A Waltz with the Outspoken Governess

by Catherine Tinley

  Mary took the final steps down into the hall, then made for the salon. It was Sir Nicholas’s duty to welcome his guests, but his sister should stand with him as hostess. ‘Ma’am, someone is arriving,’ she reported.

  Mrs Fenhurst rose, a vision in purple, her feather headdress nodding as she walked. ‘Punctuality is a virtue, I suppose. Sit up straight, girls!’ This was directed at Amabel and Beatrice, bookending Miss Cushing on their usual sofa. They both looked nervous, so Mary sent them a kind smile.

  A moment later, the footman directed the first two guests into the salon and the soirée began. By the time the gong sounded for dinner, fourteen people were gathered in the salon. Mary tried to recall who they all were. As well as the family, herself, Miss Cushing and Mr Bramber, there were two married couples, a middle-aged gentleman called Sir Harold Gurney, and not one, but two vicars. Including Sir Nicholas and Mr Bramber, that meant there were seven men to match the seven women, five of whom resided currently in Stiffkey Hall, two of whom were governesses. Mrs Fenhurst had made it plain that Mary should not expect to be automatically included in all of the dinners and was there simply to make up the numbers.

  ‘Fourteen is a goodish number for my first soirée,’ she had declared, all self-satisfaction, ‘particularly as it is Beatrice’s first engagement. I shall place you, Mary, between the two vicars, for as a vicar’s daughter yourself you were raised to not find sermons tedious.’

  Mary had simply looked at her, unwilling to protest. There would be no point in doing so.

  I am becoming altogether too compliant, she thought.

  She must be careful not to let this temporary need for discretion become a habit with her. Still, at least her earlier worries—that she would be unable to hold back from expressing unacceptable opinions—had receded. Yes, on occasion, her true opinions had become known, but—so far, at least—they had not fatally damaged her position here.

  And so she found herself seated between the two vicars—Mr Easton and Mr Fuller. The two clergymen could not have been more different. Mr Fuller was plump, smiling and congenial, while his colleague was lath-thin, unreadable and taciturn.

  Mary did her best to converse with both of them equally, but Mr Fuller’s outgoing nature made her task much more straightforward. He was a widower, with three grown-up children and a brace of grandchildren. Once she had discovered this, Mary needed only to encourage him to describe the children’s character and achievements and he was content to do so. At length, and in quite some detail.

  In marked contrast, Mr Easton revealed no particular hobbies or interests and, once he discovered she was a governess, seemed to decide that she could have nothing to say that might be of interest to him. Mary resorted to making empty comments on the weather and the food. Even then, she was largely unsuccessful, for Easton seemed to eat without tasting and expressed no preference for any of Cook’s lovingly prepared dishes. He was much younger than his colleague, but his world-weary expression and permanent frown suggested an older soul.

  Her papa probably knew both of them. Strange to think that they would probably all have met together, before Papa’s arrest. Did they know why Papa had disappeared? Miss Lutton had suggested the Bishop had covered up the entire story, so they might genuinely think Papa was away visiting someone. She imagined how she might discuss both men with Papa and the thought made her happy and sad at the same time. She and her father shared the same enjoyment of the ridiculous and Mary knew that, had Papa been here, he would have teased her about being trapped between two such dull men.

  That is unkind of me, she thought.

  Both gentlemen were perfectly cordial and Mr Fuller in particular was warm and engaging. Glancing up, she happened to catch Sir Nicholas’s eye. There was a glint of humour there, which she found reassuring.

  He knows!

  Sir Nicholas was not Papa, but right now he was the next best thing.

  She frowned. No. He was the best thing, in a different way entirely. Unwilling to examine the thought, instead she asked Mr Easton if he had spent much time in London. ‘I have been at school there until recently,’ she explained.

  ‘I do visit the capital on occasion, but I was last there in the autumn, so hardly recent.’

  ‘And do you enjoy the city?’ she prompted politely.

  ‘Not at all. It is full of vice and vulgarity. Why should riches rest with such unworthy people? And why should they consider themselves to be better than others?’ He snorted. ‘The haut ton, as they style themselves, are sinners and the worst of reprobates. The fact that they drive around in expensive carriages and wear expensive clothes matters little.’ He took another draught of wine, then applied himself to his blancmange.

  Well. Finally, Mr Easton had expressed an opinion and in no uncertain terms. Mary, however, was in no position to argue with him. Nor, frankly, did she wish to. She had already recognised that Easton was unimaginative and judgemental. Such persons were not persuadable. Reason meant nothing to someone whose opinion was already fixed. Indeed, any suggestion that the truth might be different to what they believed tended to lead them to vigorous stubbornness. So she pretended polite interest, sipped a little of her own wine, then returned to commenting on the dinner.

  * * *

  Thankfully, the ordeal finally ended and Mary escaped with the other ladies to the salon, leaving the gentlemen to shake off whatever remained of their sobriety with bottles of the finest port.

  ‘Well, Beatrice? How did you enjoy your first grown-up dinner?’

  ‘If I am honest, it was not nearly as exciting as I believed it would be,’ the girl admitted. ‘Sir Harold was rather formidable—although he did not mean to be, I am sure. He talked of his responsibilities as Justice of the Peace and I was glad to have Mr Bramber on my other side to reassure me with gentle conversation.’

  There was a roaring in Mary’s ears. Sir Harold Gurney, Justice of the Peace. The man who would pronounce judgement on her father. Of course he would be part of the family’s set. In a small rural community, all of the gentry would know each other. She cursed herself for her stupidity. When Mrs Fenhurst had added Sir Harold to her guest list, Mary had thought the name familiar, but had assumed some of the family must have mentioned him. No. It had been the prison guard.

  Her heart pounding, Mary tried to think of what to do. This was a heaven-sent opportunity, yet how should she use it? No one here knew about Papa and one could hardly mention a prisoner facing a possible charge of treason without exciting interest.

  ‘Are you unwell, Miss Smith?’ Beatrice had laid a hand on her arm and was looking vexed.

  ‘Actually, Beatrice, I do feel a little warm.’

  Beatrice beckoned a nearby housemaid, who had been serving ratafia and punch to the ladies. Even Miss Cushing had accepted a small glass. ‘Please fetch some cold punch for Miss Smith.’

  ‘Yes, miss.’

  ‘I do not wish to make a fuss,’ Mary protested weakly.

  In truth her mind was awhirl. Papa’s judge is here!

  ‘Not at all,’ murmured Beatrice as they moved to sit near the terrace doors, which had been opened to allow some cooling air into the room.

  ‘How do you now, Miss Smith?’ Beatrice was regarding her anxiously.

  ‘Much better.’ She attempted a smile. ‘Thank you. I must say, I am grateful for your care and attention. It is a sign of the excellence of your character.’

  ‘Rather, it is a sign of my regard for you, Miss Smith,’ Beatrice replied quietly. ‘Indeed, were it not for you and my uncle, this whole visit would have been something of an ordeal. Generally I prefer books to real people, but it is good to be reminded that real people have much to commend them!’

  Mary smiled. ‘I am also learning much about myself and about the world by being here in Stiffkey Hall. And you are one of my favourite people here.’

  Beatrice glowed at the praise. ‘I ha
ve sadly little in common with Mama or Amabel, so I always believed myself to be defective in some way.’

  ‘I felt the same way at school. You are very wise, Beatrice, to understand this truth at such a young age. I do hope you understand that we are neither of us defective and that it is natural to be different. Besides...’ she grinned ‘...we are both learning to enjoy fripperies and fashion and to be excited by social events, so perhaps we are not so different from other ladies after all!’

  Just then, Beatrice’s mama called her across to sit with her. Mary bade her go. ‘I am still a little warm and so will follow you in a few minutes,’ she promised.

  In truth, she needed a moment’s solitude. The shock of Sir Harold’s identity had begun to dissipate, but Mary was no closer to knowing how to use the information to Papa’s advantage.

  Too late! The door was opened and the gentlemen were joining them. Her palms sticky with sudden anxiety, Mary moved to sit with the main party.

  Chapter Fifteen

  ‘Delighted to make your acquaintance, Miss Smith!’ Sir Harold had reached the flushed, exuberant stage of boskiness—a state shared by many of the gentlemen who had been in a raucous mood as they joined the ladies after what must have been copious amounts of port. Only Mr Easton and Sir Nicholas maintained the appearance of sobriety—although Mary had noted that the dour vicar was swaying a little on his feet. She sighed inwardly. One got such little sense out of gentlemen at the best of times. Why did they compound it by imbibing so much alcohol?

  ‘What a delightful dinner party!’ Sir Harold added. He was clearly determined to be delighted about everyone and everything, so perhaps this might be a good moment to engage him in conversation about his prisoners.

  She took a breath. ‘Indeed, sir. Miss Beatrice tells me you are a Justice of the Peace.’

  His chest swelled. ‘I am indeed. All of the local miscreants and no-goods come before me eventually.’

  This was hardly a promising beginning. ‘I have been visiting the prisoners in the Walsingham Bridewell. It is, I think, quite a modern building?’

  He nodded. ‘Built after the model devised by John Howard himself.’ He named the great prison reformer—the man who had insisted that single cells would cut down on prisoner sickness. Mary fervently hoped that Mr Howard was right and that Papa would be spared the curse of prison fever.

  ‘I do believe that we must treat prisoners with kindness—particularly those who have not yet been convicted of any crime.’

  He gave her a pitying smile. ‘You ladies are far too soft-hearted! I am certain I have rarely seen an innocent man or woman in my court. No, it is my lot to judge and to punish them—or occasionally to send them on to London if needs be.’

  Mary’s heart sank. Sir Harold was clearly one of those who believed that innocence should be proven, rather than guilt.

  How will Papa fare before such a man? She shuddered at the thought.

  ‘But we should not speak of such tedious matters when we have wine and congenial company!’ He grinned at her. ‘Come now, Miss Smith, will you take some wine?’

  Wine was the last thing she wished for right now, but she agreed in order to not argue with him. She sipped at it slowly, listening to his tales of hunting success, until Mrs Fenhurst rescued her by opening the pianoforte and calling on Amabel to play. By the time all the ladies had performed—including Mary herself, who had completed a creditable performance of a Haydn piece—Sir Harold had taken to the red-striped sofa in the corner, where he was snoring fitfully.

  Her frustrated glance towards him was seen by Sir Nicholas, who approached her with a raised eyebrow and a crooked smile. ‘You do not approve of Sir Harold?’

  Mary felt herself flush. This was their first conversation since he had kissed her hand on the stairs earlier.

  He is so handsome!

  ‘It is not my place to approve or disapprove of any of your guests, sir.’

  ‘Tosh! I know you too well now, Miss Smith. What has Sir Harold done to attract your disapprobation?’

  Sir Harold is drunk and snoring in a corner while Beatrice is singing. And he is likely to deal harshly with poor Papa. She opened her mouth, then closed it again. I cannot say that out loud.

  ‘Your niece is singing just now,’ she offered carefully.

  ‘She is.’ He leaned closer and spoke quietly into her ear. ‘I am determined to subdue the impact on my tortured senses.’

  She sent him a cross look. ‘Oh, stop! She is just a little anxious, that is all.’

  ‘Anxious?’ he said, his eyes full of amusement, then, seeing a disapproving glance from his sister, spoke a little more quietly. ‘So she should be, with a singing voice like that!’

  ‘I thought you liked Beatrice.’

  He snorted. ‘I am not so blinded by familial loyalty that I have lost my sense of hearing!’

  She stifled a laugh. ‘Do not be unkind, sir. How would you like to be asked to sing, in front of all of these people?’

  ‘Unkind? I am merely speaking the truth. Why, Beatrice’s tuneless keening has even sent poor Sir Harold into oblivion.’

  Sir Harold. She frowned. ‘I do not think it is right to fall asleep during a performance, no matter what you say.’

  ‘You seemed to be engaging in some debate with him earlier.’ He sent her a glance. ‘What were you discussing?’

  ‘The treatment of prisoners,’ she replied shortly. She still felt cross with him.

  ‘Ah! Let me guess. You hoped to find some softness in him and he disappointed you.’

  ‘He assumes that everyone who comes before him is a miscreant who must be punished!’ She could feel her anger rise. ‘Surely it is his responsibility to judge who may be innocent, as well as the guilty?’

  Beatrice’s song had come to an end, so they paused to applaud her efforts. One of the guests—a married lady—then took her seat at the pianoforte and began shuffling through the music sheets there. Mrs Fenhurst joined her to assist her in choosing her piece.

  ‘Lord! When will this end?’ Sir Nicholas murmured in Mary’s ear.

  Ignoring the delightful shivers going through her, which were confusingly mixed with increasing ire, she turned to look him full in the eye. ‘You have no taste for music?’

  ‘I enjoy it when there is a certain level of proficiency.’

  She raised an ironic eyebrow. ‘Are you yourself proficient with any instrument?’

  I would wager he gave little time to music as a student. Lord, he could be so much more understanding!

  ‘I am not. I lacked...’ he gave a rueful smile ‘application.’

  ‘I knew it! That is just what I thought you would say.’ Abruptly, frustration with Sir Harold and frustration with Sir Nicholas merged into one. Part of her knew that it was mostly Sir Harold she was cross with and that it was fuelled by concern for Papa, but she could not help herself.

  ‘How so?’ His brow creased.

  ‘Well, you seem so...’ Her voice tailed away.

  ‘Pray, continue. I seem so—what?’

  She could not hold the words back. ‘You have everything you need. Wealth, a comfortable home, servants, a family who admire you. And yet I sense a—a lack in you.’

  She bit her lip. Stop talking!

  He was eyeing her keenly, eyebrow raised. ‘You interest me greatly. What is this “lack” your wisdom has seen fit to identify?’

  She flushed. ‘I should not be speaking so frankly. It is a failing of mine. In truth, I have surprised myself by how long I have kept my tongue silent since I came here.’

  He ignored this. ‘I insist on hearing your opinion. It is a rare chance for me to understand how another might see me.’

  She shook her head. ‘I must not say any more.’

  He was definitely frowning. ‘It is too late for that now. I must insist as your employer that you con
tinue.’

  Oh, Lord! She straightened, eyeing him levelly. I shall tell him.

  ‘Very well. You lack purpose, sir, and insight. I sense great power in you—the potential to be someone who can make his mark upon the world. Yet here you stay, with your books and your comfort.’ She shrugged. ‘I know that you visit London occasionally, that you hunt with the rest in season, that you welcome your sister here each year at this time and her whole family in the autumn. But apart from that, I have not been able to discover that you actually do anything.’

  ‘I do plenty, I shall have you know!’ he retorted, clearly stung. ‘You yourself understand the importance of the mind and of scholarly learning.’

  ‘Of course, and that is why I can see you so clearly, I believe. As a scholar myself and the daughter of a scholar—’ she faltered a little ‘—I enjoy studying and learning, and I understand its value. But I also understand that I have a responsibility to my fellow man.’

  He grimaced. ‘Oh, spare me from charitable benevolence. I am as much a philanthropist as any other gentleman. I pay a substantial amount every year to sustain the orphans and my housekeeper provides food and gifts for the local needy.’

  ‘And that is exactly what a man might say who has no true idea of the suffering of others and his duty to help.’ Her right hand was gripping and releasing a fold of her dress.

  Like me before my change in circumstances, he barely notices the servants.

  ‘There are many like you, sir. The difference is that I believe you do have a heart and so you have potential. That is why it is frustrating to be around you!’

  He kept looking at her, his expression now half-hurt, half-angry. ‘No one dares to speak to me as you have!’

  ‘Ah, but you bade me do so, as your employee,’ she returned. ‘You cannot turn me off for it, as I was simply following your instructions!’

  He gave a bark of laughter. ‘And that is how you shall get away with it—for tonight, at least!’ He shook his head slowly. ‘Miss Smith, you are an unusual woman. You are sent into my life to try me, I think.’