To Love a Governess

by Josi S. Kilpack

  “That is a bother, sir,” she said.

  His shoes moved closer, for that was the only part of him she could see while keeping her eyes lowered in a proper, servile way. She could not afford to lose this job.

  “A bother?”

  She looked up. He didn’t appear happy. But who could blame him? The loss of a button was no laughing matter.

  “I had a spencer made of fine Shetland wool,” she said, “back when I attended Harleigh’s School for Girls. One of the buttons came off, and though I searched both high and low, it was never found. I had to wear it for years with unmatched buttons. One was shiny black ebony, the other dull brown oak. It is a part of life, I’m afraid. Even the prince himself must have felt the aggravation of losing a perfectly good button.”

  She gestured with her hands as she spoke—a habit more than one teacher had tried to beat out of her. The problem was, in her gesturing hand she held Mr. Selwood’s undergarment. The one he was currently staring at as she waved it about.

  She hid the undergarment behind her back. “I’ll just go and find Mr. Ruddiman for you.” She dipped her head—as she should have done when he’d first called out to her. Then she made a swift exit, pausing only long enough to snatch a stray stocking peeking out from under his desk.

  She wiped her hand across her face. Her first failure at invisibility. She should have left to fetch Mr. Ruddiman when Mr. Selwood first called out for him. That’s what a real housemaid would do. But she hardly qualified as a real housemaid.

  Last week she’d spilled her bin of ashes on Mrs. Walker’s newly polished floor. Luckily that had been belowstairs. And her first week here she’d forgotten to light the candles in Mr. Selwood’s room. Mrs. Walker had lectured her almost beyond her endurance about the many ways he could have injured himself in the dark.

  Sarah dropped off the bundle of dirty clothes in the laundry, then poked her head into the kitchen and servant’s hall. “Is Rude Man here?” For that was what all the women called him. “Mr. Selwood is looking for him.”

  Mrs. Walker emerged from the linen closet. “Master didn’t pull the bell,” she said.

  “I told him I would find him, so he probably thought it unnecessary.”

  “You told him?” Mrs. Walker almost dropped the tablecloth she’d been folding. “Invisible, Sarah Woolsey. Must I repeat it?”

  “He came into his chambers very unexpectedly. There was naught I could do. I tried my best to be part of the wallpaper, but he has eyes, after all.”

  Mrs. Walker shook her head. “I believe Mr. Ruddiman went out to the stables.” Mrs. Walker was the only female who did not call him Rude Man. Not because she thought it a poor epithet, but because the maxim by which she lived was propriety first and always.

  Mrs. Walker took a letter out from her apron pocket and handed it to Sarah. “Take this to Mr. Walker on your way out.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Mr. Walker was the butler and Mrs. Walker’s husband. By the way she treated him, they might have been complete strangers. All part of propriety, Sarah supposed. But once, when Mrs. Walker had had an extra glass of sherry, Sarah caught her smiling at him.

  Proper housemaids, the invisible kind, exited through the back door. A door created specifically so that servant and master would never cross paths. But Mr. Walker was usually found hovering around the drawing room, the library, or the main hall—all locations near the front door. The main door.

  Luckily, she knew Mr. Selwood was already in his room waiting for a button repair. She went straight to the drawing room. Mr. Walker was not there. Nor in the library, nor anywhere in that part of the house. She’d have to deliver the letter later, when Mr. Selwood wasn’t waiting for her to send up his valet.

  She went to the front door, ready to head out to the stables, when the bell rang. She glanced around. Mr. Walker should have come running. But he did not. She waited for a footman. Mrs. Walker. Anyone. But all the staff seemed to have vanished.

  Whoever was out there pulled the bell again. Sarah smoothed the front of her dress and straightened her apron. Then opened the door.

  On the stoop stood a young child. A girl. Entirely alone. Beside her on the ground lay a worn carpetbag perhaps half full. And pinned to her frock was a letter.

  Sarah stepped outside and looked for the owner of the child, but the drive was empty. There was no one to be seen. Someone must have pulled the bell lever, for the child was far too small to have reached it on her own. But not a soul was in sight.

  “Hello,” she said to the girl, bending on one knee to read the letter. It was addressed to Mr. Selwood and sealed with a wafer. “What’s your name?”

  The child was silent.

  “Where’s your mum?”

  Silence again.

  This was beyond her training level. As a housemaid, she’d not been instructed how to answer the door and receive proper guests—let alone unaccompanied children not old enough to butter bread.

  “You wait here, I’ll go and fetch Mrs. Walker.”

  She closed the door and took four steps before she noticed Mr. Selwood descending the stairs.

  “Who was at the door?”

  Sarah curtsied deeply, proud that she had remembered this time. “I do not know.”

  “Did they leave? Was it the courier? I’m expecting a letter.”

  “Well . . .”

  He tapped his foot.

  “There is a letter, but no courier. Not that I could see.” Someone must have put the child there, though. “Can one send a person by post?” she asked. “Some sort of child delivery service, perhaps?” But who would put such a young thing on a coach and expect it to arrive hale and hearty on another man’s doorstep?

  Mr. Selwood held his hand out.

  “What?” she asked, her mind still on the intricacies involved in child shipping.

  “The letter,” he grunted.

  “Oh. It’s still outside.” She walked backward and twisted the latch, pulling the door open.

  The child still stood there as if she were nothing more than a doll. A very large doll that must be getting quite chilled in the cold breeze.

  Mr. Selwood looked at the girl, then at Sarah. “What is this?”

  “Well, I was looking for Rude—Mr. Ruddiman, but Mrs. Walker said find Mr. Walker first, so I came this way when the bell rang. I waited, but no butler nor footman came, so I opened the door. There was no one here but the child. And her carpetbag. And the letter pinned to her chest. So I was going to fetch Mrs. Walker because she would know what to do since I’m invisible. Then you came down the stairs. And, well, you know what happened after that just as well as I, so no need for me to explain that part, I should think.”

  Mr. Selwood seemed as if he had something he wanted to say but instead reached for the letter pinned to the child. Then he stopped. “You get it.”

  “Mrs. Walker?”

  “No. The letter.”

  Sarah removed the hatpin from the dress. It was a good quality pin, with real mother-of-pearl on the tip. She handed the letter to Mr. Selwood.

  He broke the seal and read, turning it to read the words printed on the back. Then he read it again, flipping it front to back several times. He stared out the door for quite some time. He was wearing a different coat. No doubt he’d given up on her ever sending Rude Man to him.

  Did she still need to fetch him? Or was the button crisis over? She should still get him. Keep her word. And standing for several minutes in silence while Mr. Selwood worked out whatever was going on in his overly handsome head was beginning to feel uncomfortable.

  Sarah glanced at the child and caught her staring back at her. Sarah made a face and shrugged her shoulders. She had no other explanation to offer the small person as to why the recipient of the couriered child was in a daze.

  She took a step back to go find Rude Man, but her motion seemed to bring Mr. Selwood back to matters at hand.

  His eyes turned on her. “Harleigh’s School for Girls?”
r />   “Yes, sir. For nine years. Never found the button in all that time.”

  “How old are you?”

  She looked at the child then back at Mr. Selwood. Mrs. Walker was going to give her the biggest scolding of her life for too much visibility. “Two and twenty, sir.”

  “Your name?”

  “Sarah Woolsey.” There was no sprigged wallpaper here she might melt into.

  “Congratulations, Miss Woolsey. I’m raising your position.”

  “My position, sir?” That would be wonderful if it came with better wages. But the other girls would not have it even if Mr. Selwood personally put her above them. Seniority was not something that could be rearranged.

  “You are now this child’s governess.”

  Chapter Two

  Sarah stared at Mr. Selwood. Then again at the child. The girl’s frock was a creamy white, but not entirely clean. Her hair, though some attempt had been made for curls, mostly fell moppish around her pale cheeks. A light blue sash was fastened about her waist and tied in the back. Whoever had left her here had attempted to make a good impression but had fallen short.

  “Sir, she is too young for a governess. She needs a nursemaid.”

  “Nonsense,” he said.

  “But I am not—”

  “Who is the master of this house?”

  “You, sir. But—”

  “And do you wish to remain employed here?”

  “I do, but—”

  “Then it is settled.” He glared at her; his brows raised. Daring her to make another protestation.

  But she could not narrow down the barrage of thoughts flooding her mind to articulate a coherent rebuttal. Not to mention the difficulty of being entreated by deep blue eyes framed in dark lashes. He could have anything he ever wanted if he glowered so beautifully at other women the way he was now doing at her.

  Sarah shook her head. She must not get distracted by his beauty. This was about the child standing on the doorstep.

  Who was this girl? Why had she been delivered so unceremoniously to Mr. Selwood’s care? And the concern which weighed heaviest: who was her father? Had Mr. Selwood left some poor woman in an unfortunate way and then shirked his duty?

  His eyes narrowed at her as if he read her thoughts. Sarah quickly lowered her head. She would never dare ask him such a question.

  “Good.” He turned to leave, but Sarah still had reservations.

  “What about the letter?” she asked.

  “What about it?”

  “May I see it?” She held her hand out, realizing only after how completely inappropriate such a demand was.

  “I don’t see how the contents are any matter of your concern.”

  “How could it not be?” He treated this small human like he did his fancy clothing. Toss it here or there, someone else will take care of it. “Does she have a name? An age? Is she in health? How am I to care for her if I know nothing? What about a room for her? I don’t even know how long she’ll be here. Is someone coming back for her?”

  He lifted the letter as if to hand it over, but then moved it behind his back instead. “Her name is Rosalina Basingstoke. You will have whatever funds you need to establish a room and any other requirements. I’ll instruct Mrs. Walker to help you.” He walked away, pausing only long enough to turn back and say, “No one will be coming for her.”

  Then he disappeared around the corner, and the sharp slam of his library door echoed down the corridor.

  Sarah turned to the girl still standing on the stoop, her hollow cheeks pink with cold and her nose running.

  Sarah pulled a handkerchief from her apron pocket and wiped the child’s nose. “Well, I guess that’s that,” she told her.

  The girl had not spoken a single word but watched the entire exchange barely moving a muscle. She seemed old enough to understand, but there was no way of knowing. Besides, what was done was done. No point causing the child even more distress with questions that might be painful for her to answer.

  Sarah picked up the carpetbag with one hand and took the child’s hand with her other. It was icy cold but clung to hers with surprising strength. The poor thing must have been through quite an ordeal. Sarah couldn’t imagine the hurt on such a young and impressionable mind to be deposited unwanted at a stranger’s door.

  “Don’t you worry about a thing. I’ll take good care of you, yeh?” She gave the tiny hand a little squeeze. “Come along, then. First things first, let’s get you warmed and fed.” A child that age should have plump cheeks, not gaunt.

  She led the child along the corridors until they reached the servant’s hall just off the kitchen. It was empty. Sarah seated the girl by the fire and added a few coals.

  Trust Mrs. Walker to sense any unauthorized use of coal. She appeared as if she’d been summoned.

  “What is the meaning of this?” Her eyes were like a falcon’s on its prey. “Do you have a child?”

  If she did have a child out of wedlock, she’d be dismissed on the spot. No one with so much scandal attached would be allowed to work in a respectable house.

  “No, ma’am. She’s Mr. Selwood’s.”

  Mrs. Walker’s mouth dropped open.

  Sarah found a shawl hanging on a hook and draped it over the girl’s shoulders and scooted her closer to the warmth. “Are you hungry?” she asked.

  The child said nothing but gave the slightest nod of her head.

  “Mrs. Walker, could you please ask the cook for a bowl of something warm and hearty?”

  Mrs. Walker’s hands landed hard on her hips. “See here, Sarah Woolsey. Who are you to be ordering me about?”

  “I beg your pardon, ma’am.” Sarah knelt beside the little girl. “I’ll get you something from the cook. You wait here, yeh?”

  The girl reached out and grabbed onto Sarah’s apron.

  “I’ll only be gone a moment. I promise I’ll be right back.”

  The girl said nothing but did not loosen her grip.

  “Would you like to come with me?”

  She nodded her little head.

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake. I’ll go.” Mrs. Walker’s dress flared as she spun toward the door. “This is highly improper,” she muttered as she walked away. “Mr. Selwood’s child, my foot. No wonder the woman was so desperate for work.” Mrs. Walker disappeared.

  Sarah smoothed the child’s hair. “Let’s not worry what she thinks. She’s got a few too many keys hanging from her belt, if you know what I mean.”

  The child stared into the fire.

  “Now then, Rosalina Basingstoke. That’s quite a mouthful for someone the size of a half pint. How about we find something that fits a little better. Just until you grow into it?”

  The girl did not respond. Seemed Sarah would be having a lot of conversations with herself over the next few years.

  Years? She glanced down at the girl. She could never stay here that long. She’d been grateful for work and took it only with thoughts of gaining funds to pay her way to America. It was the only way she could think of to escape her past. Mr. Selwood would have to find another governess, one that could settle in and stay. In the meantime, she’d do what she could for this small and frightened child.

  “Perhaps Rose would suit you better?”

  There was, of course, no response from the child whose fist still clenched Sarah’s apron front.

  “Here you are, then,” said Mrs. Walker, returning with a bowl of warm porridge, bread, and a few slices of ham.

  “Thank you, Mrs. Walker. I promise to never trouble you again.” Sarah set the food in front of Rose, buttering her bread and spreading a sweet layer of preserves across the top.

  “I have grave doubts.” Mrs. Walker smoothed her dress front as if it would wipe away the lack of dignity she’d suffered in fetching food for a child of questionable origin. “Now. Explain to me who this child is.”

  The bell on the wall jingled. The one summoning to the library. No one ever used the library besides Mr. Selwood, least as far a
s Sarah had ever seen. In fact, in all the time she’d been here, there’d not been a single visitor. But it was early yet, and most high-class folks were still in London finishing up the Season.

  Mrs. Walker glanced at the bell. She usually left his summons to Rude Man.

  “You could go and find out for yourself,” Sarah suggested. “In any case, Mr. Selwood knows far more than I do.”

  Mrs. Walker considered Sarah’s words, then nodded. “Perhaps you’re right.” She vanished again, leaving the air turbulent in her wake.

  “And good riddance,” Sarah whispered, then gave Rose a wink. “Now you can eat in peace.”

  Which is exactly what the child did. She wasted no time in spooning the warm mush into her small mouth. Then she started on the bread. Sarah cut the ham into bite size pieces, then leaned back and watched her eat. For such a tiny thing, she had a hearty appetite. And absolutely no manners.

  Sarah interrupted her several times, reminding her to use her napkin. Wiping the preserves from her mouth. Dabbing mush from her chin. Cautioning her only one piece of ham at a time. Soon enough, the food was gone. The cook had been good enough to send a glass of milk as well, and Rose drained it in one gulp.

  “Well, done.” She gathered up the carpetbag and hooked the shawl back in its place. “Come along, then.” She once again took Rose’s hand, and the girl gripped her tightly.

  Sarah led her through the house, up the stairs to the small servant’s quarters where Sarah had a tiny room. The roof slanted so sharply that in half the chamber she could not stand upright.

  She sat Rose on the bed and opened the carpetbag. “Let’s see what we’ve got here.”

  There was one dress, brown and much worn. A few stockings with holes in both heels and toes. What appeared to be an undergarment, but Sarah wasn’t sure she wanted to touch it. In the bottom she found a handkerchief. It was neatly folded and tied with a pink ribbon, much finer than anything else that had come out of the bag.

  Sarah removed the ribbon and unfolded the handkerchief. Something was embroidered on the corner. She stepped toward her tiny window and held it to the light. It was the Selwood family crest. Same as the one above the fireplace in Mr. Selwood’s room. She’d seen it many times cleaning the messes he left behind.