Eliza dragged herself through the morning barely able to summon enough energy to function. She was utterly exhausted and out of sorts. As much as they loved her, the Coles would never fully understand what she endured each night, and last night had been particularly unpleasant. At three and twenty she knew it was time to move along and start a new life for herself, but she was unsure exactly how to go about it.
She had considered applying to an employment agency for lady’s companions and governesses but had not dared to journey to London for the interview process. She had also been loath to leave her siblings and people like the Wainwrights who depended on her.
“Eliza, please go out to the garden and bring in whatever ripened vegetables you find. I wish to provide Mrs. Philips with a decent table for luncheon,” Mrs. Cole asked.
“Of course,” Eliza replied and went to do as she was told.
As she knelt among the rich dirt, she closed her eyes and breathed in the earthy smell. “Miss Bolton,” a voice interrupted her quiet moment.
Opening her eyes, Eliza turned to see who had spoken her name. “Mrs. Wainwright! What are you doing here? Has something happened to your husband?”
“Yes and no… A man came to our cottage shortly after you departed claiming that we had paid too much in taxes and that he had come to return the excess in funds. He left us a large sack of food and enough money to see us back on our feet for a time, including paying the surgeon to attend my husband.” Mrs. Wainwright practically glowed with happiness. “It is a miracle.”
“Indeed! I am so happy for you both,” Eliza exclaimed with joy. She arose from her kneeling position and walked over to the fence where her visitor stood taking her hands in celebration of the wonderful news. “Who was this generous man?”
“I do not know. He never gave his name, and his face was covered by a woolen scarf and hat. I did note that he had the bluest eyes I have ever seen,” Mrs. Wainwright answered. “A young man I believe.”
My rescuer! Eliza’s heart jumped in recognition of the man’s description. Eliza shared with her the events of the night before.
“A masked hero,” Mrs. Wainwright proclaimed in awe. “It is blessed indeed that you were not harmed. With the return of our funds, there will no longer be a need for you to traverse the roads at night. You are always welcome in our house, and we will never forget what you have done for use. For your safety, I think it would be best for you to only visit during the day in the future.”
“I agree,” Eliza confirmed. “I am beyond thrilled that you will no longer need my services, but I will miss our time together. Perhaps I can come and visit each week just to talk?”
“That would be splendid,” Mrs. Wainwright encouraged. “Thank you ever so much for all you have done.” She embraced Eliza in a tight hug of exultation and appreciation, then said her farewells. “I must return to my husband’s bedside once I have fetched the surgeon. I will see you soon.”
“Of course,” Eliza agreed and waved goodbye.
Eliza knelt back down among the garden vegetables. My reasons for remaining here are growing fewer in number.
Just last week Mr. Cole had been discussing possible marriage candidates for her. Something she very much did not wish for. Usually, she was content in her lot, but mornings like this one where she longed for the freedom to determine her own schedule, to organize her own life, made her stop and think about what the future might hold for her elsewhere.
She had often thought of writing as a possible career, and with women writers such as Miss Austen making a name for themselves, such a thing seemed more possible than ever before. If she were able to determine her own schedule, then perhaps she could pursue such an occupation in her off hours.
Where would I even begin? I cannot go off to London on my own, unchaperoned, and Father would never agree to take me. He has very different ideas for my future. If he had his way, he would have me married to the butcher’s son and living next door with half a dozen children.
“Eliza, please hurry. We do not have all day to wait for you, my dear,” Mrs. Cole called from the doorway.
“Coming, Mother.”
Eliza and the Cole children assisted their mother in scrubbing every surface of the house and putting together a delicious luncheon for her friend. When Mrs. Philips arrived, Mrs. Cole gushed with pleasure to see her. “It has been too long,” Mrs. Cole stated, leading her friend to the sitting room.
“Indeed,” Mrs. Philips agreed. Turning to Eliza, she said, “My, how you have blossomed into a young woman seemingly overnight! You are quite lovely, my dear.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Philips,” Eliza accepted the compliment with a curtsy, then went to pour their guest a cup of tea.
“I have a rather interesting proposition for you, Eliza, if you are interested. The Duke and Dowager Duchess of Rosenhill are seeking to hire a new governess for the twins: Lord Gabriel and Lady Charlotte. Is that something you would be interested in? I told them I would inquire and, if so, I will recommend you to the position,” Mrs. Philips asked, taking the offered teacup from Eliza’s hand and lowered herself upon the settee.
“Truly?” Eliza could hardly believe her ears. Had she not just this morning been wondering about how to procure such employment?
“Yes, truly,” Mrs. Philips nodded in affirmation.
“I don’t know what to say.” Eliza felt giddy with the possibility.
“Say, yes,” Mrs. Philips urged. “It will not be easy, but the twins could benefit greatly from a loving, steady hand such as yours.”
“We should discuss it with Mr. Cole upon his arrival home this evening,” Mrs. Cole advised.
“Of course,” Mrs. Philips replied. “Take the evening to think upon it, but do not tarry overlong for they wish to hire someone right away.”
“Yes. Thank you, Mrs. Philips,” Eliza replied, then remained quiet for the remainder of the visit thinking about the possibilities of life at Rosenhill.
Later that night after supper, the Cole family gathered around the sitting room fireplace to discuss Mrs. Philip’s job offer. “Are you sure this is what you want, Eliza? I have heard stories about the Dowager Duchess and the former Duke. They were not pleasant,” Mr. Cole warned.
“Yes, I am sure. I have been looking for just such an opportunity.”
“What about marriage, settling down, raising a family?” he asked.
“Father, you know as well as I that no man is going to tolerate someone such as I with my night terrors and other nocturnal activities.”
“True, it is rare to find a person who can walk about talking, eating, and…” he paused not wishing to finish the sentence.
“And fight back in their sleep,” Eliza finished for him.
“Yes, but I would not have let such a thing keep me from marrying Mrs. Cole and I am sure the butcher’s son would not mind over-much,” he argued.
“Father, I love you and would do anything to please you, but what you are proposing is not the life I would choose for myself. I simply wish to remain unmarried and live a quiet, productive life of educational and literary pursuits.” Eliza pleaded with her eyes for him to understand.
“You would leave us, ‘Liza?” Little Oliver’s lip quivered at the notion.
“Never,” Eliza promised. “I would simply be down the road and would visit constantly.”
“Truly?” His tiny features begged her to confirm her words.
“Truly,” Eliza affirmed taking him into her lap offering him comfort.
“If it is what you honestly wish to do, then I will not stand in your way,” Mr. Cole acquiesced. “But we will miss you more than you know.”
The image of his face on the night he had retrieved her, burned and terrified in the front garden of her childhood home, flashed before her eyes. He had been strong for her that night and had looked out for her wellbeing from that day forward. She had never once doubted that she was loved by either he or his wife. They had had tears in their eyes that night, and they had t
ears in their eyes now. It broke Eliza’s heart to look at them.
“If it does not succeed for any reason, you return home without delay. I will not have you mistreated, whether your employers are nobility or not,” Mr. Cole commanded. “I will not stand for any form of abuse to my little girl.”
Eliza smiled at his words. He had never once treated her as anything but his own flesh and blood, his first-born. No matter what she had done, no matter how many times she had awakened him screaming in the night, no matter how much she had grown in his eyes, she would always be his little girl.
“What kind of stories have you heard, Father?” Eliza asked.
“As you know, I am not one to repeat gossip, but it is rumored that the former Duke was murdered for his part in criminal activities and that the Dowager Duchess might have had something to do with it,” he answered.
“Surely not! A lady of her standing,” Mrs. Cole protested.
“As I say it is only rumor, but it pays to be cautious when dealing with the nobility,” he advised.
For some reason she could not quite identify, a shivery chill of foreboding ran up her spine. Could the Dowager Duchess truly be capable of murdering her own husband?
Chapter 3
Eliza stood in the drive staring up at Rosenhill Manor, her mouth agape.
She had heard tales of Rosenhill’s glory but had never seen it herself. The yellow stone walls and golden accents glinted in the sun like a beacon of light. Whether it was beckoning wayfarers to come closer or to avoid it altogether, Eliza wasn’t yet sure.
Roses of every size and color cascaded along the drive and down the slope that led away from the house to a water garden below its front face. The air was filled with their sweet perfume. The name Rosenhill suddenly made a great deal of sense. The house itself resembled that of a yellow rose opening up and sprawling out in all its glory.
The Huntley crest and coat of arms were carved into the wooden doors. The bronze handles were in the shape of hunting horns, and the knocker was the depiction of an enormous stag. Everything about the place bespoke power and wealth. Eliza felt like an insect in comparison. She had worn her best lavender frock and done her hair up in the latest style with ringlets framing her face.
She had come for an interview with Mrs. Philips and the head butler, Mr. Danvers. If the head butler approved of her, then she would be presented to the Duke and Dowager Duchess for final approval. Eliza was nervous. She had never met nobility before and was not quite sure she knew how to act. She feared she would do something amiss and be denied.
Being a governess was a serious job in which the lives and care of another person’s children would be in her hands. She had fearlessly cared for her siblings over the years, but this was not quite the same thing. She prayed that she would not embarrass herself or her family.
Eliza walked around to the servant’s entrance and knocked on the door. Mrs. Philips answered greeting her warmly. She ushered Eliza inside and down the hall to the butler’s office. Knocking on the door, they were bade entry. “Mr. Danvers, this is the young woman I was telling you about, Miss Eliza Bolton. Eliza, this is Mr. Danvers, the head butler of Rosenhill Manor.”
“A pleasure to meet you, Miss Bolton,” Mr. Danvers greeted. “I have heard a great many things about your character, all of them complimentary.”
“Thank you, sir,” Eliza replied blushing.
“This interview is merely a formality. If Mrs. Philips believes you are the young lady for the position of governess, then I trust that you are capable,” Mr. Danvers informed her. “Please sit and tell me about yourself, your family. What does your father do?”
“My birth father, Daniel Bolton, was a teacher of superlative intellect. My adopted father, John Cole, is a talented carpenter,” Eliza answered honestly. It pained her to talk about her birth father to a complete stranger, but she did not want an omission of her pedigree to be the cause by which she was denied the position.
“My sympathies for your loss, Miss Bolton,” Mr. Danvers replied. “Your mother’s people?”
“My birth mother, Sarah, was a Jones. Her father was a naval captain in His Majesty’s service. He died in the war for the Americas. My grandmother joined him shortly thereafter from a broken heart,” Eliza explained from what she could remember of her mother’s stories.
“And your father’s parents?” he inquired.
“Deceased. I am afraid I do not remember much about them. I was but six when my parents died,” Eliza apologized for her lack of knowledge.
“You are no stranger to adversity,” Mr. Danvers observed studying her face. “Mrs. Philips has told me of your work with the Cole children and with Mrs. Keen in the village. I believe we can safely say you have experience in child rearing.”
“Yes, sir,” Eliza affirmed.
“Shall we go above stairs and introduce you to His Grace and the Dowager Duchess?” he asked.
“Yes, please,” Eliza replied; her stomach fluttered with nervousness.
“Follow me,” he instructed, and Eliza obeyed.
Mr. Danvers and Mrs. Philips led her up a staircase, down a hallway, through a side door, down another hallway, and into a spacious drawing room of powder blue and silver. It was exquisite. A large row of windows took up the entirety of one wall looking out over the rose garden. Silver gilt mirrors reflected the light causing it to bounce around the room, shining from every silver surface.
“Your Grace…May I present Miss Eliza Bolton, the applicant for the governess position. Miss Bolton, His Grace, Arthur Huntley, Duke of Rosenhill and his lady mother, Her Grace, the Dowager Duchess, Margaret Huntley.” Mr. Danvers made the introductions with the most gallant of flourishes. Eliza could not help but smile. Mr. Danvers was genuinely meant for his occupation in every way imaginable.
“Miss Bolton, a pleasure,” the Duke greeted from his position by the window. He came around the settee where his mother was perched upon the edge of her seat, back ramrod straight, silver-blonde hair perfectly in place, green eyes assessing her every move. The Duke was much more amiable and came to stand directly in front of her. His blonde hair lay in short waves as was the current fashion. His eyes sparkled with genuine pleasure at meeting her.
That voice… those eyes!
She had seen his eyes before, so blue.
It could not possibly be him. The resemblance to her midnight savior was uncanny. Surely not. A duke would have no reason to be going about the streets at night masked fighting off attackers.
Coming to her senses before she made a complete and utter fool of herself, she curtsied in greeting. “Your Grace,” she murmured, averting her eyes to the floor. “The pleasure is mine.”
“To be sure,” the Dowager Duchess remarked snidely.
“Miss Bolton comes with the highest of recommendations from Mrs. Philips and has experience in caring for children. I have talked with her and am in agreement with Mrs. Philips on the matter,” Mr. Danvers explained.
“Excellent,” the Duke replied. “When can you start?”
“Right away, Your Grace,” Eliza answered, shocked that it had been so easy. She had expected to be ground into meal via interrogation but instead had been welcomed with open arms. They must be desperate indeed for a governess…that, or Mrs. Philips is truly respected above all others. Mayhap both.
“Wonderful! Mrs. Philips can show you to the nursery so that you can meet the children. After that, she can show you to your room and help you to settle in. Have you brought your belongings with you or shall I send a man to collect them?” the Duke offered.
“That is most kind of Your Grace, but I would prefer to collect them myself and share the good news with my family,” Eliza replied shyly.
“Of course. Please make sure to let Mrs. Philips know if you need any assistance, and I will have a groomsman accompany you,” the Duke replied.
“Thank you, Your Grace.” Eliza curtsied.
“Thank you, Miss Bolton.” The Duke courteously bowed in reply.
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As they exited the drawing room and entered the main hall, Eliza stopped to view a large portrait that hung on the wall. “The late Duke, His Grace’s father,” Mrs. Philips informed her.
The man was tall and broad-chested like his son, with the same brilliant blue eyes, but where the young Duke’s were warm, his father’s were ice cold. There was a cruelty that glinted behind them. Eliza wondered if it was a trick of the artist or if he had actually caught the real character of the man.
Unlike his son’s golden blonde locks, the late Duke had sported a thick mane of coal black hair accompanied by a matching mustache. A rather large scar cut down his left cheek making him appear more rogue than Duke. He sat tall upon his black hunting steed surrounded by baying hounds with a dead stag across the front of his horse. The artist had done a superlative job. The painting was so lively it felt as if it could have come down off of the canvas.
The Defiant Governess of Rosenhill Manor: A Historical Regency Romance Novel Page 4
