A Waltz with the Outspoken Governess

by Catherine Tinley

  No. She must not think of Papa. She must remain strong while in company.

  ‘—is Miss Smith.’ With a start, Mary realised that Sir Nicholas was introducing her to his nieces and their governess. She curtsied, murmuring appropriate delight at making their acquaintance.

  He continued, giving Mary their names. She noted that the younger girl was called Beatrice and that, this time, Sir Nicholas pronounced Miss Cushing’s name correctly. Had he said ‘Cushion’ earlier just to vex his sister?

  She eyed Sir Nicholas with a hint of interest, wondering for the first time what sort of man he was. A handsome face, strong frame and air of assurance had been her first impression. His choice of reading material had impressed her. Now, in the exchanges with his sister, he had revealed something more of himself. He was clever, clearly and seemed rather intolerant of stupidity and vulgarity—without being openly disdainful.

  Mary sighed inwardly. She recognised the intolerance in Sir Nicholas because it was something she had long battled with in herself. Papa had instilled in her the importance of kindness, but she had felt unexpected sympathy with Sir Nicholas just now.

  ‘Miss Smith will assist your mama—and you, Miss Cushing—in whatever way you need her,’ Sir Nicholas continued smoothly. The word ‘governess’ was not uttered. ‘I understand entirely that I am burdening you, Sister, with all of the responsibilities of acting as hostess. Miss Smith, you must ease those burdens.’

  ‘I shall endeavour to do so, sir.’ Mary’s tone was even, but inside she was beginning to feel flutters of nervousness at the task before her.

  Did he sense it? He gave her a level gaze, then nodded. ‘I have every faith in you.’

  Her throat tightened. This unexpected kindness threatened to sunder her fragile control. Thankfully, the salon door opened again, this time to admit Bramber. In the ensuing flurry of greetings, Mary regained her equanimity.

  Soon afterwards the gong sounded for dinner, and they all walked through to the dining room. Sir Nicholas, naturally, led the way, his sister by his side. Her daughters followed, with Miss Cushing in train. That left Mary and Bramber to take up the rear.

  ‘I trust you have had a good day, Miss Smith?’ he enquired. ‘I understand you went walking again.’

  He is simply being polite, she told herself uneasily.

  ‘I did,’ she confirmed. ‘This time I went as far as Walsingham.’ She was determined to keep to the truth as much as possible. Thankfully, he did not ask what she did there, instead asking only for her opinion of the local landscape. She praised it, which seemed to please him.

  They took their seats. Sir Nicholas was directly to Mary’s right, with his sister opposite at the foot of the table. Amabel and Bramber, with Miss Cushing, were on one side, while Mary had Beatrice to her left, which pleased her. She was determined to do her best for Mrs Gray, who had given her this opportunity. That meant taking her duties as governess seriously.

  Already she had taken the opportunity to visit Papa—something she could not have done without this position. Now she must work to be the best governess and companion that she could.

  Dinner was served and Mrs Fenhurst struck up a conversation with Bramber and Miss Cushing, who were on her left-hand side. That left Sir Nicholas conversing with his older niece, while Mary took the opportunity to gently engage with Beatrice. They exchanged simple details about themselves—the Fenhursts lived in Cambridgeshire and often visited their uncle Nicholas at this time of year. The younger children did not normally come, too, usually only accompanying their mama when the whole family made a shorter visit each autumn. Mary explained that she had been in school in London until recently and that this was her first position.

  ‘So I am a little anxious,’ she confessed. ‘I do hope you can help me understand what is required of me.’

  Beatrice looked a little surprised. ‘Me? Oh, but I do not know anything about—about anything!’ she declared.

  ‘Oh, but you do!’ Mary countered. ‘You know about your family, and I dare say you know something about Stiffkey Hall. I declare I get lost every time I come downstairs.’

  This earned a shy smile. ‘Well, I have been coming here since I was but a baby, so naturally it seems easy to me. Although,’ she confessed, ‘this is my first time not sleeping in the nursery. Amabel and I are sharing a bedroom on the second floor and it seems very grand!’

  ‘I, too, am on the second floor.’ Mary smiled. ‘Tell me, will Miss Cushing continue your lessons while you are here?’

  Beatrice sighed. ‘Yes.’ Seeing Mary’s sympathetic gaze, she continued, ‘Oh, please do not think I have been disrespectful to Miss Cushing. It is just—’ She bit her lip.

  ‘Yes? Do you dislike book-learning?’ Most of the young ladies in Miss Plumpton’s Academy had disliked book-learning.

  ‘Oh, no—quite the contrary! But Miss Cushing does not seem able to help me with my Greek and Latin any more. And...but she is all that is estimable, of course.’

  ‘Of course!’ Mary agreed, but inside, a shard of hope appeared. Might Miss Beatrice be a promising student? ‘I myself have studied Greek and Latin texts to quite a high level. Perhaps we could read something together?’

  ‘Truly?’ Beatrice’s eyes were shining. ‘I should like that very much,’ she added, in laborious Latin.

  ‘Well done!’ Mary applauded her, adding a further couple of sentences in Latin. Beatrice understood them, responded appropriately and laughed at her own success.

  At just that moment, Mrs Fenhurst turned to look at her daughter. ‘Beatrice!’ she adjured. ‘Please maintain some decorum at the dinner table!’ Her glare encompassed both Beatrice and Mary, who shifted uncomfortably. Propriety, manners and decorum were important, she knew, but she herself had often been chastised by Miss Plumpton for becoming too animated.

  ‘I am sorry, Mama.’ Beatrice, cowed, stared at her plate and would talk no more.

  Mary set down her fork and reached for her wine glass. Her hand had tightened into a claw, so tightly she had been gripping the fork.

  Poor Beatrice reminds me of myself at the Academy—except I had more spirit!

  Amabel was now conversing with Bramber, leaving Sir Nicholas free, so it was unsurprising when he addressed Mary.

  ‘Miss Smith,’ he said, his voice low enough that only the two of them could hear, ‘I could not help but notice how you brought Miss Beatrice out of her usual quiet timidity. Why, for a moment there she looked quite animated. I had not known that she was even capable of smiling!’

  Was he displeased? He did not look it, so, bravely, she informed him about Miss Beatrice’s love of Greek and Latin.

  ‘Capital!’ he declared. ‘But—forgive me—how were you able to discover this scholarliness? I declare the girl barely looks me in the eye without quaking!’

  Mary took another sip of wine, sending him a sideways glance that had a hint of archness in it. ‘Are you roasting me, sir, or do you genuinely not know why she seems uncomfortable?’

  ‘Enlighten me.’ His expression was hooded.

  ‘Well, you are—’ She thought for a moment. ‘You are quite an imposing person. Particularly to a girl of tender years.’

  ‘Imposing?’ His brow was furrowed. ‘In what way?’

  ‘Well, you are physically very—er—large, your voice is often quite loud and you are master of this house.’

  He looked at her blankly. ‘Are you accusing me simply of being a man, Miss Smith? For as far as I can discern, each of your complaints relates simply to the fact that I am male.’

  She frowned. ‘Not exactly.’ Glancing across the table, inspiration came to her. ‘Mr Bramber is also a man, yet he is different. He is less...’ Her voice tailed away as she struggled to express herself without causing offence. Arrogant was the word on the tip of her tongue—but she must not say it. ‘Less intimidating.’

  For
a moment she thought she had gone too far. Then, to her relief, he laughed. ‘I never knew myself to be intimidating before. So that is why Miss Beatrice cannot speak to me without trembling?’

  ‘I believe so, yes.’

  ‘Yet you are not intimidated.’ He spoke softly and something about his tone sent an unexpected shiver through her. It was unlike anything she had ever felt before.

  Ignoring it, she twinkled at him. ‘I believe I am made of sterner stuff, sir. We all of us are different.’ She swept a hand around the table. ‘You are different to Mr Bramber. Beatrice is different to Amabel.’

  He was eyeing her closely. ‘And you, Miss Smith, are clearly different to—to my assumptions.’ He gave a wry smile. ‘I believe I begin to understand why Bramber’s ears were pink.’

  ‘Bramber’s ears?’ Had she heard him correctly? ‘What have Mr Bramber’s ears to do with anything?’

  He waved this away. ‘What I should like to know, Miss Smith, is how you plan to usurp Miss Cushion in order to teach my niece advanced Latin?’ He grinned.

  ‘Cushing!’ she retorted without thinking, then clapped a hand over her mouth.

  His grin widened in surprised appreciation. ‘Cushing,’ he echoed. ‘Now, do not deny it!’ he chided. ‘I can read this in you, I believe.’

  She gave a rueful smile. ‘I shall contrive it somehow.’

  ‘Somehow, I do not doubt it, Miss Smith.’ He raised his glass. ‘This has been a most enlightening conversation!’

  Belatedly, Mary realised that Mrs Fenhurst was staring at them. Something about her narrow-eyed gaze made Mary feel rather uncomfortable. Deciding she had had quite enough wine, she pushed her glass away and applied herself to her dinner.

  Chapter Seven

  Three days, three nights. Such a short time she had been here. Yet already, Stiffkey Hall was beginning to feel familiar, safe, homelike. As Mary entered her bedroom, she felt a wave of gratitude wash over her. At least she was in Norfolk. She had food, a place to live, the chance to see and possibly assist Papa, and now, a sense of purpose about her position here.

  Miss Beatrice and she had continued their conversation in the salon, after the ladies had withdrawn from the dining room, and Mary had promised to find a way to assist the girl with her studies. Beatrice was naturally anxious about what her mama might say and whether Miss Cushing would like it, so Mary had promised to think about how best to approach the situation.

  As she climbed into her comfortable bed, Mary’s thoughts turned again to her papa and she finally allowed herself to feel the distress she had been denying ever since she had returned to the house after visiting him earlier. To see him had been terrible and wonderful at once.

  It is February now, she reminded herself.

  Somehow, she had to ensure that Papa remained alive and sound of mind until his appearance before the magistrate in April.

  Right now, that seemed unlikely. Papa’s frailty, dazed expression and dishevelled appearance had shaken her to the core. She cried a little, curled up on her side in the bed, then, with her usual sense of practicality, decided she would simply divert all of her concern into planning how best to help him.

  As sleepiness overcame her, her rational mind began sending confused, half-awake thoughts featuring stern magistrates speaking Latin, Miss Cushing dabbing her eyes with a black handkerchief and Sir Nicholas telling her she was not to be intimidated. Holding to this last thought, she allowed herself to drift into sleep.

  * * *

  ‘What the deuce is this infernal racket?’ Sir Nicholas’s voice boomed through the house, causing Mary to suddenly stop on her way down the stairs for breakfast. Looking over the banister, she saw him emerge from his library, standing in the hallway with legs apart and a frown marring his handsome features. Mary’s heart skipped a beat on seeing him. He was, she had already decided, the sort of person who was impossible to ignore.

  It was not simply that he was physically imposing. He was altogether imposing. When he walked into the room the attention shifted. It was nothing to do with his status or his title, Mary had reasoned. It was to do with him. Had he been a blacksmith or a farmer, a duke or a bishop, it would have made no difference. He just had an indefinable presence that Mary had never encountered before.

  Just now, his gaze was fixed unerringly on someone or something near the front door. Mary craned round to see. There, looking decidedly chagrined, were two young boys—one a little taller than the other. They were dressed in identical nankeens, with grey waistcoats and shirts already grubby at the collar. More Fenhurst children, then.

  As Mary watched, the two London nursemaids appeared below in a flutter of aprons and apologies. The younger children had been quietly eating breakfast in the kitchen not more than a moment ago, they explained. Somehow, it seemed, the boys had slipped their leashes and come to the hallway to wreak some sort of havoc.

  ‘If you are not capable of fulfilling your duties, then you should not be here!’ bit out Sir Nicholas. A cold shiver went down Mary’s spine. She could only imagine how the nursemaids must be feeling.

  And they might not even care about staying here!

  She, who truly needed to be here, must be careful not to vex Sir Nicholas. The problem was that no one had told her exactly what her duties were.

  Sir Nicholas glared at the nursemaids for another long moment, then turned his attention back to the two boys. ‘Who broke the vase?’

  Oh, dear! Is that what happened?

  Quietly, Mary descended two more stairs and craned over the banister again. Sure enough, the black-and-white-tiled floor was strewn with china shards. There was a brief pause, then the taller boy squared his shoulders and spoke up.

  ‘It was my fault, sir. I was chasing my brother and I should not have done it.’

  The younger boy looked up at his uncle, a clear appeal in his expression. ‘It was me what done it, though.’

  Faced with two such remorseful faces, Sir Nicholas stood still for a moment. Mary was most interested to see what he would do.

  ‘Very well,’ he said gruffly. ‘You have admitted your wrongdoing. Now, apologise and fetch a brush to sweep it up. Do not allow the servants to do it, mind!’

  The boys made their apologies, faithfully promised to brush away every shard, then the taller one added hopefully, ‘Must we have lessons while we are here, Uncle?’

  Sir Nicholas, it seemed, was well aware of the danger of undermining his sister. ‘You must do as your mother wishes,’ he pronounced, turning on his heel and seeking the sanctuary of his library.

  Well! Mary released a breath before continuing down the sweeping staircase. She herself had no uncles or aunts, or nieces and nephews. There was only herself and Papa. To suddenly find herself in the company of a brother and sister, and the sister’s numerous children, was both interesting and challenging at once.

  I believe I am envious!

  The Fenhurst boys were clearly in awe of their large, loud uncle, yet there was also some bond between them that had been clear to Mary. Despite his frustration, Sir Nicholas had handled the boys fairly well in the end. He had struck exactly the right note with them and had gone up in Mary’s estimation. Quietly, she continued down the stairs towards the breakfast room, mulling it over in her mind.

  * * *

  Breakfast was an informal affair. When Mary entered the breakfast room, only Beatrice and Amabel were present. Helpfully, this gave her the chance to engage both of them in light conversation. Beatrice in particular seemed to have taken to her and smiled shyly as they chatted about their plans for the day.

  I do like Beatrice!

  A little later Sir Nicholas arrived, and Beatrice immediately and predictably went silent.

  Sir Nicholas gave no sign of his earlier frustration with the boys and, indeed, seemed rather affable as he helped himself to tea, beef, eggs and bread. He talked of the weathe
r and asked the girls what their plans were for the day.

  Amabel answered for both of them. ‘We are to spend some time at our lessons, then Mama has promised to look over some fashion plates with me.’

  ‘Ah yes, the new dresses. They must be suitable, mind!’

  ‘Of course. I was thinking pale pink silk for my evening gown—perhaps with roses and lace?’

  Sir Nicholas had clearly already lost interest in discussions about gowns. ‘As long as you do not overdo the trimmings,’ he said dismissively, then turned to Beatrice. ‘What of you, Beatrice? Do you also enjoy fashion?’

  ‘Oh, no! That is to say, of course I—but I do not—’ Beatrice lost herself in half-sentences and confusion.

  ‘She would rather read,’ said Amabel scathingly. Beatrice gave her a cross look.

  ‘Well, I declare I am happy to hear it!’ Sir Nicholas drained his tea and stood up. ‘Miss Smith, I suggest you discover what Miss Beatrice would like to read. Feel free to borrow whatever books you need from my library.’

  Mary, having caught only the briefest of glimpses of Sir Nicholas’s well-stocked shelves during their first introduction, was thrilled at the thought. ‘I shall indeed. Thank you!’ His eyes met hers briefly, and she was surprised to feel a frisson of—something between them, like the shock one sometimes felt when brushing one’s hair. This though, was entirely pleasurable—and altogether confusing. Strangely, she felt heat suffuse her face.

  Why am I blushing?

  Thankfully, Sir Nicholas had already turned to depart, meeting his sister in the doorway.

  ‘Morning, Nicky! Are you done already? I have just been checking on the younger ones. They are eating in the kitchen and their nursemaids have everything well in hand.’

  Sir Nicholas did not mention the broken vase. ‘I am glad to hear it,’ he replied drily. ‘I shall be in the library if you need me.’