Falling for the Governess: A Historical Regency Romance Book

by Abby Ayles

  For lack of a better place, she lined up her treasured novels along the wall between the cabinet and the metal headboard of the bed.

  With most of her last possessions in their places, Isabella managed to get herself undressed, only the third time she had done so on her own, and slipped beneath the soft cover of her bed. She was grateful for a room with a fireplace.

  She stared dreamily into its dwindling embers as she wondered if that was why she had been placed in a room so far away from the other staff. Had it been for the extra comfort of the fire? Or was it the access to her pupil’s side without interfering with others in the house? Or simply to give her a physical reminder that she was no longer one of the lords and ladies who lived in such a lavished manor nor one of the staff that served them?

  Her last thoughts as she fell asleep was if this had been how her father felt when out to sea. Adrift, with land in front and land behind and nothing but a lone ship to carry her. Would she spend the rest of her days lost out at sea as a solitary island or could she find a way to make it to a shore, no matter the one she chose?

  The next morning, Isabella woke early to the darkened grey sky greeting her through the small porthole window. She was surprised how well she had slept, no doubt due to exhaustion from the long journey. She was afraid that she might have overslept, as she was not used to waking early. She sat upright with a bolt and quickly tip toed over to the small clock that alone adorned the fireplace mantle.

  She poked at the fire, finding a few coals warm beneath the ash, and did her best to use the fuel provided to get it going again. Once there was a small flicker of flame, Isabella turned, hearing a slight knock at her door.

  She opened it to find a maid standing with a pitcher of steaming water and basin. She stood aside to let the girl in to set it down on the small stand next to her bed.

  “Thank you, that looks lovely, miss…” Isabella trailed off waiting for the girl to introduce herself. She was very young, not more than sixteen.

  “Just Betsy, Miss Watts,” she said with a thick Scottish accent and a curtsy.

  “Are you Scottish, then?” Isabella asked.

  “Aye, most of the lower staff is, Miss Watts.”

  “Please call me Isabella,” she encouraged. “Shall I bring my basin down when I am done?”

  “Oh no, Miss…I mean Isabella. I shall come and fetch it up when I brin’ your breakfast tray.”

  “That is very kind of you; I am sure it is tedious work to go up and down so many stairs.”

  “Dinna fash. I dinna mind it one bit. It’s a much more enjoyable task than the others.” Betsy turned to leave after another short curtsy, but paused just a moment. “I dinna mean to be a bother, but I was a’wonderin’ if you happen to need help with your things, dressin’ and hair, I mean to say. I would be happy to help you.”

  “That is very considerate of you, Betsy, but I would hate to ask more of you than you already do, or give you additional tasks. It may take some practice, but I believe I will soon learn to do it on my own.”

  “You see, you would be doin’ me a favor if you let me,” Betsy continued. “I want to be a lady’s maid one day for a fine house. May’haps even this one. I need the practice first, you see. I heard that you were raised as a lady, so I thought you might help me. Tell me if I was doin’ somethin’ wrong and the like.”

  “Well, I suppose I could use some help to make something simple with my hair.”

  “Aye, that would be great practice for me if ye would allow it.”

  “Mrs. Peterson won’t be mad? I had the feeling she didn’t want me speaking with others very much.”

  “It’s not like that. She is just verra particular that all are in their place and none try to be more than they are. It makes it pretty impossible for a lass like me to make much more o’ herself. But what she dinna ken won’t hurt her much.”

  “Well, if you are sure we won't be caught,” Isabella hesitated. “I suppose it would be fine. I would love to do what I can to help you.”

  Isabella meant it sincerely, too. It was the first friend she had made in the house and any way she could help Betsy she was willing to. It reminded her of something her father used to say, “a small act of kindness can open the door for great friendships.”

  Isabella used the warm water to wash and freshen herself before dressing. She found a soft green colored cotton morning dress that she paired with a dark, velvet green spencer jacket. Though the dress was very modest in cut, she still fretted over its look as a practical dress.

  She was, after all, hoping to put the right foot in front of His Grace after clearly blundering things with the Marquess the night before. She smartly tucked a fichu into the top of her green gown before putting on the spencer jacket.

  Though she had the fire going relatively well, she feared she would never get used to the chill that always seemed present in this northern country. Tucking a cream handkerchief into her long sleeve, she finished just in time for Betsy to knock at the door again.

  She came in and set the tray down on the small table beside the port window. Before eating, Isabella sat in the only chair facing the window while Betsy pulled her hair back into a tight chignon. She left a few of Isabella’s dark ringlets out to frame her face. Isabella did her best to feel around to assure Betsy she had done a fantastic job, as there was no mirror present in the room.

  Seeming happy to have gotten some practice in, Betsy thanked her again then took the water basin and left Isabella to eat her breakfast alone.

  She had just finished her toast and rejuvenating cup of tea when a knock came to her door again. This time, it was Mrs. Peterson, and she was very accurate with her timing. Without so much as a good morning, she turned on her heels, expecting Isabella to follow after.

  Isabella supposed that this was a common habit of Mrs. Peterson. Not only did she feel everyone had their place to be, but also the use of words that didn’t need to be spoken were a waste of time. She quickly walked to catch up to Mrs. Peterson for the second time in two days to start her new beginning as governess.

  Chapter 5

  Isabella made her way down the narrow stairway and ended on the second floor of the main house. She followed Mrs. Peterson along the Turkish-rugged hall listening to the soft pads of their feet on the ground and swishing of skits.

  She was surprised that, for such a large house, filled with not only the family of the house but at least a hundred servants downstairs and not all the tables were even full, it was so quiet.

  Where was everyone else? She had expected to see maids bustling about and hear the clank of breakfast silverware in the distance, but it was complete and utter silence as she walked. Perhaps it was just that the west wing of the manor was far off from the rest of the house, she thought to herself.

  The wing was basically a rectangle shape with a walkway that outlined the rectangle. Off the walkway, numerous doors sprouted along the walls.

  The middle, however, was open, with four enormous chandeliers hanging down from the ceiling. Isabella took a second to look over the railing on their walk and saw the most magnificent ballroom she had ever set her eyes on. It took up the whole of the bottom floor.

  The chandeliers, as well as at least a dozen standing candelabras dotting along the floor, were all covered with sheets, as was a section in the far corner that was no doubt used for a live orchestra. She imagined royalty might very well dance in that hall on occasion.

  As she walked, she learned that her quarters were the farthest west and left edge of the manor, her small port window looking out at the left side of the property.

  She had gotten so mixed up walking the downstairs corridors that she hadn’t realized which way she was facing. She remembered seeing the front of the manor in the dark and mentally pictured the three sections. Her left side held the grand hall and a significant amount of what she assumed were guest rooms above it.

  The middle section was, no doubt, the main part of the house with studies, libraries,
sitting and drawing rooms. Most likely, in a house this size, it also boasted a smaller hall for more intimate affairs and the various dining rooms.

  Then, lastly, she pictured in her mind, the east wing of the manor. She wondered if it shared a similar large hall and rooms that housed the family or if it was completely different from the beauty she was walking along.

  Finally, they made their way all the way from the bottom of the attic stairs along the straight walk to the other end of the wing. Here, there was a small half circle alcove that led to two rooms on either side of the end of the rectangle and a grand staircase that lead down to the lower floor of the central portion. It was a sensational foyer, with painted ceilings squares, another large chandelier, and marble floors. Isabella stopped for a moment to look at the grandeur of it all.

  She saw the large double doors that lead from the outside into the foyer, as well as an exquisite matching staircase opposite her. She did see a single maid dusting one of the vases that adorned the great room along with several marble statues. It was unimaginable to Isabella that this house was lived in. It looked like a royal estate, more magnificent than any she had ever seen.

  “Miss Watts, if you please,” Mrs. Peterson said with impatience. She motioned to a third door from the small half circle alcove.

  No doubt these rooms, closest to the main house, were meant for children. They were far enough away as not to be a bother to the lords and ladies that graced the house, but close enough to come when needed. Isabella smiled at the thought of how many little eyes had spied over the walkway banister to lavish balls below.

  Mrs. Peterson opened the door without knocking, and Isabella followed in after her. She found herself in a large room with a small library of its own on either side of a crackling fireplace. There were comfortable chairs seated near the fire, no doubt for reading.

  There was a long wall facing outside to the back of the estate. Lush curtains in velvet green draped between the windows that showed vast, manicured gardens and even a large pond. Next to the windows were a small table and four chairs, probably for lunch. And all the way to the right side of the room was a child-sized table where one timid little girl was sitting quietly with her hands folded on top.

  Next to the girl stood a woman just past middle age. She was wearing the cream-colored dress and apron of a nurse, as well as a bonnet with large ruffles framing her kind-looking face. She motioned for her charge to stand at the women’s entrance and the little girl did as she was told.

  “Mrs. Murray,” Mrs. Peterson started, “I am pleased to introduce you to Miss Watts, our new governess. She will be relieving you of your duties during the day.”

  “Ach, they are not much of duties with this little angel,” Mrs. Murray said in a thick Scottish accent.

  The little girl smiled up at her nurse with affection. It was clear she didn’t understand much of what she said. She was a young girl and seemed small for her age. Very petite and thin. She had golden blonde ringlet hair and still had the round face of a small child. She looked shyly at the newcomer.

  “Miss Jaqueline De’belmount,” Mrs. Peterson said a little louder than before, “this is your governess, Miss Watts.”

  Mrs. Peterson, ever the proper lady, made the formal introduction to the child. Isabella laughed a little to herself. The child spoke a different language; she wasn’t hard of hearing. Isabella stood before the young girl, then kneeled down to Jaqueline’s level.

  “Enchante. Je m’appelle Mademoiselle Watts.”

  Jaqueline’s little face lit up. “Parlez-vous français?”

  “Oui,” Isabella answered with a small smile.

  This poor little girl had probably felt so alone and isolated in this house. Indeed, she was well loved by her nurse, but Isabella couldn’t imagine leaving one’s home and being surrounded by a new culture and language.

  Mrs. Peterson cleared her throat, “Though all members of His Grace's family are fluent in French, the duke would prefer if the child learns English.”

  “Of course,” Isabella said, standing back up.

  The young girl slipped her hand into Isabella's and Isabella smiled down at her, giving her hand a gentle squeeze.

  “If you please, I would like to meet with my pupil and see what she already has learned.”

  “Of course,” Mrs. Peterson said, already leaning toward leaving the room. Surely, she had much more pressing matters at this time. “I will return to escort you to His Grace.”

  Isabella nodded in understanding and waited for Mrs. Peterson to leave. She turned to Mrs. Murray who hadn't gone yet.

  “Mrs. Murray, if you have a moment before you go, would you please share with me how you and Miss Jaqueline have been spending your day.”

  “I dinna mind at all. Miss Jaqueline is a verra sweet child. Sadly, she doesn’t know much to say. She does enjoy playing with her dolls. We go on walks after luncheon to enjoy some fresh air. I expect His Grace will desire her time in nature to continue.”

  “That would be fine. It would give us some time to explore natural science. I understand that Mrs. Peterson wants Jaqueline to focus on learning English, but I hope you will allow me to discuss what she knows thus far from her previous education. To do so, we would need to speak in French.”

  “Och, don’t you worry about that. Mrs. Peterson is a stickler for the rules. What she dinna ken won't hurt her. I will sit right here,” she said as she took a spot in a chair by the fire. “I’ve been working on some winter mittens for the wee lass. I’ll be able to hear when Mrs. Peterson comes up the hall and give ye warnin’.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Murray,” Isabella looked down into the little hand still clasped in hers, “Shall we find some dolls to play with then?” she asked in French.

  Jaqueline’s small eyes lit up. Tugging on Isabella’s hand, she took her past the table and through a door that lead into a nursery. She collected some dolls and brought them before the fire at her nurse's feet, something she had apparently done on a regular basis.

  Isabella followed along and took her place next to the child on the floor. While they played, they discussed where Jaqueline grew up and what she liked to do.

  She was just five years old when her mother told her that she would be leaving France and spending time with her grandparents. She spoke lovingly of her mother, but from what she said, her mother seemed to be of a certain profession.

  “Grandparents?” Isabella asked.

  “Oh aye, Jaqueline is the daughter of the late Marquess of Bellfourd.” Mrs. Murray said not looking up from her work. “Lord James, God rest him, was an honorable man. I ken him since he was a young boy of twelve. He could be a bit free-spirited, but not any more so than others of his upbringing. Two years ago he came home from a hunting expedition that had taken a turn in the weather. He never recovered from it,” she finished softly.

  “Papa?” Jaqueline asked softly of Mrs. Murray, only understanding a few words of what her nurse said. She nodded to the girl.

  “Your Papa was a verra good man, lass; no kinder heart could be found. You see,” she said turning back to Isabella, “about a year after his passing His Grace received a letter from a Madame De’belmount of Paris. She claimed that Lord James had fathered a child by her and had been giving her a living. She asked that the child continue to be provided for, as she struggled to do so on her own. His Grace agreed under the condition that she be brought here and raised as a proper young lady.”

  “What a kindness considering her…her…” Isabella didn’t want to say with the child present, whether she understood the words or not.

  “I suspect that after the heartache of loss; you see, His Grace was verra close to his eldest son, he was hoping for a chance to have a bit of 'im back.”

  “And certainly he feels blessed to have her here,” Isabella said, looking down at Jaqueline who was softly singing a French lullaby to her doll.

  “Many of us do,” Mrs. Murray said without explanation.

  It left Isabella wo
ndering who wouldn’t be happy to have such a polite little girl in the household. She supposed that her parentage might cause some discomfort. She would never be considered a lady of the peerage, but growing in the duke's house and having an exceptional education, she would be a fine lady someday.

  Isabella spent the remainder of the morning playing with the child asking her questions here and there to see what amount of instruction she had thus far. She didn’t expect much at the tender age of six but was surprised that the girl’s mother had spent every night reading to her from quite beautiful books.

  She felt a pang of sorrow for this little girl who too had lost her mother, even if just by the separation of land. She couldn’t imagine having such happy memories with her own mother and then being forced to leave her.

  “Have you written to your mother since coming here?” Isabella asked her in perfect French.

  “Yes, Aunt Abigail is kind to me. She writes letters for me, and reads back what my mother sends me.”

  Isabella was happy to hear that she was able to keep correspondence with her mother, at least.

  “Soon, I can show you how to write your own letters and words and then you may write to your mother all on your own.”

  Of course, Isabella knew writing fluent letters, even in French, was a way off for a girl of six, but it was at least the start of a goal they could make for her education.

  “Miss Watts, I believe I hear footsteps. I suspect it is Mrs. Peterson coming for ye. It is mid-morning, and I am sure His Grace is ready for you now.”

  Isabella stood and made sure her skirt was in proper order. Jaqueline came to hug her waist before she left. Already, in just a few short hours, this child was endeared to her.

  Isabella was out the door just as Mrs. Peterson reached the top of the stairs, much to her surprise. Without many words, however, she merely turned around, expecting Isabella to follow. Isabella shook her head with a soft laugh. She wasn’t sure if she would ever understand the complexity of Mrs. Peterson.