The Governess

by Mary Kingswood

  “It is not any comfort,” she said, her face dark with anger. “Lord Brackenwood, I cannot thank you enough for your kindness in bringing this to my notice. It need not be said, I trust, that he should never succeed in such a dishonourable objective.”

  “No one who knows you could believe it possible,” he said with a bow. “My only desire in relating these facts is to set you on your guard against him and perhaps spare you some of the unhappiness you must feel when he is lost to you again. I myself know the misery of a love that can never end in the perfect felicity of a marriage of equals, so if I can protect you from some small part of that grief, I must do so.”

  “You are too kind,” she said, and with a very few more words, she quit the room.

  This exchange both relieved the worst of his anxieties for her wellbeing, and also unsettled him in some unfathomable way. She was, as ever, sensible and worldly. He had feared tears or hysterics, or, perhaps worse, complete disbelief, but she had accepted it all calmly. And yet… what was the matter with him? He was almost light-headed, and that was something more than mere concern for an employee.

  But of course she was far more to him than an employee. Right from the start he had seen her as a friend, someone he could talk to as he could never talk to his mother, his aunts or uncle, Mr Cross or Mr Penicuik. Or to Eloise. He and his wife had lived in the same house and eaten at the same table and passed long evenings together for years, and he would never have called her a friend. Now, her sister, Marisa — there was someone who could, perhaps, have become a friend if…

  No, he would not start down the path of ‘if only’ again. The past was dead and gone, and must be forgotten. Just as Miss Winterton must forget Mr Keeling, so Allan must forget Marisa, for she was quite beyond his reach now. He must live in the present, and enjoy the new friend that chance had brought him. Miss Winterton. Annabelle. He rolled the name around in his mind, savouring the secretive pleasure of it.

  There had been other secret pleasures, too. His bedroom lay beneath hers, so sometimes he heard the floorboards creak above him as she moved about, and he imagined her dressing for the day, or sitting at her writing desk penning one of her endless stream of letters to her sisters. From his library, he often heard her taking his daughters out for a walk around the estate, and sometimes, if he observed the group pass by his window, he would feel the urge for some exercise himself, and would hastily don his greatcoat and stride after them. Then he would come upon them in the woods, or the lane that bordered the deer park, and common politeness forced him to accompany them for a spell.

  Dorothea, already leaving childhood behind, stayed with the two adults as they walked, while the twins raced hither and thither, bringing leaves and berries and twigs to Miss Winterton for identification. The berries intrigued them the most. “Are these edible?” they would say, and Miss Winterton would answer gravely, “Unless Portman serves them to you in a dish with sauce, they are not edible.” Mushrooms and toadstools she would not allow them to touch at all. “Some varieties are so poisonous that even the juice on your fingers might be sufficient to poison you beyond any hope of recovery.”

  “That type growing on the trunk of the tree is very tasty,” Allan murmured to her one day. “Chicken of the woods, the locals call it. I am very fond of it.”

  “I like it too, but if it is growing on yew, it is poisonous,” she said. “It is better for children not to risk it. With their smaller, more fragile bodies, they are less well able to tolerate even mild forms of poison. Let those who know every variety intimately decide what to pick and what to leave alone. One cannot be too careful, in my opinion.”

  He could not fault her for her caution.

  That afternoon his books held little charm for him. Although he sat in his massive wing chair before the fire, book open on his knee and Madeira to hand, he was not reading. His thoughts were all on a certain young lady, in love with a worthless young man. One day soon, Keeling would leave Charlsby without making her the respectable offer of marriage she deserved, and she would suffer greatly. Allan could only hope his words today would help to mitigate her suffering to some small degree, when that time came. Poor Miss Winterton! One could not help who one fell in love with, and sometimes love caused nothing but pain.

  Late in the afternoon, when he was beginning to think about his dinner — it was the day for beef, of which he was very fond — a carriage was heard on the drive, and then the doorbell jangled distantly. It was an odd time for callers, but perhaps it was one of the many visitors who had been out for the afternoon and was now returning. Or perhaps it was Dr Wilcox attending his mother. He often came at odd hours.

  Some minutes later, Plessey entered. “A lady to see you, my lord.” He proffered a card on a silver salver.

  Allan took the card and read it without much interest, then jumped to his feet with a yelp of astonishment. “Please show her in at once, Plessey. And send Mrs Hale to me. She will need to prepare a room.”

  He bowed and withdrew, returning moments later. “Mrs Jacob Pargeter, my lord.”

  She bounced in, as full of life as ever. She was a little plumper than he remembered, and considerably better dressed, but the sparkling eyes and wide smile were just as he recalled.

  “Marisa,” he said, bowing over her hand. “What a delightful surprise, and so unexpected. I hope there is nothing wrong to bring you here?”

  “Nothing in the world. This visit is driven only by a wish to see my brother-in-law after all this time. We have both lost a spouse in the last year, and I a sister also. We have so much in common that I have thought of you a great deal lately. Who better to lighten your sorrow than one who also suffers it?”

  “I am glad to hear there is no darker cause behind your arrival. Sister, you are very welcome.”

  “Thank you! But Allan, how are you? You look thinner than I remembered. Whereas I, you see, am very much wider. That is what having children will do for a woman. Or perhaps it is my fondness for cake, who can say?”

  “What an excellent idea,” he said. “Plessey, send in some cake, and tea. Or would you prefer coffee, Marisa?”

  “I’ll have what you are having… Madeira is it? But cake would be lovely. Lord, Allan, how many years is it?” She plopped herself down in the wing chair opposite his, and began to untie the ribbons of her bonnet.

  “Twelve,” he said promptly. “Much has happened since then. I was so very sorry to hear about Mr Pargeter, Marisa. He was not a young man, but still it must have been a dreadful shock for you.”

  “It was a shock, yes. He had not been well — there were some irregularities in the beating of his heart. Even so, his physician was pleased with him and felt he could live for many more years yet, but it was not to be. Still, he left me very well provided for, and now that I am out of mourning, it seemed like the perfect opportunity to travel about a bit and decide where I want to settle in my widowhood.”

  “What about your children? You had two sons and two daughters, unless my memory is faulty.”

  “You are quite right, and I have left them in Devonshire, at least for the moment. Jacob’s son from his first marriage is there, and he is lately married to a very good sort of girl who quite dotes on them. They are best left where they are for now, to grow up amongst their Pargeter relations. When the girls are older, I may take more notice of them, but they are too young to be interesting. Whereas yours are just reaching the age when they need a mother. How they must miss Eloise! I should dearly love to see them, and perhaps I may be able to help them with their lessons, you know, for I daresay they are greatly idle without their mother’s watchful eye.”

  “They have a governess now, and are not idle at all,” he said, with a smile.

  “A governess, eh,” she said, eyeing him thoughtfully. Then she dimpled and said, “A pretty young thing, I make no doubt, and so very grateful to you for giving her a place, thanking you prettily with innocent eyes. You are too wily to be taken in by such schemes, I am sure, Allan.”


  He laughed at this image of Miss Winterton, and said, “And she is too much a lady for such stratagems. She has no ambition to become a countess, I assure you.”

  She looked disbelieving, but Plessey came in just then, followed by the footman carrying the tea things, and Mrs Hale, the housekeeper.

  “Ah, Mrs Hale, pray prepare a room for Mrs Pargeter, if you please.”

  “Beg pardon, my lord, but, with so many visitors in the house, all the guest rooms are taken. The only room not used is her ladyship’s room.”

  “Oh, do not concern yourself, Allan,” Marisa said. “I am sure I can find an inn—”

  “Nonsense,” he said. “Naturally you will stay here, but shall you mind being in Eloise’s room? It has not been altered at all since her death, and I daresay her gowns are still hanging in the wardrobe. But if you find the prospect too morbid, then you must take my room, and I shall sleep in one of the attic rooms.”

  “I would not countenance such a plan,” she said, with her wide smile. “I have never been of a morbid nature, Allan. My sister’s room will suit me very well, just as it is. There is a rightness to it, do you not agree? Yes, I shall very much enjoy sleeping in Eloise’s bed.”

  9: Friends (May)

  ‘Dear Annabelle. Thank you for your letters. I am quite well. Aunt Letty is a little better. Aunt Pru is quite well. Yesterday I walked to church by myself. Aunt Letty’s son is to visit. I hope you are well. Margaret.’

  ~~~~~

  MAY

  Lady Brackenwood wished to invite a new batch of hopeful candidates from which her son might choose a new wife, and so the earliest visitors began to depart. The Miss Waltons went back to Lancashire, Miss Hunt and Miss Barnett returned to Liverpool and Miss Lorrimer went home to Chester. Even George Skelton had gone off to London to enliven the capital and enjoy the delights of the season.

  A day later, Mr Keeling also departed, and Annabelle could guess his destination. Milly confirmed that he had enquired about the best inns and hotels in Chester before he left.

  “He will not have any better luck there than he did here,” Annabelle said, not sure whether to be amused at his persistence, or offended by the thick skin which enabled him not to acknowledge the obvious disapproval emanating from Miss Lorrimer’s parents.

  “Betty said Miss Lorrimer wants to see him at a ball,” Milly said. Betty was the chambermaid, and an even bigger gossip than Milly. “She wants to waltz with him, and then she will decide whether to encourage him or not.”

  “If she agrees to waltz with him, he will take that as very strong encouragement,” Annabelle said. “The whole world would be in daily anticipation of an announcement. Her mama will surely not let her dance the waltz in public with a man she is neither married to nor betrothed to.”

  “Ooh, is it so very scandalous, the waltz?” Milly said. “I’ve seen it done once or twice — when Timothy the groom was married last year, there was some waltzing at the wedding feast, and I never saw so many couples clutching each other tight and twirling round till they fell over. That was wild, to be sure. But I thought the quality would be… well, more genteel, like.”

  “It is… very intimate, compared to a cotillion or a country dance,” Annabelle said. “I have never attempted it myself, although I know the steps. It is a very elegant dance, and I love to watch it being performed. My sister and her husband are a pleasure to watch. But one must know a gentleman very well, I should think, before one would stand up with him for the waltz. Or so it is in Brinshire. Perhaps Chester is more open-minded, who knows? Waltz or no, I wish her joy of Mr Keeling, if he has been so fortunate as to win her regard.”

  “There are those who thought his tastes ran a different way,” Milly said archly.

  Annabelle smiled sorrowfully, but did not pretend to misunderstand. “You are a romantic, Milly, if you imagine that he could ever have married a lowly governess. A young man of modest fortune must make very sure that his tastes lie with rich young ladies.”

  “That’s a sad view of things, Miss.”

  “Yet it is the way of the world, Milly.”

  Annabelle was glad he was gone. Not merely relieved, but happy to be rid of him. He had not, in the end, made any improper suggestion to her, but perhaps it would have come to that, if she had not already been aware of the possibility.

  He had come upon her once in the schoolroom when she was alone, busy at the desk writing her notes for the day, and preparing for the next day’s lessons.

  “Miss Winterton? I am come to view you in your domain — may I come in?”

  She jumped to her feet. “Of course, Mr Keeling, but as you see, lessons are over for the day. Lady Dorothea, Lady Florence and Lady Frederica have gone for their riding lesson.” She began tidying away her papers and books.

  “Ah. But you will show me around, I am sure.”

  “Forgive me, but some other time, when my pupils are here, perhaps.”

  “You were not always so… inhospitable,” he said, but softening the words with his easy smile.

  Oh yes, she had been very hospitable once… when she had believed he had marriage in mind. Now, she would not dream of allowing him to kiss her.

  “I was not always a governess,” she said acidly. “That is my station now, however, and even a lowly employee may still have a reputation to maintain, Mr Keeling. We are quite alone here, for even the nursery next door is empty. It is not proper.”

  She straightened her pile of papers, and slid them into the desk drawer, then turned for the door. With several quick steps, he placed himself in front of her.

  “Annabelle! It cuts me to the quick to be treated with such distance, such distrust, such… disdain. We were the best of friends once… can we not be so again? Do not go! Stay and talk to me, I beg you!”

  There was such sincerity in his manner that she was almost convinced. But not quite.

  “Mr Keeling—”

  “Charles, please! Do not call me Mr Keeling in that cold way.”

  “Mr Keeling,” she said firmly, “friendship is founded on respect, and without that there can be nothing.”

  “But I do respect you! Of course I do!”

  “If that were true, sir, you would not be here now, trying to persuade me to linger alone in this room with you.”

  For a moment a flash of irritation crossed his face, but he schooled his expression and continued more quietly, “I beg your pardon if I have misunderstood you. You do not scruple to be alone in the library with Lord Brackenwood, so I imagined you might offer the same courtesy to an old friend.”

  “My employer has a need to discuss his daughters’ progress in privacy. Besides—” She stopped, tired of trying to explain it to a man who ought to see the distinction, but clearly could not. The earl had never given her a moment’s unease, and had always left the door open, whereas she had no confidence that Charles would behave in a gentlemanly fashion towards her. Even if he had made an incorrect assumption, he should have withdrawn the instant she had expressed her disquiet, and the fact that he had not told her everything she needed to know about him.

  She stepped around him and he made no move to prevent her leaving the room. She went directly to her own apartment, hurled herself onto the bed and wept for an hour.

  ~~~~~

  Allan watched Keeling’s modest carriage rolling down the drive. Annabelle was well rid of him, although undoubtedly she did not see things that way, not yet. His heart ached for her. One day she would be heart-free again and would think no more of this man who was so unworthy of her, of that he was utterly confident.

  He could speak with some authority on the matter, for had he not himself suffered the grief of a love that could never be? And yet now he was free of it, and the keys to release him had been given to him by the lady herself. Twelve years ago he had fallen deeply in love with a young lady who was everything he admired — pretty, well-rounded, engaging and with a lively wit. And then he had obediently married her older sister, whose great virtue
was her dowry. For twelve long years he had chafed at his lifeless and loveless marriage, remembering the prettier, livelier sister.

  Until Marisa herself had arrived on his doorstep. Meeting her again and comparing the older Marisa with the younger version lodged indelibly in his memory was like being doused in cold water. Her prettiness had lost its bloom, the well-rounded form verged on fat and her wit… There was a coarseness to her language sometimes that he could not like. On her first evening, he had asked politely if her room was to her satisfaction, and she had laughed throatily, and tapped him playfully on the arm with her fan.

  “It is very much to my satisfaction, and since it was your wife’s room and adjoins yours, I must hope that you do not walk in your sleep or else it might be to your satisfaction, also.”

  He was too shocked to answer her. That night when he retired, he made certain that the connecting door was still locked before he went to bed.

  Within three days, her shameless behaviour and the irritating way she rested her hand on his arm in a proprietorial manner whenever she spoke to him had served to make him question what he had ever thought attractive about her. And as the days drifted past, he found himself comparing Marisa more and more with the one person in the house whose behaviour had never given him the smallest concern, who was unfailingly a lady.

  Annabelle.

  Yet she had never looked at him. Her affection was all for the undeserving Keeling, who had once again raised her expectations and dashed them, leaving her bereft by his departure.

  Perhaps he could distract her from her sorrow for once. One afternoon, he bounded up the stairs two at a time, then up again to the nursery floor. He knocked tentatively on the schoolroom door.

  “Entrez!”

  He went in, and then laughed out loud at the sight before him. “The old baby house! I have not seen that for years.”

  “En français s'il vous plaît, Papa,” Dorothea said primly.