The Governess and Mr. Granville

by Abby Gaines

  “I apologize, sir.” She ignored the skeptical rise of one dark eyebrow. “However, Charlotte is the kindest—”

  “What did she steal?” he demanded.

  “A leg of lamb,” Serena admitted. “Technically, half a leg—we ate at least half of it for dinner on Sunday, you’ll remember.”

  Mr. Granville began rubbing his left temple, as well as his right. “If she was hungry, why did she not ask for food?”

  “She gave it to a beggar who came to the kitchen door. Mr. Granville, he looked starving!” Just thinking about the poor man brought tears to Serena’s eyes. “Cook turned him away, without so much as a crust.”

  “That was wrong of her.” Mr. Granville had a reputation for giving to those in need, which encouraged Serena to hope for mercy.

  “Very wrong,” she agreed. “Charlotte was in the kitchen at the time, and she took matters into her own hands. She grabbed the meat and ran after the man.”

  Mr. Granville winced, doubtless at the thought of his nine-year-old daughter chasing a vagrant across his property.

  “I agree, it wasn’t the most ladylike conduct,” Serena reflected. “But her sense of compassion is most commendable.”

  “Did you punish Charlotte?” he asked.

  “For giving to someone in need?” she said, shocked.

  “She took the meat without permission.”

  Serena bit down on a heated defense of her charge. “I told her she should have come to me, and I would have negotiated with Cook.”

  “That’s not sufficient,” he said.

  Serena had had very little conversation with her employer. She took her instructions, such as they were, from his sister, who’d hired her. But she knew he wouldn’t welcome the kind of robust debate that prevailed in the rectory at Piper’s Mead, her parents’ home. A pang of homesickness for her family stabbed her. She managed a stiff, “I apologize, sir.”

  “Two apologies in the space of half a minute,” he observed. “It may interest you to know the second was no more convincing than the first.”

  Serena tried to look interested. The shaking of Mr. Granville’s head suggested she’d failed.

  “Miss Somerton, deplorable though my daughter’s behavior is, that’s not why I summoned you.”

  She opened her mouth; he held up a hand. “No, please, I don’t want to hear confessions of any more of my children’s escapades, or your inability to discipline them. I have received a letter from the Earl of Spenford.” He picked up a sheet of paper and waved it at her.

  “Oh,” she said, dismayed.

  “I wasn’t aware Lord Spenford recently married your sister,” he said. “You didn’t request leave to attend the wedding.”

  Serena had rather hoped Mr. Granville wouldn’t discover this development just yet. In theory, the financial repercussions of her sister’s marriage would be to Serena’s advantage—Lord Spenford would feel some obligation to support his wife’s sisters—but she refused to benefit from this until she was convinced Constance was happy. At this point, she was by no means certain.

  “The wedding occurred rather suddenly, due to the Dowager Countess of Spenford’s illness,” Serena explained. “There wasn’t time for me to journey home.”

  “I see.” Her employer folded the letter and set it on the desk. “I don’t recall my sister mentioning your connection to the Spenfords. Are your families old acquaintances?”

  In other words, how did a mere governess end up so well connected?

  “My father is the Reverend Adrian Somerton, rector of Piper’s Mead in Hampshire,” she said. “Papa was given his parish living by the Dowager Countess of Spenford, his patroness.” She hoped that would be enough.

  “There must be more to it, for Spenford to have married a parson’s daughter. Somerton...” Mr. Granville drummed his fingers on the desk as he contemplated her. “I’m acquainted with Sir Horace Somerton, brother of the Duke of Medway.”

  “Sir Horace is my grandfather,” she admitted reluctantly.

  Her father disapproved of any boasting of their high connections. “We’re all equal in God’s eyes,” he often said.

  Mr. Granville blinked. “So your father is the nephew of the Duke of Medway? Does my sister know? Why on earth are you working as a governess?”

  She clasped her hands demurely, in the dwindling hope it might make her look more governess-like. Her prospects here at Woodbridge Hall appeared increasingly dim. “Miss Granville is aware... It came out in conversation one day. But, sir, my father became estranged from most of his family the moment he took his holy calling more seriously than they would have liked. Before I was born, my parents spurned London society in favor of a simpler existence.”

  “You will forgive my intrusion into your affairs—” that was an order, not a request, Serena noted “—but even if your father is estranged from the Medways, your family is surely not destitute.”

  “Our circumstances are comfortable,” she admitted, embarrassed.

  “So why do you need to work? Surely the life of a governess is not comfortable.”

  “I love my work,” she said in surprise. “The children are wonderful and Miss Granville is kindness itself.”

  At the mention of his sister, he gave her a sharp look. Some people considered Miss Granville a little odd; Serena wasn’t one of them.

  She carried on. “But in answer to your question, my father has recently been in disagreement with his bishop. Papa favors preaching the Word to people wherever they may be—in the fields, if necessary. The bishop sees his approach as Methodism, and is afraid Papa will create disunity in the church. Which he never would—” aware of rising indignation in her voice, Serena took a moment to calm herself “—but he worries the bishop might remove him from the parish.”

  If that happened, her parents would lose their home and livelihood.

  “And that’s why you sought this position?” Mr. Granville asked.

  “I don’t want to be a burden on my parents if their circumstances change,” she said, which was true, but not the entire truth. That had been the impetus for applying to be a governess, but not the reason she’d accepted this post over the two others she’d been offered. “I should explain, I’m the oldest of five sisters.”

  Many fathers would consider five daughters a burden. Serena’s parents made it clear their girls were their joy. They’d never exhorted them to marry, though as Papa had said when she was home at Christmas, “If God should provide wonderful husbands for any or all of you, my dears, I will not quarrel.” Serena hadn’t been able to discern from her parents’ letters what they thought of Constance’s marriage. Whether Lord Spenford was “wonderful.”

  Mr. Granville leaned forward, pressed his fingertips together. “Miss Somerton, you must see it’s impossible for you to remain a governess now that you have an earl as brother by marriage.”

  She lowered her eyes. He was right. But this wasn’t just about what society, or even Lord Spenford, considered proper. She grasped the edge of the desk and said, “Mr. Granville, please don’t say I must leave.”

  He eyed her encroaching fingers warily. “Of course you must.”

  “Sir, the children need me. It’s been such a joy to teach them, to see Thomas develop his interest in nature, and Hetty learn to form her own opinions.”

  Mr. Granville appeared doubtful about the joys of both of those. She considered telling him the truth: that when Marianne Granville had explained how the children had lost their mother, and implied that their father had grown distant and cold, Serena had seen the possibility for a second chance for this family. A chance for the widowed Mr. Granville to put behind him the mistakes he’d made out of grief. To start afresh with his children. Serena, who knew about making mistakes, would help him. And just maybe, she would earn her own fresh chance.

  But it was difficult to explain all that without causing offense. Better just to talk about the children. “Then there’s Charlotte’s wonderful—”

  “Compassion
,” he interjected. “Yes, so you said.”

  She beamed at him. “And William. He was so shy when I arrived, but just the other day he took the starring role in a drama we created.”

  “Really?” Mr. Granville might well be surprised; his second son was notoriously bashful. “That drama lesson wasn’t, by any chance, at the expense of something more useful?” he asked. “Arithmetic, for example?”

  “Of course we do arithmetic,” she assured him. “But I’m thrilled to say William positively relished the limelight in our drama.” One only need look at the crippling shyness of Marianne Granville, Mr. Granville’s sister, to see that helping William become more sociable was of far more use than practicing his already excellent arithmetic. “The fact that he got to brandish a carving knife for much of the last scene was a useful incentive,” Serena recalled fondly.

  Alarm flashed across her employer’s face, reminding her of that day he’d scolded her for letting the children slide down the banister. What child wouldn’t eventually take advantage of such smooth, tempting wood? Far better they do it under her supervision. She moved swiftly on. “And Louisa.” She felt her face soften at the mention of the youngest Granville. “As long as she has someone to hold on to, she’s the happiest girl in the world.”

  “She sounds clinging,” Mr. Granville said.

  “She’s five years old,” Serena pointed out. “Sir, it would be a very bad idea for me to leave now.”

  “Bad for them or for you?” he asked. “Frankly, Miss Somerton, it sounds as if you’re having the time of your life, while my children’s education could be suffering.”

  Just in time, she refrained from leaping to her feet in self-defense. The kind of reaction Mr. Granville wouldn’t appreciate. Instead, she pressed her slippers firmly into the carpet, anchoring herself. “I report regularly to Miss Granville on my curriculum and the children’s progress. She has always expressed her satisfaction.”

  It was both true and, Serena hoped, a tactical masterstroke. Mr. Granville was inclined to let his sister have her way. “But I see my role as more than that of a teacher of reading and arithmetic,” she continued.

  “I would hope,” he said, “the curriculum of which you boast also includes French for the older children. And sketching and the like for all of them.”

  Maybe she could just hint at her deeper purpose.

  “When Miss Granville appointed me,” Serena said, “she told me the children were worried they might forget their mother. Yet they were afraid to talk about her.”

  Mr. Granville’s jaw—strong, with a tendency to square when he disapproved—showed definite signs of squaring. “That’s absurd. My sister shouldn’t have said such a thing to you.”

  “The reason they were afraid to talk about your late wife was a sense that you discourage such conversations,” Serena persisted. Oh, this confrontation was long overdue! And now, under pressure, she was making a hash of it. She should have asked to see him months ago, and approached him with a carefully reasoned argument as to how he could improve his children’s happiness.

  “I see no reason to wallow in things we cannot change,” he said. Both tone and glare were designed to intimidate.

  So it was a blessing that she’d been raised to disregard intimidation in the pursuit of right.

  “Naturally, Louisa doesn’t remember her mother at all,” she said, “since she was just a babe when... And William also has no recollection. I’ve made a point of asking the older children to share their memories with them.” As a concession, she added, “Without wallowing, of course.”

  Mr. Granville opened his mouth, but seemed oddly stunned and didn’t speak.

  Serena pressed on. “While the children still miss their mama, they’re happier for being able to talk about her. French and arithmetic are certainly important, and I believe I do an excellent job in academic matters. But I count influencing your children’s happiness as the greatest achievement of my tenure here.” She’d noticed, even in her brief observations of him, that he deflected anything that hinted at emotion. His children deserved better.

  “That’s enough,” he growled. “Miss Somerton, I don’t doubt that in your own woolly-headed, parson’s daughter-ish way, your intentions are good....”

  She gasped. “Woolly-headed?” She could not, of course, take offense at being called “parson’s daughter-ish.” She was proud to be that.

  He ignored her. “But regardless of your calling, you cannot stay on as governess. I will inform Lord Spenford by return mail that your employment has been terminated. You will leave by the end of the week.” He pressed his palms to the desk and stood.

  She was forced to look up at him. “Is that your last word on the matter?” To her annoyance, her voice held a tiny quaver.

  “It is.”

  “Because I should point out—”

  “That was my last word,” he reminded her.

  She sagged. Twice she opened her mouth to raise a fresh objection, but Mr. Granville kept his gaze on her until, under that dark intensity, she subsided completely.

  He observed her capitulation. “That will be all, Miss Somerton,” he said, sounding satisfied for the first time today.

  Serena remained in her seat, not moving, considering what to do for the best. Father, guide me, please.

  “You may go, Miss Somerton,” Mr. Granville reminded her. He cleared his throat. “Thank you for your service. I do appreciate your fondness for my children.” He smiled, a little grimly perhaps, but it appeared he intended encouragement.

  Inspiration struck, though she suspected it had more to do with her prayer than his smile.

  She smiled back as she rose from her chair. His gaze dropped, and it seemed to Serena that he scanned her from top to toe.

  “Mr. Granville,” she said. Her voice was clear and composed. Much better.

  He brought his gaze back to her face as he moved around the desk. “Yes, Miss Somerton?”

  “Would you consider marrying again?”

  Chapter Two

  Serena watched as her employer—her former employer—turned a remarkable shade of red.

  Her question had been unutterably forward. If her father had heard her, even his famed tolerance would be taxed. But she’d spent eight months biting her tongue, save for one or two lapses in diplomacy. Maybe three or four. The point was, her “parson’s daughter-ish” good manners meant she’d failed to make any lasting difference here. Now that she’d been dismissed, she no longer needed to exercise restraint.

  “Miss Somerton,” Mr. Granville said with rigid control, “while I am very conscious of the honor you accord me, I feel your offer springs from a certain desperation.”

  What was he talking about?

  He took two steps backward, away from her, as if she were a victim of the Great Plague she’d been teaching the children about in their history lessons. Yes, she did actually teach them history.

  “Therefore-I-must-decline-your-proposal,” he said in a rush.

  Serena stared...then broke into a peal of laughter. “You think I was proposing marriage!”

  He remained red, but was suddenly less rigid. “Er, weren’t you?”

  “Certainly not!” Goodness, how embarrassing. She could only hope she could pass the days before she left Woodbridge Hall without encountering him again. “Even if I hoped to marry in the near future—which, believe me, I have no expectation of doing—it would be somewhat presumptuous of a governess to set her sights on the master of the house, would it not?”

  A reluctant smile widened his mouth, much more natural than the forced version with which he’d tried to reassure her a moment ago. It made him extremely handsome.

  “You are the sister of an earl now,” he pointed out. “And have always been, it seems, the great-niece of a duke. I rather fear, Miss Somerton, you’re my social equal.”

  “I’m an estranged great-niece,” she reminded him, suddenly distracted. How peculiar that she should notice how handsome he was twice in ha
lf an hour. The first time, he’d been inches away from her, trying to detach that dashed lizard. And this time he’d just accused her of proposing marriage—so no wonder her observations were so inappropriate. This was hardly a regular day at Woodbridge Hall.

  In which case, the irregularity might as well continue.

  “Perhaps I will presume on the new status, such as it is, that comes courtesy of my sister’s husband,” she said. “Sir, your children need a mother.”

  He was squaring his jaw again. Serena chose to ignore it. “Which means you need a wife,” she said. “I’m sorry to bring this up so abruptly—if I’d known I was about to be dismissed, I would have mentioned it sooner—”

  “I’m overjoyed that you didn’t know,” he interrupted.

  “The children love their aunt, of course, but they need someone whose constant presence they can depend on. If Miss Granville should marry...”

  “No one can promise a constant presence,” he said harshly. He closed his eyes a moment. When he opened them, he spoke with excessive calm. “We both know my sister is unlikely to wed, so you may consider her quite dependable.” Measured strides took him to the library door, which he opened wide in a clear message that Serena should depart.

  He was right about no one knowing the future. His wife, Mrs. Emily Granville, had doubtless never expected to be carried away by measles when Louisa was just six months old.

  But Serena was right, too. She drew a restoring breath, gripped the back of her chair and carried on. “Sir, Thomas and Hetty are about to enter a critical period in their adolescence. They need the guidance and nurturing of a parent who loves them, not a governess who’s paid to care.” And since Mr. Granville showed no inclination to nurture his children, there should be a new Mrs. Granville.

  “Is that why you care?” he asked.

  “You dismissed me,” she pointed out. “In that process, you made some slurs about my ability as a governess that I consider—”

  She stopped. She was getting distracted. What really mattered here?

  The children.

  In which case...Serena sat down again.