The Governess and Mr. Granville

by Abby Gaines

  And Dominic... Dominic sat frozen, his mouth slightly ajar. To describe his expression as that of a proud papa would be, quite simply, a lie.

  In verse six, Serena gestured to Hetty to play louder and to sing more quietly, then wondered if she’d made a mistake. Certainly, the piano and harp were the most competent elements of the performance...but now the overall volume bordered on earsplitting.

  Thank the Lord, they were past the halfway mark.

  “Tell him to plow it with a ram’s horn,” William caterwauled in verse seven—the woman in the song was every bit as unreasonable as the man. The pair deserved each other, Serena thought bitterly. And as for the person who’d thought it a brilliant idea to write ten verses of this song...

  “La-la-la-la,” Louisa sang through verse nine, though a momentary flash of memory did allow her to produce the words “true lover of mine,” which, taken out of context, didn’t sound quite right coming from the mouth of a five-year-old.

  “Parsley, sage, rosemare-e-e-e and—thyme.” William finished the tenth verse with a flourish, an unplanned break in the lyrics that had him thundering out the last word on his own.

  It was over.

  The silence was stunned. Complete.

  Serena closed her eyes.

  Then...a solitary round of clapping.

  She opened her eyes and saw it was Dominic, on his feet in the middle row. His smile looked forced, his jaw painfully clenched, but he applauded with enthusiasm.

  What could the others do but join in?

  The gentleman of the blocked ears got into the spirit of the thing and called, “Bravo!”

  The children beamed as they curtsied or bowed.

  “Thank you so much,” Serena said to the audience. Thank you for not throwing rotten fruit. Thank you for not walking out.

  “Miss Somerton, can we sing it again?” William begged, his face flushed with triumph.

  Someone moaned.

  “No, my loves, our guests’ tea will be getting cold.” Serena raised her voice. “Ladies and gentlemen, refreshments are served in the blue salon.”

  She’d never seen a room empty so fast.

  Dominic stood at the door, ushering people through. He steadfastly refused Serena’s attempts to catch his eye. Would he dismiss her as Marianne’s companion on the grounds she’d humiliated him and his children? But the children hadn’t felt humiliated.... She started preparing her defense.

  When the adults had left, Serena dismissed the performers with thanks and the promise of a special tea waiting in the nursery. They filed past their father. Dominic congratulated each of them, shaking hands with Thomas, kissing Hetty’s cheek. When it was Charlotte’s turn, he squatted down a little and planted a kiss on her forehead. “You were superb,” he said. “I had no idea we have such a talented musician in the family. Just like your mother.”

  Serena caught her breath. She’d never heard him mention their mother to the children.

  Charlotte turned red with pleasure and appeared to be close to tears. She threw her arms around Dominic’s neck, almost knocking him over with the unexpectedness of it, but detached herself before he could hug her back.

  God might not have answered Serena’s prayer for a polished musical showing—not even the most faithful of His flock would say He’d done that—but He’d used that execrable performance to forge a bond between father and daughter. Thank you, Lord.

  Last of all, Louisa trailed out of the room, tugged along by Hetty.

  Serena sagged into a front-row seat, her legs as wobbly as Cook’s damson jelly. The sight of the musical instruments brought the performance back to her, and she groaned.

  Then she realized Dominic was still here. He walked past her to the pianoforte, where he picked up the sheet music. He scrutinized it intently, as if trying to ascertain if the children had in fact performed something completely different. Such as, “The Massacre of the Innocents.”

  Perhaps, Serena thought hopefully, he had an interest in the song because he thought his children had performed well, and thus his applause had been genuine. It was well-known that some parents were blind and deaf when it came to their offspring’s accomplishments....

  Then Serena remembered the critical eye he’d cast over Louisa’s painting that night in the nursery. No, he would be quite objective about this performance.

  Dominic set the music back on the pianoforte. He came over to stand in front of Serena, his dark eyes fixed on hers.

  “What were you thinking?” he asked conversationally. “To put my children on display in such a manner that their lack of talent should be evident to all?”

  This was dreadful.

  “They were wonderful in our rehearsals,” she said in her—and the children’s—defense. She stopped, examined that statement. “Actually, they were terrible the first time. But they worked so hard, improved so much, I started to think they were good. Very good. I—I’m afraid I lost my objectivity.”

  “Which makes you worse than the most obtuse of mothers,” he said.

  Serena hung her head. “I’m so sorry. I humiliated you.”

  “You had no idea Louisa would forget the words?”

  “She remembered them perfectly yesterday.”

  “I’ve never heard ‘la-la-la’ sung with such enthusiasm.” His voice had a curious quality. “And such complete lack of tune.”

  “I fear singing is not her gift,” Serena said. “I did consider having her play the triangle, but her timekeeping...” She shuddered at the cacophony that would have ensued.

  “And Thomas’s flute playing,” Dominic said. “I’m astonished that after so many years of tuition he can’t play without so much huffing and puffing.”

  “He’s had a cold the last few days....” Not that that made any difference. Serena buried her face in her hands. “I’m sorry,” she said, her voice muffled.

  Dominic’s fingers closed around her wrists.

  She froze.

  “Come now, Serena.” He lowered her hands from her face and tugged her to her feet. “At least have the courage to look me in the eye.”

  She swallowed. Lifted her gaze. And found he didn’t appear angry.

  Yes, his lips were pressed together, but in his eyes...was that mirth?

  “Dominic?” she said tentatively.

  “I blame you for the nightmares I’ll undoubtedly suffer tonight,” he said. “I’ll be haunted by Hetty, banging louder and louder on the keys of the pianoforte.”

  Serena smiled reluctantly. “I signaled to her to play louder, thinking it might...”

  “Drown out everyone else,” he completed. “Nice idea, but I’m afraid it would have taken more than that. William’s screech transcended all.”

  She chuckled. “If ever we need to sound an alarm, he’s our man.”

  “Parsley, sage, rosemare-e-e-e and thyme,” Dominic yowled, in a more than passable imitation of his son.

  “Hush,” Serena said, laughing. “I don’t think my ears can take more.”

  “But William generously offered a repeat performance,” he said, laughing now, too. “I was going to suggest another concert after dinner.”

  “Poor William.” Serena dabbed at the corners of her eyes with her fingertips. “He and Louisa tried to fix their timing, but they never managed it. Do you think everyone noticed?”

  “Noticed what? First the lag behind, then the gallop ahead? I shouldn’t think so.”

  Serena swatted his arm. “Your guests were very brave.”

  “I think Lady Mary’s mama came close to an apoplexy. You have done me a service, Serena.”

  “Really?”

  “If any young lady tells me my children sing beautifully, I’ll know she’s a brazen liar, and not someone I should marry.”

  “If she loves the children, she might be deaf to their faults,” Serena suggested.

  “As you were during the rehearsals,” Dominic said.

  She paused. “I suppose so.” She did love his children, he knew that.
So why did she feel awkward?

  “None of those ladies know my children—” was it her imagination, or was his voice a trifle husky? “—so we can assume they don’t love them.”

  “Yet,” Serena added quickly. “To know them is to love them.”

  “I daresay they are, in their own unmusical way, rather wonderful,” he said.

  A lump in her throat prevented Serena from doing more than nodding.

  He stared down at her. With one hand, he tucked a loose curl behind her ear. Not breathing, Serena took a step back. Dominic dropped his hand.

  A footman entered the room.

  “Shall I remove the chairs now, sir?” he asked.

  Dominic’s gaze broke away from Serena. “Go ahead, thank you. Shall we join our guests for tea, Miss Somerton?”

  “Yes, please,” she said. “I’m parched.”

  Which had the effect of drawing Dominic’s gaze to her mouth.

  “You wanted to talk to me about something,” he said. “Perhaps we should have our tea brought to the library.”

  Spend time alone with Dominic in the library, with this charged tension between them? She could practically hear her father’s favorite sermon on the need to turn away from temptation in all its guises.

  But she needed to tell Dominic about Charlotte’s transgression.

  Serena remembered the girl’s ecstatic reaction to her father’s approval just now. How sad it would be to reverse that so soon.

  “We can talk another time,” she said. “Your guests deserve your company in the salon as recompense for their battered ears.”

  Before he could argue, she left the room. I’ll tell him about Charlotte tomorrow.

  Chapter Nine

  “I think,” Marianne said, “my complexion has improved, don’t you?”

  She and Serena were walking through the home wood, the woods nearest the house, in the early Saturday morning cool. Despite the low temperature, Marianne’s face was flushed with exertion.

  “You may be right,” Serena said diplomatically.

  “The aloe vera has a beneficial effect, I’m certain,” Marianne said. “But I still want to find the lemon balm.” The book Mr. Beaumont had lent her had waxed lyrical about the calming effect of the herb. Not so much on the skin as on the nerves. Marianne had expressed a hope that if she felt less anxious, her skin would be less inclined to flare up. “From what I’ve read we’re most likely to find it in an open area with plenty of sun. I’m thinking the south side of McGregor Hill. We could encourage a few of the ladies to walk there this afternoon.”

  “Mmm-hmm,” Serena said. The walk they were enjoying now was a prebreakfast stroll. They’d need to return to the house soon, so Marianne could lie down and let her color recede before the morning meal. As soon as they got back, Serena would seek out Dominic, an early riser, and talk to him about the vagrant.

  Three days had passed since “Scarborough Fair,” and Serena hadn’t found the right moment. She’d forbidden Charlotte to go near the woods—though in all likelihood “Albert” was as harmless as most tramps were—and had kept a close eye on the girl. Still, she needed to talk to Dominic. But it was hard, when, for the first time, he’d expressed such deep appreciation for his children. When harmony prevailed, and when several times a day she caught him eyeing her with keen appreciation.

  The moment never seemed to call for a confession of Charlotte’s sin, now compounded by Serena’s delay.

  The sound of someone whistling drifted through the trees.

  “Did you hear that?” Serena took Marianne’s arm. “I hope it’s not a poacher.”

  “There are no poachers around, as far as I’ve heard,” Marianne said, with unusual calm. Her color had risen, but not as much as Serena would expect.

  The whistling grew closer. Serena tightened her grip on Marianne, in case she had to drag her through the trees as they ran for their lives. Then she realized the tune sounded familiar...it was “Oh, for a Thousand Tongues.”

  What kind of poacher whistled hymns as he went about his thieving?

  Just as she realized her mistake, the man himself appeared in the gap between two ancient oaks.

  Mr. Beaumont. On foot this time.

  “You!” Serena said, unsure if this was better or worse than a tramp.

  “Good morning, Miss Granville, Miss Somerton.” He bowed. A slight raise of his eyebrows conveyed surprise at Serena’s manner of greeting.

  “Serena feared you were a poacher,” Marianne explained.

  “Ah.” He chuckled. “A thoughtful thief I would be, to announce my presence by whistling.”

  Which seemed so exactly what he was—a thoughtful thief—that Serena was tempted to point an accusing finger at him. Marianne snickered at his little joke. She seemed extraordinarily relaxed at this unexpected encounter.

  Serena sucked in a breath.

  Maybe this isn’t unexpected.

  Now that she thought about it, Serena realized the only explanation for Marianne’s insouciance was that she’d known the “poacher” was Beaumont. But how? Serena was almost certain no notes or letters had been delivered to Marianne, and she’d been with her practically every minute....

  The music practices.

  Serena and the children had practiced at the same time each day. The perfect opportunity for messages to be sent between Woodbridge and Farley Hall.

  Come to think of it, Marianne had suggested an early walk yesterday, but then some of the other ladies had risen early, and it would have been rude to leave them. At least she realizes she cannot go off and meet him alone.

  But neither could a lady exchange letters with a single man who wasn’t a family member or her betrothed. At least, a lady Serena’s age couldn’t. Marianne might be considered on the cusp of spinsterhood, where she might get away with some liberties without ruining herself.

  Drat! Now Serena had more bad news for Dominic.

  “I was hoping to see you,” Beaumont said to Marianne. “I have a move for you—knight to C3.”

  Marianne’s eyes lit up. But her comment to Serena was an amused, “Predictable.”

  She and Mr. Beaumont continued in easy conversation. They had spent most of the expedition to Oakham Castle on Thursday in each other’s company. Constantly chaperoned by either Serena or Dominic, or both, but they’d had an opportunity to build a rapport. Serena noted with misgiving that they seemed the best of friends. More than friends, by the heated glances they were exchanging.

  Serena eyed their neighbor with disapprobation. He should know better than to arrange a clandestine meeting in the woods. Marianne should know better, too. Maybe this didn’t strictly count as clandestine, given Serena had accompanied her friend, but an honorable man would visit the house.

  Whereas a dishonorable man might be afraid his suit would be discouraged by the owner of the house.

  Mr. Beaumont was now telling Marianne how edifying he’d found the sermon at church last Sunday. What better way to convince a lady you’re aboveboard?

  Serena glared at him.

  “You didn’t approve of the rector’s message, Miss Somerton?” he asked.

  “On the contrary, I enjoyed it very much.” She stepped over the tree root he’d just helped Marianne avoid. “The reverend’s point about the hypocrisy of those who appear outwardly religious, but whose inner motives are evil, was well made.”

  “I think he was a little heavy-handed,” gentle Marianne said. “Everyone knew he meant the choirmaster.” The choirmaster was rumored to be too fond of his sherry.

  Mr. Beaumont’s narrowed gaze suggested he’d understood Serena’s implication. “Hypocrisy comes in many forms,” he said. “Is the sinner who considers himself—or herself—more righteous than others any better?”

  Serena’s surge of indignation probably did mean that she’d unwittingly considered herself more righteous than Beaumont. How mean of her...and how irritating of him to have made the observation. “We must all acknowledge ourselves sinners,” s
he admitted. “But true repentance involves turning away from wrongdoing.”

  “And when we do that,” Beaumont said, “God is quick to forgive.”

  “Of course.”

  “In fact, He washes us whiter than snow. We are, in effect, starting afresh, our past forgotten.”

  Serena gritted her teeth. A man who could twist any words to his own purposes was dangerous. “A man is known by his deeds, Mr. Beaumont, not the virtue professed by his mouth.”

  “I don’t know how you two got all that out of Sunday’s sermon,” Marianne said. “Once I realized it was about the choirmaster, I could barely stay awake.”

  Beaumont darted her a smile, warm and unmistakably tender. “Perhaps you hadn’t slept well the previous night.”

  Outrageous for him to refer to a young lady’s bedtime habits, Serena fumed. Unfortunately, honesty compelled her to acknowledge she was taking an extreme stance. If one of the male house party guests were to inquire as to how she’d slept, she wouldn’t object in the least.

  “Quite likely,” Marianne agreed. “It’s been warm these past few nights.” She held Beaumont’s gaze with a boldness that had Serena worried.

  “Marianne, we must get back,” she said. “The other ladies will be up soon, if they’re not already, and wanting their breakfast.”

  “My apologies, I didn’t mean to detain you,” Beaumont said. “I’ll walk with you to the edge of the woods, in case another poacher is lurking.”

  Marianne laughingly accepted his offer. Serena would have turned him down, but remembered how alarmed she’d felt to hear Beaumont whistling earlier, and that there could well be a vagrant nearby. She wasn’t at all keen to encounter “Albert.”

  Try as she might, she couldn’t prevent Marianne and Beaumont from walking side by side whenever the path permitted. She was so busy glaring at Mr. Beaumont’s back and wishing him ill—yes, one should love one’s enemies, but it never came easily—she didn’t notice a bramble encroaching on the path until it caught her dress.