A Lady Becomes a Governess

by Diane Gaston

  Miss Tilson—Claire—must have felt a similar ease. ‘Might you tell me now why you do not wish to be married?’ She gave Rebecca a daring look. ‘Now that we are no longer formal?’

  Rebecca stared into her tankard of ale which she held with both hands to keep it from spilling.

  How could she explain?

  ‘A woman gives up everything by marrying,’ she said. ‘Any wealth or property she might have. Any right to decide for herself what she wishes to do. If I am to give up everything, it should be to a man who loves me and respects me and will not confine me.’

  Claire’s brows rose. ‘And this man?’

  Rebecca grimaced. ‘I met him only once. He merely wished to ensure himself I could produce an heir.’

  Claire did not look the least dismayed by this information. ‘But of course he would want an heir. Especially if he has a title and property.’

  ‘He does.’ Rebecca tapped her pewter tankard with her fingernail.

  ‘Is the gentleman wealthy enough to provide for you?’ Claire asked.

  ‘He is said to be prosperous,’ she replied. ‘He must be, because he is willing to marry me with a mere pittance for a dowry.’

  Claire nodded approvingly. ‘Will you tell me who he is?’

  Rebecca could see no reason not to. ‘Lord Stonecroft.’

  Claire gave her an enquiring look.

  ‘Baron Stonecroft of Gillford.’

  ‘Ah.’ A look of understanding came over Claire’s face. ‘You were hoping for a higher title than baron. I mean, you said you are the daughter of an earl.’

  Rebecca sniffed. ‘I care nothing for that.’

  Claire looked surprised. ‘Did he seem like a cruel man, then? Is that your objection?’

  Not cruel.

  Indifferent.

  Rebecca sighed. ‘I do not believe there is precisely anything to object to in him. I simply do not wish to marry him.’

  ‘Refuse, then.’ Claire spoke this like a dare.

  Oh, Rebecca would love to refuse. ‘My brother—my half-brother—says I am too much of a burden for him to wait for me to find a husband I would like. I’ve refused every offer he’s arranged for me. He has made certain I will be turned out without a penny if I do not marry Lord Stonecroft.’ Her face heated at the memory of her brother railing at her. ‘I’ve no doubt he means what he says.’ Still, her mind whirled with ways she might avoid this marriage without being turned out into the streets.

  None were viable, however.

  Claire looked sympathetic. ‘How sad. One would hope a brother would understand. Family should understand, should they not?’

  Rebecca regarded her curiously. ‘Do you have any brothers or sisters? Any family at all?’

  Claire shook her head. ‘I am alone in the world. Any relations are too distant to be concerned with me.’

  More reason to feel a kinship towards her. ‘My parents are gone,’ Rebecca confided. ‘And my brother might as well be dead. He said he never wishes to see me again. Ever. Even if he visits England. He made that very clear.’

  Her brother had always resented her. He’d resented her mother, as well. Possibly because their father had loved her mother better than either his son or daughter.

  They fell silent.

  Claire finally spoke and with a resolved tone. ‘I think you are fortunate to marry, Lady Rebecca—Rebecca. You have little money or property, correct? You can only gain by marrying. You’ll gain a home of your own to manage. Children of your own. Comfort and security. Even status and a respectable position in society.’

  Rebecca glanced away.

  All that was true. But Lord Stonecroft had only cared that she was young and healthy enough to breed and apparently tolerable to look at. He’d made no effort to know her. How was she to endure that sort of emotional wasteland? How was she to tolerate life with such a man?

  Claire must have sensed Rebecca’s desolation. Her expression turned consoling. ‘Perhaps it will not be so onerous to be Lady Stonecroft.’

  Rebecca managed a polite smile. ‘Perhaps not.’

  As if by mutual agreement she and Claire began talking of other things. Books. Plays. Art. Music. From time to time Claire, pretending to be Rebecca, checked on Nolan, who never seemed to question who she was, to Rebecca’s delight.

  Rebecca and Claire talked until night fell, turning the churning sea inky black.

  Claire stood. ‘I should return to my cabin so you might get some sleep. I’ll help you out of your dress, if you help me out of this lovely gown.’

  Rebecca rose and let her lookalike untie and loosen the laces at the back of the plain dress she’d worn most of the voyage. What a shame. She’d quite enjoyed not being herself, playing a woman whose life seemed so much simpler, so much within her own control.

  She turned to face Claire. ‘Let us see how far we can carry this masquerade. You be me tonight. Sleep in my nightclothes, in this bed. And I will continue being you.’

  The young woman looked stricken. ‘I cannot allow you to be closeted in that tiny berth they gave me!’

  ‘Why not?’ Rebecca countered. ‘It will be an adventure for me. And you will have the comfort of this cabin as a treat. When Nolan enters in the morning, we shall discover if she still believes you are me.’

  Rebecca pulled out her nightdress, made of the softest of muslin. ‘Here.’

  Miss Tilson fingered the fine cloth of the nightdress. ‘Perhaps. If you desire this.’

  ‘I do desire it,’ Rebecca insisted, helping Miss Tilson out of her dress. ‘I desire it very much.’

  * * *

  In the morning the sea became even more restless. The sky turned even more ominous shades of grey. Rebecca convinced Claire to continue to wear her clothes and impersonate her. Nolan, who remained abed, sick as ever, and the few seamen who attended them still did not guess that Claire masqueraded as Rebecca. Even with the two ladies together, the seamen never seemed to notice how alike they were.

  The seamen were rushed and worried, however. There was a storm brewing, the seamen said. The ladies must remain below.

  As the day progressed, Rebecca and Claire talked more about the weather than about their lives. They left the cabin rarely only to check on Nolan, who suffered so much she did not even react when Rebecca, dressed as the governess, attended her.

  In the late afternoon, the storm broke, tossing the packet boat even more violently than before.

  ‘We should be nearing the coast,’ Rebecca said.

  ‘If the ship can even sail in this.’ Claire’s face—her identical face—paled in fear.

  Suddenly shouts and pounding feet sounded from above them, then a loud crack and a thud that shook the boards over their heads. The two women grasped each other’s hands. Their masquerade became unimportant as the wind and sea pitched the ship so constantly that they could not change back into their own clothing.

  The gentleman who’d passed them the day before opened the door without knocking. ‘Come above,’ he demanded in a voice they didn’t dare disobey. ‘We must abandon ship. Bring nothing.’

  Rebecca defied him, grabbing her reticule containing all her money. When they reached the stairs, she shoved the reticule into Claire’s hands. ‘Here. Take this. I’ll be right behind you. I’m going to get Nolan.’

  Claire hung the reticule on her wrist.

  ‘Miss!’ the gentleman cried. ‘We must leave now.’

  ‘I will be right behind you,’ she called over her shoulder.

  Rebecca rushed to Nolan’s cabin. A seaman was at Nolan’s door. He turned to Rebecca. ‘She refuses to come,’ the man shouted. ‘Hurry! We must get above.’

  Rebecca pushed past him and ran to her maid. ‘Nolan! Come with me.’

  The older woman recoiled, rolling over and huddling against the wall. ‘No. Sick. Leave me alone.�
��

  ‘Come, miss!’ the crewman cried. ‘There is no time to waste!’

  ‘I cannot leave her!’ she cried.

  He dragged her away from Nolan’s door, practically carrying her to the steps of the companionway.

  On deck, rain poured as if from buckets, obscuring the chaos Rebecca found above. The mast had splintered in two and lay like a fallen tree on the deck, ropes and sails tangled around it.

  ‘To the boats!’ the seaman shouted, running ahead.

  She followed him, catching sight of Claire and the gentleman at the railing. The ship dipped suddenly and a wave washed over the deck. Rebecca had only a second to grab hold of a rope or be carried in its ebb. When the wave passed and she looked up, Miss Tilson and the gentleman had disappeared.

  Her escort seized her arm. ‘Come, miss. No time to waste.’

  He pulled her along with him to the side of the ship where other passengers and crew were climbing into a rowing boat that had been lowered over the side. Claire was not among them. Rebecca glanced out to sea, but Claire had vanished. Nolan, Claire and the gentleman were lost.

  There was no time for emotion. The crew lifted her over the side as the rowing boat bobbed up and down beneath her. Only with luck did her feet connect with the wood of the boat’s bottom.

  The boat filled quickly. Rebecca huddled next to a woman clutching her two children. Beneath their feet was at least an inch of water and more pouring from the sky. Somehow the sailors rowed the boat away from the packet. Through the darkness and rain, a shadow of coastline was visible. Rebecca kept her eyes riveted on it, watching it come slowly closer. Almost in reach.

  From behind her a woman screamed.

  Rebecca swivelled around to see the packet boat crash against the rocks. At that same moment the rowing boat hit something and tipped.

  Rebecca plunged into icy water.

  Chapter Two

  Garret Brookmore, the new Viscount Brookmore, received word of the shipwreck off the coast of Moelfre while he waited in an inn in Holyhead. This was the packet he was to meet, the one on which the governess was to arrive. There were survivors of the wreck, he was told, and Garret felt obligated to travel to Moelfre to see if Miss Claire Tilson was one of them.

  None of this was remotely within his experience. A year ago he’d been in Brussels with his regiment awaiting what became the Battle of Waterloo. For the past ten years he’d battled the French. Then word came that his brother and his brother’s wife had been killed in a carriage accident and he needed to return to England to inherit his brother’s title and all the new responsibilities that accompanied it, responsibilities over which he had no preparation. His older brother had been groomed from birth to be the Viscount. John was the family’s fair-haired boy, able to do no wrong in their father’s eyes, whereas not much was expected of Garret so he’d always been bound for the army.

  Now the son from whom the family expected little had an estate to run, Parliament to attend and two little girls, his orphaned nieces, to tend to. Pamela and Ellen, only nine and seven, had been securely in the care of their governess, a long-time retainer of their mother’s family, but fate had not finished being cruel. That woman, too, died.

  How much could two little girls take? Their mother. Their father. Their governess. Left with a strange uncle whose heart remained with his regiment. Garret had witnessed thousands of deaths, but these seemed the cruellest.

  When notified that his nieces’ governess had died, Garret had been in London attempting to meet society’s expectations of a viscount. He contacted an agency in town to hire a new governess and left his obligations there to travel back to Westmorland to the family’s principal estate, to see to his nieces and await the new governess. He’d barely arrived at Brookmore when the agency sent word to expect Miss Tilson to arrive in Holyhead from Ireland.

  What if Miss Tilson had drowned in this shipwreck, though? What was Garret to tell the little girls? That another person who was supposed to care for them had died?

  He rode to Moelfre and enquired where the shipwreck survivors might be found. He was directed to the Pheasant Inn, a place bustling with activity.

  The innkeeper greeted him. ‘Welcome. Do you seek a room?’

  ‘I am looking for a survivor of the shipwreck,’ Garret responded.

  The man frowned and shook his head. ‘Such a tragedy. Almost forty people lost, I’m afraid. Only eleven made it through.’

  That did not sound hopeful. ‘I am looking for Miss Tilson. Miss Claire Tilson.’

  The innkeeper broke into a smile. ‘Ah, Miss Tilson! Yes. Yes. She is here.’

  Relief washed through Garret. ‘May I see her?’

  ‘Of course.’ The innkeeper gestured for him to follow. He followed the man up two sets of stairs. ‘She’s been feverish since the rescue. Some men pulled her from the water, we were told. She seemed better today, our maid said. Might not be awake.’

  ‘I understand.’

  The innkeeper knocked and a maid answered. ‘Someone to see Miss Tilson.’

  The woman smiled and opened the door wider. Neither she nor the innkeeper asked who he was.

  He approached the bed and gazed down in surprise. He’d expected an elderly woman like the previous governess. Miss Tilson hardly looked old enough to be out of the schoolroom herself. Her skin was smooth and flawless; her features strong, not delicate. Her hair, the colour of Kentish cobnuts, fell loose over the white pillow. Would her face fulfil the promise of character shown in her repose? He was intrigued.

  He looked over at the innkeeper. ‘I do need a room.’

  ‘Yes, sir, I can accommodate you,’ the man answered. ‘Would you like to come with me now? I will show you to the room.’

  Now that he’d found Miss Tilson, he was reluctant to leave her. ‘I will stay until she wakes up. So she knows I am here.’

  She was bound to experience distress, waking in a strange place, after nearly drowning.

  The innkeeper reached for Garret’s valise. ‘I’ll take this to the room and come back with your key, if you like.’

  Garret nodded his thanks.

  The maid spoke up. ‘May I leave, sir? I am very hungry. May I get food?’

  The innkeeper glanced towards Garret.

  ‘I have no objection.’ Far be it from Garret to deny a hungry girl, so he wound up alone, seated at the bedside of a beauty he did not know, but for whom he was now responsible.

  * * *

  An hour passed, an hour spent with swirling thoughts of all he must remember to do, of all he’d learned needed his attention at the estate and even more demands in London and how much he wished he were simply marching with his men on some foreign road bound for the next battle. He missed his men. Worried about how they were faring. The war was over. Napoleon was on St Helena. Regiments were disbanding.

  What was the use of wishing for what could not be? Even if his brother had not died, his army life would have changed drastically.

  He had to admit he’d travelled to Holyhead mostly to give himself time away from these duties and regrets. Time to think. He could have easily sent a servant to escort her to the estate.

  He rose when the innkeeper brought his key. As he settled back in the chair next to the bed, Miss Tilson’s eyes—unexpectedly hazel—fluttered open.

  ‘Where?’ she managed, her voice cracking.

  He poured her a glass of water from a pitcher on the bed table. ‘You are safe, Miss Tilson,’ he told her. ‘You are at an inn in Moelfre.’

  Her brow creased as if she were puzzled. ‘Miss Tilson,’ she whispered. ‘Claire.’

  He helped her to sit and held the glass as she drank. ‘I am Lord Brookmore.’ It still sounded strange on his tongue. In his mind Brookmore was still his brother. ‘Your employer.’

  She stared at him a long time and it seemed as if he could see
a range of emotions flit through her eyes. Puzzlement, horror, grief and, finally, understanding.

  * * *

  Rebecca’s heart pounded in her chest. This was not another fever-filled vision, but a real man touching her, helping her drink. Once she quenched her considerable thirst, she became acutely aware that she wore only a thin nightdress. From where? From whom? Had even the clothes she’d worn—Claire Tilson’s clothes—been lost? Her throat tightened again, but this time from grief. Claire. Nolan. All those poor people.

  She shrank away from the man and he sat back in his chair, placing the glass on the side table.

  He was Claire’s new employer, he’d said, and he thought she was the poor governess who’d been swept away by that killing wave. He did not look like a man who would hire a governess. His rugged face and muscular frame made him look untamed. His piercing blue eyes seemed a thin shield against painful remembrances. Dark hair, longer than fashionable, was as windswept as a man who’d galloped over fields on a wild stallion. The shadow of a beard covering a strong jaw gave him a rakish air.

  Her eyes darted around the room. Why was such a man alone with her? She certainly had never before been alone with a man in her bedchamber, in her night clothes.

  ‘Why—?’ Her throat closed again and she swallowed. ‘Why are you here?’

  His blue eyes fixed on her. ‘I waited at Holyhead. News came of the shipwreck so I rode here to see if you’d...survived.’

  The shipwreck. Again she watched the wave consume Claire. Again she felt the rowing boat smash against rocks and plunge her into the water.

  She shivered with the memory and he rose again, this time to wrap a blanket around her shoulders. Her skin heated at his touch.

  She looked up into his face. ‘How many? How many survived?’

  ‘Eleven, the innkeeper said,’ he replied.

  Only ten others? What about the woman and her two children? Were they swept out to sea like Claire and the gentleman with her? Her eyes stung with tears.

  ‘My God.’ She dropped her face into her hands and sobbed.

  She could feel him staring at her, even though he was still and silent. How humiliating to become so discomposed in front of this stranger. It was so unlike her.