A Governess Should Never... Tempt a Prizefighter

by Emily Windsor

  He’d seen dreams, both minuscule and immense, shattered before: respected fighters who’d lost their last chance at a championship; wives whose soldier husbands had not returned from battle. Even the starving dogs that slunk from the butcher’s back door when they realised there would be no bones that week.

  No matter the circumstance, wealth or poverty, everyone had dreams. And Miss Griffin’s, he realised, were to travel – to see the birds she so adored. Foolish dreams, some might claim for a genteel lady turned governess, but no dreams were foolish – as that was rather the point.

  Yet when one thought a dream might no longer be possible, a sadness eclipsed the joy in life, a loss that had no reality.

  He remembered losing a fight when Chloe had been young. Recalled trudging home, certain his dream of the Academy was an absurd delusion.

  Betty had taken one look at him and shoved a beef pasty in the ancient range oven, and Chloe, with that innate knowledge of a child, had hugged his knee. Betty’s husband had arrived to debate his defeat and how to strengthen for the next fight, and his old friend, Kian, had barrelled through the door with a keg of ale.

  And with their good cheer and optimism, the future had brightened, his soul had arisen and all of a sudden, everything had seemed possible.

  Dreams may fade, new ones arise, they may evolve or stay ever constant, but they made life worth living – be they others’ or your own, trivial or ambitious, serious or foolish.

  All dreams should be treasured.

  “Thank you, Mr Hawkins. I’ve had a wonderful day.”

  And Seth turned to smile at his governess.

  Chapter Nine

  “For birds are like men in their contests together.”

  Private Education: A Practical Plan for the Studies of Young Ladies.

  Elizabeth Appleton. 1815.

  “Do you think Miss Griffin pretty, Pa?”

  “Er…” Seth had once vowed to respond to all of Chloe’s questions most truthfully, but he sensed a trap left as wide as a barn door on a summer’s noon. His daughter dallied by the wardrobe, her innocent green gaze concealing devilish intent, and his own eyes narrowed. “Chloe Maggie Hawkins. Dismiss any tomfool idea rattling around that attic of yours this instant or I shall be forced to add the quilling of tea caddies to your lesson plan.”

  His daughter merely grinned. “So, you’re not denying she’s pretty.”

  “Waistcoat,” he demanded with outstretched hand. Then flinched. “A bit garish?”

  “I prefer to call it burnished, and the gold highlights your eyes. Perfect for an 1811 Champions’ Dinner.”

  Shrugging it on, he made for the mirror to attempt a coachman’s knot for his cravat – the cascade style was too much of a faff and made him look like a lace fountain.

  “I think Miss Griffin finds you handsome.”

  He rolled his eyes…and ignored the frisson to his gizzards. “I’m your father. You’re supposed to think everyone finds me handsome. It’s obligatory.”

  “Miss Figstone certainly finds you handsome. Is she coming tonight? I saw her from the landing last time she came to dinner – she bats her lashes at you and thrusts her dumplings.”

  “Language, Chloe. Yes she’s coming and no she doesn’t.” Actually she did, but that was by the by.

  “Hmm. You stay alert, Pa. She’s got plans.”

  “So have you, it appears.” Seth completed the cravat knot with a flourish, straightened it, and donned his jacket. “Is Modesty here yet?”

  “No. She’s arriving at seven, and if there’s no rain, her parents are taking us to see the tight-rope walker at Vauxhall Gardens.”

  Once a fortnight, Modesty’s parents took the girls out for the evening and so they’d arranged tonight to coincide with the dinner – preferable to having his daughter earwig from the landing.

  “Well, keep close to them at all times.” And he bussed her forehead. Not that he had to worry with Chloe’s pugilistic skills.

  “Of course. And…maybe you should wear the amber stick pin.”

  “Amber?” Odd choice, but he rootled in the bottom of the drawer and held it to the light. “Why amber?”

  “It matches the waistcoat.” He peered down. So it did. Chloe tweaked his cravat to crooked – apparently it gave a rakish air – then saturated him with Spanish Leather cologne. “Perfect.” She nodded. “Go slay ’em, Pa.”

  Birds of Paradise in the flesh, Matilda reflected.

  Except these were no flighted warm-blooded vertebrates from the Molucca Islands, but the wives of the Prizefighting Champions who flitted about the drawing room for pre-dinner sherries in silks, feathers and lace.

  Matilda felt an alliance with the stuffed specimens from Bullock’s Museum – tired, rather moth-eaten and out of their habitat.

  Late into last night, she had reacquainted herself with the schoolroom’s copy of Miss Pikesworth’s Guide to Etiquette. Within paragraph five of the chapter entitled ‘Faultless Entertainment’, Miss Pikesworth had pointed out that a hostess should greet her guests with a cordial nod and an enquiry regarding the weather.

  But all the guests had appeared to be on familiar terms and so introductions had been a flurry of hugs, kisses, manly handshakes and sturdy backslaps.

  No one cared to lament the rain.

  Seventeen persons had crowded into the drawing room, a devil of an odd number to later sit for dinner, but nevertheless eleven gentlemen and six ladies now mingled, gulping sherry and scoffing lobster patties.

  Paragraph eight of the ‘Decorous Dining’ chapter then dictated that in order to avoid embarrassing silences during drinks, the hostess should preserve a flowing conversation via a wide range of topics – the latest music from Vienna, the latest turban fashions from France or the latest silk styles from India.

  But this assemblage required no such guidance.

  They discussed their children or friends and their professions since retirement, nattering over each other and swapping gossip more adroitly then the Almack’s patronesses.

  Matilda made her excuses and left the svelte Mrs Medley chatting to a dapper Mr Belcher about Benjamin Brain’s tripe shop and instead attached herself to a group discussing Wifflin’ Willie, who had ventured to Wales for a ‘milling-set-to’, never to return.

  It meant nothing to her. Should she steer the conversation to Vienna?

  Matilda disattached herself without anyone noticing, pottered to the decanters to check the sherry was replete and then silently lurked in the corner like the cauliflower she’d pronounced herself.

  She pondered whether her lacklustre performance as hostess would be sufficient to earn her a bundle of brown governess gowns at all and then cogitated how long it would take to bury Miss Pikesworth.

  The book, of course.

  “I do adore your golden frock, Miss Griffin. Is it genuine silk?”

  She twisted to a lady in lustrous lilac, tall with ringlets the hue of morning sunshine.

  “Thank you so much, I believe so…” And all of a sudden, Matilda became horribly aware she could not remember the voluptuous beauty’s name. “Have you come far?”

  Although she was certain the surname had begun with a P…or a D.

  “Cheshire, actually. A little market town called Altrincham.”

  Matilda blinked. “Goodness, ’tis a long way to travel for a dinner.”

  Mrs Pewhurst? No. Dalworth?

  “It gives us a chance to visit the London swag shops, and Tim’s never missed a Champions’ grub-up.”

  “Tim?”

  Tim…?

  “Mr Dewhurst, my husband.”

  Phew. Faux pas averted.

  Matilda nodded sagely. “The gentleman in the black jacket?”

  “That’s Giles. Mine’s the one in brown.”

  Incompetent nitterwit.

  “And your husband won a big…mill?”

  Mrs Dewhurst’s lips twitched. “Three Commons titles, actually. Wimbledon, Worcester and Epsom. Tim the Turfer, they used
to call him. Previously a butcher, but now we have a little farm.” She twirled a glove-clad hand. “I don’t miss the fight days but I do miss the friends we made. Many of us have not seen one another for an age as we all live in various parts of England now, although Nobbler Nick and his sister still live at their old Marylebone address.” She leaned near, tuberose perfume wafting. “No doubt we’ll all be nattering till the early hours.”

  Dear heavens.

  Although that was unkind as Mrs Dewhurst was truly delightful. They all were. It was herself who was the odd one out – Matilda the Mopsey.

  “And Nobbler Nick is…?”

  “Oh, Mr Nick Figstone, the buffer in bottle green talking to Giles. And his sister is chatting to Seth.”

  A headache loomed from all the names, but through the throng of guests, she surreptitiously surveyed her employer, who loitered by the French doors conversing with a stunning female in plumage of scarlet with eyes that ran over his splendid torso like ants on a nasturtium leaf.

  “Miss Figstone?”

  “That’s the one.”

  Narrowing her gaze, she noted the lady more or less rest her sumptuous bosom upon Mr Hawkins’ forearm.

  Not that the sight affected Matilda.

  In the least.

  As long as she ignored the curious ruckus that tipped her belly inwards – probably the lobster patties.

  This night, her employer exuded charm and masculinity, a waistcoat of burnished gold highlighting his eyes and bronzed skin. An exotic paisley pattern in a darker shade overlaid the gold and its pockets were outlined in sinful black. A rakish air hung over him as he laughed at some doubtless droll remark of Miss Figstone, his relaxed mien and well-tied cravat holding her eye.

  “So why are yer enchanting ladies hiding in this corner?” a Scots drawl enquired, and Matilda twisted to be confronted by a tall rangy fellow with the bluest gaze she had ever encountered. A dab older than her employer, grey hair stippled his temples and fine lines crinkled beside his soulful eyes.

  At least she could remember his name as he’d arrived early and without a companion, hence making her table numbers odd, and he wasn’t a fighter at all, but an acquaintance of her employer.

  A Mr Kian Finlay.

  “We are discussing Miss Figstone,” whispered the lady, “and her intentions towards Seth.”

  What? No, they weren’t.

  And Miss Pikesworth had stated that such clandestine tittle-tattle was not to be encouraged by the hostess.

  The Scotsman perused. “She’s not a chance. He likes his women with a bit more up in the belfry than in breast.”

  Matilda’s toes faintly curled at such wordage, and she could only hope her own personal failure as hostess would not affect her employment as governess in any way.

  “Although,” continued Mr Finlay, “not a lot wrong with plenty o’ both.”

  An odd sense of anxiety rose from her slippers and wobbled her knees. Any hostess worth her salt should guide the conversation to Vienna and yet it was careering away faster than a hare in open grassland.

  “I…”

  “Giles the Grinder is less fussy,” replied Mrs Dewhurst with a laugh. “But then that milling cove had all the nous dubbed out of him by too many whiffles to the cannister.”

  The headache materialised and Matilda held a hand to her wrinkled brow. “I… If you will excuse me,” she stuttered. “I must go to the kitchens and check all is prepared.”

  Mr Finlay bowed. “Of course, Miss Griffin.”

  After a swift curtsey to them both, Matilda dashed for the door, crossed the hall, put spine to wall, closed her eyes and despaired.

  She was hopeless. Knew not what to say. She could read all the books that a library held but none of them would help with this.

  When her parents had held dinners, they’d always been quiet scholarly affairs, adhering to every word of Miss Pikesworth. Astwood’s were unsavoury events that she hid in her room from, and her friend Evelyn, before her abducting duke, had lived in an attic, so not had sufficient room for entertaining.

  “Wot yer doing there, girlie?”

  Matilda kept her eyes closed. “I’m useless, Betty. For all my wordage and reading, I don’t understand their language. They are all so spontaneous, sociable and beautiful and I feel…dim-witted and small.”

  Skirts rustled. Gentle hands descended to her shoulders. The scent of fresh bread and kindness. “Yer silly goose. They know each other, ’tis all. They’ve scrapped together since they were nippers and got leg shackled as youths. Bit unfair of Mr H to ask yer, I think, wot with yer being an unmarried miss and not one of them, but men never understand stuff like that.”

  “But I’ve been to dinners with unknowns before.”

  “Not as hostess, where yer supposed to have the upper hand. Now, tell Betts wot the problem is.”

  Matilda breathed deep. “I don’t know what milling coves are. Or whiffles. Or muzzlers. The guests are all so attractive, exuberant and uninhibited – chatting about bosoms and suchlike.”

  A snort erupted. “Were that concerning Miss Figstone, perchance?”

  “She’s wearing beautiful scarlet and making Mr Hawkins laugh.”

  Matilda hadn’t meant to say that and opened one eye.

  Betty’s bilberry eyes gleamed, her cheeks covered with flour. “Pah. Have no worry there, but…as to their lingo. If yer dunno something, how d’yer learn, girlie?”

  “Read a book.”

  Betty sighed and rolled her eyes. “And if there’s no books?”

  “Ask someone who does know.”

  “There yer go. So ask. Start with Ribber Rufus. He’s a handsome bachelor and would love to tell yer all about it.”

  “Well, yes, I suppose I could. I’d not wish to appear dim though.”

  “Do yer think I’m dim cos I dunno where El Dorado is?”

  “Not at all. Although I don’t believe anyone does.”

  “Well, then. Nobody is dim-witted, they just haven’t learned stuff yet.”

  How sage and insightful Betty was. She viewed life in a wholly different way – forever optimistic, never judgemental, and Matilda wished there’d been a Mrs Havistock but call me Betty in the Griffin household when she’d been growing up.

  “And as for the other…” Betty shook her head and tutted. “Go in there, tell ’em grubs up and feel proud of who yer are. Yer wanted experience, didn’t yer?”

  “I did, Betty. I do.”

  “Well, this is it. So enjoy it, relish it and ask questions till yer head’s brimmin’. Yer a bright, pretty girl who’s taken the bull by the horns in life. Now go ride it.”

  Maybe that was getting a dash carried away, but Matilda knew exactly what Betty meant, and bussed her on the cheek. “Thank you, Betts. You are a wonder.”

  “Away with yer. And be the gracious lady yer are with Miss Figstone – she’s a nice girl. Merely scratching up the wrong tree, ’tis all.”

  Matilda ought to clarify her interpretation of that phrase but she got the gist.

  The ‘1811 English Commons Prizefighting Champions’ Dinner’ had been an unmitigated success, but Seth nevertheless scowled as the clock chimed midnight and another giggle drifted from the sofa where Miss Griffin sat between Ribber Rufus and Giles the Grinder, her after-dinner glass of Madeira wine kept precipitously topped up by the attentive buggers.

  Telling himself that he was merely protecting his governess from any inappropriate propositions from Giles or Rufus, he gave his excuses to his friends and sidled towards the decanters…via the rear of the sofa.

  During pre-dinner sherries, he’d been worried for Miss Griffin, had noticed she appeared harassed and rather glum, a false smile plastered to her lips, and when she’d vanished from the room, it had taken all his social graces – which were few – to extricate himself from Miss Figstone’s attentions.

  His guests all knew each other too well and so took liberties, running tame about his house, pouring their own drinks, rearranging the cha
irs, shedding shawls, language was…ripe, and Nobbler Nick couldn’t read so the hostess’s elegant calligraphical script on the menu was rather pointless.

  He’d cursed himself for being such a witless dolt and had hunted her out, only to find Betty, who’d called him a witless dolt.

  But when he’d returned…

  Miss Griffin, with a true beguiling smile, had announced dinner was served, leading the way to the dining room like a golden lantern.

  Not the slightest discontent had creased her brow when, despite the placement card proclaiming it Mrs Dewhurst’s seat, Miss Figstone had dropped herself next to Seth. Instead, his hostess had swiftly rearranged the cards with a calm dexterity.

  During the feast, a rowdiness and merriment had emanated from the far end of the table causing all eyes and ears to seek its source – Miss Griffin, who’d held her companions in thrall, and Seth had lamented not being able to view her amber eyes as they’d lightened with laughter.

  After-dinner port had been swiftly guzzled by the men, eager to return to their ladies, and once again, Miss Griffin had been a mesmeric flame that he’d been unable to turn away from – beguiling the champions with questions of pugilism, complimenting the ladies on their style, flitting from group to group and captivating them all with her honesty and eagerness to learn.

  She’d likewise captivated Seth with her competence, fluttering fingers and joyful vitality – all held within a golden dress, which scattered his wits and melted his control.

  Casually, he leaned against the sofa back and earwigged in.

  “So pray tell, then,” Miss Griffin enquired, “if a snorter to the snout is a blow to the nose, what is a rattler to the rails?”

  “Jab to the teeth,” Rufus responded with a broad grin, proving he’d been able to dodge that particular blow during his career.

  “And an ogler in the gaslights?”

  “In the eye,” crowed Giles to her right with a salacious wink.