A Lady’s Choice: A Clean & Sweet Regency Historical Romance Book

by Fimch, Fanny

  But as soon as her father's ship vanished, it was as though a dark cloud had landed over Agnes. No, a fog. Deep and murky, slowly swallowing her and pushing away all she knew and all she loved. All of a sudden, she was invisible. Her relatives talked about her father, but slowly ceased to visit her. At his funeral nobody offered to help pay the costs of the burial. The burial of an empty casket. Nobody even offered their condolences.

  She retired home to an empty mansion, where her footsteps echoed like ghosts of her past life. Nobody came to see her or talk to her. The first letter she received after her father's funeral was one declaring the debts she had to settle. The second was a dispute over inheritance. From there, she realized she had no income and a mountain of bills and debts to pay.

  As her wealth was stripped, she reached out for support, and yet she found none. It made no sense to her. She had always been there for them. Her father had always shared his wealth with them when he had the opportunity. And now that she needed money, they did not see her.

  Even worse, all were fighting for a slice of the pie. There were four men insisting on their rights to the Earldom of Kent, and at least two of them were considered more rightful heirs than herself. And many relatives claimed her father had been indebted to them and demanded repayment.

  And through it all, not a kind word or gesture passed her way.

  She got her answer in speaking with her cousin, Tiffany Hubbard. At thirteen years of age, she was old enough to know these matters, but young enough to not play along. She was overjoyed to spend a day out, window-shopping and eating boiled sweets, showing off her latest most fashionable bonnet.

  As the girl lapped up her first tastes of freedom, she eagerly divulged that their entire family despised Agnes's mother, saw her as a stain on their name, and only humoured Agnes because her father loved her so very much. Now he too was gone, they felt liberated to treat her as they felt she deserved, and let her know that her bloodline was condemned and despised.

  Agnes had been indignant when she found out. She had always assumed her mother was as loved and respected as herself. Nobody had given her any cause to think otherwise. Of course, nobody had said anything pleasant about her mother either. But she had taken for granted that the woman who her father married would be beloved by all.

  It was even more of a shock to realize that all the apparent love they showered on her was in reality a combination of pure pity for such a wretched child, and a desire to win over the earl and drain as much wealth and influence out of him as they could manage.

  And now that the earl was gone, Agnes did not matter. She had not inherited the earldom and therefore she was nobody to them. She was just the child of a broken woman and a man who had been no more than a wallet, or a bank, to their eyes. They continued to attack her from every front, chopping up her estate, draining her inheritance, and ripping her title from her, until she was left with nothing at all.

  Even though she now had nothing to live off, none of her family extended a helping hand. None of them offered so much as a job, a basic income, a place to stay, or a bite of food. She was like a used and empty peel, discarded now the fruit had been eaten.

  When she actively reached out to them, desperate, afraid, often in tears, they were disgusted. Many of her relatives did not reply to her letters. Several did not even meet her at their door, sending servants to reject her. The few who she saw in person pretended not to know her.

  Agnes had been so naive until then. But once the heartache began to fade, she felt nothing but anger.

  How could they cast her aside as if she was some sort of a monster? How could they transfer their hatred of her mother onto her? Of course she could not deny the possibility that her mother had been a truly wretched woman, someone detestable. But Agnes had not even known her.

  She, for one, would never hold a grudge against children for what their parents had done. She couldn't see why they could not forgive her. Or at the very least treat her as an individual and give her the opportunity to prove herself to them. Even a dog from a bad litter would be given the benefit of doubt. And in all their years of knowing her, had she not proven herself to be educated, polite, kind, and above all ladylike? Had she not allowed them to take all they wanted from her inheritance, hoping only for friendship and company in return?

  It made her wonder what exactly it was that her mother had done to offend them so very much, and why it had never been discussed.

  It was not as if she was born out of wedlock, or to someone of lower breeding. Her mother had been a wonderful noble lady, betrothed to her father from her early teens and married by the age of twenty. She had been a skilled musician, even composing her own works that were admired across the country.

  From her paintings, Agnes could tell that she was a beautiful woman, and, however unusual her clothing was, how eccentric the way she arranged her hair and powdered her face, Agnes could see an artistic flair, a kind eye, and a warm, subtle smile.

  Not that any of that meant she could not have done something wrong. Or, indeed, something that rubbed her father's family the wrong way. Nobody could be expected to get along with everyone, but normally when someone died, so did any grudge held against them. The proper thing to do was to not speak ill of the dead. In that sense, she could not help but wonder if that was why her family never spoke of her mother. They had nothing nice to say of her, so they simply said nothing at all.

  Nevertheless, Agnes had seen no indication that they thought of her just as poorly. And, even in other cases where a relative had been truly despised, she saw that people would move on after they died, forgive the sins, and take good care of the children left behind. Nobody wore the mark of their parents' mistakes.

  Agnes had assumed that was the case in her personal circumstances too. But apparently not. Apparently, she was to carry the black mark of her mother's sins, like Cain's children, permanently burned not into her skin, but into her name, onto her face, and throughout her entire identity. Now her mother was gone, it was Agnes's duty to receive the righteous anger of her family. It was her duty to atone for the sins of her mother, possibly even the sins of her father. Whatever they might be.

  Neither herself nor her young cousin had managed to extract from their older relatives precisely what Agnes's mother had done wrong. Agnes had been ignored, and Tiffany had been dismissed as a nosy child who asked too many questions for her age and sex. Shortly after that, Agnes had been told to cease attempting to reach Tiffany and to stop influencing the poor young girl.

  And, just like that, her last contact with her family had been severed.

  As her only three friends, however supportive they were being, had also lost their fathers and their wealth, Agnes had only had one more person to reach out to. The Duchess of Dorset, a dear friend of her father and owner of a school for noble ladies. There she had been taught how to act as a governess to an educated young lady.

  And so, Agnes had fallen. From Young Mistress Hubbard, heiress to the Earldom of Kent, to Miss Hubbard, governess to the Duke of Portsmouth.

  Chapter 2

  After a night of less than excellent rest, Agnes could not help but wonder just how long it would take her to get there. She was not used to being so responsible. She was not used to being so out of control. In her past life, she had full control over what happened to her, and the responsibility for her safely accomplishing her goals lay with someone else. She always got what she wanted and never had to face the consequences.

  Agnes had never thought of herself as spoilt before. After all, her father expected so much from her. She had to work hard at making a great impression, presenting herself beautifully, studying her books and practising languages and etiquette. She thought she was, not necessarily the opposite of spoilt, but at least not truly coddled. And now she saw that she had been more coddled than she knew.

  If she arrived late now, it was not only beyond her control, but she was entirely to blame. It felt so horribly unfair.

  She wanted t
o make the best first impression possible, but it was far too late for that at this point. She simply had to make a better impression once she arrived. That was something she was in control of. And, as she saw they were passing signs for the Duke's mansion, she began to arrange her hair and skirts, stretch her back, and adjust her posture, to ensure she looked as dignified as possible. At least, as dignified as one could after a long coach ride.

  Turning the corner, an enormous building came into view, peering from behind giant metal gates that were held open for free passage of carriages and horses. The mansion was just as she expected it to be. The vast limestone walls and elaborate gardens exuded opulence. The exotic flowers filled the air with a rich, musky, sweet scent that overpowered the senses and left her quite giddy. The sunlight reflected off little ponds and fountains spread out around the gardens, creating a sort of ripple in the air above the lawns.

  Birds threw themselves into song as the carriage passed by them, and some flew up into the blue sky, only dotted by a few clouds. She could see they were not native birds, but ones brought over, probably specifically to live in the garden. A peacock meandered between the legs of the coachman as he opened the door for Agnes, nearly tripping him and causing him to unleash a couple of unsavoury words.

  And yet, as she dismounted, she realized the slight disrepair the whole place was in. From the unweeded flower beds, to the dusty window ledges, to the bird feathers strewn across the lawn. The fountains seemed to be pumping water which had not been cleaned in some time, and there was a track of dirty brown from the base of the stairs to the front door, where guests had dragged grime in.

  It was as though nobody was monitoring the housework being performed, or keeping a record of which tasks were to be done. The birds were plump, the hedges were trimmed, and yet some of the most essential, everyday tasks such as sweeping, mopping, and dusting were being entirely neglected. Agnes grimaced as she realized there were actual clumps of soil on the steps, dried into the limestone where it had been worn down from years of walking and too little maintenance.

  She followed the coachman into the vestibule, feeling herself suddenly plunged into darkness as no sunlight came in through the heavy curtains on each window. As though correcting some oversight, a maid swiftly drew all the curtains, a small shower of dust dancing in the rays of sunlight that broke through the streaky glass.

  Inside was more of the same story. The decoration was clearly put together by someone with excellent taste, expansive culture, and a very deep wallet. Oriental vases, elaborately bejewelled sculptures, some magnificent tapestries from England's medieval past, all on pedestals, in carefully crafted awnings, and in vast display cabinets. The stairway was cut in Italian marble, the bannister was a gleaming bronze, and up across the ceiling were beautifully intricate frescos, illuminated by a single stained-glass skylight which cast jewel-toned light patterns onto the floor.

  Agnes knew that even when her father was at his most prosperous he would have considered this to be an excessive display of wealth.

  And yet, taking away from how expensive and beautiful each item was, the entire room looked as if it had not been cleaned in a very long time. The priorities were all wrong, leaving stagnant water and decaying house plants, but polished bannisters. Not dusting the jewelled ornaments, but ensuring the floor was mopped beneath the stained-glass window. Agnes could smell the dust and mildew from where she was standing.

  How was anyone supposed to enjoy living in this house? How were they supposed to delight in the sweet musk of the flowers or the birdsong when the garden was full of weeds and stagnant water? How were they supposed to enjoy ornaments buried under inches of dust, illuminated by grimy windows? How were they supposed to relax and feel at home when they were cold, in the dark, overwhelmed by the smell of damp?

  Agnes did not want to jump to conclusions, but something was wrong in this house. Something was seriously out of place. It was as though whoever managed the building had no ability to see the place as a whole. Rather, they interpreted it as a series of tasks that needed to be completed, and from there they just asked for one task or another to be done, with no consideration for a schedule, or the well-being of the rest of the home.

  The housekeeper, or perhaps the butler, had some explaining to do, that much was clear. If there even was a housekeeper and a butler. From the looks of things, Agnes was shocked to even see a maid.

  Escorted to her room, Agnes did not know what to expect. At least her quarters would be her own, unlike at the Duchess of Dorset's school. And yet she dared not hope for anywhere pleasant, comfortable, and suited to a woman of her breeding. Not only because the house was so poorly kept, but because she was no longer a woman of the class to deserve proper treatment. She would not spend hours in her room, nor entertain friends there. It would simply be a place to sleep and keep her belongings. As a governess, she knew she ought to be content with only a bed, a basin to wash her face in, and a window to get some much-needed sunlight.

  She felt almost anxious as she walked in.

  But it was beautiful. She had not seen a room so wonderfully put together since she had left home, and a tear came to her eye. The bed was large, made of sturdy wood, and laden down with many thick, velvety, brand new blankets. The curtains were gleaming white and dust-free, and billowed slightly by the open windows as gusts of air scented by the exotic gardens filled the room.

  A dressing table was set with mirrors, a counter for any lotions and powders she may desire to use, and a vase full of bright daisies as big as half her palm. A tall wardrobe stood, doors open, ready for her clothes to be hung or folded away. A chest of drawers was ready for anything she did not need to hang and keep crease-free.

  She could not remember the last time she had been treated so kindly, so respectfully, so much like a genuine guest, rather than a nobody. She felt transported back to her childhood - no, to her late teens. When one of her dear friends would ask her to stay the night and she would sleep in their guest room, on fresh, clean, starched sheets, barely able to sleep, eager for morning to come so she could have breakfast with her loved ones.

  Left alone to unpack her bags, reality crashed around her once more. She was not here with a friend. She was not here with family, nor as a guest. She was here as an employee, to work raising a young girl no older than four years. However nicely her room was presented, she could not take it for granted, nor could she assume that the remainder of her stay would be so pleasant.

  The few belongings she still had were quickly put aside in the chest of drawers, leaving her wondering what to do until the duke called for her. The maid had already left, she had not been introduced to anybody else, and, looking out the window and peering towards the corner of the building, it seemed the Duchess of Dorset's coach was long gone, probably already back at the school again.

  Time passed slowly, and she felt almost transported back to the school, with its rigid times and long, empty afternoons, where her thoughts would drown her sanity. She wondered whether to bring out a book, or if it would make her seem to be too lackadaisical and unladylike if she were found to be seated on the bed reading when the time came for her to meet her new household.

  Waiting, waiting, waiting... Agnes watched the birds out the window, attempting to remain seated upright, knees together, hands on her thighs. At least now she understood why they had been asked to sit like this for hours on end during poise classes. A governess could not be seen to slouch, no matter how bored or tired she became. Hopefully all her other lessons would prove just as useful.

  She was grateful for the school, of course. More than any words could ever express. But she was also furious that it was needed. She had been on her way to being married to a noble gentleman, to inheriting an earldom, and to living out her life in blissful ignorance of her mother's nature and her family's hatred of her.

  And then, all of a sudden, she realized that the world despised her and she had nothing any more. Had the duchess asked for the usual annual fee
to attend her school, Agnes would not have even been able to afford it. The offer had been her one final opportunity to save herself from becoming destitute.

  The daughter of an earl, relying on charity to become a useful member of society. She would accept her role with grace in public. That was her duty, not only as a lady of excellent breeding and even better education, but as a governess, as a young woman, and as a representation of all that made England an excellent country. She would forever live by her father's rules of acting in a dignified manner and never letting the outside world see her troubled heart.

  But inside she felt said heart burning with rage. Rage at the world that would allow this to happen. Rage at a God that would take her father from her. Rage at a family that would turn their backs on her so swiftly and inconsiderately.

  And in private, at times like this, she felt a couple of stray tears rolling down her cheeks, smoothly gliding across her face and crashing into the table below, like two single raindrops. No more would follow. No more could.

  Agnes could not recall the last time she cried in earnest, the last time her heart and mind were so overwhelmed that she wept like a naive little child and shivered with each painful sob. She had lost the ability a long time ago. She had gained control of her emotions and learned to always be the perfect little doll that she was expected to be. She was glad of this. It was all that held her mind together some days.

  Chapter 3

  Just as Agnes finished washing her face and applying a cool decorative stone to each eye, to reduce the puffiness of unshed tears, there was a knock at the door. She asked the knocker to enter, and was relieved to see it was only a maid. She tied her hair back once again.