A Waltz with the Outspoken Governess

by Catherine Tinley

  Swallowing her disappointment, Mary hugged the memories of this morning’s encounter close.

  I shall see him again in less than an hour.

  The knowledge sat warmly somewhere behind her breastbone, glowing like an ember.

  * * *

  She finished the afternoon with a more formal lesson in which the children, contented by their day of art and play, were remarkably focused. Indeed, she thought she had achieved more with them in that final hour than she had done in any of her previous schoolroom periods. She told them so and their little faces glowed with happiness at the praise. And when their mama and sisters returned, along with Miss Cushing, they were able to show their progress with arithmetic and geography, as well as their sketches. Mrs Fenhurst had to be impressed and said so. Miss Cushing, on the other hand, looked decidedly put out.

  ‘And has Miss Smith been with you all day long?’ Mrs Fenhurst asked, with an innocent air.

  ‘Why, yes,’ replied David. ‘And she has not told us off even once!’

  ‘We were good all day,’ emphasised Edmond.

  ‘I am glad to hear it, my darling,’ said his mama, embracing him. ‘Now, go you and find your nurses, for we ladies must dress for dinner.’

  She watched them depart, then turned to Mary. ‘David is advancing well with his arithmetic, is he not?’

  ‘He is indeed,’ Mary enthused. ‘And what is more, he fears it less. Today he positively enjoyed his multiplications and divisions—something I would have thought would be nigh on impossible a month ago.’

  They moved into the hallway. ‘And Edmond’s sketch showed real promise.’ Mrs Fenhurst’s voice thrummed with pride.

  Mary smiled. ‘Given he is only seven, his sketch was as good as the others, I think.’

  Mrs Fenhurst patted her on the arm. ‘Thank you, my dear.’

  Well—this was progress indeed! While Mrs Fenhurst spent little time with the younger children and was entirely hopeless in managing the boys, it seemed she was susceptible to maternal pride.

  Miss Cushing was regarding them both in dismay. ‘I have always recognised Edmond’s talent for art. Why, if it had not been for my tutelage, he would not have the skill he currently displays!’

  Mrs Fenhurst, realising she had erred, made haste to reassure her governess. ‘So true! And I am so glad you were with me today, to help me with parcels and reminding the girls how to go on!’

  Miss Cushing looked a little mollified. ‘Miss Amabel in particular is developing a propensity for pertness. And Beatrice needs to spend more time in the dressmaker’s and less time in the library!’ She glared at Mary. ‘Why, if she is not careful, the girl will become a bluestocking and utterly unmarriageable.’

  Mary’s hackles rose. And what of it? Can she not choose to be unwed? She has a good mind—why can she not use it?

  Summoning all her resolve, she bit her tongue. To her surprise Beatrice, who had been silent until now, spoke in her own defence.

  ‘Can I not enjoy both? Pretty dresses are a pleasure to wear and reading a good book is a gratifying experience for my mind. Why, Miss Cushing, you yourself enjoy reading novels on occasion.’

  Miss Cushing spluttered in outrage. ‘Novels? I think not. Sermons, histories and improving texts, never novels!’

  Beatrice and Amabel exchanged a dubious glance, while Mrs Fenhurst absent-mindedly remarked that she herself enjoyed a novel from time to time.

  ‘Where is my brother?’ she added unexpectedly.

  ‘I know not,’ Mary answered truthfully. ‘I believe he went out riding earlier and I am unsure if he has returned.’ They moved towards the staircase, Mary holding her breath in case Mrs Fenhurst should ask another question about Sir Nicholas. Thankfully, she seemed satisfied and they all separated on the upper floor to dress for dinner.

  Chapter Eighteen

  The salon and the parlour next to it were separated by gilt-trimmed doors which could fold away and hide in the wall, but tonight they had been thrown open for the Stiffkey Hall dancing evening. It was to be a modest affair, with the Grand Ball now planned for Easter, and Mrs Fenhurst, Mary and the servants were all treating it as a chance to try things out, in preparation for the larger event to come.

  Mary had been hard at work since before dawn, helping and supervising the servants as they worked together to ensure all was ready. Most of the furniture had been taken out to leave space for dancing and all of the sofas and chairs had been placed around the edges of the room. Additional candles had been purchased and the room blazed with warm light.

  Mary gave a nod of satisfaction and moved back to the hallway. The first guests would begin to arrive shortly and Sir Nicholas and Mrs Fenhurst would need to be ready to greet them.

  She herself had completed her toilette more than an hour ago and was now almost accustomed to the rustle and swish of her evening gown—a white satin dream, worn with an overdress of dark blue gauze and trimmed with silver thread. One of the housemaids had dressed her hair, creating elegant side-curls and even threading a silver fillet through Mary’s dark curls.

  Beatrice is right, she reflected, catching sight of herself in a gilt-framed mirror. There is something gratifying about wearing an elegant ballgown and feeling pretty.

  Sensing a movement on the staircase above, she glanced up. Just like on that recent morning, Sir Nicholas was descending and the sight of him left Mary rather breathless. He looked magnificent in his black evening coat, white shirt and evening breeches, his clothing plain and unadorned, save for a single diamond pin in his crisp cravat. His clothes clung to his form, accentuating the muscular thighs, lean torso and broad shoulders.

  What a specimen!

  Her objective eye could see the beauty of his figure—Michelangelo’s David reproduced in living form. Her subjective body came alive at the sight of him—particularly as her gaze swept upwards to meet his. In his brown eyes she saw a heady mix of admiration and desire.

  The promise was still there, thrumming between them. For days now they had looked at each other, guarding their desires from others when in company. So far, they had had no opportunity to be alone—and, if she were honest, Mary was as much glad of it as she was sorry. Although she wanted nothing more than to kiss him again, she was also aware of her own frailty when it came to Sir Nicholas. He was dangerous.

  ‘Good evening!’ He continued to descend until he had reached her. ‘How beautiful you look!’ Lifting her right hand, he pressed his lips to it. Even through her glove, the effect was potent. Mary’s knees promptly turned to water.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said huskily, then cleared her throat. ‘You look beautiful, too.’ Hearing her unguarded words, she instantly brought a hand to her mouth. ‘I should not have said that!’ Mortification flooded her face and neck with heat.

  He had thrown back his head and was laughing. ‘Miss Smith, you are a treasure—and good for my soul, I think. Let us agree that we both look beautiful tonight. Now tell me, is everything in hand?’

  This was safer ground. ‘I believe so.’ Conscious of the footman, James, standing to her right, eyes kept rigidly forward, she went on to give Sir Nicholas a summary of the preparations and his sister’s plans, adding, ‘Mrs Fenhurst means to include a waltz, which is very daring of her.’

  ‘Do you disapprove?’ He gazed at her intently.

  ‘Not at all! I think it unexceptionable and I fail to understand why some in society think it so shocking.’

  ‘Have you yourself learned the waltz and danced it?’

  ‘I have learned it, certainly, but have never danced it at a ball.’ She smiled. ‘Admittedly, I have only waltzed with other young ladies and with the dancing master at my school, who must be seventy if he is a day!’

  ‘I see. Well, if you both believe it to be unexceptional, I can have no objection.’

  The housekeeper appeared then, seeking Mary’s ass
istance, and she departed with a polite farewell to Sir Nicholas. By the time she had attended to Mrs Kett’s queries about which serving plates to use for the main supper dishes and assisted Mr Bramber with the final list of guests, she heard the first carriage arrive, so hurried into the salon to ask the musicians to begin to play quietly.

  An hour passed, then another. The evening was an undoubted success.

  ‘An absolute crush!’ Mrs Fenhurst called it, with an air of satisfaction. ‘They all came—and why should they not? We are still the leading family in the district.’

  Supper was served and was pronounced a delight. Slowly, Mary felt her nerves begin to slacken a little. This was the biggest and most elaborate event she had so far co-ordinated for Mrs Fenhurst. Afterwards, the dancing began anew and Mary was approached by Mr Bramber.

  ‘Well, Miss Smith, are you content?’

  She returned his smile. ‘I believe I am. There is little now that can go wrong—and most of the guests have drunk so much that they would not even care if it did!’ She grimaced. ‘Oops! I mean no disrespect. I—’

  ‘Think nothing of it. You have spoken only truth.’ He hesitated. ‘When I asked earlier, you would not dance for you said you had too much to worry about. Will you dance with me now?’

  Mary glanced at the smiling couples on the dance floor. ‘I should love to dance,’ she replied frankly. ‘Are you certain that it is permissible?’

  He shrugged. ‘Sir Nicholas has declared that he will not need my services any further tonight, and has bid me find enjoyment by dancing with all the pretty girls in the room.’ He grinned. ‘I am fortunate to have such a benign employer.’

  She snorted. ‘Perhaps he has only given you freedom because he has no need of you.’ She still believed that Sir Nicholas did not think enough of his servants’ needs and wishes—including Bramber’s.

  ‘And why should he not? He is our employer, after all, and entitled to do as he pleases.’ He eyed her keenly. ‘You are hard on him, Miss Smith. Why is that?’

  Because he could be a better man, if he chose to be. It still bothered her.

  ‘Because,’ she said carefully, ‘he could choose to do more for others than he currently tries.’

  He laughed. ‘But I have told you, he has bade me dance and make merry! I assure you, I am most grateful to him!’

  She would argue the point no further. ‘Yet you have not danced at all so far.’

  Glancing across to where the young ladies had gathered, he opened his mouth to say something, then closed it again. After a moment, he said only, ‘Perhaps, like you, I had too much to worry about earlier.’

  ‘The footmen have been faultless,’ she reassured him, ‘the guests are content and Mrs Fenhurst is brimming with pride. I declare it is probably safe for you to dance now.’ She smiled. ‘And for me.’

  ‘Very well.’ He grinned and offered her his hand. ‘Let us venture on to the dance floor together.’

  Inwardly, Mary remained a little wary of earning Mrs Fenhurst’s disapproval and was relieved to see only calm unconcern on that lady’s face when she noticed Mary and Mr Bramber dancing together. Her worries eased, Mary gave herself over to the country dance, realising how much she enjoyed dancing and how agreeable it was to dance in a candlelit ballroom wearing an elegant gown and with a pleasant partner.

  She whirled round, exchanging places with Beatrice who was dancing next to her, then returned to Mr Bramber. As she did so she noticed Sir Nicholas out of the corner of her eye. He was standing near the musicians—and something about his stance sent alarm through her. She stole a glance in his direction. He was looking at them and was positively glowering!

  Oh, no! Should I not be dancing? Have I overstepped my place as a governess?

  Mary bit her lip. She was used to socialising as a young lady, daughter of a respectable gentleman. Life as a governess had not yet sunk fully into her consciousness. Maybe he was cross with Beatrice? Or Mr Bramber, perhaps?

  ‘Mr Bramber,’ she ventured. ‘Sir Nicholas looks displeased.’

  He turned his head, frowning as he noticed his employer’s thunderous expression. ‘Naturally,’ he declared, as the dance brought him back to Mary. ‘He bade me dance with all the pretty ladies, yet failed to mention that you were excluded!’ Amusement flickered across his face, followed by a chuckle.

  ‘What? I do not understand you.’

  At least, I pray I do not. I hope he is referring to my role as governess. Otherwise—does everyone know of Sir Nicholas’s partiality for me?

  ‘We spoke of inevitability before,’ he replied, shaking his head. ‘A man may take some time to understand that the Fates have spun him a different life.’

  This, despite the reference to the ancient Greek tales, was entirely too cryptic. ‘You are making no sense, Mr Bramber. Come, tell me what you mean.’

  He shrugged. ‘Perhaps you should ask him yourself.’ The music stopped and he took her hand, deliberately bending over to kiss it. Yet the look in his eyes as he did so was mischievous rather than lover-like. ‘I wish you well, Miss Smith.’

  ‘You wish me well? That sounds like a farewell, yet neither of us is departing.’ She laughed. ‘I suspect, Mr Bramber, that you have also been imbibing some of Sir Nicholas’s fine wine.’

  ‘Well, I have,’ he admitted, ‘but that is not it. Ah, here he comes.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Very well, Bramber, that is quite enough for now.’ It was Sir Nicholas. ‘Go and dance with Miss Reeve,’ he continued, his tone somewhere between a growl and an order. Mr Bramber bowed and promised to obey with alacrity, his devilish smile causing the frown on Sir Nicholas’s brow to deepen further.

  Mary watched as Sir Nicholas’s secretary approached the pretty, fair-haired Miss Reeve, who replied shyly and allowed Mr Bramber to lead her to the dancing floor. As the girl smiled up at him, Mary noticed the tips of Bramber’s ears had developed an interesting rosy hue.

  ‘Wait here!’ Sir Nicholas declared curtly, before spinning on his heel and heading for the far side of the room.

  Mary was completely bewildered. Now what? Had she erred in some way? Sir Nicholas seemed to be in a foul temper, yet he had been in high humour for most of the evening. Mr Bramber had seemed unconcerned though, which she found reassuring. Perhaps Sir Nicholas, like the others, had taken too much drink.

  Confused, she saw him speak to the musicians, then thread his way through the crowd to return to her side. The musicians struck up for the next set and a ripple of excitement went around the room. ‘Come, Miss Smith.’ He held out an imperious hand. ‘Dance the waltz with me.’

  For a moment, she considered refusing him. His high-handed manner, her bewilderment, Mr Bramber’s amusement...there were undercurrents here that she could not grasp, but knew that she did not like. Contrariness rose up within her.

  He noticed her hesitation, saw that she was not minded to obey him. A disconcerted expression flitted across his handsome features, which then resettled into an inscrutable mask. Her heart turned over as she sensed his brittleness. She could not rebuke or reject him here, now. Not in front of all his friends and neighbours.

  Besides, she realised with surprising fierceness, she wanted to waltz with him. ‘Very well,’ she replied coolly, allowing him to lead her to the centre of the room. ‘Though only because I wish to dance. Not because you have ordered me to.’

  ‘I am pleased that you are dancing because of your own desire to do so.’

  She remained cool with him. ‘Yet you cannot know if I am only dancing with you because I must, or simply because I wish to dance the waltz.’

  This was something of a test. Naturally, he realised it. The frown that crossed his face as the music began properly was worth all the indignation she had felt at his autocratic manner.

  Sometimes I can read him as easily as if he were a children’s book!
r />   ‘So,’ he growled, as they began moving together to the music, ‘did you truly wish to dance with me, or not?’

  His proximity was causing havoc with her ability to think in straight lines. So this was why the waltz was so much debated among the dowagers! His hand was entwined with hers, their bodies close together, and when he looked down at her, his gaze was of necessity angled directly towards her décolletage.

  Thankfully, her dress was no more shocking than those of the other ladies—bosoms were on display in every part of the room. Daringly, tonight there was no need for a handkerchief! She had the presence of mind to be relieved that she was not waltzing with some of the less savoury gentlemen who were here tonight, before a rush of desire built within her.

  She felt alive, womanly, powerful—as though the essence of Venus, the Roman goddess of love, was flowing through her.

  Venus, or Jezebel?

  The thought, born of years of Bible studies, was fleeting and discarded. This was entirely natural. This was how things ought to be between two people.

  ‘Can you not answer me?’

  Startled, she looked up at him. His face was almost as close as when they had kissed on the terrace. His hand gripped hers as he read the desire in her eyes. ‘Mary!’ he muttered and the sound of her name on his lips was almost her undoing. Mutely, she gazed at him, knowing he already had the answer to his question.

  Vaguely, she was aware that they were in a crowded ballroom. In reality, there was only his handsome face and the heat from his body, and the places where their bodies were touching. The music was part of it, too, swirling around them with a heady vivacity that added to the air of dreamy unreality. They spun around the room in perfect harmony, moving as one, as though they had been dancing the waltz together since the beginning of time. There were no missteps, no faltering, no hesitation. It was as though they were one creature.

  Eventually, the dream subsided and the music ended. Recovering herself, Mary made the required curtsy, murmured a word of thanks, then preceded him in walking from the dance floor.