More than a Governess (Regency Historical Romance)

by Jerrica Knight-Catania

  “No!”

  Good God, did he have to do everything around here? Couldn’t the bloody woman exercise even the slightest authority? He stalked back into the hallway and stared down at his nephew. “So help me God, Max, if you do not go with Mrs. Brown right this instant, I am going to lose my temper!” Stephen stood rigid with frustration, using all his strength to keep from strangling the headstrong boy.

  “You’re always losing your temper,” Max mumbled as he pushed past him. But Stephen was not going to allow a nine-year-old boy to have the last word, whether it was true or not.

  “You will show me due respect, young man.”

  “You’re not my father!” Max turned and glared at Stephen with malice in his pale blue eyes. “Leave me alone!”

  “Oh, goodness,” Mrs. Brown breathed. “Clarabelle, please suggest that Miss Lydia come with me for a walk.”

  Stephen’s temples began to twitch. He’d instructed Mrs. Brown, on several occasions, to cease addressing Lydia’s imaginary friend, Clarabelle. Yet here she stood, speaking to Clarabelle as if she actually existed.

  “What’s that, Clarabelle?” Lydia said to the air. “Mrs. Brown wants to go for a walk? Do tell her we can’t take too long. The others are expecting us for tea.”

  “You will cease this behavior immediately, Lydia!” Stephen shouted at his niece.

  Lydia said nothing. As a matter of fact, she didn't even acknowledge she'd been spoken to. She merely stared up at Mrs. Brown, her long eyelashes batting over the pale blue irises of her eyes, identical to her brother’s. Damn, but she was the spitting image of her mother. Both children had acquired the Christie blue eyes, so light and clear that they were almost transparent.

  Stephen closed his own eyes against the nightmare that was his life and sighed under the weight of his vast and unwanted responsibilities. The past two years had been the longest of all he’d lived. He would wager any amount of money that he now looked closer to forty rather than his actual thirty-two years.

  He fought to push the memories from his mind; the memories of that fateful day when his life had gone up in smoke. What he wouldn’t give to go back in time...but what would he have done differently?

  “Max love, do come along,” Mrs. Brown pleaded with the boy. “Your uncle’s a very busy man. Let’s not keep him any longer.”

  The boy glared back at Stephen, a challenging look in his eyes, before he finally stormed off ahead of the housekeeper and his sister.

  “I’m sorry, milord-”

  “That will be all, Mrs. Brown.” Stephen wasn’t interested in hearing any more apologies. All he wanted was silence.

  “Of course, milord.”

  As Mrs. Brown and Lydia retreated down the hall after Max, Stephen turned back to his study and slammed the heavy oak door. Leaning his back against it, he pinched the spot between his eyebrows with his thumb and forefinger, trying desperately to alleviate his pounding headache. Those children were going to be the death of him. He was certain of it.

  He sat down at his desk once more, eager to be done with the day’s work. Thankfully, although turmoil raged in his home, his tenants seemed to be happy on the whole, and his investments in the ale industry were thriving. He had made the wise decision, when he’d returned from war, of buying out several local breweries, which now supplied many pubs locally and in London with fine libations.

  Stephen was just looking over the estate ledger—a task he preferred to tackle himself rather than delegate to an inept solicitor—when the clip clop of horses’ hooves sounded on the gravel drive below. Curious, and just the tiniest bit annoyed, he went to the large bay window to see who it was that had come to visit.

  Whoever it was, they were important. A gilded carriage, bearing a crest, pulled to a stop just below where he stood, and he waited as the footman went around the side to open the door. But rather than a high-brow lord or lady, it was a somewhat plain-looking girl who stepped onto the drive.

  A plain-looking girl with hair the color of spun gold.

  “Who the devil is that?” he wondered aloud.

  He watched until she went to the front door, disappearing under the portico, and then sat back down at his desk, assuming if she were important, he would be summoned. More than likely, she was one of those radical religious people come to convert his wayward soul. He scoffed. As if his soul could be redeemed.

  As predicted, a scratch sounded at his door mere minutes later.

  “Yes?”

  His butler appeared with a calling card placed in the middle of a small silver tray.

  “A Miss Thorn here to see you, milord. Says she’s here for the interview.”

  Stephen finally looked up at his butler, a look of sheer bewilderment on his face. “Interview?”

  “Don’t shoot the messenger, sir.” Bentley’s nose remained suspended in air as he awaited his master’s instruction.

  Stephen gave him a wry smile. “Shakespeare, again?” he observed and then, without waiting for a response, said, “Send her in, Bentley. This should be interesting.”

  Three

  Becky waited in the vast entrance hall of Hastings House where the butler had left her while he went to inform the lady of the house she had arrived. She was somewhat surprised that no one had been there to greet her save the stodgy old servant. A chance to freshen up would have been nice after her long journey, but it appeared they did things differently here in Sussex. She would just have to make the most of it.

  She wandered about, admiring the few paintings that lined the walls. The largest one was of Stephen Christie, the sixth Viscount Hastings, assumedly the one for whom she would be working. He seemed tall and quite good looking, although his nose was a bit long for Becky’s taste. Not that it mattered what she thought of his looks.

  “His lordship will see you now.”

  Becky started and then whirled around at the sound of the butler’s voice. “His lordship?” she repeated. “I fear there’s been a mistake. I wish to speak with the lady of the house.”

  “There is no lady, miss. It’s either his lordship or me.”

  Becky took a moment to process the information. No lady? But the letter had been signed Lady Hastings, hadn’t it? Surely, her eyes could not have deceived her so much that Lord looked like Lady. Nonetheless, she had traveled all this way; she wasn’t about to turn back now, no matter how odd the circumstances.

  She followed the butler up the stairs, down a long corridor and through a door into a study. The room was rather sparse with only a desk in the center of the room, a chair on one side facing a pair of leather armchairs on the other, and bookshelves lining the far wall. Becky eyed the tomes with interest. Clearly this was his lordship’s private collection—not a novel or play to be found. She hoped they had a proper library in the house for her own amusement.

  Continuing her assessment, she turned her attention to the enormous bay windows, which allowed the late afternoon sun to pour into the room, casting odd shadows over the man who sat at the large desk.

  “Miss Rebecca Thorn,” the butler announced and then left, closing the door behind him.

  Becky resisted the urge to correct the man on her name. She’d never thought of herself as Rebecca, which she supposed was odd. She would have ruminated on the subject a bit more, but found herself too distracted by the viscount to do so.

  Lord Hastings stared down at the desk full of papers before him, seemingly unaware that she was in the room. When he finally tore his eyes away and looked up at her, a shot of apprehension went straight to her belly. It was the same man in the painting she’d seen downstairs, only he was much older now. His blue eyes were nearly transparent and surrounded by dark circles, giving the impression that he had not slept in weeks. Perhaps even months.

  His sharp features were set like stone, hard and jagged and somewhat intimidating. She noted that the likeness was almost accurate except for the nose. The abnormally long protrusion in the portrait was not nearly as such in real life.

>   If he hadn’t looked so menacing, Becky might have found him somewhat attractive.

  “How may I help you, Miss Thorn?” he asked, not bothering to offer her a seat.

  “I am here about the governess position, my lord,” Becky replied, summoning as much confidence as she could under the circumstances.

  “I’ve no need for a governess, Miss Thorn.” He turned back to his papers as he continued. “I’m not sure where you got the idea, but we already have someone to look after the children. I’m sorry your time has been wasted...and even more sorry that mine has.”

  Becky resisted the impulse to gasp. It was all she could do not to pick up the nearest candlestick and launch it at his head. The man wouldn’t even look at her or attempt to offer some kind of explanation for the apparent mix up.

  Bloody prig!

  She was suddenly aware he was staring at her, obviously waiting for her to leave the room and be on her way. There was something most discomfiting in the way he regarded her.

  “I am sorry, my lord,” she said coolly, despite her raging temper. “Good day.” She started to go, but Lord Hastings stopped her.

  “Wait,” he said as he stood and moved around his desk. “Where did you get the idea that we needed a governess?”

  Becky stepped back as he moved closer to her, his long, powerful legs bringing him across the room in only three strides. “Our local paper, my lord. In Kent. An advertisement.”

  Lord Hastings assumed a look of pure stupefaction. “An advertisement, you say? In Kent?”

  Becky nodded.

  “How odd.” He looked away, giving her a view of his profile, which was quite handsome in an austere kind of way.

  “I’ve been corresponding with your wife of late. She invited me here on a trial...” Becky trailed off as Lord Hastings glowered at her.

  “I have no wife, Miss Thorn,” he snapped.

  “No wife...” Becky’s heart ached when she realized the truth. No wonder he was so surly and disheveled, the poor man. “I’m so sorry for your loss.”

  Lord Hastings’ lips twitched into the barest of smiles before he said, “I’m not a widower, Miss Thorn.”

  “Oh.” Now she was thoroughly confused. “But, there are children, are there not?”

  “Yes, of course...but they aren’t mine.”

  “Oh.” Becky sensed this was going to be a rather long story. “Lord Hastings, might I sit down? I'm afraid my legs are still a bit wobbly from the carriage.”

  All the humor fell away in an instant, and he peered at her with his ice blue eyes.

  “This conversation is over, Miss Thorn,” he said, stalking toward the door. “I suggest you go back to wherever it is you came from.”

  He yanked the door open to reveal a plump woman on the other side, fist poised to knock. She looked a bit frazzled, as if she, too, had gone for some time without a good night’s rest.

  “Good God, woman, what is it this time?” Lord Hastings bit out between clenched teeth.

  “Forgive me, milord, but the children-” The woman stopped speaking when her eyes landed on Becky.

  “Go on, Mrs. Brown,” he prodded impatiently. “What about the children?”

  She hesitated a moment before continuing in a hushed whisper. “It’s Max, milord. He’s destroyed the nursery in a fit of rage, and poor Lydia suffered a blow to the head by one of the wooden toys. She’s in quite a state, milord.”

  Lord Hastings let out a tense breath and then leveled a glare at Mrs. Brown. “You will bring them to me at once, along with the paddle.”

  Mrs. Brown looked heartbroken at the mention of the paddle. No doubt, the corporal punishment made her a bit uneasy, but she seemed far too gentle of spirit to be able to deal with the children on her own. This was the perfect opportunity for Becky to prove herself to the viscount.

  She wasn’t sure that was what she wanted, however. It would have been smarter to go, as she’d been instructed, and leave this bizarre family to their own devices. But there were children involved. Seemingly troubled ones at that. She couldn’t just flee and pretend they would be fine.

  “I beg your pardon, my lord,” Becky said softly. “I wonder if I might be of some assistance.”

  “No.”

  “But clearly you need help, my lord,” she rushed on. “If I could just meet the children-”

  “Miss Thorn, the second you set eyes on those children you will be scurrying right back to Kent without a backward glance. They’ve been through enough, and I don’t intend to subject them to further rejection.”

  “So you prefer to subject them to harsh punishment instead?”

  The viscount’s nostrils flared like a bull on the loose.

  “I will not have my authority questioned in my own house by some twit of a girl who knows nothing of my family!”

  His sudden outburst made Becky start, but she held her ground. What did she have to lose, anyhow? He seemed intent on sending her packing, so why not attempt to have the last word? “Perhaps you should have your authority questioned, my lord. With all due respect, it would seem you lack the control you seek, and with the youngest of your household, no less.”

  An uncomfortable silence ensued, during which Becky worried she may have subjected herself to the paddle. But at long last, Lord Hastings moved away from the door, planting himself startlingly close to her.

  “Fine, Miss Thorn,” he hissed. “Let’s see how much control you can wield over my unruly niece and nephew.”

  Mrs. Brown scurried away, and Becky was finally given the opportunity to sit. She was aware of the viscount’s gaze on her as they waited in silence for the housekeeper to return with the children. Several painstaking minutes later, she reappeared in the doorway of the study with two children in tow.

  There was a boy, perhaps nine or ten years old, with sandy brown hair and light blue eyes and the same hardened expression that his guardian wore. And a girl, several years younger, with bouncy blonde curls and vacant eyes, a slightly lighter shade of blue than her brother’s and rimmed red from crying.

  Mrs. Brown ushered them forward and then made her exit, closing the door with a gentle click of the latch. Both children maintained their expressions, one of anger, the other of vacancy, seemingly oblivious to the strange woman in their guardian’s study.

  “Come here,” Lord Hastings ordered. “Max, Lydia, say hello to Miss Thorn.”

  Neither child moved.

  “Did you hear me?” he seethed, miffed by their blatant disobedience. “You will say hello to Miss Thorn like decent children.”

  “It’s all right, my lord.” Becky smiled warmly at the children. “It can rile the nerves to meet new people. Sometimes we need a bit of time to warm up, don’t we?”

  “And in others, our tongues just seem to run away with themselves, don’t they?” Lord Hastings rejoined sarcastically.

  Becky ignored him and went to stand before the children. “My name is Miss Thorn, and if it’s all right with your uncle, and you, of course, I would like to get to know you both and perhaps be your governess. Would that be all right?” She waited patiently for the children to respond. It was Lydia who spoke first.

  “Clarabelle, would you please tell Miss Thorn that tea is being served in the nursery at two o’clock tomorrow, and we would be delighted if she would join us.”

  Becky took a moment to comprehend what was going on before shifting her gaze to the empty space beside the child, listening intently to the imaginary invitation from the imaginary Clarabelle.

  “Why, thank you, Clarabelle,” she said a moment later. “And please thank Miss Lydia for the invitation. I would be delighted to join you both for tea.”

  When she looked back at the children, both of them stared at her with wide and astonished eyes.

  “You can see her?” Max breathed. “But she’s not real.”

  Becky gave a wry smile. “Do you believe in Father Christmas, Max?” she asked.

  “Yes, of course. Although, he forgot about us l
ast year.” Becky’s eyes shot reproachfully toward Lord Hastings; he rolled his own with a great degree of impatience.

  “Well, have you ever seen Father Christmas?”

  Max shook his head.

  “Yet you believe he’s there?”

  Max looked at her skeptically and was about to respond when his uncle interrupted.

  “That will be all, children. I have work to do. Take Miss Thorn to Mrs. Brown so she can show her to her room.”

  “I’m sorry, my lord, but you have not yet addressed the topic of the nursery and the alleged blow to Lydia’s head.”

  Lord Hastings narrowed his eyes at Becky, and her heart stopped beating momentarily. She had gone too far. He was sure to toss her out without another word.

  But he did no such thing. He only stared at her and then said, with a sardonic edge to his voice, “You’re their governess, Miss Thorn. You address the topic.”

  Four

  Becky followed the children from the room and through the corridors. It was a massive manor house, not as big as Ravenscroft Castle, but still impressive. The cream-colored walls were decorated with large paintings, both of people and landscapes, and occasionally they came across short Roman-style pillars holding busts of one family member or another.

  They made their way down the back staircase that led into a large kitchen, bustling with servants who were preparing for dinner. Silence ensued as one by one they realized that the children and a strange woman had entered the scene. Becky was grateful for the cheerful voice that finally broke the uncomfortable tension.

  “Oh, good!” Mrs. Brown exclaimed as she pushed past a cluster of scullery maids. “He’s decided to keep ya!” She took Becky by the hand and then turned to face the room. “Everyone, this is Miss Thorn. She’ll be comin’ on as the governess for the children. Annie, why don’t ya see if ya can’t scrounge up a biscuit or two for Max and Lydia while I show Miss Thorn to her room.”

  Becky obligingly followed Mrs. Brown back through the house to a narrow hallway on the top floor lined with little brown doors. The older woman stopped just in front of the third door on the right and pushed it open to reveal a modest, but comfortable looking room.