The Reluctant Governess

by Maggie Robinson

  Eliza knew her mouth was hanging open. Her mother just as much confessed to having an affair with kindly old Dr. Samuelson. No wonder he’d been so diligent with his patients on Lindsey Street. He’d wanted to make a good impression on Eliza.

  And she’d asked him to keep an eye on her mother. How he must have been inwardly chuckling.

  “Mama!”

  Her mother’s pink cheeks deepened in color. “Don’t judge. I know I’ve failed at my motherly duties. Of late, you’ve taken more care of me than I have of you. Even when your father was alive, you ran our household, and ran it wonderfully. Much better than I ever could have, even if I had been well. You’re so good with the household accounts. But if I marry Marcus, you can have a life of your own. Give up working in that office and stop worrying about me. Expand your horizons. Travel a bit. You liked Scotland last summer, didn’t you? We can give you an allowance. Marcus is rather well off—not so much from his medical practice but from wise investments.”

  Unlike Eliza’s father. But then he hadn’t planned on dying at forty-two.

  “I love my job,” Eliza said, wondering to which job she was referring.

  “I know you do, dear. You’re a modern young woman. But how it would pain your father if he were still alive to know you were forced to earn a living. Wouldn’t it be lovely if we could depend on someone else for a change?”

  Her mother sounded so reasonable. Eliza didn’t want to depend on anyone—one was apt to be disappointed before long.

  Eliza had no taste for the tea set in front of her. Her mind was whirling with these unexpected developments. “He’s really asked you to marry him?”

  Mrs. Lawrence nodded. “Last spring. But I didn’t want to be disloyal to your father’s memory. Marcus reminded me he had a first love, too, and that we’d always have our pasts to contend with. I told him last week I’ve reconsidered. It seems silly to wait much longer at our age.”

  “You’re not so old!” Eliza said.

  “No, I suppose not. But Marcus is. He takes good care of himself—I doubt I’ll get him to eat more than one piece of my pie—but he’s a bit past sixty. He wants to retire soon. In the country. He’s looking at property in the Cotswolds.”

  Eliza pictured her mother in a small golden stone manor house, with a staff of cheerful servants and a cottage garden.

  “There would be a room for you, of course,” her mother continued. “I don’t want you to think we’re selfish. You come first and always will.”

  “Don’t be silly, Mama. I’m all grown up—twenty-four, if you recall! A confirmed spinster. I could even support myself here in London, perhaps share a flat with another girl.” Even as she said the words, they curdled on her tongue. There would be woolen stockings drying on racks, mismatched china, faded curtains, tinned food. Possibly a cat. Eliza had no objection to cats per se; in fact she’d always wanted a kitten growing up. Wouldn’t Sunny adore something to snuggle up with besides her old bear? She would suggest just that to Nicholas.

  Mrs. Lawrence pursed her lips. “I wish you could find a young man.”

  “I don’t want a young man,” Eliza lied.

  “So, do we have your blessing? Marcus has been anxious. He thinks you are a very formidable young woman.”

  Dr. Samuelson was afraid of her? How could Eliza possibly object to her mother’s happiness and security?

  “Of course you have my blessing.” Eliza tried to smile. She was happy for her mother; really, she was.

  “Well,” her mother said, patting Eliza’s hand, “that’s one difficult subject put to rest. Now, tell me about Nicholas Raeburn. You have had a time there, haven’t you? I’ve been worried to death. Can you sue those papers?”

  Eliza didn’t have to ask which ones. Despite Nicholas’s order that they not publish her name, several had and made her out to be no better than she ought to be.

  “It will all blow over soon.” Eliza raised a hand and crossed her fingers just as she used to as a little girl when every problem could be easily solved. “And Mrs. Evensong said my place at the agency is being held for me.”

  “But what about the madman? The escaped convict? I really think you should come home, Eliza.”

  “Nicholas isn’t concerned.”

  “Nicholas?” Her mother pursed her lips again.

  “M-Mr. Raeburn. He—he’s not a very formal gentleman, and has asked me to call him by his given name. He’s absolutely devoted to his daughter and we haven’t been able to find anyone yet to replace me.” If Miss Scully went to the papers, they never would.

  Lord, vast quantities of cream and pink skin on canvas. Eliza passed out on the couch like a wanton. Nicholas half naked himself. Miss Scully had quite a story to tell.

  “I shouldn’t wonder. I usually trust your judgment, Eliza—you’ve always been a levelheaded girl. But the man has a black reputation. The whole family is notorious. Unexplained deaths, chorines and naked models, etcetera. I’ve read about his brother for years in the gossip pages.”

  Lord Raeburn’s chorus girl days were definitely over. He was besotted with his new wife.

  “It’s all undeserved, Mama. The Raeburns are entirely respectable. Lady Raeburn hired me, and I owe her a great deal.”

  “You always had an exaggerated sense of responsibility.” Her mother sighed. “Well, as you’ve stated, you’re all grown up. I can’t tell you what you should do.”

  Eliza would have liked nothing better at this moment than to crawl into her mother’s lap and be told precisely what to do. She didn’t think her mother would advocate that she go back to Lindsey Street and remove all her clothes. Let Nicholas Raeburn have his wild and wicked way with her. Lose her maidenhead. Immortalize her on a massive, indecent canvas.

  Break her heart.

  Up until a few days ago, Eliza was untutored about matters of the heart. She realized now her infatuation with Richard Hurst had never really touched that organ. It had been a girlish crush—he’d never given her any reason whatsoever to go weak at the knees or feel a flutter in her lower belly, or worse yet, soak her drawers. Mr. Hurst had been nothing other than vaguely respectful—he’d never thought to steal a kiss or unbutton a blouse.

  Nicholas Raeburn had no trouble sparking her violent reactions. Even when he didn’t try to influence her, she wanted to throw something at him or tumble him to the ground. He was extremely vexing, and she should go right back to her typewriter and telephone, paste a welcoming smile on her face as clients came to call, see about acquiring a kitten for the flat she didn’t have. The quiet Cotswolds held no appeal—Eliza was a London girl.

  An unmarried London girl, and bound to stay that way. A man like Nicholas Raeburn, no matter how attractive he found her temporarily, would not be satisfied with just one woman. One model. One muse. He’d have countless affairs with women like the glorious Barbara.

  Eliza paled in the literal sense by comparison. She was not dark and mysterious and knowing. She didn’t have an ounce of flirtation in her, was proper beyond reason.

  Except when Nicholas touched her.

  It was her mother’s hand that came down on hers. “What is it, dear? You’re so quiet all of a sudden. Is my news really unwelcome to you?”

  “Oh no, Mama! I’m happy for you—really, I am. Dr. Samuelson is a nice man. I’ve always liked him.”

  “He won’t try to take the place of your father,” her mother said quietly.

  Eliza could use a father right now, someone stern and sensible. Someone who would tell her to buck up, not lose her head.

  But she was afraid it was much too late.

  The pie came out of the oven. Eliza stayed for it to cool enough to eat a substantial piece, despite having no appetite. Mrs. Quinn would be looking for her, trying to get supper ready without Sunny underfoot in the kitchen.

  Eliza looked at her watch. “I need to go, Mama. G
ive Dr. Samuelson my best.”

  “I will. It will be lovely to have everything back to normal. Let me know when you’re ready to come back home.”

  Eliza definitely would. She had no interest in discovering her mother and the good doctor in an embrace—or worse—on the parlor sofa. How extraordinary that her ordinary mother was carrying on with a man old enough to be her father.

  Eliza supposed it should be a comfort to know her mother would be looked after. She felt no special relief, however—she was in too much turmoil, and her stomach was full of unwanted pie. Eliza climbed onto the omnibus, her future uncertain. But whoever could predict what would happen? The omnibus might overturn, and then she’d wish she was wearing her gorgeous new hat for her final breaths.

  She’d never owned anything so perfect. So expensive. Even if Sir Thomas had picked it out, it had been at Nicholas’s direction. It was much too gorgeous to sit in its box on a shelf, but she hadn’t wanted to arouse her mother’s suspicions. Hat or no, Mrs. Lawrence was disinclined to approve of Nicholas Raeburn. She would think Eliza’s acceptance of the gift completely inappropriate. If she knew of the other inappropriate activities her daughter had engaged in, she was apt to have a fainting spell.

  Eliza got off at Kensington High Street, feeling a little faint herself at the thought of breaching a path through the inevitable reporters a few blocks away. She didn’t feel equal to climbing over the neighbor’s wall again, especially when Nicholas was not there to guide her.

  His hands had been firm at her waist earlier. He’d vaulted her over the brick as if she didn’t weigh a thing. He’d given her a wink as she hastily pulled down her skirts. As she hoofed it through the side alley leading to the parallel street, she could hear his rueful laughter behind her. Another adventure.

  Eliza was dressed in her customary drab coat and hat. In no way did she resemble a femme fatale with designs upon her employer, or the kind of woman who would attract a famous artist’s eye. She chewed her lip and kept her head down, sailing into the headwinds.

  Lord. She didn’t even have a house key with her—hadn’t been given one in the confusion that followed her employment. She would have to bang on the kitchen door like an irate tradesman and hope Mrs. Quinn would let her in.

  As she rounded the corner, she spotted two men lounging by the lamppost in front of the house. A sleek new Pegasus motor car was idling a few yards away, hiding who knew how many men. Two wasn’t such a huge number—there had been at least ten times that when she’d first encountered the press. In her opinion, London had altogether too many daily newspapers. How foolish she’d been to step outside, thinking she could smooth things over. Eliza had made everything worse.

  Making missteps like that was unusual for her, but then everything that had happened lately was unusual. Eliza wondered what “back to normal” might mean. Wondered if there was such a thing as normal.

  Nothing ventured, nothing gained. By now her chin was on her chest, and she hoped her hat was covering most of her face. She felt herself shrinking like Alice after she’d taken a sip of some potion. Eliza thought of Sunny with her hands over her eyes. Just because she could no longer see the newsmen, they could still see her.

  She jerked when she felt the hand at her elbow, but didn’t have time to scream before a gloved hand came down on her mouth. She was pulled into the waiting car. The reporters didn’t even notice.

  Chapter 26

  He pushed her down on the backseat and more or less threw himself on top of her.

  “Sorry to surprise you. Everything will come right, you’ll see,” Nick said once he caught his breath after Eliza elbowed him in the gut. “Drive on, Tubby. Keep your head down, Eliza. I don’t want them to recognize us.”

  He thought she asked, “What is the meaning of this?” but as her face was squashed into the plush leather seat, he could have been mistaken. Despite his apology and assurances, it was like wrestling with a hedgehog. Eliza had no intention of subduing herself and had come close to unmanning him. She had a future as an acrobat if she didn’t care to go back to the Evensong Agency.

  “I’ve sent Sunny away with Mrs. Quinn. She has a sister in Islington. Sue, too. No one will find them there, and they’ll be perfectly safe,” he explained, although she wouldn’t understand yet. “Is the coast clear?” he asked Tubby.

  “My word, you sound like a character from one of those spy books you used to read at school,” his friend replied from the front seat. “I believe you’re enjoying this havey-cavey business.”

  “Not hardly,” muttered Nick. “Can we sit up now?”

  “You can, but you may not. One of those news chappies is running after us on foot. Curse this traffic. I’m not sure I can get away.”

  “Try. The last thing I need is—oof.” Another elbow, this time lower.

  “Get off me, you blackguard!” his hedgehog spoke, her voice as sharp as all her limbs.

  That he could definitely understand. Reluctantly, Nick rolled away. “Now, just listen, Eliza. There’s a good reason for all of this.”

  Her hat had come off in the melee and her gorgeous golden hair was tumbling down her shoulders. She struggled with the folds of her gray coat, sat up, and then shrieked.

  Nick turned to see a strange face pressed against the window. “Damn it, Tubby! Drive!”

  “I thought you said Cross was no threat,” Eliza said, pitching forward as Tubby switched gears. The reporter gave one feeble slap to the window as the car squeaked between two horse-drawn delivery vans, then lurched away. Nick looked out the rear window, but could not spot the man who’d been chasing them.

  “It’s not Cross I’m worried about, but Daniel Preble,” he replied, helping her back into the seat. “You remember sending the crates of paintings to him in Paris? Well, he got them. That letter, too. I received a telegram from him while you were out.”

  “I don’t understand. Does he want his house back?”

  “Worse. Though he’ll probably expect me to give it back to him as well. He’s after Sunny. Oh hell, he doesn’t want her, but the money that comes with her.”

  Eliza looked at him as if he’d grown two heads, though one was more than sufficient at the moment since a headache was pounding away with dreadful efficiency. “He thinks Sunny is his daughter,” Nick said as patiently as he could. “Barbara’s letter intimated as much. But I don’t believe it.”

  He couldn’t believe it. Sunny was his in all the ways that mattered. He’d raised her since she was in nappies having nightmares missing her mother. Nick had arranged his whole life around the little girl—more or less. He supposed there had been some brief wicked spells in the two years he’d been a father, but they were nothing to his past, when he’d given the devil a run for his money. Was there money in hell? All the more reason for Daniel to go there directly.

  A man like Daniel Preble couldn’t raise Sunny. He’d fob her off on servants.

  Oh God. Just as he had.

  “We need to go to Islington, Tubby.”

  “What? My footman’s with them, Nicky. Jock’s a braw fellow—they won’t come to any harm. No, we’re going to my house as planned. To strategize. I’ll ring my solicitor. He’ll know what to do.”

  Nick hoped Tubby was right. The racket in his head precluded rational thought. What if one of the reporters had followed Tubby’s carriage to Islington? Sunny had thought it a great lark to climb into the wicker hamper and be carried off by Tubby’s footman. Mrs. Quinn and Sue had followed with their carpetbags, telling the reporters the house was being closed up and that they were wasting their time. But a few stubborn stalwarts remained lurking out front.

  Nick had scarpered by way of the garden wall and snagged his trousers. He met Tubby in his car on the next block over, then waited for Eliza to return. He hadn’t meant to frighten her, but he couldn’t let her come back to an empty house. She would have been torn apart by the
stubbornly vigilant press, too.

  She was wearing a hole in her lip again. “Is it possible?” she whispered, as if Tubby weren’t already privy to everything. “Could he be Sunny’s natural father?”

  “Anything is possible.” Nick shut his eyes, remembering his conversation with Barbara. He and Daniel had shared her favors at the relevant time; it was no secret. She’d been desperate for one of them to take the child, and there he’d been, first on the mark.

  But she’d written to Daniel, too, and received no reply.

  Nick had taught Sunny to speak English. Count to one hundred. Paint a recognizable cat after drawing circles and triangles. He’d promised her Scotland at Christmas, warning her they might be stuck there in the snow until spring. She’d clapped her hands and cried, “Snowmen and snowwomen!”

  She’d never seen snow.

  Daniel Preble could have no possible interest in an almost-five-year-old girl.

  Unless it was to debauch her. Nick had heard the stories over the years but ignored them. What did he really know of Daniel, except that the man knew how to throw a fabulous party and knew everyone that mattered?

  Nick had been starstruck as a lad when Daniel had taken him under his wing. He’d been a long way from the Highlands, tasting freedom and a great many other things that had been previously forbidden.

  “But there’s no way of knowing for sure, now that Barbara is dead. And even then—” Eliza blushed. She must have heard about Barbara’s reputation.

  It was true Barbara had been less than discriminate or monogamous. Nicholas had reason to know. But those days were firmly in the past for him. He had matured, had his work.

  Was a father, or so he hoped. Blood and bone wasn’t everything, was it?

  “I don’t know what she wrote in that letter. You wouldn’t let me open it.”

  “You were so ill. I didn’t want you upset. And besides, it wasn’t addressed to you.”

  “Such a rule-follower. I assure you, I would have torn it to pieces—nay, eaten it if it meant we weren’t in this fix. Where should we drop you?”