a number of keys silhouetted against a pristine starched apron.

  Jane quickly remembered Mary’s admonitions about proper behavior and bobbed a graceful curtsy. The lady nodded in approval, Jane noted with relief, and the broad smile that lit up her face was warm and reassuring.

  “Welcome to Highwood, Miss Langley. I am Mrs. Fairchild and I manage the household in the Marquess’s absence. I’m sure you must be exhausted after your journey—I myself cannot abide spending a full day in a coach, I don’t know how you manage—so let me show you to your room. When you have refreshed yourself, I hope you will come share a cup of tea and some cakes that Cook has made up for us and then we can have a chat about your duties here, shall we?”

  “Why that would…be very nice,” managed Jane. Silently she gave thanks to her good fortune. The woman’s friendly words as well as looks boded well for the future.

  She was led up the imposing main staircase, feeling quite small under the stern gazes of the Marquess’s antecedents. Somehow she felt they were staring at her accusingly, as if they saw through her charade. Swallowing hard, she dropped her eyes to the polished treads. Mindful of Mary’s description of life in service, Jane fully expected to continue up, into the attic rooms and then be shown a back stairway, the one she would be expected to use from now on. Instead Mrs. Fairchild stopped on the second floor and led her down a corridor to the right.

  “I’ve put you near the schoolroom and Master Peter’s room. I hope you’ll find it agreeable,” she said as she threw open the door to a small room flooded with sunlight and simply decorated in blue sprigged chintz.

  Jane was confused. “Oh, how nice,” she exclaimed, taking in the polished pine dresser and armoire arranged to one side of a simple painted bedstead. “Are you sure this is for me?” she blurted out. “Surely this isn’t a servant’s room?”

  Mrs. Fairchild smiled again. “We want you to be happy here.” As she said those words, Jane noticed a slight cloud pass over her face, but just as suddenly it was gone. “I’ve had Polly bring you a pitcher of water to freshen up with. When you are ready, come back down the same way we came up and ask Glavin—he is that imposing figure you met by the door, but I assure he is not such a dragon as he appears—to bring you into the drawing room. Is there anything else you need?”

  Jane shook her head, and when Mrs. Fairchild had closed the door, she sank onto the bed, her head in a whirl. She knew she should consider herself more than fortunate in having landed in such a seemingly agreeable position—she sensed that she and Mrs. Fairchild would rub al
ong very nicely together. But now that she had finally arrived and was sitting in a modest little room with none of her familiar things or faces around her, the enormity of what she had done finally overwhelmed her. She had to fight back tears as she remembered the two nights at an inn, having to take her supper in the common tap room rather than a private parlor, having to endure the leers and comments of the men as she made her way to the tiny room consigned to a female traveling alone, a room where the sheets were suspect and the floor unswept.

  She got up and splashed some water onto her face, then regarded her own reflection in the small mirror above the washstand. Did her chin really have a defiant tilt? Did her eyes truly storm like an angry sea when she felt passionately about something? Though Thomas had teased her well enough on those counts, she couldn’t see it herself. She only saw a stranger in the glass, a plain, bespectacled young woman dressed in a Quakerish gown of brown muslin, with mousy hair drawn into a severe bun. And the woman looked scared. After staring at her own image for a number of moments she straightened her shoulders, the look of apprehension replaced by one of resolve. No, she vowed, she wouldn’t be cowed that easily. Her pride wouldn’t allow her to give up so soon and return home to accede to her father’s dictates. No, she would meet the challenge.

  She dried her hands and proceeded downstairs.

  Glavin showed her into an elegant drawing room which, like the rest of the rooms she had seen, was decorated with exquisite yet understated taste. She was about to comment on the furnishing when she suddenly realized she shouldn’t be cognizant of such things. So swallowing her words, she silently took a seat on the couch where Mrs. Fairchild had motioned for her to sit and folded her hands primly in her lap.

  Mrs. Fairchild busied herself with pouring two cups of tea, and it was only after she had passed one of them to Jane and liberally sugared the other one for herself that she spoke.

  “I’m sure you are anxious to hear of your duties here at Highwood, and to meet your charge.” She paused to take a sip from her cup, while Jane dared not lift hers for fear that her hands would shake. “You will be expected to teach Peter his letters, history, geography and—you do speak French, do you not?”

  Jane nodded.

  “And French. You may decide the hours of your schoolroom, but you shall be expected to look after him during the rest of the day as well— Cook has threatened to give notice if another gooseberry tart is knocked from the windowsill or if spiders keep appearing in the cream jug.”

  Jane had visions of an incorrigible little monster and her face must have betrayed her thoughts for Mrs. Fairchild quickly added “Not that he is a naughty child, for indeed he is not. It’s just that he is…well, I think he is lonely. The family nurse was forced by her health to retire two years ago and since then... It is very quiet around here, Miss Langley, as I trust you will soon discover. It is perhaps not an ideal place for a child to grow up, with no family...” She stopped abruptly.

  “Did he not have a previous governess?” inquired Jane.

  “She did not get along with children.”

  Jane wondered exactly what that enigmatic statement meant. “I hope I shall manage better,” was all she could think of to reply.

  There was a moment of silence while once again Mrs. Fairchild sipped her tea in a thoughtful manner. “I shall be frank with you, Miss Langley,” she said, looking at Jane with a penetrating gaze. “The last governess was dismissed because I discovered her beating Peter.”

  “How awful! A child!” exclaimed Jane, unable to keep from speaking out.

  “Yes, I thought so too. And so I have gone to great pains to discover a suitable person to come to Highwood, someone I hope will stay for some time. I like you, Miss Langley, from what little I’ve seen of you. I trust you will be a good and kind companion to Master Peter.” Again, a troubled look clouded her face for a moment. “And now, I think you should meet your charge.”

  She rang the bell that was sitting on the side table. Almost immediately the door swung open and Glavin ushered in a young boy who seemed pathetically small in contrast to the tall, bony butler.

  “Come, Peter,” smiled Mrs. Fairchild. “Make your greetings to Miss Langley. She is to be your new governess.”

  Jane watched the boy approach the couch warily, a pair of sea green eyes studying her intently from under a tousled mass of dark curls. They betrayed a mixture of trepidation and defiance. He ducked a quick bow, but then sidled close to the housekeeper, practically hiding behind her ample form.

  “Now, now,” Mrs. Fairchild gently chided. “Miss Langley will think you sadly lacking in manners if you don’t greet her properly.”

  “Welcome to Highwood, Miss Langley.” The words were mumbled and the eyes were now studying the tips of his shoes.

  “Hello, Peter,” replied Jane, essaying her warmest smile. Indeed, it wasn’t difficult for her heart had immediately gone out to the frail-looking child before her. In fact, the look in her eyes would have caused her brother much apprehension, for he would have recognized the beginnings of what he referred to as one of “Jane’s crusades.” Jane felt he exaggerated. Just because she was always the one to rescue a stray animal or lecture a tenant on the cruelty of beating a tired farm horse didn’t mean anything other than that she disliked seeing the weak or helpless being taken advantage of. And though she admitted that no other female of her age or rank had shocked the drawing rooms of London by speaking out on the plight of juvenile chimney sweeps, she didn’t think that made her a crusader, just a concerned individual.

  “Won’t you join me in having a cake? They are very delicious.” She held the plate out towards him.

  Peter looked sideways at Mrs. Fairchild, who nodded encouragingly. Then, a fondness for sweets overcoming his shyness, he tentatively reached out and chose a sugared walnut cake.

  “Those are my favorite, too,” said Jane in a confidential tone. “I particularly dislike gooseberry tarts because they have a nasty habit of falling off windowsills.”

  The green eyes momentarily widened, then she was rewarded by the merest glimmer of a smile before the pastry disappeared into Peter’s mouth.

  Jane turned to Mrs. Fairchild. “Perhaps Peter could show me around. I daresay I’ve kept you long enough from your duties, but I would like to see the schoolroom as well as the rest of the house so I may begin to learn my way around.”

  The housekeeper nodded in approval of the plan, adding a grateful smile of thanks. “What a splendid idea. Peter, why don’t you start upstairs with the schoolroom.” She rose and picked up the tea tray herself. “I should like it if you would dine with me tonight. At six, if you please.” With that, she bustled out of the room.

  “Shall we start?” asked Jane gently. “Or would you like another cake?”

  Peter shook his head. His gaze had returned to the floor and without looking up he turned around. “Follow me…if you please,” he mumbled.

  The heavy door presented a bit of a problem. Even using both hands, Peter found it difficult to budge, but Jane let him manage. With a shove of his shoulder he made it swing open.

  “Thank you, sir,” She smiled as he held it open for her.

  He didn’t answer but moved ahead of her, leading the way back up the ornate stairway and past her own room. From behind she was able to study him more closely. He was a delicate child, with narrow shoulders which were now tight with apprehension. And yet he moved with a cat-like grace unusual in one his age— Mrs. Fairchild had said he was seven, but he looked even younger. Perhaps, she mused, it was because his features were so finely chiseled, for in fact he was a beautiful child. Or perhaps it was because he looked so vulnerable...

  Her thoughts were interrupted by their arrival at the schoolroom. Peter dutifully opened the door and stepped aside for her to enter. It had an air of familiarity to it, the pine desks scarred by generations of pupils, the slates, the bookshelves crammed with dog-eared volumes, the globe on its varnished stand, the smell of paper, ink and chalk, Sh
e felt a quick pang of homesickness as she looked around.

  “What a nice room. Tell me Peter, do you know your letters?”

  The boy nodded.

  “And can you do sums?”

  He hesitated, then nodded again.

  “Good, though I think you probably dislike it as much as I did. She smiled, hoping for some response from the boy, but he still remained stone faced. “Well,” she went on. “Then we may start with some history and geography.”

  Jane wandered to the governess’s desk and absently picked up a ruler that lay there. The boy instinctively flinched. She put it down nonchalantly, as if she hadn’t noticed his reaction, and she felt a hot surge of anger towards the guardian who could be so neglectful of his ward.

  “And of course we will learn harder sums and read the works of famous authors.” She stopped by the tall shelves and looked at the spines of the leather-bound books. There was a set of Scott’s novels and Jane couldn’t hold back her enthusiasm. “Oh, these are wonderful books!” Impulsively she turned to the boy. “Would you like me to read Ivanhoe to you?”

  Peter looked at her in surprise. “I don’t know,” he finally answered.

  “Has no one ever read to you?”

  He shook his head. But then a moment later he said,” My mother did... I think.”

  “Why don’t we try it tonight and see if you like it. We can read one chapter tonight at bedtime. What say you?”