The Governess and Mr. Granville

by Abby Gaines

  He strolled over to join her by the Parson’s Pink roses. “We spoke a moment ago about Marianne’s dislike of meeting new people,” he said. “Woodbridge Hall has a new neighbor whom I’ll be required to entertain in the near future. If I’m inviting guests, I might as well commence my hunt for a bride at the same time. With so much going on, Marianne will need support. For you to assist her as a companion, paid an allowance—which I assure you will be generous—is very different from a governess paid a wage. It’s entirely acceptable in the eyes of society.”

  “True,” she murmured.

  “There’s another benefit,” he said. “The more people in the house, the less ‘on display’ my prospective bride will feel when she visits.”

  “Hmm.” Serena was unsure of his logic. Wouldn’t a lady feel more on display, the more people there were to inspect her? Then she registered his use of the singular noun. “Just one prospective bride, Mr. Granville?”

  “I only need one wife.”

  Which was quite the silliest thing she’d heard. “What if the first lady you invite here proves unsuitable?”

  “There will not be a parade of single ladies,” he said ominously.

  Oh, dear. Serena changed the subject. “So you will invite them—her—here for the children to meet her. An excellent idea.” Perhaps if she praised the concept first, she could then suggest improvements.

  “It’s for my prospective bride to meet my children, not the other way around,” he said. “The children will have no say in my decision.”

  Serena tried not to look alarmed. After all, few men would ask their children’s opinions. But Dominic Granville didn’t know much about his children’s needs....

  “If I left it to Thomas, he would choose the lady most courageous in the handling of lizards.” His annoyance suggested she hadn’t succeeded in disguising her concern. “You may rest assured of my good judgment, Miss Somerton. Now, will you stay? As well as pleasing my sister, the continuity of your presence would benefit the children.”

  “And I’d be delighted not to leave them just yet,” she admitted. “I assume I could still spend time with them, though I’d be Marianne’s companion?”

  “Certainly, though you wouldn’t be teaching them,” he said. “It’s only just over a month until summer—the children can take an early break from their studies.” His tone was ironic, as if he didn’t believe they studied too seriously under Serena’s supervision.

  Well, they didn’t. Not too seriously. She believed in a balance of work and play. If she stayed, she could continue to encourage Mr. Granville to get closer to his children. With a great deal of tact, of course.

  “Nurse is quite capable of managing their daily activities,” he stated, then paused. “So, you will stay?”

  A chill gust of wind blew a sprinkling of rose petals off the bush, to land at Serena’s feet. Poor petals, so easily parted from the security of the plant, then left to wither and die.

  “Miss Somerton, everything is proceeding according to your wishes,” he said, his patience wearing thin. “You’ll have longer with the children, and I’ve undertaken to provide the stepmother you insist upon. Yet—”

  He put a finger to her chin, lifting it.

  Serena gasped and took a step back.

  “I—I apologize.” His face had reddened, whether from the wind or embarrassment, she wasn’t sure. “I was merely observing you appear to be sunk in gloom.”

  She laced her fingers tightly, so she wouldn’t be tempted to explore the place where the memory of his touch lingered. She struggled to marshal her thoughts. “I’m not gloomy,” she said. That was the wrong word for her doubts about his approach to remarriage. And certainly the wrong word for her reaction to his touch. Don’t think about that.

  “You will stay,” he said.

  It wasn’t a question, but Serena answered it, anyway.

  “I will stay.”

  Chapter Three

  “You must call me Marianne.” Marianne Granville served herself some stuffed lettuce from the platter in front of her. “I call you Serena in my head, anyway, so your name comes naturally to me.”

  “Certainly, if you wish.” Serena smiled at Marianne, then listened with half an ear as brother and sister chatted about some matter related to the estate’s tenants. Her elevation to the role of companion required her to dine with Miss Granville—Marianne—and her brother. Prompted by her embarrassment at her free speech with Dominic Granville, Serena had given excuses for why she should eat at the table in her own little sitting room the past two evenings, but today Marianne had insisted. The other woman had embraced the idea of having her as a companion with such alacrity, Serena felt Mr. Granville was right that she was needed by more than just the children. Not that he’d admitted the children needed her.

  “You’re very quiet tonight, Miss Somerton.” Dominic’s comment jerked her out of her reverie.

  “Not at all, Mr. Granville,” she murmured. She’d decided life would be simpler if she didn’t engage in conversation with him, beyond grasping opportunities to subtly encourage him to spend more time with his children.

  “Maybe you should call Dominic by his Christian name, too,” Marianne said.

  A frown from her brother. Serena was relieved, and unsurprised. Though she had thought of him as Dominic several times over the past few days—it was hard not to, with Marianne saying his name all the time—they weren’t related, and were certainly not friends.

  He made no response to her sister’s suggestion, nor did Serena.

  “Dom, I’ve made a list of whom I think we should invite to dinner next week,” Marianne said. “As soon as you approve it, I’ll send the invitations.”

  No one listening to her would know how much she dreaded the occasion. Looking at her was another matter; her face was crimson at just the thought of entertaining so many people, even though most of them were familiar.

  If Marianne hadn’t been afflicted with this excessive, uncontrollable blushing, she would have been one of the most beautiful women Serena had met. Not surprising, given how handsome her brother was. Her blue eyes were large and well spaced, her cheekbones beautifully defined, her mouth a perfect bow. Her dark hair was lustrous and thick; Serena had seen it down and admired its natural, loose curls.

  But then...there was her Condition. Serena had never seen Marianne in an unblushing state. Even in the company of family, her cheeks were lightly flushed. And it took no more than a question from one of Woodbridge Hall’s longtime servants to make her color flare. In wider society, her skin ranged from rose-pink with friends to a vivid puce with strangers. Serena wasn’t sure what had come first, Marianne’s blushing or her shyness. Whatever the answer, the two were now inextricably linked, feeding each other.

  “Excellent,” Dominic said of the plan for dinner invitations. He started on one of the second course dishes, poached turbot with lobster sauce. “When I called on Mr. Beaumont, he said he’d be pleased to attend.”

  “What kind of man is he?” Marianne asked. She’d told Serena yesterday that she liked to know as much as possible about people before she met them, in the hope that minimizing the surprise would also minimize blushing.

  Dominic poured more sauce over his fish. “Very friendly.”

  He spoke as if that was a bad thing. Serena could imagine him pulling back from an excess of neighborly warmth.

  “He sounds the type to want to converse a lot,” Marianne said dubiously. She set down her knife and fork. “Serena, we might go into Melton Mowbray on Thursday to see what Mrs. Fletcher has on offer.”

  Mrs. Fletcher was a dressmaker, the best in the village.

  “Thank you, I’d love to,” Serena said. Her wardrobe wasn’t sufficient for her elevated status of companion, and certainly not for a dinner party. With her new allowance, she could easily afford a new dress. Perhaps even two. And if she took her gray silk with her, Mrs. Fletcher might suggest alterations that would bring it into the current fashion.


  Despite her concern for Marianne, Serena found herself looking forward to the upcoming dinner. As rector of Piper’s Mead, her father was invited, along with his family, to all the social events of the local gentry. Serena had always enjoyed the occasions.

  “Shall I tell you who else is on the guest list, Dom?” Marianne said, with a smile that was painfully forced. “One name will be of particular interest to you, I think.”

  Her arch tone suggested she was referring to a lady.

  Dominic’s glance flickered in Serena’s direction; she sensed his reluctance to open the subject in her presence.

  “Mrs. Gordon,” Marianne announced, before he could refuse. To Serena, she said, “Colonel Gordon was killed in the Peninsula three years ago. She’s a very capable lady, and her children have excellent manners.”

  “She has children of her own?” Serena asked, dismayed. It had never occurred to her that the new Mrs. Granville might bring her own offspring to the marriage. “I’m not sure that’s a good idea.”

  “Your opinion is not required, Miss Somerton,” Dominic said. “Indeed, it is unwelcome.”

  Belatedly, Serena recalled her intention not to engage in discussion with him. But she could hardly ignore such thoughtlessness! Besides, as Marianne’s companion, she was no longer a servant to be instructed as to what she could and couldn’t talk about. She wouldn’t force her views on him as bluntly as she had when she’d thought she was leaving. But a less personal, more reasoned discussion should be perfectly acceptable.

  “It’s natural for a mother to favor her own children over someone else’s,” she observed. She addressed the remark to Marianne.

  “Serena may have a point, Dominic,” Marianne said. “I don’t think Mrs. Gordon would willfully do such a thing, but perhaps unintentionally... Maybe I shouldn’t invite her.”

  “Invite her,” he ordered. “She’s a very pleasant woman, and she already calls this district home. She will do very well.”

  Just like that, he’d decided this Mrs. Gordon was The One? Serena bristled. Convenience was one thing, expediency to the point of carelessness quite another. His eyes met hers, daring her to challenge him. She held his gaze for several long seconds. Then his focus shifted infinitesimally, lowered, and she was reminded of his touch on her chin. A quiver ran through her.

  Serena picked up her cutlery and turned her attention to her fish. For the next few minutes, the only sound was the clink of silver on china. Judging by her high color, Marianne was lost in fretful contemplation of the upcoming dinner party. Dominic doubtless thought he’d solved his marriage dilemma in one easy step; the measured pace of his eating radiated smugness.

  Serena reined in her impulse to argue further. She was the one who’d suggested Dominic should marry. To object to how he went about it was unreasonable...at this stage.

  * * *

  Dominic couldn’t sleep. A few days ago he’d thought he would never remarry. Now he’d not only decided to walk down the aisle again, but Marianne had identified a candidate who seemed exactly what he needed.

  Everything in him rebelled.

  He stared at the elaborate ceiling cornice above his bed, only just able to discern the acorn-and-leaf pattern in the light of the half-moon. Lord, there must be another way.

  He’d loved Emily from childhood, and at their wedding he’d promised to love her until death parted them. A promise all too easily kept. The truth was, he would love her forever. Was it fair to propose marriage to another woman, even one who accepted—perhaps welcomed—the convenient nature of the alliance?

  The alternative was worse. Even if it were possible to feel again the way he’d felt about Emily, why would he want to? The agony of losing his wife was no longer rapier-sharp, but he remembered it well. When Serena had talked of a second chance, all he’d been able to imagine was a second chance to suffer. A man would be insane to expose himself to that again.

  Which brought him back to a convenient marriage. Deep down, despite his prayer, Dominic knew there was no other way. Not if his daughters were to be successfully presented to society, if his sister was to be spared the agony of a chaperone role.

  He thumped his pillow into a more amenable shape and turned over.

  From a distance—upstairs?—he heard a cry. Then another. In the next moment, it became full-on wailing.

  One of the children. Likely a bad dream; Nurse would attend to it. Dominic pulled his pillow over his head.

  A minute later, the noise hadn’t abated.

  Dominic lay there another minute. Was it possible Nurse had gone suddenly deaf? Maybe Marianne would... No, she was a famously sound sleeper. Suppressing a curse, he pushed the covers aside and got out of bed, pulled on his breeches and shirt. And since he could hardly go wandering around the house in his shirtsleeves, a dressing gown on top.

  The noise was louder outside his room, deafening by the time he reached the nursery. He pushed open the door.

  “Nurse, what is this infernal—”

  He stopped. The woman standing at Louisa’s bed wasn’t the comforting figure of his sixty-year-old nurse. It was Serena—Miss Somerton.

  She scooped Louisa up into her arms, staggering a little as she straightened.

  His daughter’s cheeks were brilliant red, her eyes glassy.

  Dominic charged forward. “What’s wrong with her? Where’s Nurse?”

  “Her granddaughter was due to be delivered of a baby tonight.” Miss Somerton blushed at the intimate topic. “Marianne gave Nurse permission to attend her.”

  He touched the back of his hand to Louisa’s forehead. “She has a fever. Have you summoned a doctor?” He made for the bellpull.

  “The doctor can’t do anything.” Serena raised her voice so he could hear over his daughter’s cries. “It’s an ear infection.”

  “How do you know?” Even as he asked, Dominic noticed that Louisa’s left earlobe was red. “It might look like an ear infection, but what if it’s something more serious?”

  Like measles.

  “Louisa suffers these infections quite frequently, though more often in winter.” Serena’s tone said he should know that. “Experience suggests there’s nothing much to do beyond comforting her.” Rocking his daughter in her arms, she murmured, “Hush, dearest, I’m here now.”

  Louisa continued to scream.

  “There must be something we can do,” Dominic said, aghast. “She’s obviously in pain.”

  “I’ve sent the nursery maid for some laudanum. A few drops won’t harm her, and it’ll help her sleep.”

  “What about Nurse’s special tonic?” he said desperately. “That seems to fix anything.”

  Serena smiled, and her face took on that impish look he was beginning to associate with her. Highly inappropriate in a governess.

  She’s not a governess anymore.

  Still, to be smiling like that, she couldn’t be too worried about Louisa; Dominic felt his own panic ease.

  “Nurse’s special tonic is just lemon barley, I’m afraid,” she said. “I’ve discovered that unless Nurse herself administers it, it doesn’t work.”

  “Lemon barley?” He struck a hand to his chest. “That tonic has cured me miraculously numerous times.”

  Serena’s smiled widened as she stroked Louisa’s hair. “I apologize for disillusioning you.”

  “Let me take her,” Dominic said. “She’s heavy.”

  He half expected her to protest, convinced as she was that she knew better what his children needed, but she willingly offered Louisa over.

  The transfer proved awkward, as Louisa burrowed into Serena’s neck. Dominic’s suddenly clumsy fingers brushed Serena’s shoulders and upper arms through her clothing. She stiffened.

  By the time he held his daughter, he felt as if he’d been wrestling quicksand. Serena’s cheeks were pink, her gaze downcast.

  It occurred to him that the high-necked garment she wore might be a dressing gown. It certainly wasn’t the dress she’d worn to dinner, which h
ad been white, with a pink ribbon and a ruffled hem. Simple, but pretty. Whatever this peach-colored garment was, it boasted the shabbiness of long wear.

  To allow them both time to collect themselves, Dominic paced the room, trying to keep his steps rhythmic. With no better plan of his own—indeed, he didn’t have a clue—he followed Serena’s example, stroking Louisa’s hair, hushing her. Inept though he felt—should he be stroking or patting?—it seemed to soothe the child.

  Serena yawned and sank down onto the edge of Louisa’s bed. Dominic walked past the chest filled with toys, many from his own youth, and over to a table where pencils and paper and paints were laid out. One of the chairs had a cushion tied to it, presumably for Louisa. On the table was a painting—if you could call the mess of colors that—anchored with two stones from the garden. Dominic eyed the “masterpiece” with misgiving. Was Serena a poor tutor, or was his daughter entirely lacking artistic talent?

  “Louisa uses color to great effect.” Serena had followed the direction of his gaze.

  “It’s a mess,” he said.

  “It’s the work of a five-year-old, Mr. Granville.”

  The sudden frost in her voice was a defense of his daughter, he realized. About which he could hardly complain.

  “Actually,” she continued, “it’s a portrait of you.”

  Dominic leaned over to get a better look at the painting. Louisa’s head flopped forward; quickly, he cupped it, hugging her securely. “I appear to have three eyes.”

  “It’s perhaps not a good likeness,” Serena admitted. “Maybe,” she continued, still frosty, “that’s because the children don’t see enough of you to remember what you look like.”

  Dominic had heard the phrase midnight madness... This must be it, the casting aside of daytime’s social inhibitions. Mind you, Serena seemed to indulge the urge to speak her mind at any time, thanks to her father’s unusual liberality.

  Dominic would not be indulging in madness. No matter what the provocation.

  “I see my children morning and evening,” he reminded her calmly.