“I see.” Georgeanne accepted her dismissal with a rueful smile, rose, and turned to leave. She was almost at the door when Mrs. Hawkins’s portentous words returned to her. Whirling around, she took two steps toward the beetle-browed nobleman. “If I may be so bold, my lord?” she began tentatively.
“You can save your breath, Miss Forsythe. You do not have the expertise needed to handle my niece.”
“Yes, but what will you do now?” She stood before him brazenly with her head high, meeting his cool gaze.
“What do you mean?” he asked, shaking his head in confusion.
“Without a governess, how do you plan to go on?”
“You are hardly the last governess to be had in a city of this size.”
Ah, she had him there, she thought, and she smiled, her glee barely containable. “But that is just it, my lord. I am your very last hope, at least from a respectable agency!”
Lord Raynor rounded his desk in a couple of long strides and stood before Georgeanne glowering down at her. “Explain yourself.”
So she did, just as it had been relayed to her by the proprietress of the employment agency. “You do see that we need each other?” she finished on a hopeful note.
He stared at her for a long moment. Then slowly, he walked back behind the desk and sat down. Propping his elbows on the desktop, he steepled his fingers together and requested in a calmer voice that she retake her seat.
“We seem to be at an impasse,” he said, regarding her from under lowered dark eyebrows. “You understand, I want only the best for my niece.”
“I am a qualified teacher,” she reminded with spirit.
“Yet, by your own admission, you have had little experience with children.”
“Oh, but I love children,” she contradicted him. Her gaze wavered for a moment before she asked, “The child is not unnatural, is she?”
“Unnatural?” He looked puzzled again.
“Yes, like hateful, mean. She won’t do things to hurt or scare me?”
“No, no, nothing like that.” The crease in his high forehead unfurled. “Marissa’s tantrums stem from her confusion over losing her parents. My brother and his wife doted on her. She misses them dreadfully.”
“Well then, it appears we both have something to gain, my lord,” she offered. When he did not answer, Georgeanne prompted, “You are in desperate need of a governess while I am in desperate need of employment. Please, give me a chance? I can hardly do worse than the others.”
There was no pleading in her voice, Lord Raynor noted absently, as he studied the young woman before him. He was impressed with how she carried herself, despite her onerous circumstances. Sitting with her back ramrod straight, the large chair seemed to almost engulf her petite form. Besides, if what she said was true, and she had given him no reason to doubt her word, he really didn’t have much of a choice.
Unfortunately, she was extremely attractive. Too attractive, he thought, observing lustrous auburn curls poking out from under her dark blue bonnet and unusual leafy green eyes fringed with long dark lashes.
While Lord Raynor studied her, Georgeanne sat patiently waiting. Not once did his expression give away his musings. Just when she thought the situation was hopeless, Lord Raynor placed his hands on the desk, splaying long tapered fingers upon the leather blotter, and leaned forward.
“We both seem to be in a bit of a predicament.” He snapped his brows together. “I will give you one month, Miss Forsythe.”
Rising from his chair, he came from behind the desk, walked across the room and jerked the bell pull. Within moments, the door opened. “Take the new governess up to the nursery, Bivens. Have Hattie, that is Marissa’s maid,” he explained for Georgeanne’s benefit, “acquaint Miss Forsythe with the schedule and settle her in. Your trunks?” he inquired, turning again to her.
“I can send for them.” A small sigh of relief escaped her.
“Give the direction to Bivens and he will see to the matter.” He returned to his chair and immediately busied himself with some papers.
“Is that all?” she asked, slightly miffed with his cavalier dismissal.
He glanced up with his bushy eyebrows meeting and asked irritably, “Is there more you wish to say?”
“No, my lord.”
“Then you may go,” he barked, bending his head over the papers again.
Georgeanne smiled through gritted teeth, trying to check her tongue. Rising she bobbed a curtsy and replied, “As you wish, my lord.”
She knew her effort at meekness had failed miserably when he raised his head and directed another dark scowl at her. Fearing her unruly tongue would cost her another position, she quickly hurried out the door after the dapper Bivens.
The starchy Bivens paid not the least heed to Georgeanne trailing behind him as he led the way across the foyer to the wide stairs set against the far wall. A masterpiece designed by Robert Adams, the staircase’s simple yet elegant lines acted as a frame for the numerous portraits of Raynor’s ancestors hanging above it.
Not surprising, dark bushy eyebrows were the prominent trait among the males. When Georgeanne noticed that one unfortunate woman had been cursed with the affliction, she could not help gasping, “Good heavens!”
Two steps above, Bivens stopped and looked down his short nose at Georgeanne to see what had caused the exclamation. He followed her line of vision to the Elizabethan painting of a formidable female robed in heavy, ruby red brocade. In a wooden tone, he informed her, “Only a superior artist could capture the family likeness so remarkably well.”
At a loss for a response, she nodded her head and perceived the butler’s observation as a hint of what she might expect. Her vivid imagination instantly conjured up an uncharitable picture of Lord Raynor’s niece. As she resumed the trek up the stairs, she was overcome with pity for the poor little girl.
Though it retained the ornately carved mahogany banister and slender spindle spokes, the stairway narrowed considerably as it ascended to the third floor. As they traversed a carpeted hallway, Bivens indicated Georgeanne enter a room midway down the corridor. When Bivens went to find the maid, Georgeanne poked her head into a well lighted chamber. She was surprised by the relative luxury and spaciousness of the appointments.
Stepping in, she was delighted to find a full sized bed with a quilted counterpane and hangings that matched the floral printed muslin drapes adorning the two windows. Opposite the bed, an oval mirror reflected back her image from over a small vanity with a white organdy skirt. A large wardrobe covered most of another wall, and several hook rugs were scattered about the floor, adding a warm, homey touch.
The sound of small feet running down the hall warned Georgeanne to school her expression. She swung about to face the door and presented an impassive mask to greet her new charge. A child, small for her age with long blond curls and huge doe-like eyes, came to an abrupt stop just outside the room.
“You must be Marissa,” Georgeanne said brightly, inordinately relieved by the sight of the soft, pretty features of an earthly cherub. The little girl bobbed her head in answer to her name but remained at the door. “Please come in,” Georgeanne said.
“There you be, Marissa. I see you’ve already met your new governess.” This cheery call came from a short and slightly plump young housemaid. She was dressed in the usual servant’s uniform, a gray bombazine gown covered by a crisp white apron with a mob cap perched atop her head. Giving Georgeanne a quick appraisal, her merry eyes became wary as she took in the new governess’s rather elegant attire. Cautiously, she eased her way around the child and into the room.
“I’m Hattie, Miss, and right glad I am you’re here, too,” she said in a broad cockney accent. “And this here’s the Honorable Marissa Raynor. I’m the nursery maid, but I can help you too, if you like.”
“Thank you, Hattie. I am Georgeanne Forsythe, and I will appreciate any help you can give me.”
Hattie returned Georgeanne’s smile with a broad toothy grin and bo
bbed a curtsy.
“You won’t stay,” interjected a small voice from the doorway.
Looking behind the maid, Georgeanne saw that Marissa’s mouth was set in an obstinate pout. Her eyes met the child’s brown eyes with a dare. She went over to the child, smiled, and firmly stated, “Oh yes, I will.”
“No you won’t! No you won’t!” screamed the little girl before she turned and raced down the hall with her heels flying up behind her.
“Never mind that, Miss,” sighed Hattie in resignation. Shaking her head, the maid headed out the door after Marissa. “Ain’t no doubt you’ll see more of the little lady’s ways before the day is out.”
Georgeanne hesitated only a moment, then fell in behind the maid, thinking it would behoove her to go after her new charge. When she arrived at the school room door, she halted. Marissa was in a frenzy, racing around the room, tossing her toys about and repeatedly murmuring, “She won’t stay. She won’t stay.”
Squaring her shoulders, Georgeanne marched up to the little girl and called out her name. Marissa ignored her and continued her chanting. To stop her, Georgeanne grabbed one small forearm and knelt down.
“Listen to me, Marissa,” she said. When Marissa reared back with a doll in her hand raised over her curly blond head, Georgeanne reached out and snatched the missile from her and repeated, “Listen, Marissa.”
But the little girl refused to listen. Instead, she pulled away and picked up a wooden toy soldier that was quickly followed by a corn husk doll, a tin sailboat, and a ball—all of which Georgeanne confiscated.
Losing her patience, which was always in short supply, Georgeanne’s fiery temper ignited. She rose slowly from the floor and tossed the armful of toys over her head. When Marissa reacted by screeching at the top of her lungs, Georgeanne ordered Hattie to follow her out of the schoolroom.
Once the reluctant maid joined Georgeanne in the hall, she pulled the door firmly shut, crossed her arms under her bosom, and leaned against the wall. Hattie, on the other hand, stood wide-eyed with her mouth agape.
“You can’t mean to leave her be, Miss?” the young maid asked, her tone accusing. Baffled by the governess’s attitude, she wasn’t sure how to react.
“I most certainly do,” Georgeanne said emphatically. “I have no intention of allowing myself to be used as a target.”
“If you say so, Miss. But what if she don’t quit?”
“Oh, she will stop,” she replied confidently. Moments later, Georgeanne smiled. “Listen.”
Sure enough, Marissa had ceased yelling. No longer could they hear crashes or thuds or objects being thrown about the room. Easing the door open, Hattie peered in before swinging the door wide. There on the floor by the toy box sat Marissa, sullen with tear stained cheeks, cuddling a much abused rag doll.
“Well, I’ll be. Ain’t you something,” cooed the much impressed nursery maid with a look of awed respect for Georgeanne.
Ignoring the compliment, Georgeanne went over to her charge and stooped to retrieve a doll with its porcelain head bashed in on one side. “May I play with you, Marissa?” Georgeanne asked, her voice soft, almost pleading.
Marissa peeked at her from under long, wet lashes. She stared at the new governess for several moments, then reached around Georgeanne’s skirts for another rag doll which she shyly held up to her.
Georgeanne took the proffered doll and joined the child on the floor, feeling happy and relieved with the outcome of their first encounter. She couldn’t help looking upon this small victory as an omen. All she foresaw was clear sailing ahead, devotedly working with Lord Raynor as his niece’s cherished governess.
*** Chapter 2 ***
Several days passed without the Curzon Street household being turned upside down by one of his niece’s infamous tantrums. It was while sitting in the library going over some tedious business papers that it occurred to Raynor the advent of this peace and quiet had coincided with the arrival of the comely new governess. Although he tried to deny it, he couldn’t. Ever since that astounding interview, he often found himself thinking of her heart-shaped face, small straight nose, and peaches and cream complexion. Her large eyes, greener than a spring meadow, had the unprecedented tendency to invade his dreams.
He had accepted the truth of Miss Forsythe’s story since the facts were borne out by her elegant dress. But more than anything else, it was her assertive demeanor that clearly emphasized she had not been in servitude long. A minion would never dare to act so pert or put forth her presumptuous bargain. In fact, so audacious was her proposition that he was hard pressed to imagine any lady of his acquaintance conceiving such a preposterous idea. Still, she had made her point, and as evidenced by the past few, blissfully silent days, she had apparently succeeded doing the impossible—taming his niece. Why, if the truth were owned, the dithering Bivens appeared more relaxed.
The past year had been a trying one for all of them. The unfortunate demise of his brother, due to a carriage accident that had also killed his wife, had been as painful a blow to him as his little niece. He’d worshiped Alister, who had been the older by five years, and had never given a moment’s thought to stepping into the role as Viscount and head of the family. Given a generous allowance, he hadn’t needed to worry about his future. Oh, he’d never been reckless like so many others of his class, gaming huge sums away on a toss of the dice or a chancy cock fight. But he’d still lived the carefree, frivolous life of a bored aristocrat.
Consequently, when he accepted the title, Raynor vowed to reform his hedonistic ways. He became a respectable peer and provided his brother’s daughter with the care and home she needed. But the happy sprite he’d remembered no longer existed. Since the death of her parents, she was a distraught and morose little girl. Then the tantrums had started, with high-pitched screams reverberating against the walls of the third floor day and night.
Unfortunately, he’d never had any contact with children and was at a complete loss when it came to handling one sad little girl, especially one like Marissa. In the end, he found it easiest to let his otherwise competent staff cope with the unruly child while he dealt with his own problems, which included the weighty responsibility of taking his rightful seat in the House of Lords.
Yet, as improbable as it seemed, the new governess had succeeded where others more experienced had failed. He wondered how she’d managed it. Perhaps he ought to check on the two in the schoolroom, he thought, pushing himself out of his chair. A moment of panic overtook him along with the mental picture of his niece tied up in a chair, a gag stuffed in her mouth. It wasn’t as though he hadn’t been tempted at times to do the same himself, he guiltily acknowledged.
A few minutes later, Raynor reached the top of the stairs and halted to listen closely. Dead silence greeted him. Dreading what might be awaiting him, he walked slowly down the corridor to the white paneled door of the schoolroom and noiselessly pushed it open.
At first, he saw no one. Then, the melodious voice of the young woman came from a far corner of the room. He turned toward the trestle table. The light from one of the tall windows fell upon Miss Forsythe’s head of thick auburn hair, pulled back in a loose knot, touching the guinea yellow curls of his niece. The two were huddled together over papers scattered about the table top.
As he watched, a wealth of love for his little niece swept through him. His bachelor ways had left him woefully unprepared to play at being a surrogate parent, and he silently admitted, the frustration he felt when dealing with Marissa. He studied the two heads so close together as the sunlight licked the governess’s auburn tresses into crimson flames. How different they were, he mused. One glowed like a soft halo in the sun while the other radiated a fiery brilliance. At length, Georgeanne glanced up, and he quickly crossed the threshold.
“I see you are busy with your schoolwork,” he said, advancing toward the table.
“Georgie and I are doing ‘rithmetic,” supplied Marissa, giving her beloved uncle a huge grin.
“D
on’t you mean ‘Miss Forsythe’?” he asked drawing his brows together.
“Actually, my lord, I rather like Marissa’s special name for me,” Georgeanne said, giving the child an approving smile.
Raynor nodded. “Very well.” After a moment he asked, “How is my niece doing with her studies?”
“Marissa is an excellent student, especially when she applies herself,” Georgeanne said, flashing a bright smile at her charge, who immediately returned it with an even bigger one of her own.
“Georgie keeps me busy, Uncle Tony.”
Raynor cocked an eyebrow in inquiry. “Is that so? I suppose that explains why I haven’t seen you in several days.”
“Actually, it is because you did not send for her, my lord,” Georgeanne answered for her charge.
“I see.” Miffed that a mere governess would see fit to correct his behavior, he drew his brows together. “May I have a moment of your time, Miss Forsythe?”
“As you wish.” She turned to Marissa and instructed the child to complete the exercise before them. Then she rose and followed her employer toward the door.
Marissa, however, did not look at all happy. She stuck out her lower lip and slouched down in her seat and mulishly announced, “I want to come, too.”
Raynor looked over his shoulder. “You and I will talk later, Marissa. There are matters I need to discuss with Miss Forsythe now.”
“I will be back before you finish your sums, dear,” added Georgeanne encouragingly.
“No, I want to come.” Marissa threw her pencil down and pushed the papers on the floor.
‘Now, Marissa,” began Raynor, only to be cut off by Marissa’s shrill screaming.
“I want to come! I want to come!” Marissa chanted.
Raynor watched in growing horror as huge tears welled up in Marissa’s brown eyes and her face turned an alarming shade of red. Georgeanne, in contrast, shook her head in disgust. She glanced from the screeching child to her stunned uncle, put her hands over her ears, and started for the door. Raynor, not knowing what to do, followed her out of the room.
The Impossible Governess Page 2