The Master's New Governess (HQR Historical)

by Eliza Redgold

  Maud took a deep, shaky breath. ‘I wanted a new start,’ she said, uncertainly. ‘A position in the country.’

  ‘I see.’ He didn’t sound convinced.

  He stood and went to the window. When he swung around his jaw was set. ‘This is a delicate matter, Miss Wilmot, but I fear it must be addressed at the outset.’

  Maud began to tremble. Somehow, he’d found out that she wasn’t Martha. Somehow, he had heard what had happened in her employment by Lord Melville.

  No one will believe your story.

  Sir Dominic moved back behind the desk, but remained standing. His expression was more severe than when he had appeared out of doors, in the garden.

  ‘I am forced to speak bluntly,’ he said. ‘You realise that there was a delay before I contacted you and offered you this post.’

  ‘Yes,’ Maud whispered, trying to still her trembling body.

  ‘There have been other governesses.’ He exhaled. ‘Two, in fact.’

  The trembling in her body turned to shaking she could barely disguise.

  ‘As a widower, I have discovered myself to be the subject of some...romantic notions.’ He laid his hand flat on the desk. His signet ring glinted. ‘It seems to be a fantasy of certain governesses that they might marry the master of the house.’

  ‘Oh!’ Maud felt as if he had thrown cold water over her.

  ‘Surely you have heard of such things?’ he asked curtly.

  ‘Indeed I have.’ As his meaning sank in, the shaking in her body disappeared as anger made its way through her limbs. ‘But in my experience, it is less to do with the expectations of the governess and more to do with those of the master of the house.’

  He lifted his eyebrow. ‘Is that so?’

  ‘Women are all too often blamed for the behaviour of men.’ She was unable to keep the bitterness from her voice. She knew, all too well.

  ‘I can assure you that the previous governesses left of their own accord when they realised the position was not what they hoped it might be,’ he said evenly. ‘I merely wish to be honest and straightforward with you about this matter, Miss Wilmot, from the start.’

  She jerked up her chin. ‘As do I. And you can be assured, Sir Dominic, that I have no romantic notions. None whatsoever.’

  ‘On the train I saw that you were reading a book of fairy tales,’ he said. ‘I thought you may be a woman who gives way to fanciful ideas.’

  Maud tried to keep her voice steady. ‘I have an imagination. That is all.’

  He looked at her keenly. ‘I do not seek to offend you.’

  ‘You have judged me without knowing me.’ Maud could barely contain her anger. ‘Simply because I am a governess.’

  He drew back. ‘I meant no judgement. Please accept my apology if that is how you have taken it. My goal was to be clear about the nature of your employment.’

  ‘You have been very clear, Sir Dominic.’ Maud raised her head high. ‘You can be sure I will not pursue any...romantic notions about you.’

  He inclined his head. ‘I regret if I have caused you offence.’

  ‘Perhaps it is better that the matter has been discussed.’ That was true, at least.

  ‘Are you willing to take the post under these conditions?’ he asked, after a moment.

  ‘Certainly, Sir Dominic.’ Maud stood to face him. He was a foot taller than she was, but she met his gaze, eye to eye. ‘Believe me, I would take the post under no other.’

  * * *

  Dominic drummed his fingers on the desk. His interview with the new governess—if it could be called an interview—had not gone entirely as planned.

  Miss Martha Wilmot.

  She had left the room without banging the door behind her, but he got the distinct impression she had been strongly tempted.

  He picked up the letters from the table and tucked them into the drawer of his oak desk. The drawer still open, he stared down at them, perplexed. Her letters of recommendation had been excellent. By all accounts, she was an outstanding governess. Exemplary, in fact, to the point of being almost bland. There had been nothing out of the ordinary. Yet the impression he had formed of her upon reading the letters of reference was quite different from his perception of her on first sight.

  When he had first spotted her from the platform, she had been looking out of the train window unguarded, with such interest and curiosity. So eager, so alive. His attention had been immediately drawn to her. She had reminded him of a bright-eyed wren, an image emphasised by the colours of her clothing, in shades of brown and grey. Drab colours, no doubt suited to a governess. Her hair, too, was light brown, her eyes green. They were not remarkable, yet at the moment their eyes met, Dominic had experienced a moment of unmistakable response to that eagerness, to those bright eyes that revealed, beneath the drab colours, a lively and enquiring mind.

  In the conversation that had just taken place—for as she had pointed out, it could not be called an interview—he’d been forced to be blunt about his previous experiences with governesses. He’d already decided that upon her arrival it would be essential to warn the new governess against any fancies she might have, and when he’d seen Miss Wilmot’s book of fairy tales, it had only seemed more pressing.

  But he’d affronted her. It was a risk he’d known he would have to take, to quell any possible misunderstanding right from the start, in light of what had happened before, but he had sounded more pompous, and more arrogant than he’d meant. It was damned unfortunate. And her response...

  Dominic frowned.

  She had been more than affronted. She had ably defended the position of a governess and she was right: all too often male employers took advantage of the women in their employment. It was a matter of which he was aware and it was one of the reasons he’d decided to be straightforward about what had previously occurred. He wanted absolutely no confusion on that score. But he’d mishandled it. And he’d sensed there was more to it, for her.

  He’d witnessed pain, and a kind of terror, in her eyes when the subject had been raised. It had been quickly disguised, but it wasn’t an expression he cared to see in those bright eyes.

  He closed the desk drawer.

  Miss Wilmot was a puzzle. She had modern ideas about women’s education, too. He was willing to see the results from her methods before he made any judgement upon them.

  He wanted the best for Rosabel. If Miss Wilmot could bring the roses back into his daughter’s cheeks, he would have no quarrel with the new governess. And she had made it perfectly clear that her interest lay only in teaching children.

  It was a relief.

  Dominic drummed his fingers again absently on the green leather top of his desk. He wondered how soon he would forget the enchanting expression he’d first seen, unguarded, in those bright eyes.

  * * *

  Maud washed her face and hands with rather more vigour than necessary in the white basin and pitcher provided in her new bedroom. She doused her cheeks again and again, tendrils of hair about her forehead dampened and curled, but her anger didn’t abate.

  Romantic notions!

  How dared Sir Dominic Jago suggest that she had taken on the post as the new governess simply because he was a widower! Did he think himself so handsome? Did he expect all governesses to drop at his feet? Or that she would find him so hard to resist? Did he really believe she had come all the way to Cornwall, not for employment, but to catch a husband?

  If only he knew.

  Hot tears joined the chill water on Maud’s cheeks.

  Governesses sometimes married their employers, it was true. It happened. But it would never happen to her.

  Marriage—to anyone, let alone the master of the house—was not in her future. Not now, not ever. Any promise of it had been torn away. No man could accept her and she could never explain. A future with a husband and a family would never be. A
ny dreams of such happy-ever-afters had been stolen from her.

  She’d vowed, instead, to educate the children in her care with all the love and encouragement she had to give. She would dedicate herself to her vocation.

  It was the only way she could go on.

  Not all governesses considered themselves professional women, but Maud did. Some thought being a governess a last resort of penniless gentlewomen. But it was so much more to her. The work of private teaching was changing. Members of the Governesses’ Benevolent Institution not only received support in dire straits, but their membership was also beginning to share their experiences and expertise among themselves. Recommendation of teaching ideas and textbooks was becoming more common. Yet governesses still had the reputation of mere husband-hunters in disguise.

  Or worse.

  Maud shuddered.

  Sir Dominic’s warning had cut her to the quick. She was already sensitive about such matters. Worse, much worse—she forced herself into the severest honesty—she had instantly liked him. That energy, she had to admit, was attractive and there was no arguing with his handsome dark looks. Had she looked at him with the eyes of a husband-hunter, even for an instant? No, it had been the ease with which they had conversed in the sunlit garden that had made her begin to believe that her new position as governess might prove to be a post she could truly enjoy.

  Now she wished she could take the very next train away from Pendragon Hall, especially when what he suggested about governesses was, in her case, so far from the truth.

  But perhaps—her brain began to tick—perhaps this post was ideal for her. Why, it was practically providential. A master of the house who had no interest in romance or marriage might not suit every governess, but it certainly suited Maud.

  She threw more water on her face, washing away the tears. She would stay at Pendragon Hall. And she would, for the sake of her new charge, make the best of it.

  Carefully she dried her face. The towel was of a fine snowy-white linen, clearly of good quality. In fact, all the appointments of her bedroom were the same. The room was large and airy, with tall arched windows that looked out over the gardens. There was an oak bureau and wardrobe that was far too big for the number of dresses she possessed. She only owned three: her grey cotton and her brown wool, for workday attire, and her dark green cotton, for special occasions. There had not been many of those, so it was still in good repair.

  To one side of the room was a particularly beautiful four-poster oak bed. All in all, the room was far grander than the room she had occupied beneath the attics at her previous post.

  Her bedroom had a connecting door to the adjacent schoolroom. She had glanced in when she had first arrived, but retreated, vaguely disappointed. It was well-furnished and decorated, but somewhat lacking, in her view. She had noted plenty of toys, a dolls’ house and a rocking chair, tables and chairs, but less of the equipment she considered essential to teaching than she had expected. The previous governesses had left no imprint on their surroundings, it seemed.

  Perhaps they had been too busy having romantic notions about Sir Dominic Jago.

  Maud smiled ruefully. At least her sense of humour was returning. Of all the governesses in the world, she was the last to have harboured such ideas.

  The master of Pendragon Hall was safe from Maud.

  Folding the towel and hanging it carefully back on the rail, she glanced in the mirror and smoothed back her hair. Wisps were escaping from the severe bun she wore, softening her profile. Most unfortunate. She’d not been wearing her bonnet outside and her complexion appeared to have caught another freckle. Perhaps not wearing her bonnet on the way to Pendragon Hall—for she had sat next to the coach driver in the open air, rather than inside the Jago carriage—had not been the best idea. But she did love to be out of doors.

  If she could, she would help Rosabel learn to love it, too.

  She crossed to the schoolroom door. Rosabel’s bedroom was on the other side.

  It was time to make the acquaintance of a little girl who needed her care and to forget about her infuriating father, Sir Dominic Jago.

  Maud pushed open the schoolroom door.

  Chapter Three

  On the little flower that clings;

  —Alfred, Lord Tennyson: Maud (1855)

  ‘Hello,’ said Maud gently.

  A little girl was seated at a table, eating a supper of bread and milk. She had dark hair, the same raven black as her father’s, smoothed back under a black velvet snood. She wore a white ruffled pinafore over a yellow dress that didn’t suit her colouring—her skin had a slight olive tint that looked almost sallow, as if she spent too much time indoors.

  She did need to spend more time in the garden, thought Maud, to make her cheeks as rosy as her name.

  Seated beside the little girl was a nursemaid in a black-and-white uniform, a plump, blonde-haired girl of little more than twenty, with a broad face and a friendly expression.

  ‘Hello, miss,’ the nursemaid said, in an accent like the coach driver’s, with the same lilting burr that Maud had noticed tingeing Sir Dominic Jago’s voice. ‘You must be the new governess. I’m Netta.’

  ‘How do you do.’ Maud smiled at her. ‘Sir Dominic told me you looked after Rosabel, and that you will be continuing to do so.’

  ‘That’s right, miss. I give Rosabel her baths and meals and so on. She’s almost ready for bed now.’

  Maud bent her knees slightly, to make herself closer to the girl’s level. She disliked leaning over her charges. It made her unapproachable. ‘I’ve been looking forward to meeting you.’

  The little girl didn’t respond.

  Maud moved closer and saw the girl draw back. On her lap was a golden-haired porcelain doll. Her gaze was fixed upon the toy and she clutched it tightly in her hands.

  ‘I see you’ve got a doll,’ Maud said. ‘Does she have a name?’

  Rosabel hesitated, her eyes still cast down, then shook her head fiercely.

  ‘Oh, dear,’ said Maud. ‘A doll with no name. How does she come when you call?’

  A splutter of surprised laughter escaped from the little girl’s lips, though she still did not look up. ‘She’s a doll! She can’t come when I call!’

  ‘How do you know if you’ve never called her?’

  Rosabel lifted her head and stared at Maud. She didn’t respond, merely continued to look suspicious with her dark eyes. They were the same deep brown as her father’s.

  ‘The right names are very important.’ Maud ignored the tremor of unease that ran through her as she spoke. It bothered her more than she had expected, not to be using her own name. At least Wilmot was the same.

  Maud sank down on her knees beside Rosabel’s chair. ‘You must have a name that a doll likes, otherwise she won’t play properly with you.’

  For the first time Maud saw a dimple in Rosabel’s cheeks.

  ‘I wonder what her name might be...’ Maud mused. ‘Could it be...Mergetrude?’

  ‘Mergetrude isn’t a name!’ the girl burst out, with a giggle.

  ‘Isn’t it?’ Maud pursed her lips and stared at the ceiling, as if in deep thought. ‘Perhaps her name is Dorothea-Millicent-Margaret-Anne.’

  Rosabel giggled. It was a sound that seemed awkward, as if it didn’t happen very often. The doll in front of her, she held it towards Maud. ‘She does have a name! It’s Polly.’

  ‘Of course!’ Maud touched her hand to her forehead, as if in mock foolishness. ‘How could I have thought otherwise? I’m very pleased to make your acquaintance, Miss Polly.’

  She gave a curtsy.

  With another shy giggle, Rosabel inclined the doll into a bow in return.

  ‘You made up those names,’ she said.

  ‘Of course,’ said Maud. ‘Don’t you ever make things up?’

  Rosabel once again looked suspicious.


  ‘Why, I do all the time,’ said Maud.

  ‘Is that so, Miss Wilmot?’

  Maud swung around. The schoolroom door that opened on to the upstairs hall must have been ajar and she hadn’t heard Dominic Jago enter. Her attention had been fully focused on the child in front of her.

  He leaned against the doorframe, his dark eyes surveying the scene.

  ‘Papa!’ Rosabel exclaimed.

  He moved around the table and dropped a kiss on the girl’s raven head. The little girl beamed. Clearly, she adored her father, and it was mutual, judging by the way Sir Dominic regarded at his daughter. The angles of his face softened as he gazed down at the small girl.

  ‘I see you have been making Rosabel’s acquaintance,’ he said, as he ruffled her hair.

  Rosabel giggled. ‘She thought Polly’s name was Merget... Merg...’

  ‘Mergetrude,’ put in Maud.

  ‘She made it up!’

  Sir Dominic raised an eyebrow.

  ‘I encourage imagination,’ said Maud, quickly.

  ‘I see.’ He glanced around the schoolroom. ‘I hope you have found everything here is satisfactory to your methods.’

  Maud bit her lip. She didn’t want to appear critical, but from their previous conversation, it was clear that Sir Dominic Jago prized being straightforward, to say the least.

  In for a penny, in for a pound, she thought to herself.

  ‘Not quite,’ she replied.

  She heard Netta the nursemaid’s stunned intake of breath.

  ‘What is it you require?’ Sir Dominic asked. She thought there was the slightest upturn of his mouth, but she couldn’t be sure.

  ‘Some more books,’ she said. She had brought her book of fairy tales and some other volumes, but they would need a great deal more. ‘And other educational materials. A globe of the world, for a start. I saw one or two in the library.’

  ‘A globe of the world,’ he repeated.

  ‘For geography.’

  After a moment he nodded. ‘The library is at your disposal. You must help yourself to whatever you need.’