The Scottish Governess: Regency Romance

by Arietta Richmond

  He was head of the house, and if he wanted to 'set an example' he would have to overcome his uncharacteristic failure of nerve when it came to hiring staff, and set the wheels in motion.

  After his daughters had gone to the 'pigsties' of their rooms he summoned Mrs Templeton and told her to start the process of finding a new upstairs maid.

  ~~~~~

  Less than a week later Mary, the chattiest, most inquisitive – to put it politely – of the three longest-serving kitchen maids at Blackwood Chase, paused as she was lowering another pile of plates into the huge sink.

  “I think we's got a burglar's runner sizing-up the place, Mrs Bell. Look, out by the stables.”

  Mrs Bell, the Head Cook at Blackwood Chase, wiped her hands from the innards of the goose she was energetically preparing for that evening's dinner and came over to the sink to squint at what Mary was pointing at.

  A flame-haired, very pale-looking young woman in cloak and bonnet was standing ten yards or so away on the cobbles of the stable-yard examining the back of the house, and, more importantly, the steaming sanctum of Mrs Bell's kitchen, nervously.

  “What's you two gawping at then?”

  Sarah, still polishing a big silver soup-tureen, joined the examination.

  “Some tart – look at that red-hair – up from Gin Lane looking for custom. Let's set her on the right road, shall we Missus Bell?”

  “Tart or burglar's runner, she's no business gawping at my kitchen.”

  Wiping her hands again, the stalwart Mrs Bell yanked open the back door and delivered a volley of her choicest abuse at the red-haired young woman, while Mary and Sarah clutched each other, giggling. But rather than withdrawing, the young woman approached, her face flushed.

  “Who on God's earth do you think you are, to talk to a stranger like that?”

  Mrs Bell, briefly taken aback, quickly rallied.

  “I am Mrs Bell, Head Cook of this here Blackwood Chase, home of His Lordship Peregrine Stapleton, Earl of Blackwood, close confidant of His Majesty the King and The Prince Regent, God Bless them both. And what, may I ask, are you to address me so sharpish?”

  With the hint of a smile curling her soft red full lips, doubtless at Mrs Bell's crude but affected manner of speech, the young lady stepped up close to her rude and officious interrogator.

  “I have an appointment with a Mrs Templeton, Head Housekeeper of 'this here' house. I was told to present myself at the servants' entrance by the stables, but I can't seem to locate it. I'd be grateful if you could either point me to the entrance or inform Mrs Templeton that I'm here.”

  “She's come for Lizzie's job! Must be!”

  Mary hissed at Sarah, who was still wiping the inside of the tureen, unable to remove her eyes from the flame-haired woman who was so obviously undaunted by Mrs Bell.

  “Oh, a fine-lady like that... nevaah!”

  The girl's clutched each other tightly, as a fresh wave of hilarity gripped them.

  But Mary was right, though far from being aristocratic, there was something in the bearing and manner – despite the clean but threadbare clothing - of this pale-skinned young woman that spoke of at least some breeding, and learning. She spoke firmly and confidently, and with a slight, indefinable northern accent, unlike anyone from the area, certainly unlike anyone the denizens of the kitchen had encountered.

  “You has an appointment is it? And how do I know that, in short – madam – where's your proof?”

  The young woman, without removing a pair of unyielding hard green eyes from the one-headed Cerberus of the cook, slid her long pale fingers into the side-pocket of her coat, and withdrew a folded paper. Mrs Bell, returning her look, held out her greasy palm, like some cynical border-official. The young lady, that hint of a smile returning to uncurl itself, equally as cynically, across her very pronounced lips, paused with the paper above the cook's palm.

  “Mrs Bell!”

  A door abruptly opened in one of the low stone outbuildings to the left and Mrs Bell, despite her great weight, almost jumped.

  “You must be Mrs Leslie. I'm Mrs Templeton, please come this way... Mrs Bell, his Lordship has just informed me that we will have two extra guests for dinner, their Lordships Shenstone and Marsden. You know Lord Shenstone's fondness for game pie and Lord Marsden's attachment to your apple crumbles. They'll be dining an hour early... Mrs Leslie, this way.”

  With a respectful inclination of the head, Mrs Leslie followed Mrs Templeton back to the door from which she'd appeared.

  “That baggage, a housemaid! Well, God help her Ladyship if she puts a dainty foot wrong in my kitchen. Now, to work, you two dawdlers!”

  ~~~~~

  Though Mrs Templeton was acquainted with Mrs Leslie's circumstances and, more importantly, her general character, through reliable sources, she'd never had the pleasure of speaking with her personally before. She’d not expected to, for the lady’s experience was in working as a companion, and governess – roles which they were not attempting to fill at present, no matter how much a truly effective governess might be good for the daughters of the house. But here the woman was, willing to work as a common housemaid.

  As the interview for the vacant housemaid's post progressed, it was a pleasure to talk to the young lady; very much so, Mrs Templeton told herself repeatedly. As they sat in the neat and cosy confines of what the Earl affectionately referred to as 'Mrs Temp's Office’, the Head Housekeeper learned a few more details of young Mrs Leslie's rather straightened circumstances. The young lady hailed from a merchant's family in Edinburgh, and had come to London, near four years before, in 1813, to be married to an English lawyer.

  Bad luck had seemed to harry her, from the moment she passed Hadrian's Wall and arrived in the capital, for the lawyer, to all appearances a hale and hearty man of thirty-two, died of a heart attack the very day before he was due to lead her to the altar.

  For reasons – about which she didn't go into in much detail - the bride-to-be was left so perilously close to penury that she was forced to go into service as a companion. When her first employer died, she took work in another house, as a maid, whilst looking for something better.

  Here too, ill-luck struck, as the youngest son of the house where she was working took such a violent liking to her that, to escape his persistent and unwelcome attentions, she was forced to leave. At the beginning of 1815 she met and fell, as violently herself, in love with a young officer of noble family. He was about to leave for the Continent and urged her to marry him before he left. She did so, and after three of the happiest weeks of her life, he left to take up his posting in Belgium.

  After six, nerve-wracking months, while she worked as a governess to two girls about to come out into society, and followed with horror the news of Napoleon's escape from exile on the island of Elba and the rallying of the Grand Alliance to crush him decisively, there came the news that she'd dreaded - her young husband had fallen at the Battle of Waterloo.

  Mrs Templeton, despite her amiable manner, was no sentimentalist, yet she was as spellbound by the quiet, subdued tones in which the young lady related these events. Had she been a reader of popular novels, she could not have heard a more dramatic and affecting story. The young lady, with her full head of flaming red hair released from the confines of her visibly patched and re-patched bonnet, and with the sunlight adding warm golden tones to a flawlessly pale complexion, was utterly beautiful, far too beautiful to be a mere housemaid.

  And yet this beauty held an entirely justified sense of pride in check; she was no arrogant hussy, that was for certain.

  Her pride was of the natural variety, Mrs Templeton concluded, and due to a just assessment of her own powers and worth, though there was a hint of Gaelic wildness, or mischievousness, in her too – no bad thing if she was to deal with his Lordship's difficult trio of daughters.

  “Lady Amelia, the youngest, is a terror with her bad temper. I wonder, how would you react to being roundly abused over a trifle by a spoiled fifteen-year old Lad
y?”

  Mrs Templeton, an expert interviewer of staff, fired this crucial question at the new candidate abruptly, in an attempt to catch her off-guard and expose any ineptitude, inexperience, or lack of confidence. The attempt was fruitless.

  “As with most spoiled children, rich or poor, a short sharp shock of wit to remind them of their place will invariably – if done consistently – do the trick. They have to be shown that you are not to be trifled with, and that any over-stepping of the clearly defined mark will result in a stinging humiliation. It works with adults too. Failing that, a good smack on the derriere is the next best thing. That's the next best thing, sometimes the best thing for so-called adults too – although they rarely suffer such an indignity.”

  Mrs Leslie delivered this conclusion with such a playfully serious smile that Mrs Templeton couldn't help but laugh. She rather thought the woman would do, even though she’d had doubts to start. She might be better suited to a higher position, but if she was willing to take on the lowly role of housemaid, Mrs Templeton would give her the chance to prove herself.

  ~~~~~

  The beautiful young widow was smiling still as she walked along the stone passageway towards the door to the stable-yard, after her lengthy interview. It was an unaffected smile, a smile to her inmost self, and full of hope. The wages for the position were more than she had dared hope for, and would enable her to put decent food in front of her ailing mother-in-law, and get a little meat back on her own bones, not to mention a new dress, or perhaps even two. Though Mrs Templeton had said that she would 'let her know' by the day after tomorrow, Mrs Leslie was sure, could feel it in those hungry poorly-clad bones of hers, that the position would be hers.

  As she reached the door, a rider trotted into the stable-yard. It was the Earl on a great, sleek, chestnut mare. She must've been put to quite a stretch of the gallops for she was agleam with sweat, and shook her damp mane as his Lordship smilingly bent to pat her neck.

  What a stirring image they made, Mrs Leslie thought, as she stood in the doorway looking out, her heart, to her surprise, starting to beat erratically with a nervous flutter. His Lordship, dismounted, and stood affectionately rubbing and patting the mare's long neck. For a moment, as the Earl’s fine hand stroked down the mare’s neck, she found herself envying the tired horse.

  'What nonsense Constance! Look at yourself girl. That is your future employer.'

  But Constance, though shaking off the momentary envy, was unable to shift her eyes from the Earl. He was so tall – over six feet she was sure - and so very well-formed. His riding breeches set off the muscles of his long legs to perfection, while his close-fitting black riding coat accentuated his broad-shoulders and deep chest.

  His hair was almost as dark as his coat, a thick mane, which, tied back so tightly, laid bare the first few silver-grey streaks of his forty-plus years. She imagined how he would look in the future, with a full head of silver hair, and the image of the sixty-year old Earl was no less virile and handsome.

  'Enough lass. A handsome enough man yes, but your employer, and your bread depends on him. On with the day's business now.'

  As she tied on her bonnet a groom appeared and took charge of the mare. The Earl, beaming with pleasure, nodded amiably to the young man, and helped him divest the horse of her saddle. Once the groom had thrown a blanket over the mare, he turned to lead her off, to walk her until she had cooled down. As the groom turned, the Earl pressed a silver coin into his palm, before he strode away, around to the front of the house.

  'A very handsome man. And a good one too.'

  'Pish Constance!'

  She shook her head at her own thoughts, and set off in the warmth of the spring sunshine, back to the village.

  Chapter Three

  “Excellent news Mr Collins! And you're both in agreement as to the girl's merits? And her references? Mrs Temp?”

  “Her references couldn't be better your Lordship, and all my spies in the village report nothing but good about her. A hard worker, no taste for gossip, and by all accounts a loyal and faithful woman in herself. She's a widow sir, her young husband was killed at Waterloo, and she's completely dedicated to the care of her ailing mother-in-law. I will say one thing sir, she's a spirited thing and will brook no nonsense from anyone.”

  “What? She sounds rather Jacobin, we can't have radicals roaming the house Mrs Temp.”

  His Lordship caught Mr Collins' eye and winked complicitly.

  “Oh Sir, whenever will you stop pulling my leg? It's already a mile long and will come off at the next quip. No, she's no firebrand sir, just a quiet Scotswoman biding her own business but with the pride of that sister nation to us.”

  “A proud Scotswoman? Dealing with my daughters? If her pride is of the touchy variety, she won’t last very long.”

  “Begging your pardon sir but you're wrong. She has pride yes, but a deal of humour too, to offset it. Let me tell you what she said when I asked her how she'd deal with the kind of treatment meted out by Lady Amelia, begging your Lordship's pardon, again.”

  “No need to stand on ceremony Mrs Temp, we're all scarred veterans' of my daughters' tongues. Now what did Mrs Leslie say?”

  When told of Mrs Leslie's formula for dealing with recalcitrant children, and adults, Perry laughed approvingly.

  “I approve your choice heartily Mrs Temp, and if Mr Collins here agrees, then she can start whenever you think fit.”

  Mrs Temp trundled off to send a message to Mrs Leslie offering her the job of upstairs housemaid. And Perry waved Collins towards his study.

  “Thank you, Edward, that's quite a relief. One less source of nagging by my spoiled darlings. Now, let's get on with planning our next great domestic battle, shall we? How shall we call it? Clara's Coming Out Campaign?”

  Collins laughed, shaking his head.

  “Campaign indeed. But before that, Perry, there’s something you should know about Mrs Leslie, something rather interesting, given our recent conversations.”

  “Oh? And what would that be?”

  “She’s not always just been a housemaid, my Lord – she’s worked as a companion to the nobility, and as a governess to girls not too different in age from your daughters.”

  Perry looked at Collins as he closed the study door, shutting out any possible interruption to their discussion.

  “A governess? Now that is interesting. I wonder how she’ll handle my daughters. Could we possibly be lucky? Let us see how she does as a housemaid, but if things go well, perhaps…”

  “Indeed, Perry, my thoughts exactly.”

  ~~~~~

  The Earl was completely immersed in 'Clara's Coming Out Campaign' - which was well named. It involved the assembly of a small army of servants, the employment of a variety of tradesmen and seamstresses, and the establishment of newer, more reliable supply routes between Blackwood Chase and Blackwood House.

  It also required the placation of various potentates of the ton, particularly his mother the Dowager Countess, and other daunting Empresses of London's drawing rooms. So deeply was he caught up in it all, that he failed to notice his new employee as he sped hither and thither through the house. Constance, however, immersed in more physically demanding work, didn't fail to notice him; though the nature of her work left little time for contemplation of the impressive bearing of her new employer.

  Nonetheless, she found herself looking for him, wanting to catch glimpses of him, whenever she could. No matter that she chastised herself for foolishness, she still looked, as she moved about the house, unable to help herself.

  She fetched bed-linen and towels, bed-covers and bed-curtains; ensured that every upstairs cupboard was fully-stocked and that soiled linens, sheets and towels were delivered to the washhouse, and fresh linens, sheets and towels removed from the washhouse and re-stored. Then there was the cleaning and polishing, the dusting, the trimming and replacing of candles in the galleries and bedrooms, the maintenance of the windows, the oiling of door hinges and a thous
and lesser details which constantly cropped up with distressing regularity. Constance, glad to be working again, found nothing that she had to do distressing, and applied herself to each task with an energy that made her fellow servants raise their eyebrows.

  “She won’t last at this pace” noted Anne, another upstairs-maid.

  “No, and I'll be glad to see her flag. What's she trying to do? Show us up? We only work like that when Mr Collins or Mrs Temp are around. She should slow down. It isn't good to work harder than those around you, when there's no need to” observed Rosemary, Anne’s fellow domestic and bosom-companion.

  But for Constance there was a need to work harder. Not only was she keen to validate Mrs Templeton's decision to employ her, but she needed hard work to help her forget her worries and memories - all of the terrible events she'd experienced since leaving her home in Edinburgh.

  As she polished the floorboards of the galleries on her hands and knees, the image of her young husband waving as he rode off to the war, and the more terrible image of the man she had first come to London to marry, the lawyer, stricken and dying, disappeared from her mind.

  “She's a wit though, a real wag, I have to say” observed Anne with approval one afternoon, as they leaned over the bannisters, watching Constance polishing a large mirror in the gallery below.

  “Put Mary in her place this morning in the kitchen right enough. 'You stick to your suds, I'll mind the sheets' she says to her, after Mary turns and tells her there's a fresh pile of Lady Amelia's linen waiting by in the washhouse.”

  “Wag or no, I don't trust her, she's up to something. Look at her, that fine red-hair, that skin, she's no houseworker, never did a day's honest in her life, if you ask me. And she's a Scot. A mean-spirited people, my old dad used to say.”

  “Well she isn't mean with the elbow-grease Rose, look at her go.”

  Constance, below, though she couldn't hear her colleagues' whispering, was well aware of being observed, and wasn't irritated by it. It was only to be expected. She was new, a stranger in the close-knit world of Blackwood Chase, and it would take time, she knew, to be accepted. The trick was not to seem to be trying to be accepted.