by M C Beaton
A Governess of Distinction
M. C. Beaton/ Marion Chesney
Copyright
A Governess of Distinction
Copyright ©1992 by Marion Chesney
Cover art to the electronic edition copyright © 2011 by RosettaBooks, LLC
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.
First electronic edition published 2011 by RosettaBooks LLC, New York.
ISBN Mobipocket edition: 9780795321016
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter One
EVEN IN THE HEDONISTIC SOCIETY of Regency London, Percy, Viscount Hunterdon, stood out as being more carefree, indolent, and pleasure-loving than anyone else among the top thousand.
Although apparently destined to eke out his days on a small inheritance, he found he was lucky at gambling—very lucky—and was therefore able to live an extravagant life. He was extremely handsome with golden curly hair, bright blue eyes, and a tall athletic figure, for he boxed and fenced and raced his curricle, finding that a certain amount of exercise was excellent for dissipating the results of the previous night’s roistering.
As he strolled along the Strand one sunny afternoon in the direction of Temple Bar, nothing disturbed the calm pool of his brain except for one little ripple which wondered what on earth old Mr. Courtney’s lawyers wanted to see him about. Mr. Mirabel Courtney, he knew, was some very distant relative. He had never even met the old man. But now the lawyers had written a tetchy letter to the viscount to say that after repeated calls at his house and at his club without success, they suggested that if he wished to learn something to his advantage then he had better call on them.
He finally reached the musty offices of Triggs, Bellman, and Broome and airly announced his arrival to an elderly clerk who informed the viscount that Mr. Broome would see him.
Mr. Broome was like an elderly tortoise, his thin neck poking out of a painfully starched cravat and high-collared shirt.
“Old Courtney left me something, has he?” Lord Hunterdon demanded gaily.
“Sit down, my lord,” Mr. Broome said severely. “There is more to it than that.”
“Isn’t there always?” The viscount slumped down in a chair and looked vaguely out of the window. “Spare me the heretofores and wherefroms and all that legal jargon and get to the point.”
Mr. Broome sniffed loudly to show his disapproval and picked up a sheaf of papers. “Mr. Mirabel Courtney has left you his quite considerable fortune, Trelawney Castle in Dorset, and his estates,” he said.
Lord Hunterdon blinked in surprise. “Well, very kind of him, to be sure. Fetch a good price, I should think.”
“You cannot sell it,” Mr. Broome remarked with a gleam of satisfaction in his watery old eyes. “In order to inherit, you must live in the castle and make it your home. Also …”
“Also?” the viscount echoed faintly.
“Also you must take charge of Mr. Courtney’s daughters, Amanda and Clarissa, and find them husbands.”
“How can anyone be expected to find husbands for a couple of old maids?”
“The Misses Courtney are fifteen-year-old twins.”
“Hey, now, that cannot be the case. How old was Courtney when he died?”
“Eighty-six years summers, my lord.”
“Why does everyone always say summers? Why not winters? Anyway, he can’t have sired two teenage misses.”
“Mr. Courtney married a housemaid, one Annie Plumtree, fifteen years ago. The lady died giving birth to the twins.”
“Sad. But see here, is that it? I mean, if I don’t want to live in the castle and bring these poxy wenches out, I don’t get the inheritance?”
“In a nutshell.”
The viscount rose and strolled to the door. “Then I don’t want it,” he said cheerfully. “Good day to you, Mr. Broome.”
“In that case,” came the old lawyer’s voice as the viscount opened the door, “the inheritance will go to your cousin Basil.”
Lord Hunterdon turned around slowly. “You mean Basil Devenham? Toad Devenham?”
“Precisely, my lord.”
“In that case, I won’t say no, but I can’t say yes either. Not until I think about it. How long have I got?”
Mr. Broome looked at him maliciously. “We have wasted a considerable amount of time trying to get in touch with you, my lord. I think twenty-four hours would be a fair length of time.”
“Oh, very well.”
Lord Hunterdon walked pensively out into the sunshine.
How he loathed Basil! Basil Devenham was the same age as the viscount, twenty-eight. The viscount’s parents, the Marquess and Marchioness of Derriwell, had always held Basil up to their errant son as a “good example.” Basil was sober and Godfearing. Basil never gambled or went with loose women. Basil was a Good Man. And Basil thought so, too. He had a slimy, unctuous manner. Although he lived just as much a life of leisure as the viscount, he always implied that his days were taken up in study or good works.
The viscount turned in the direction of his club. Surely some of his friends could advise him. When he reached the club in St. James’s Street, he found he was in luck. Not one but three of his closest friends were in the coffee room: Lord Charnworth, the Honorable John Trump, and Mr. Paul Jolly. All were about the same age as the viscount, all were unmarried, and all devoted to a life of ease.
“Here comes Beau,” Lord Charnworth exclaimed. “He’ll cheer us up.” Lord Charnworth was a very small gentleman with prematurely white hair he wore frizzed, which, combined with his small features, made him look like a poodle. In fact, there was something doggy about the other two, Mr. Trump being rather like a collie and Mr. Jolly, like a bulldog.
“Can’t feel happy,” the viscount drawled, dropping elegantly into a chair. “Curst problem on my hands.”
“Nancy given you your walking orders, Beau?” Mr. Trump asked sympathetically. Nancy was the viscount’s latest mistress.
“No, but I’m beginning to wish she would walk away from me,” the viscount grumbled. “Rapacious, that’s what she is. Fact is, I’ve just been to old Courtney’s lawyers, old Mirabel Courtney, distant relative, left me a castle, estates, and a fortune.”
“What’s so bad about that?” Lord Charnworth asked.
“I’ve got to live there.”
“Still not too bad. Lots of us have to languish in the country for the winter. Nothing wrong with keeping your home in London as a town house.”
“Wait, there’s worse. This old lecher Courtney married a housemaid fifteen years ago, because, one assumes, he managed to get her pregnant, for she died giving birth to twin girls who are now just fifteen and part of the deal is that I have to find husbands for them. I said I wouldn’t accept the inheritance, and then I learned that it would go to Basil Devenham.”
“Never!” Mr. Jolly growled. “Sheer waste of money. You’ve got to go through with it, Beau.”
“Don’t think I can face it,” the viscount remarked.
“But you don’t bring these maidens out yourself,” Lord Charnworth exclaimed suddenly. “You find a governess for them!”
“Bit old for a governess, surely.”
“No, you get one of those dragons who brings misses up to the social mark. Sort of
advanced governess. A governess of distinction, that’s what you ask for.”
“A governess of distinction,” the viscount said, turning the phrase over in his mind.
“Sounds a good idea,” Mr. Trump said. “Besides, these lawyers can’t go running down to wherever it is to make sure you’re actually staying there, hey? Go down, see the gels, get the governess, kiss ’em good-bye, pick up the moneybags, back to Town.”
“I suppose I could do that….”
“And if it is a really horrible situation,” Mr. Trump urged, “why, you can tell the lawyers to let Toad Basil have the lot. Serve him right.”
A smile of relief lit up Lord Hunterdon’s handsome features. “What a clever lot you are, and you shall have your reward. Champagne, by the bucket!”
A week later—a week of roistering, drinking deep, and gambling hard later—Viscount Hunterdon traveled in the direction of Trelawney Castle. Despite the fact that the hedges were thick and heavy with the leaves and flowers of summer—scarlet poppies, pink and white wild roses, purple and yellow vetch—he felt an odd sense of foreboding which after some thought he put down to indigestion.
The hedges gradually fell back, and he found himself riding across wild heathland. He was driving his own traveling carriage laden down with all the comforts he considered might be necessary to smooth his short stay at the castle. The blue sky above became milky and then darkened to gray, and finally as he came in sight of Trelawney Castle, a threatening black lit with flashes of lightning.
His coachman, who was sitting beside him on the box, crossed himself and said, “Looks like the lair of the devil himself.”
And Trelawney Castle did look grim. It was not that it was a castle with battlements and turrets, although there must have been such a building there at one time to give it the name. Rather, it was a Gothic fright built during the eighteenth-century Gothic revival. It had spires and lancet windows and flying buttresses and gargoyles and was, the viscount decided, an architectural mess capable of inflicting damage on the aesthetic soul. He drove past an untenanted lodge through rusty iron gates and up a long, weedy drive bordered on either side by an unkempt jungle of undergrowth.
As he swept the carriage around to stand in front of the main door, he noticed gloomily that all the windows were of stained glass and that the walls were covered in ivy. A flash of lightning struck down, and the horses plunged and reared and then came a tremendous clap of thunder. His servants, the coachman, two grooms, and his valet were all whimpering with terror.
It was like a scene out of a Gothic romance, thought the viscount dismally. He wondered whether there were headless ghosts.
“I hate this place already,” he said. “Don’t stand there squawking and shaking. It’s only a thunderstorm. Announce me!”
A groom approached the door. There was a large brass knocker in the shape of a devil’s head. Another flash of lightning, which flickered over the brass door knocker and seemed to make it come to life, followed by another hellish peal of thunder, sent the terrified servant reeling back. The viscount had just climbed down from his carriage in time to receive the frantic embrace of his groom, who was babbling that the door knocker had grinned at him.
“Now, Jiggs,” the viscount said, easing off his servant’s clutching hands. “You are overset. I will announce myself. Find the kitchens and have some warm ale. Nothing like warm ale for restoring the nerves.”
He seized the door knocker and began to bang it heartily.
The door creaked slowly open and a fat, white-faced butler stood there. He was completely bald.
“Welcome home, master,” he said in a low, sepulchral voice.
While his servants still crouched behind him, Lord Hunterdon strolled into the hall and looked around. It was fake baronial and in the worst of taste. He began to laugh, a merry, infectious laugh. He turned to his servants. “We have walked straight into the stage of the Haymarket Theatre, have we not, my boys? Enter ghost, stage right.”
His servants began to laugh as well while the butler stood by, his fat features showing neither interest nor displeasure.
“Welcome, my lord,” the butler said. “My name is Dredwort.” The viscount snickered. The butler went to the fireplace and tugged on a massive bell rope beside it. “The staff will wish to pay their respects, my lord.”
The staff came filing into the gloomy hall and formed a line before the viscount. He walked down the line which started with the housekeeper and ended with the lamp boy. It was, however, not a large enough staff of servants for such a place, thought the viscount. The men’s livery was old-fashioned and threadbare and the women’s gowns were worn and darned.
The viscount correctly judged from the poor livery and the state of the grounds that the late Mr. Courtney had been something of a miser.
“And where are the Misses Amanda and Clarissa?” he asked.
“They have retired for the night,” Dredwort said, “and beg to be excused.”
“Well, I want to meet them,” the viscount snapped. “It ain’t that late. Fetch them here. May as well get it over with. Show me to some comfortable room and bring me brandy.”
“Mr. Courtney always used the library in the evenings, and I have had a fire lit there.”
“Hey, Dredwort, you ain’t going to turn out to be one of those pesky retainers who want everything to remain the same, I hope. Show the way.”
The library was a gloomy place, the furniture heavy and Jacobean. A small fire burned in a cavernous fireplace big enough to roast an ox. “Not short of wood, are we?” the viscount demanded. “Throw a few trees in here, bring the brandy, and let me get my introduction to the girls over and done with.”
The butler inclined his head and withdrew. The viscount paced up and down. He did not like Trelawney Castle, he did not like the gloomy atmosphere, and above all, he did not like this new feeling of responsibility.
The door opened and he turned about. “Miss Amanda and Miss Clarissa,” Dredwort announced.
The viscount looked at the twins, and the twins, holding hands, stared back. “Got a governess?” he asked.
“No, my lord,” they chorused.
The viscount crossed to a writing desk in the far corner. “Well, you’re getting one now.”
Two days later, in an uncomfortable house situated at the end of a damp little village called Gunshott, sat Miss Jean Morrison, enjoying a moment’s peace from the hectoring sound of her aunt’s voice.
Jean felt her young life had been governed by a succession of bullies. Her mother had died when Jean was very young. Her father, a colonel in a Scottish regiment, had sold out and returned to his mountain home to oversee the bringing up of his daughter. To that end he had hired a formidable governess and had given her free rein. The governess, Miss Tiggs, an Englishwoman, had bullied Jean unmercifully. When the colonel died a year before, Jean had sacked the governess with great pleasure, and, because she had hardly any money, had gone to live with an aunt in Edinburgh, in the hope that the aunt would bring her out at the Edinburgh assemblies and find her a husband. But the aunt, Mrs. Macleod, had wanted Jean only as a companion, and an overworked one at that. Finding she had jumped out of the frying pan into the fire, Jean had written to another aunt, Mrs. Delmar-Richardson in Dorset and begged asylum.
To her delight, she received a courteous letter assuring her of a welcome. With some of the little money she had left, she had taken the long road south, dreaming of happiness. But Mrs. Delmar-Richardson was another bully of the chilly grandedame kind. Jean quickly realized she was expected to wait on the lady hand and foot, to read to her, to walk behind her, carrying her shawl, to play the piano for her, and any number of tiresome tasks that kept her anchored to Mrs. Delmar-Richardson’s side.
Besides, Mrs. Delmar-Richardson was ugly, and Jean’s one weakness was a craving for beauty. She herself had long given up any hope of growing into beauty. At the age of twenty, she had dark red hair, a terrible thing for any lady to have, green eyes, pale, a
lmost translucent skin, and a neat figure.
Her aunt had mercifully drunk too much during the afternoon and had retired to her bed. Jean, who knew there were no novels allowed in the house, settled down instead to read the local papers. That was how she came across the viscount’s advertisement. She read it several times. A governess of distinction was wanted to train two young misses in the social arts. Jean herself had been trained in the social arts in the remote Highlands of Scotland just as if she were about to make her debut at Almack’s Assembly Rooms in London. Her heart began to beat hard, and hope, dormant for some time, sprang anew. One side of Jean’s mind was down-to-earth and practical, but the other side dreamed of romance. The advertisement stated clearly that all applicants were to apply in writing. Jean quickly decided that if she went there in person, she might secure the job. She put on her bonnet and cloak, went down into the village, asked the road to Trelawney Castle, and learned it was only ten miles away.
Without saying a word to her aunt, she rose early the following morning, carrying only a small trunk, optimistically planning to send the viscount’s servants to collect the rest of her belongings which she had left packed in her bedroom. If she did not get the position—well, that did not even bear thinking of. Her hopes high, she set out on foot under a gray and lowering sky. Trelawney Castle, she had learned, was on the coast. Lord Hunterdon had recently inherited it. He was unmarried.
Dreams about an unmarried viscount and a castle happily engaged Jean’s thoughts. He would be Byronic and brooding, tortured and miserable, pacing the battlements with a black cloak wrapped around his manly shoulders. He would soften under her influence until one day he would seize her in his arms and cry, “Be mine, Jean Morrison!”
Jean finally reached the deserted lodge and rusty gates. It was all very depressing. She had heard Mr. Courtney was rich, and surely a viscount was rich. Jean had been brought up on the lines of a penny saved is a penny earned, and she had been looking forward to luxurious surroundings.
