by Esther Hatch
Mrs. Jorgensen’s shoulders dropped, and for a moment, Patience thought she was about to see the swift and terrible punishment such a woman could bestow. Instead Mrs. Jorgensen snorted. She looked back and forth between her brother and Patience, her face finally relaxed.
“Anthony, I think this is a terrible plan. But I do commend you on your choice of women. I believe she will do quite well.”
“Thank you,” Patience responded, her form naturally straightening to the posture that had been drilled into her since her youth. “I hope the wig looks natural as it is, but I promise to make my health very visible. No one will think your brother is pursuing a lady of disrepute. We will put on such a good show that this Morgan family will be worried sick about losing him. I suspect a marriage will be announced within a fortnight.” Patience eyed the door but stopped herself before actually commanding Mrs. Jorgensen to leave. She had children to meet and a ball to prepare for. The children made her a bit nervous, but the ball would be no trouble. Balls were the one thing she had actually been trained for. Whatever else happened tonight, at least she wouldn’t be sweeping floors or ruining furniture.
Mrs. Jorgensen finally walked through the door, and Patience followed her. To her surprise, Mr. Woodsworth left the room with them. For some reason, she hadn’t thought he was going to join them in the nursery.
Patience was going to be caring for children. She’d had a governess, and she even remembered some of the things her governess had taught her. Other than that, she was going to be lost in the nursery. Still, that knowledge was more than she had of housework. She might actually be able to perform these duties.
After climbing the stairs to the upper level, Mr. Woodsworth passed by her, his leg brushing the outside of her skirts in the narrow corridor. He didn’t seem to notice, but she instinctively pushed herself to one side. First, he was in her bedroom, and now he walked by her so closely without thought. There were advantages to being a maid and nearly invisible, she supposed. Other than Nicholas, no man had ever seemed so comfortable around her.
Mr. Woodsworth opened the door for his sister and motioned for her to enter. Patience followed, not sure if she should wait for Mr. Woodsworth to enter before her or not. As a maid, she should wait, but she had been promoted, hadn’t she? She wasn’t sure.
Mr. Woodsworth stood waiting for her, so she went in.
A maid she hadn’t seen before sat in one corner of the room. Two children, one boy and one girl, sat at a table. They rose when they saw their mother but didn’t run over to her. Instead they waited with large eyes and closed mouths. Patience looked between them and the two Woodsworth siblings. The boy, who looked to be about five years old, didn’t have the perpetual lines on his face like Mr. Woodsworth, but his serious expression was the same. The little girl was standing straight just like her mother, despite being a couple years younger than her brother.
“You may sit,” Mrs. Jorgensen said. And they did. Mrs. Jorgensen placed the wig on a nearby dresser and came back to stand by Patience’s side. “This is Miss Patience. She is going to be your governess for the few weeks we are here with Uncle Woodsworth.”
Governess. No one had told her she would be considered a governess.
Two pairs of eyes darted toward her. The little girl bit her lip and then stopped. She couldn’t be more than three. Certainly much too young for a governess. But it wasn’t as though they actually expected her to teach these quiet children. This was just part of the plan for her to have an excuse when she needed to attend social functions with Mr. Woodsworth.
“Patience.” Mrs. Jorgensen didn’t bother to add the “Miss” when speaking directly to her, a not-so-subtle reminder of her actual place in the household. To Mrs. Jorgensen, she would always be a maid. “This is my son, Harry, and my daughter, Augusta. They are young to have a governess, and yet they show remarkable talent. Especially Augusta. She can already count above fifteen, and she is only three. I suspect she could be the next Lady Lovelace.”
“And Harry?”
“Harry is six and will go into the service, of course. At home he is already practicing strategy. I assume you have no knowledge of that, but I will pick out some books for you.”
Patience nodded, glancing once again at the two quiet children. They were as serious as Nicholas and Mr. Woodsworth already, and only a few years into life. She sat in one of the four small chairs around the petite table. Harry straightened his spine to the point that Patience was worried he would topple the chair behind him. His eyes flicked down to the book he and his sister had been reading before she had come in. A world atlas. Heavy reading for children of six and three. One more nervous glance from her young student made her look more closely at the book. Tucked deep inside was something thick enough to cause the pages to bunch up on either side.
She raised an eyebrow at the boy, and his hands went to cover the book. Mr. Woodsworth and Mrs. Jorgensen were conversing in a corner, ignoring them. Patience picked up her chair and moved it to the same side of the square table as Harry.
“What is it you are reading?” she asked.
“Father is in the Freetown. We are reading about it,” Harry said with his hands still on top of the closed book.
“Oh, is it far away?”
“Very far.”
“How long has your father been there?”
Little Harry kept eye contact with her. Just as a young gentleman, or aspiring general, should. “He left when Augusta was almost two.”
A whole year. These poor children had been without their father for the past year. “And what do you have inside the book?”
Harry’s hand clamped down harder. Patience leaned forward. “You don’t have to show me. But I promise not to get mad. I like to keep secrets as well.” Patience glanced at her employers, who were still busy conversing with each other.
Harry slid his hand off the top of the book. He pulled another, thinner book out from the middle of the large tome. The edges of this book were painted in dark red, and inside were pictures of fantastical things. The page Harry had marked with his thumb contained a picture of a duck in the middle of a pond. She couldn’t read the words, though, as they were all in Danish.
“Why are you hiding this?”
“Duck,” said Augusta, the apparent math genius, as she smiled and pointed to the book.
“Shhh,” Harry shushed.
“I’m your governess now, and I tell you this book is completely acceptable. I will even ask permission.” Patience smiled in a way she hoped the young boy would take as confident. She walked over to a bookshelf and placed the picture book back on the shelf. Every other book was on a subject she would find difficult to enjoy, and she loved reading. How had the duckling book even made it into the library?
“So these are the books I am to use for the children’s education?” Patience asked loudly enough for Mrs. Jorgensen to hear her.
“Yes.”
“And they are all acceptable?”
“Yes, of course. We wouldn’t bring unsuitable books into the nursery,” Mrs. Jorgensen answered. A title under Patience’s finger read Geometry in Three Parts. Apparently Mrs. Jorgensen’s idea of suitable and hers were quite different.
She pulled the Danish book from the shelf and brought it back to the children triumphantly. “See, now you can read without worry. Your mother has given permission.”
Patience pulled out the book and opened it to the first page. She couldn’t read a word, but the pictures were interesting. “What is this book about?”
“It’s stories,” Harry said, still eyeing his mother. “Papa can read them. Grandmother gave them to us, and she wrote in a letter what they were about, but I only remember one.” Harry turned to the middle of the book. “The Ugly Duck.”
“A story about an ugly duck—that is interesting. What does the duck do?”
“He is ugly,” said Augusta. “An
ugly duck.”
“Everyone always talks about how ugly he is,” explained Harry. “But then one day, he is beautiful.”
“Oh.” Patience glanced at Mr. Woodsworth. “I believe I have met someone like that.”
“Who?” asked Augusta, her dark brown eyes wide with interest. “Who is an ugly duck?”
“Oh, no one is an ugly duck, exactly, but don’t you think your uncle is a bit serious?”
Both of the children stared back at her with their heads cocked to one side.
“You think Uncle Anthony is an ugly duck?” Harry asked, his voice louder than Patience would have liked. Mr. Woodsworth glanced in their direction for a moment. “I don’t think he is ugly.”
“Oh, neither do I, but I have seen him turn beautiful.”
“Uncle turned beautiful?” Little Augusta’s eyes brightened, and she turned to look at her uncle with what looked like a newfound respect.
“How did he do it?” Harry looked skeptical. “And why isn’t he beautiful now?”
“I think he is beautiful now.” Augusta bent toward Patience, looking for confirmation. “Why don’t you think he is beautiful now?”
“Oh, he does strike quite a figure.” Patience truly hoped he was out of hearing distance. “But I saw him turn beautiful just like that duck. And it was easy. He just had to do one simple thing. Do you know what that was?”
Both of the children shook their heads.
“He smiled. Have you seen your uncle smile?”
Augusta put a finger to her lips and tipped her head to the side. Harry also looked deep in thought as he said, “I’ve seen Uncle smile.”
“When?” Patience asked.
That stumped him. He had no reply.
“Should we make him smile now? You can see him change just like that duck did.”
This time both of the children nodded, their eyes wide.
“Are you going to tickle him?” Harry asked.
Patience covered a snort with her hand. Mr. Woodsworth’s eyes flashed in their direction once again, only this time Patience was picturing her fingers reaching under his jacket to find just the right place to torment his ribs. Mr. Woodsworth’s frown deepened as if he could read her thoughts. His disapproving face just made her want to laugh harder though, and she grabbed the edge of the table with all her might. This was exactly what Nicholas must have meant when he told her to be more serious. She couldn’t let her guard down, even around these children. Mr. Woodsworth didn’t seem to be the type of man who would appreciate humor. He looked away eventually, and she took a giant breath.
“No, I will not be tickling Mr. Woodsworth. We must think of a different tactic to make him smile.”
“Biscuits,” said little Augusta. “Biscuits always make Harry smile.”
“They make me smile too, but unfortunately I don’t have any biscuits.”
“Dance with him.” Harry’s face lit up, and Patience realized the transformation must run in the family; the boy looked completely different.
“Pardon me?” Patience asked.
“That is how Papa always got Mama to smile.” He threw his shoulders back in triumph. “He loved to make Mama smile.”
Patience glanced over at Mr. Woodsworth. She couldn’t imagine dancing with him here in the nursery, and she hardly thought that would make him smile.
“I don’t think dancing is the right answer.” What would make a man like Mr. Woodsworth smile? A well-balanced ledger? “Tickling might be the only answer, but I am afraid I don’t know your uncle well enough to do that. Why don’t you tickle him, Harry?”
“Me?” he squawked. “I don’t think I know him well enough either.”
“Quite possibly no one does,” Patience said. Mr. Woodsworth and his sister were walking toward them. “We will think on it, and perhaps we can come up with something together. I shall be spending a lot of time with you, and Augusta can only work on her numbers so often in a day.”
“Are you sure she is competent enough to be with the children? She is just a maid,” Mrs. Jorgensen was saying once again in French. Patience focused on the book the children were looking at. Mr. Woodsworth and his sister weren’t lowering their voices or talking behind their hands. They obviously felt secure in their knowledge that the new maid wouldn’t understand them.
“She is competent,” Mr. Woodsworth said. “See how your children have already warmed up to her. She may be unconventional, but there is something about her that inspires confidence.”
“A maid that inspires confidence?”
“Oui” was Mr. Woodsworth’s short answer. Patience didn’t dare look up. She feared her eyes would be shining in gratitude. No one had ever said anything like that about her before. He was probably just saying it to appease his sister, but Patience would remember it anyway. She was someone who inspired confidence. That was no small feat. And it had nothing to do with being the daughter of a duke. It was Patience herself he was speaking of, not her position.
“How was your visit with Miss Patience?” Mrs. Jorgensen asked her children, returning to English.
“Good,” Harry answered.
“She thinks Uncle is a duck.” Augusta piped up.
It took all of Patience’s control not to throw a hand over Augusta’s mouth. Perhaps she had inspired too much confidence in the girl. “I didn’t say that.”
“Are you a duck?” Augusta asked.
“No, he is not a duck.” Patience didn’t dare look at his face. Those frown lines would be deep.
“But you said—” Augusta started. Patience gave up on propriety and threw a hand over her mouth.
“I never said you were a duck.” Patience snuck a look at Mr. Woodsworth’s face. He wasn’t actually frowning—it was more of a confused scowl.
“That’s true,” said Harry. Bless the boy. “She never called you a duck.”
Patience dropped her hand away from Augusta’s face and straightened as much as she could in the tiny child’s chair she was sitting in. “You see, I would never call you a duck.”
“She said you smile like a duck.” Harry snorted and ducked his head down. Patience shot him a look that she hoped conveyed her disappointment in his disloyalty.
“And she said she wouldn’t tickle you.” Augusta simply had to put the final nail in her coffin, and right after Mr. Woodsworth had called Patience competent. It had been nice while it had lasted.
“Well,” Mr. Woodsworth said, “it sounds as though you three will have quite a time together, even if it is at my expense.” He cleared his throat. “But I’m afraid we must leave you. Miss Patience has quite the evening ahead of her and must spend some time with your mother in order to prepare for it. And it is time for my walk.”
Patience jumped up before the children could say anything more damaging to her character. She turned to give them one last wink before leaving the room behind Mr. Woodsworth and their mother. She would have to be much more careful about what she said around them, but she felt better about her task already. If Mr. Woodsworth felt she was capable of attending to them, then she must be. Mr. Woodsworth didn’t seem like the type of person to ever be wrong.
Chapter 8
Anthony was barely listening to Stewart Fairchild explain the advantages of investing in the railroad. He already had several investments in railroad lines, and the returns were even better than his friend was quoting. On any other night, he would have been happy to advise Stewart, but not tonight. His eyes kept returning to the open double doors of the ballroom. Sophia and Patience should be arriving any moment. The Simpsons’ ball wasn’t a spectacular event. The invitations were limited to close family and friends, which worked well for their plan. He and Patience wouldn’t get lost in a crowd. His attentions to her would be noticed, not only by the Morgan family, but by other attendees as well.
Sophia had requested the extra in
vitation for her friend. And while Father wasn’t exactly high society, most of London was scared of him, and so Sophia received an extra invitation even though it was asked for only a day in advance. Anthony hadn’t seen Patience or his sister since the nursery. He had expected Sophia to ask him for help at least once during their training—to teach Patience the waltz at a minimum—but they had never come. The plan had been for them to arrive in separate carriages at different times. And he’d ended up leaving before he had a chance to speak with them. He mentally went through the story he and Sophia had concocted. Patience’s family were longtime friends with the Woodsworths. That would explain Patience’s arrival with Sophia and his immediate inclination to spend time with her.
“Don’t you agree, Anthony?”
Anthony dragged his eyes away from the door and turned his attention to Stewart. “I’m sorry, I was looking for my sister and missed your question. What was it?”
“I asked if you felt wide track or narrow gauge is the better investment in the long run. Brunel is using wide, so I’m inclined to invest with him.” Stewart was in earnest. Anthony had advised him on several other investments, and all of them had turned out well for both parties.
“I quite honestly know next to nothing about gauges. I’m afraid I would be the wrong person to ask. The returns I have seen coming in are promising though, and I have debated putting more . . .”
Sophia walked into the room. Behind her was a nearly unrecognizable Patience. If it weren’t for the yellow dress, he wouldn’t have thought it could be her. Her poise was perfect. Almost too perfect. Perhaps he should tell her not to try quite so hard. Not many ladies had such an air about them. It was as if she owned the room. Her shoulders were back, her chin lifted just the right amount. It was distracting—as if she were above everyone else here. He wanted the Morgans to be curious about her but would prefer that not every man in the room be interested in her as well.
“What were you saying?” Stewart asked.
Anthony shook his head. Now he had been rude to his friend twice. “I’m sorry, it is just that Sophia has arrived, and I was distracted for a moment.”
