The Extraordinary Tale of the Rebellious Governess: A Historical Regency Romance Novel

by Linfield, Emma

  “Then call it a fool’s errand,” Sampson said, walking down the hallway. “Report to me after you have seen to the servants.”

  As he made his way through the corridors and down the stairs, he encountered several frightened housemaids and the housekeeper. He did his best to reassure them and answer their questions, knowing full well the fear spreading throughout the house. He would not be at all surprised if many quit his service and decamped into Tewksbury.

  “I am doing my best to find out what is causing this,” he said, including Thomas, the footmen, and no few maids that edged in closer to listen. “But if anyone starts feeling ill, go straight up to the second floor and see either my steward James or Mr. Kirkwood. Please, go back to work and try not to worry.”

  As they all paid him their respects and departed, murmuring amongst themselves, Thomas remained, bowing low. “Your Grace,” he said, his tone as level as always. “I am not feeling poorly and wish to lend my assistance, if I may.”

  Sampson smiled. “Thank you. Go help Mr. Kirkwood. James will gather servants to help tend the sick. Miss Brent is researching the symptoms in the medical books to see if there is anything in them that might explain this.”

  “Very good, Your Grace.”

  Thomas bowed and left him to finish traversing his way to the kitchen. Inside the explosively hot and huge chamber, he gazed around at the kitchen staff, staring at him in awe, and the sweating, bowing cook. “Mr. Lewis,” he said, “I have staff dropping like flies. Can the source be here in your kitchen?”

  As Mr. Lewis puffed himself up like an angry bullfrog, Sampson held up a conciliatory hand. “I do not doubt your care in serving only the best, but I have to examine all possibilities.”

  The cook shook his head. “I do not believe so, Your Grace. All the food I serve is fresh, and anything even remotely spoiled goes to the chickens and the pigs.”

  Sampson nodded, frowning, and sweating almost as much as the cook and the staff. “Have you noticed anything unusual in your kitchen or the food?”

  Mr. Lewis started, and frowned. “Well, Your Grace, I received several bags of flour that seemed slightly off. But I cannot detect that there is anything wrong with it, as you say. They just have a slightly off-color tinge to them.”

  “Show me.”

  The cook led him to the huge area of storage rooms, where shelves upon shelves held boxes and jars sealed with wax, rows of barrels filled with fruits and vegetables of all kinds, others with pickled herring, kippers, salt, sugar, tea, coffee, vinegar. Sides of bacon hung from the ceiling along with slabs of beef and pork. The cook led him to piled sacks, opened, that revealed flour.

  The cook picked up a handful and showed it to Sampson. “See, Your Grace? It is not exactly white, but has a faint tinge of brown. It feels and works the same, and the bread I bake is fine, as well.”

  Sampson put his nose toward it. It did not smell quite right. While he could not put his finger on it, he knew its odor was off, as well as its color. “Does it smell right to you, Mr. Lewis?”

  The cook spread his hands. “I fear with so many cooking odors in my nose, I could not tell, Your Grace. But the bread smells and tastes correct.”

  “Do not use that flour for anything,” Sampson said. “Not anything. Use whatever you still have that is the usual color, and if you cannot smell it, have someone whose nose is better than yours do it. If anything at all does not look, smell, or taste right, do not cook with it. Do not throw it away, either.”

  Mr. Lewis bowed. “As you command, Your Grace.”

  Sampson strode through the hot kitchen with its many stoves and hearths, once again ogled by the maids as he passed. Taking the stairs as quickly as he could, he went straight to Mr. Kirkwood, finding Thomas with him, carrying trays with various bottles on it for the physician. Mr. Kirkwood walked from room to room, administering spoonfuls of a thick liquid from the bottles to each ill person. Servants wiped brows with cool cloths, held heads so that the sick might drink water held to their lips.

  “Mr. Kirkwood, I found something odd in the kitchen,” Sampson said as the pair bowed.

  “What might that be, Your Grace?”

  “Flour that looks and smells odd.”

  “Flour?”

  “Yes. I would like you to go to the kitchen, have the cook show it to you. Perhaps that is what is making everyone ill.”

  “Yes, of course. I will go right now.”

  The physician placed the bottle in his hands on the tray, bowed to him again, then hurried down the corridor toward the stairs. Samson opened his mouth to tell Thomas to continue dosing the servants with the medicine in the bottles when he spotted James hurrying toward him. By the expression on James’ face, he knew the news he carried was not good. His belly sank.

  “What now?” he asked as James caught up to him and bowed.

  “More servants are ill, Your Grace,” James replied, his face pale, his expression tight with worry.

  He took hold of Sampson’s arm. “Lady Henrietta, lad. She is sick now, too.”

  Chapter 33

  Lucretia rubbed her tired eyes. Mr. Kirkwood had stacks upon stacks of medical books and papers piled all around his desk and office. She tried to eliminate some of them by their more specific titles, and focused on general medicine. Yet, nothing she found matched what symptoms the servants had. Some diseases had a few, others had a few. But none had the same exact list of problems each sick person complained of.

  Investigating the drawers in the desk, hoping to find something more specific in them, she found instead a small pistol. Not a dragon, but similar, and a pistol that fit into her hand quite easily. She picked it up and found it loaded and primed. “Why did Sampson not get me one of these?” she murmured to herself, then closed the drawer.

  She opened yet another book, using her finger to scan down the pages to pinpoint the list of symptoms, dismissing disease after disease without finding anything that matched. “Most of these do not even occur in England,” she muttered to herself. “How can people who never left England contract malaria?”

  The door burst open.

  Sampson stood there, his cravat untied and hanging down his chest, his white shirt unbuttoned, his hair disheveled and his green eyes wild. “Sampson?” she asked.

  “Henrietta is sick,” he said, his voice hollow and not sounding like his at all. “She might die, Lucretia.”

  “Oh, no.”

  Lucretia rushed around the desk to take him in her arms. “Sit down here, my dear, sit, before you fall down. Tell me, are her symptoms the same?”

  Sampson covered his face with his hands, setting his elbows on his knees. Lucretia put her arm over his shoulder, then knelt on the floor. Taking his hands, she pulled them away from his face. “Look at me, Sampson.”

  He raised his face, his flesh hollow, his expression haggard. For the first time since she had known him, tears welled in his eyes. “Henrietta. She might die.”

  “Stop that.”

  “She is my sister.”

  “Do not even think that way, my love,” Lucretia said, keeping firmness in her tone. “We will find a cure for this. You must have faith and hope. If you succumb to despair, then where does that leave the rest of us? The servants look to you for confidence and leadership, and you must give them that.”

  “What hope is there?”

  “We always have hope. Has Mr. Kirkwood found anything?”

  Sampson shook his head. “Nothing. I found something strange with the flour in the kitchen, but he does not believe that is the cause.”

  “What?”

  Rising, Lucretia rushed to Mr. Kirkwood’s desk, rifling through papers, throwing books aside. “You found bad flour? Everyone eats bread, right? Lots of butter, disguise a strange taste, of course, why did I not think of that? I am so stupid sometimes.”

  “What are you going on about?”

  Sampson stood, and walked the few steps to the desk, his hair, oily with sweat, hanging over his eyes. “What are
you looking for?”

  Lucretia did not answer. Finding the slim book she discarded earlier, she opened it and scanned down page after page, using her finger. Flipping through the pages, she saw it. The list of symptoms. She sucked in her breath. “Henbane.”

  “What?”

  She looked up at him. “Henbane. Your enemy poisoned the flour with henbane, hoping to kill you and your sister and anyone who eats the bread baked in your kitchen. No one would ever know, Sampson, when you and Henrietta and several servants died.”

  Sampson sank back into the chair. “Oh, my God. What do we do?”

  “Take this,” she ordered, handing him the book. “Get it to Mr. Kirkwood. There are things he can do to wash the poison out – charcoal, water, salt. Go, my love.”

  Reaching across the desk, Sampson grabbed her and kissed her hard on the mouth. “You are a genius, my love. Thank you.”

  Watching Sampson bolt out of the office with the book, she heard his running steps as he raced down the hall toward the stairs. She sat back in the chair, remembering the description of henbane and how to cure it. I think it can be flushed out of the body, from what it said. Everyone should be all right, then. Leaning her head back against the chair, she closed her eyes.

  She heard the door open. “You are back quickly,” she said, expecting Sampson, and opened her eyes.

  It was not Sampson. It was the Baron of Gillinghamshire.

  He pointed a pistol at her, a nasty smile on his face. “Look at what I found,” he said, an oily smile creasing his mouth. “My nemesis. The iron blocking the smooth clockwork of my carefully laid scheme. Do you realize what your interference cost me?”

  “Forgive me if I do not rise and curtsey, My Lord,” she said, her voice calm, level, despite the chilling fear that numbed her limbs. “I do not pay respect to villains.”

  “A villain, am I?” He grinned. “I like that. I am a villain. Yes, I am, my dear governess, and you and your hero Sampson will be dead as soon as he comes back here.”

  “Why would you want to kill your friend?” she asked, wondering at the calm in her tone. Her insides quaked something terrible. “Why have you been trying to kill us? Lady Henrietta is but a child. You killed poor Jack Hopper.”

  “Oh, I will tell you, Governess,” he said, taking a stand near the door where anyone entering could not see him immediately. “When I tell my dear brother Sampson.”

  “Brother?”

  “Did he forget to tell you? Oh, yes, he and I are brothers.”

  Lucretia folded her arms over her chest, trying to appear calmer than what she felt. “I do not see the relationship.”

  The Baron laughed. “It is there, all right. Now, knowing him as I do, he will return to slobber over you, my dear. That is when I will kill him. I apologize in advance, but you must also die. I cannot leave witnesses.”

  From where he stood, Lucretia calculated he could not see her hand move with the desk blocking most of her body. Ever so slowly, she inched the drawer with the pistol in it open, exposing it. But she dared not put her hand on it, for that meant she would move her shoulder and that he would see. Bracing herself, she knew that she might be forced to kill him if Sampson could not talk him out of his plan.

  “Though I do hate you,” the Baron went on, conversationally, “I mean you no true malice. You got in my way, saved the little brat, interfered with my grand plan. I just want you to know that.”

  “Thank you.”

  The door opened. Yet, before she could scream, warn Sampson, the Baron seized hold of the arm that came through the door as it opened. George yanked Sampson inside the chamber. Lucretia watched in horror as Sampson staggered, trying to keep his balance as the Baron jabbed his pistol in Sampson’s face.

  Sampson froze, his eyes wide.

  “George. What in the blazes—?”

  “Hello, little brother.”

  Straightening, Sampson glanced quickly at Lucretia, then back at the Baron. “Brother? We are not—”

  George of Gillinghamshire reached into the inner pocket of his coat and removed an envelope. He tossed it to Sampson. “Read that. It explains everything.”

  With another glance toward Lucretia, Sampson opened it and scanned the contents. Lucretia watched his face as he read, seeing his face sag in astonishment and horror. He flipped through the pages, his flesh paling to grey. “This…is not possible.”

  “Of course it is not,” the Baron, replied, smirking, his pistol never wavering from Sampson’s face. “They are very expensive and helpful forgeries. But they will pass inspection when I present them at court.”

  “Sampson,” Lucretia asked, her voice tentative, cautious. “What do they say?”

  But Sampson stared at them, unable to answer. The Baron grinned at her, his eyes glittering with evil intent. “It appears the Duke of Breckenridge, the old one, was unfaithful to Margaret, Sampson’s dear, departed mother. Was unfaithful with my mother, you see.”

  “What?”

  “Oh, yes. I was sired by the old Duke, which makes us brothers, does it not, Sampson? I discovered all this just before my mother died, and she told me what happened. That old Breckenridge sired me, but would not acknowledge me as his bastard.”

  His face twisted with bitterness and savage jealousy. “He never recognized me as his own, that bastard. Wanted us to grow up together, brother, but I was never good enough to be called his son. He foisted me off on the old Baron, yet never once called me his.”

  Sampson stared at George. “No doubt he wanted to avoid the scandal.”

  George did not appear to hear him. “You got everything, even though I was older than you. The old Duke’s lands, titles, wealth – even his horses. And you too miserly to let your friend, your brother, to share in them.”

  Something in his words made Sampson cock his head. “Did you steal my horses?”

  “The word is horse,” George replied, grinning. “Though you were a mite cleverer than I took you for, moving the beasts before I could nab a few mares and stallions for myself.”

  George’s grin widened. “We could have gone into business together, you and me. Is that not a perfect family, Sampson? Us as brothers and never knowing it? Raising the best horses in the kingdom together?”

  “You will not get away with this,” Sampson gritted, gripping the papers until they crumpled, his eyes, filled with hate, on his once best friend. “You killed one of my grooms like a coward, stabbing him in the back; tried killing me and those I love. I will kill you over this.”

  “Of course I will get away with it. Tell your little friend what the papers say, dear boy.”

  Sampson drew a breath, his eyes never wavering from the Baron. “They say that my father married George’s mother. These are contracts and statements from the bishop who married them, and they declare me bastard, unable to inherit. These give George all rights to my lands, my titles, and my wealth.”

  “No!”

  “Oh, yes,” George replied, chuckling. “Now all I have to do is kill you, so you cannot bring to the courts certificates that oppose mine. You and the brat, that is.”

  “I will kill you, George.”

  “I think not, little brother. It is I who will kill you. Say hello to Father for me.” He chuckled.

  He cocked the pistol’s hammer back. With a speed that took Lucretia’s breath away, Sampson ducked low and slammed into the Baron’s middle, forcing him back against the wall. George’s breath whooshed from his lungs, but he brought the butt of the pistol down on Sampson’s spine with a crack. Sampson grunted in pain, but continued to shove hard, pummeling George’s ribs with his fists.

  Lucretia grabbed hold of the pistol in the drawer, but did not raise it. She stood up, hoping that Sampson would overwhelm the Baron, and defeat him. But as they struggled, grunting, cursing, fighting like dogs in the street, Sampson tried to get hold of the pistol. He grabbed George’s wrist, forcing it up, higher, then higher still. Then with a twist of his arm, he neatly flicked the dragon from
George’s grip, making George scream in pain.

  George’s knee slammed Sampson hard in the gut. Choking, winded, Sampson slumped over, his face turning a pale shade of red. Trying to draw air into his lungs, he stumbled, his arm across his middle. George threw him backward, tossing him onto the floor. He searched frantically for the dragon, yet Lucretia noticed he never quite turned his back on Sampson.

  Sampson stumbled to his feet, his hair hanging over his eyes, his face dark with rage. George swung about to face him, his body lowered, prepared for an attack. The two circled around one another like angry dogs, teeth bared in fierce grimaces. Lucretia had no idea what to do. She dared not try to shoot George, as she might hit Sampson. Terror clawed at her lungs, her heart hammering in her chest.