A Waltz with the Outspoken Governess

by Catherine Tinley

  He rose. ‘Good day, Miss Smith, and welcome to Stiffkey Hall. I am Sir Nicholas Denny.’

  She shook his hand briefly. ‘Thank you, and thank you for allowing me to travel from London in your coach. It was so much more comfortable than the stage would have been.’

  Her eyes are very blue, he noted, his pulse unaccountably skipping a little as their gaze met. She is actually fairly attractive.

  He made a dismissive gesture. ‘Your gratitude is misplaced. That decision was Bramber’s.’ He nodded. ‘My secretary is a sensible fellow.’

  ‘Indeed. He has been most kind to me.’ Her tone was entirely neutral. If Bramber’s tendre was returned, Miss Smith gave no sign of it. Quite right, too. A respectable lady would not allow her emotions to be on display.

  ‘He has doubtless already apprised you of your task between now and Easter. My sister, Mrs Fenhurst, and her children will arrive in two days. Until then, you may take your leisure and acquaint yourself with the house and the area.’

  Something briefly flashed in her eyes. ‘Thank you, sir. I shall.’

  ‘Good.’ He picked up his book. ‘We dine at six. Jarvis will show you to the dining room.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ She turned and silently exited the room.

  Quite a beauty, he mused, though—apart from that brief flash—sadly lacking in any liveliness.

  Returning to Virgil, he promptly forgot her.

  * * *

  So far, all is well.

  Despite desperately wanting to visit Papa and have him released immediately, Mary knew that she had to proceed carefully. In the days following her visit to Mrs Gray’s agency, she had met with unexpected kindness—not once, but twice.

  Firstly Jane, one of the housemaids in Miss Plumpton’s school, had helped her pack her belongings into her two trunks. Miss Plumpton herself—possibly suffering from twinges of conscience—avoided Mary entirely. Mary did not take part in any further lessons and took her meals in her chamber. She had written to her father’s housekeeper to explain that she had secured a position in Sir Nicholas Denny’s household and would attempt to visit Miss Lutton as soon as she possibly could.

  The second act of kindness—as she had discussed with Sir Nicholas—was Mr Bramber’s offer to take Mary up in his employer’s travelling coach. Naturally, Mary had accepted the offer with alacrity, reflecting afterwards that it would be the first time she had spent time with any man alone, apart from Papa. As a young lady, she could not have done so before. As a governess, she could do so now.

  Despite her misgivings, the journey had been entirely comfortable. Mr Bramber was a pleasant companion and Mary had eventually become quite at ease with him—too much at ease, indeed, for something of her normal vivacity had begun to emerge. Once she realised, she had of course crushed it. She could not allow any deviation from the role of demure governess. Too much was at stake.

  She had, however, taken the opportunity during the journey to enquire about both the household and her charges. Sir Nicholas, she had been surprised to hear, was quite a young gentleman, not yet thirty. He was as yet unmarried, so the children she was to teach were not his, but his sister’s.

  Mr Bramber was reluctant to provide many details about the children, but described some of them as ‘high-spirited’. A little daunted by this, Mary reminded herself that the same epithet had frequently been assigned to her. She hoped the Fenhurst children would turn out to be high-spirited in a good way.

  The chamber Mary had been given was small, but comfortable. The bed seemed firm, there was a table and a cupboard, and the window looked out over the side of the house. All in all, the perfect room for a governess. The house was impressive—substantial and well cared for, it indicated that Sir Nicholas was a man of means. As she changed her dress for dinner, she finally allowed herself to reflect on the man himself.

  He was handsome, she allowed, with a square jaw, tousled dark hair and warm brown eyes. He had towered over her when he had stood—impressive shoulders and thighs framing a lean torso, yet her keen eye had noted that he had had a copy of Virgil’s Georgics at his elbow.

  He is no beef-witted Adonis, then.

  Their brief meeting had left its mark on her and she was unclear why. Perhaps it was simply that he was her employer and therefore in a position of power over her. She squirmed inwardly at the notion. This was the moment when her fiery notions of freedom met the reality of society as it was.

  Even Mrs Gray probably began as an employee, she reminded herself. One had to either inherit money, or earn it. And then a woman must somehow keep it from her menfolk. Mary’s salary as a governess was paltry, but with Papa in prison, it was all hers.

  Her thoughts returned, as they did constantly, to her father. How was he doing? Was he being badly treated? Was he ill, or in despair? She had made it to Norfolk—a challenge that had seemed impossible when she had first read Miss Lutton’s letter. Her next action must be to visit the housekeeper. Thankfully, she would have time tomorrow to do so.

  She lifted her chin with determination. Papa, I am coming for you!

  * * *

  Just three places had been set for dinner—a sight which made Mary briefly hesitate in the doorway of the dining room. Having hurried downstairs from her second-floor chamber on hearing the dinner gong, Mary had been directed to the correct room by Jarvis, the elderly butler. She thanked him, then hurried inside.

  Sir Nicholas and Mr Bramber were just taking their seats and they greeted her easily, Sir Nicholas indicating that the place to his left would be hers. Mr Bramber, opposite, was to his right and he gave her a reassuring smile as the footmen began to serve the food. And what food! Having grown up in various vicarages before living in Miss Plumpton’s Academy, Mary had always had enough to eat, but never had she tasted such a range of fine foods. Pies, soups and meats were flanked by side dishes such as omelette, cauliflower and olives. Conscious of not wishing to seem unpolished, Mary accepted a little of everything, enjoying tastes and textures she had never before experienced.

  New experiences are always an opportunity to stimulate the mind, she told herself, enjoying the challenge of trying to guess what the grey material was before tasting it, or what the meat was in the delicious pie. Pigeon, she guessed.

  Careful not to over-indulge—for her palate was unused to such rich food—she also took the opportunity to study her companions. The men chatted easily together, revealing a familiarity that had much amity in it. Bramber was a little stiffer and more formal than he had been, and respectful towards his employer. Mary had the impression that they did not normally dine together.

  She played her part in the conversation when asked, but, unusually for her, tonight she was content to simply observe and listen. This was partly due to her determination to be uncontroversial, but she also recognised a nervousness that kept her tongue silent.

  Is it because they are men and I am a woman?

  The notion displeased her and she frowned at her plate.

  ‘The blancmange is not to your liking?’ Sir Nicholas was all polite concern.

  He is too perceptive.

  ‘Oh!’ She could not possibly reveal the direction of her thoughts. ‘I am admiring the detail on it. The mould must be intricate, indeed, to produce such a perfect shape.’ In fact, the blancmange was, rather morbidly, in the shape of a canopic jar, such as the ancient Egyptians had used to store the viscera of their mummified aristocrats.

  He gave a wry smile, replying, ‘I had not given it much thought. Such domestic details sadly pass me by.’

  Domestic details! Without intending to, she had given him the belief she was a domestic creature, inspired by moulds, rather than by the Egyptians. Well, at least it fit with the impression she had wanted to create.

  I must remain colourless, hold no opinions on matters of note.

  By this time, the conversation had moved on, with Sir Nich
olas now quizzing his secretary on how challenging it had been to persuade nearly a dozen London servants to take employment in an obscure country house in the wilds of Norfolk.

  Mr Bramber was quick to reassure his employer. ‘It was not at all difficult, sir, for according to Mrs Gray, who owns the register office, there are more servants at present than there is work to offer them. Most were entirely grateful for the opportunity.’

  Mary dropped her eyes to her blancmange again. This reminder had come at the perfect moment. Sir Nicholas’s opinion of her was important, but only insomuch as it allowed her to have a post, with food and shelter, and the opportunity to try to help her father. The fact that he might imagine her to be as bird-witted as the typical young ladies in Miss Plumpton’s Academy mattered not a jot. Indeed, her vow to Mrs Gray meant that bird-witted, in this instance, might be preferable to opinionated.

  Do not forget, she told herself.

  She was here to rescue Papa. Nothing must come in the way of that.

  * * *

  Sir Nicholas left the fields and took the back lane to Houghton village. It was one of his preferred routes for his morning ride, for it allowed him to return to Stiffkey Hall via the riverside fields. Enjoying pastoral views was one of his favourite indulgences. Even in winter, the green fields, babbling river and bare trees held beauty for him. Ahead, he noted a farm cart coming towards him and a person walking along the lane to the village. He slowed, hailing the farmer as he passed, then approached the lone walker from behind. It was a woman, and something about her no-nonsense gait struck a chord of memory.

  It is the governess! he realised. He searched his memory for her name. Something colourless. Smith.

  ‘Good day, Miss Smith.’

  She jumped as if he had shot her. ‘Oh! Sir Nicholas! I did not see you there. I did not expect—’ Her blue eyes were wide, her expression shocked.

  He chuckled. ‘My apologies. I did not mean to startle you.’

  Her eyes darted left, then right. ‘Since I am new to Norfolk, I did not anticipate being hailed by name.’

  Strangely, he had the immediate sense that she was not being fully open with him.

  Why? What is she hiding?

  He frowned.

  ‘I enjoy walking,’ she continued, her words a little hurried. ‘Jarvis told me that this road leads to some fine villages and that Houghton St Giles is only a little more than two miles from the house. I thought it would make a good walk to go there and back.’

  ‘Indeed,’ he responded smoothly. ‘You are almost arrived, for the first houses are just around the bend.’ He tipped his hat. ‘I shall wish you good day.’

  ‘Good day, sir.’

  Had he imagined she was relieved to see him go? He trotted on, pondering this. He was unused to such reactions. A genial, easy-tempered man, he was accustomed to cordial, gracious exchanges with those around him. Servants and other employees were generally entirely deferential—something he took for granted without ever having questioned it. It was simply what he was due as head of the Denny family.

  Miss Smith’s guardedness was unusual.

  London people can be unfamiliar with our country ways, he reminded himself. Perhaps it was as uncomplicated as that.

  He himself had lived in London as a young man, before his father’s death. While enjoying all its delights—and many of its vices—for a few years, he had been content to retire to relative obscurity in Norfolk. Nowadays he travelled to the capital only when necessary and had come to think of it as a colder, harsher place than his beloved Norfolk. His life here was simple and uncomplicated. His servants did as they ought, Bramber looked after estate matters on his behalf, his family visited only occasionally and he had ample time for academic study.

  Miss Smith might simply be a London girl, unused to rustic familiarity. He chuckled again at the memory of her deep blue eyes, wide with surprise at being addressed unexpectedly in a quiet country lane.

  Her eyes, he reflected, were unusual and quite an attractive feature. Deep blue and framed by dark lashes, they lifted her face from ordinary to interesting and were the focus of her delicate beauty.

  Overall, though, recalling the few conversations he had had with her, she had had no opinions to offer and was essentially forgettable. Quite what Bramber—a man whose taste and intelligence he admired—had seen in her, he was yet to discover. She must show herself to be worthy of Bramber, he decided. His secretary should not throw himself away on a tedious girl—even if she did have fine eyes.

  Matchmaking was not a habit of his and he knew himself to be too indolent to do much to promote the match. He rarely put himself out for others. However, he was quite prepared to prevent the marriage if needed. As the fourth son of a distant relative from Sussex, Bramber had little in the way of fortune. He had, however, the benefit of a good education and he worked diligently in Nicholas’s interests. In other circumstances, they might have been friends.

  As it was, that was impossible. Nicholas had been raised with a strong sense of his own worth and, as head of the leading family in the district, he certainly could not encourage over-familiarity with servants—even those from well-bred backgrounds, like Bramber. Oh, he could be kind of course—there was no cost to it—but there was no one here who could match his status and therefore he was divided from those around him.

  It meant that, apart from soirées such as the ones he would host during his sister’s visit, he spent much of his time in solitude. Any friendships he had made at school and university were now distant memories. He shrugged. While occasionally he bemoaned the lack of company, he enjoyed life in his family home, with his books and his comforts.

  His thoughts returned to Miss Smith. Bramber deserved a good woman, but Nicholas suspected that Miss Smith might well turn out to be unsuitable. She was neat, ladylike and pretty, but she had a flaw that Nicholas found fatal.

  Quite simply, he found her dull.

  Chapter Five

  Mary exhaled in relief, watching Sir Nicholas’s black horse disappear around the bend.

  What if he had seen me entering the vicarage?

  As far as they all knew, she had no connections in Norfolk—never mind a man taken up for treason! Her employment might be short-lived, indeed, should the truth be discovered. She had even suggested using a false name for her employment, but Mrs Gray would have none of it. ‘What you do on your days off is none of my business,’ she had said firmly, ‘but I shall not knowingly lie to Sir Nicholas Denny.’

  Knowing that Papa had been in residence in the Houghton St Giles vicarage for only a short time before his arrest, Mary was relying on his name and background not being widely known. Besides, Smith was a common enough name. There was no reason to connect the vicar now being held in Walsingham gaol with a new governess lately arrived from London.

  The vicarage, a pretty house with mullioned windows and a low roof, was in the grounds of St Giles’s Church. Mary knocked at the front door, glancing furtively around as she waited for a response. Thankfully, no one was about and, a moment later, her father’s housekeeper opened the door. As soon as she had made herself known, Miss Lutton, with an exclamation, ushered her inside.

  ‘Oh, my dear Miss Smith, I am so relieved you are arrived!’ She led Mary into a pleasant parlour. Winter sunshine arrowed its way through the window, pointing at the desk in the corner. With a pang, Mary recognised some of Papa’s books piled there. After an initial exchange, consisting mostly of Miss Lutton expressing how shocked she had been at Mr Smith’s arrest, she disappeared to make tea, leaving Mary alone in the parlour.

  Unable to resist, Mary walked to the desk. There was Papa’s much-loved copy of Dean Swift’s sermon On Doing Good, along with his classical texts—many in the original Greek or Latin. Searching through them, Mary found what she had been looking for: Virgil’s Georgics. Until she had seen Sir Nicholas’s copy, the only version she had
ever seen or touched had belonged to Papa.

  ‘Oh, Papa,’ she murmured, tears stinging her eyes. ‘What will become of you? And what am I to do to rescue you?’

  She had, she realised, been so focused on reaching Norfolk, and seeing Miss Lutton, that she had been unable to think beyond this moment. Yet now, in the vicarage, and having met Miss Lutton, she felt dejected and forlorn, unable to see how two women—and lowly women at that—could possibly put things right.

  ‘Here you are, Miss Smith.’ Miss Lutton was back, her tray laden with tea, cakes and even an orange. She was an attractive middle-aged woman, with twinkling blue eyes and a warm smile. ‘I shall serve you, and then we shall think what must be done.’

  * * *

  An hour later, Mary left the house, no more confident, but at least a little better informed. Miss Lutton herself had opened the door to the officers, who had spent only a short time in the parlour before taking the vicar away. ‘They took away a folder of papers that your father was protesting about, saying they were not his and he had not ordered them, but the Runners would not listen.’ Miss Lutton shook her head sadly. ‘Anyone can see that your papa is no villain, no traitor. As kindly a gentleman as I ever met!’ she declared, with a decided tear in her eye.

  ‘But why did they come here in the first place? And how did they know there would be papers here?’

  Miss Lutton simply shrugged, having no answer to these or other questions.

  Hearing that Miss Smith had only one more day of freedom until her charges arrived, the housekeeper gave detailed directions to Walsingham and urged Mary to try to visit her papa in the gaol on the morrow. ‘You will need to be off bright and early, mind. They do not always allow visitors into the Bridewell, or you may have to await their pleasure.’