Rob had fully intended to leave Miss Smith to her own devices, but in the interim between receiving the letter and the expected date of her arrival in Kent, guilt had weaved its way into his subconscience. Guilt which had only been aided by the disappointment in Lady Carlyle's eyes, and his own newly found sense of ennui at the baseness of his life.
He could no longer distract himself from grief by seeking pleasure amongst the demi-monde, nor could he shirk his responsibilities to Michael's offspring. He did the memory of his friend no honour, by turning his back on his daughter and heir. Rob was determined to do his best by Cressida and James, even if that meant sequestering himself away in Kent, cut off from the things he enjoyed the most in life.
No more wine, no more women, he said to himself, as—at last—he reached the gates of Hemsworth House, and began a slow canter up the drive. He would, he decided, live a monkish lifestyle of celibacy and temperance, as he dedicated himself to raising his wards.
This virtuous—but rather dull—thought, quickly left his head, as from the darkness a figure emerged, blocking his path.
"Watch out," he roared, yanking on the reins of his steed, to halt the beast in its tracks.
There was a shrill cry, as the person before him, flung themselves from the path, into the bordering hedgerow.
"Are you alright?" Rob called, jumping from the saddle—once the horse had settled—and rushing to help.
"Fine, quite fine," a high-pitched voice called.
There was a rustle of leaves, and then a slim, female form emerged from the bushes. Despite the mud on her dress and the twigs in her hair, Rob felt all his breath leave his body, as the young lady stepped forward onto the moonlit path. In that moment, his breath catching in his chest, Robert felt as though his eyes had finally found their final resting place.
The woman before him was beautiful, though to Robert's mind beautiful was too trite a word to describe the nymph-like, heavenly creature before him. Her skin was alabaster, her hair a cacophony of ebony curls, and her mouth juicy and plump as summer strawberries.
That same mouth, upon registering his hungry expression, opened up into an "o" of shock, which brought Rob to his senses. His eyes quickly lifted to the eyes of this stranger, and he registered resignation and fear in her expression.
"I apologise," Rob said swiftly, crushing his male urges, "I did not see you until the last second. I hope you are not hurt?"
"I am fine," a cultured voice replied, with a slight nervous stammer, "Thank you."
"I am Hemsworth," Rob continued, when it became clear that he would get no more out of the girl.
"Oh, your Grace," the young lady dropped a well executed curtsy, "Forgive me, I did not know. I am...Ava Smith. I believe I am expected?"
As she finished speaking, Miss Smith looked up to meet Rob's eye again. Gone was her initial fear, replaced instead by a curious, knowing gaze which stirred a heat in Rob's belly.
Curses, he thought, as he gave Miss Smith a tight smile of his own; fate was cruel to have thrown such a beautiful woman at him, just minutes after he had made a vow of celibacy.
"Indeed, Miss Smith," Rob replied, leaning over to pluck the governess' discarded bags from the ground, and gesturing for her to follow him, "You were expected."
Though, Rob thought as his blood thrummed in his veins, he had not expected a woman quite like Miss Smith to show up on his doorstep. A beautiful lady, who would be sleeping under his roof, but whom he could not touch.
Fate, Rob thought, as he led his new servant toward the house, was a cruel mistress, though after the way he had treated his previous lovers, a cruel mistress was probably what he deserved.
CHAPTER FIVE
5
"Oh, my poor dear, you must be perished with the cold."
The frosty reception that the Duke of Hemsworth had given Emily, was in direct contrast to the warm welcome bestowed on her by Mrs Ilford, the duke's housekeeper.
Mrs Ilford was a plump woman, with a soft face, and eyes that twinkled brightly. Hemsworth had been rather abrupt when he had introduced the housekeeper to the new governess, and as the duke had stalked away down the corridor, Emily had witnessed Mrs Ilford making a face at his retreating back.
"Heavens," Mrs Ilford continued, as she waved for a footman to take Emily's bags, "You must think us terribly rude for not sending someone down to meet the mailcoach."
"N-no," Emily stammered, but the housekeeper had continued on.
"I would have come down and met you myself," Mrs Ilford said with a sniff, as she led Emily down a long corridor, "If someone had told me you were coming, but he didn't. Not that I should be surprised by that, after all these years working here. I've known His Grace since he was knee-high and he hasn't changed a bit—he's just got taller and moodier."
"Er," Emily struggled to think how she should respond. In truth, she thought the duke rather moody too, but one did have to make allowances for the highest peers of the realm—and a servant would not be expected to badmouth their new employer on their first day...would they?
Her internal struggle was brought to an end as Mrs Ilford continued talking, now in a slightly out of breath manner, as they climbed the servant's stairs.
"Now, I don't have a room prepared for you, given that I didn't know you were coming, but that's no harm. I wasn't going to put you in Miss Gretchen's room anyway, I thought it a bit maudlin—oh! I shouldn't have spoken."
Mrs Ilford stopped dead, one step above Emily, and cast a nervous look back at her.
"Was Miss Gretchen the last governess?" Emily ventured, a smile tugging on her lips at the housekeeper's horrified expression, "A woman on the mailcoach told me she met a rather tragic end?"
"She did," Mrs Ilford nodded and blessed herself, "Lord rest her. But tragic was all it was, there was no funny business involved."
"I didn't think there was. The woman who I spoke to rather implied that there was something amiss about it all," Emily replied carefully, not wishing to offend the housekeeper, "Though I ignored her—I have no time for gossip."
This had evidently been the right thing to say, for Mrs Ilford gave Emily such an approving look that she almost swelled with pride.
"Who was it, that you spoke to?" Mrs Ilford asked, as they finally reached the third floor of the house.
"A quiet woman,with brown hair," Emily replied apologetically, "We did not talk much, for she was embroidering the whole way, and she did not offer me her name."
"Oh," Mrs Ilford frowned darkly, "I know well who it was now: Mrs Alcott. I'd bet a shilling on it, if I was the betting kind, which I'm not. Mrs-High-and-Mighty Alcott; she thinks she's a cut above the rest of us because her cushions always win first prize at the Church Fair, and the vicar keeps them on display in his parlour room. Well, I know her game—imagine spreading such malicious rumours about two innocent young 'uns. She should spend more time reading her scripture, rather than embroidering psalms onto cushions. Pfft."
Mrs Ilford scowled darkly as she finished speaking; it was quite obvious that the vicar's preference for this Mrs Alcott's soft furnishings was a sore spot with Mrs Ilford. Emily tried not to allow the smile that tugged on her lips to show and instead made sympathetic noises.
The housekeeper led her down a winding corridor; every step that they took was followed by the eyes of the portraits which lined the walls.
"There's been Hemsworths in Dottington since the dawn of time," Mrs Ilford said, waving her hand at the frames as they passed, "And each one of 'em felt the need to have their likeness captured—without any thought to the poor servants who'd have to dust 'em daily."
Judging from Mrs Ilford's plump form, Emily guessed that it was not she who did the dusting of the endless corridor, but one of the maids. Still, she made another sympathetic noise, which seemed to endear her further to the housekeeper.
"This will be your chamber," Mrs Ilford said, as they finally reached the end of their journey. She pushed open the door to reveal a bedroom which was far bi
gger than Ava's attic room, though far smaller than Emily's own room at home.
"It's perfect," she said with a bright smile, as the housekeeper scrutinised her face for her reaction, "So...blue."
"Aye," Mrs Ilford nodded, bustling into the room to smooth down the bedsheets and run an appraising finger over the wainscoting for dust, "Miss Gretchen had the yellow room, just down the hall. There's so many rooms in this blimmin' house that I had to assign a colour to each of 'em, just so we'd know what's what. The third Duke of Hemsworth took a fit of jealousy when Queen Ann helped fund the build of Blenheim Palace for the Churchills, and he had this monstrosity built. He wasn't thinking of my poor knees when he ordered Sir Wren to build a house with one hundred and eighty eight rooms, now was he?"
"Er, no," Emily responded lightly—though how the third duke was supposed to have factored Mrs Ilford's knees into his considerations, when she had probably not been born, was unknown. "Why one hundred and eight eight rooms?"
"One more than in Blenheim Palace," Mrs Ilford replied with a roll of her eyes, "Silly sausage, but that's men for you. Now my dear, let me tell you your eating arrangements. Breakfast and luncheon will be taken with the children in the nursery—one of the nursery maids will fetch you in the morning—then supper you can dine where you like. Mr Brown and I eat later than the rest of 'em—you're welcome to join us, if you like. Miss Gretchen preferred to take her meals in her room, we can arrange for that either, if that's your preference."
From her emphasis on the last word, Emily assumed that Mrs Ilford had been rather insulted by the last governess' preference for eating alone. Not wishing to affront the woman, and curious to see how the servants lived, Emily hastily assured Mrs Ilford that she would prefer to eat with company.
"Wonderful," the housekeeper beamed, "And now that His Grace has returned, we might also be joined by Mr Harley, His Grace's valet."
Mrs Ilford had turned beet-red at the mere mention of Mr Harley's name and became quite flustered.
"Well," she said, fanning her cheeks with her hand, "I'd best take myself away to bed. I'll send one of the chamber maids up with a warming pan in a minute and have her light a fire to take the chill out. Goodnight Miss Smith."
"Oh please call me—" Emily began, stumbling a little as she remembered that she was in disguise and that she could not use her own name, "—Ava."
"Oh," Mrs Ilford raised her eyebrows, "I will. You may call me Honoria—though not in front of the maids, if you don't mind. I wouldn't want them to think they could take such liberties. Goodnight dear."
Mrs Ilford left the room, closing the door behind her. She had not been gone five minutes, when a slip of a girl reappeared with a warming pan in one hand and a bucket of coal in the other.
The girl gave Emily a tight smile and set about her work silently, placing the warming pan under the sheets and building a small fire in the grate.
"Thank you," Emily called, as she finished, and in return she received another unfriendly grimace, that she guessed was meant to be a smile.
Once she had left, Emily sat down upon the bed and tugged off Ava's sturdy boots, wriggling her toes with relief as they were set free from their rigid confines. Her bags had been left in the corner and she padded across to open the larger one that Mary had sent her. Within it were half a dozen dresses, of varying shades of grey and other bits and bobs she might need. The dresses were the ones that she had worn whilst in half-mourning, which Mary had probably chosen because they were the plainest of all the dresses in her wardrobe. She had also packed undergarments, three night rails, two pairs of black kidskin boots and...three hideous, white, mob caps.
Was she expected to wear a cap? At home, she wore one to bed, or under her bonnet, but she did not wear one during the day—caps were for matrons and spinsters.
Lud, she thought with a start, as she held up one of the frilled abominations; people will think that I'm a matronly spinster now.
Guilt coursed through her, as she realised that she had never considered the position of a governess quite so deeply as she did now. A governess was usually an unmarried daughter of the gentry, who had been forced into employment by financial necessity. The necessity was usually born from two reasons; because her family had run out of funds—as had happened to many due to bank failures during the wars—or because she had failed to secure a husband.
One of Emily's own governesses had been the fifth daughter of a baron; Emily recalled that she had been quite miserable during her time in Blackheath—taking her tea in the school room and refusing to fraternise with any of the other servants and refusing Emily's parents invitations for her to dine with them. She saw now that the poor girl had obviously felt shame at having had to take up employment, and that was why she had spurned any overtures of friendship.
How strange a position it was, Emily reflected, as she slipped out of her clothes into her night things; one lived as a servant in someone else's home, despite having been born a lady. No wonder the chamber maid had viewed her with something of distrust—she probably thought Emily a snoot.
Her mind still filled with the social complexities of the lives of governesses, Emily wandered across to the windows, to close the blue, velvet drapes. She allowed herself a moment to survey the grounds of Hemsworth House, as best she could in the darkness. She could make out landscaped lawns, a topiary garden and a fountain in the distance, though nearer to the house a movement caught her eye.
Coming from what she assumed to be the stables, was the duke. His figure was bathed by the lights which shone from the windows of the house and Emily could clearly see that he had removed his jacket and waistcoat, and that his shirt was unbuttoned at the neck.
She followed his athletic figure, as he strode across the courtyard, unable to tear her eyes away from the mesmerising sight. Heat flamed within her, and rose even further when the duke paused and looked up, directly at her window. She saw his lips curl into a smile—a smug smile—before he turned his head and continued on his way.
"Lud," she whispered, taking a step backward and tripping over Ava's bag, which she had left discarded upon the floor. She landed, hard, on her bottom, though she was thankful for the pain, for it distracted her somewhat from her embarrassment.
She had been caught gawking—how humiliating! Her instant reaction was the reaction of a lady of the ton; she thought of her reputation, of gossip, of the duke reporting her spying to his friends in White's—and then she paused.
She was not in London, she was not even Emily Fairfax—there would be no repercussions on her reputation. What she was, she reminded herself sternly, was an employee of the duke. It would not do for him to dismiss her—well, Ava—for insolence. Nor, she thought with a jab of fear, would it do for him to think that he could take liberties with her. Some men of rank abused their power within their households; she had heard veiled whispers of what lord couldn't keep his hands off the chamber maids, and of earls who had created more offspring with the dairy maids than with their wives.
Emily looked over at the bed, where she had discarded the three mob caps, and gave a sigh. It seemed as though it would be for the best, for her to assume the role of a dowdy spinster, despite her misgivings about the awful headwear.
Her cheeks still aflame with humiliation, Emily crawled into bed, though she did not drift into sleep for some hours—and when she did, her dreams were filled with billowing white shirts and a pair of sensuous, smirking lips.
Two pairs of solemn dark eyes followed Emily into the schoolroom the next morning. Cressida and James, the orphaned offspring of Lord and Lady Dunstable, sat waiting for her in the musty room, their expressions as dark as their mourning attire.
"Hello," Emily offered cheerfully, but her smile faltered at Cressida's answering scowl.
Gracious, she thought, as she surveyed the pair—they were not the adorable, little children she had thought them to be. Cressida, the nursery maid had informed her, was the eldest of the two at six, whilst young James had just turn
ed four. Both children had the dark colouring of their Italian mother; large eyes, the colour of chocolate, and chestnut brown hair—though James' still held a hint of baby blonde. Both children wore equally angry expressions at her arrival.
"I am Miss Smith," Emily continued bravely in the face of such hostility, "I am to be your new governess."
"We don't need a new governess," Cressida answered coolly, crossing her arms and turning her face away from Emily. Emily watched as Cressida glanced back at her brother, giving him an irritated dig with her elbow when she saw that he had not followed suit.
"Ow-ww," James whined, rubbing the sleeve of his jacket. His little face still held the vestiges of baby-fat, and Emily felt her heart soften at the sight of him. James had now turned his head in the same direction as his sister, but he kept peeking back at Emily with curious eyes.
"What a pity that you don't need a governess," Emily said with an exaggerated sigh, taking a seat at the top of the table, nearest the chalkboard, "For then I will have to leave and I have no where to go."
"Don't you have a home?" James asked, his dark eyes widened with worry.
"Hush," Cressida snapped, once again giving her brother a swift dig with her elbow.
"I have no home," Emily replied, feeling a little guilty for appropriating her own sister's life story, "And I am an orphan. If you don't need a governess, I shall have to return to London."
"An orphan?"
James' attention was now riveted upon Emily, his little mouth wobbling as he spoke. "We're orphans too. Our parents were killed in a carriage accident and now we have to wear black and live in this house, and I hate it. There are no toys here and Uncle Rob never visits us."
The Duke's Governess in Disguise Page 6