A Governess Should Never... Tempt a Prizefighter

by Emily Windsor

  “Ah, Miss Griffin. I thought you might be early.” He stood so near that she knew not where to place her eyes, so settled upon his – irises the hue of brown earth with flecks of fresh leaf.

  All that manly exertion had bewattled her senses.

  “I apologise if my early arrival has discommoded you,” she murmured, tentatively taking her reticule by the top ribbon.

  Mr Hawkins’ lips parted to reveal a smile of pure white. Shouldn’t a pugilist be left with mere gums?

  “I am rarely discommoded.” He peeled down a shirt sleeve, concealing the golden skin. “But first I must introduce you to my daughter.”

  Matilda held her own smile in place because she knew precisely what was to be forthcoming.

  With a graceful flick of a broad finger, Mr Hawkins reached down and freed the silky blond plait tucked down the back of the young man’s shirt.

  A scowling face snatched it back – feminine lips thinned and fair eyelashes framed a narrowed gaze.

  Mr Hawkins simply grinned. “Meet my daughter, Chloe.” And he swivelled. “Chloe dearest, your new governess.”

  Through sheer willpower and a strict upbringing, Matilda’s smile did not waver.

  But, oh dear heavens, Miss Appleton had not prepared her for this.

  Chapter Three

  “Do we wish our pupils to think?”

  Private Education: A Practical Plan for the Studies of Young Ladies.

  Elizabeth Appleton. 1815.

  There existed some days in a lone parent’s life that one dreaded.

  This was one of those days.

  Seth paced his bedchambers on the second floor, knowing his daughter would enter as the five evening clangs from the St James’s Church bells resounded their last.

  On many occasions in the basement, he’d practised this little speech for Chloe and yet it never seemed easier to his mind – he’d blather on, bumble his way through and no doubt bugger it up.

  She’d have…questions.

  A strident knock and the door opened a crack.

  “Are you decent, Pa?”

  He peered down at himself.

  Best silk dinner breeches and finest muslin shirt clad his frame. He would call that decent enough, yet earlier this morning, Miss Griffin had gazed upon similar and looked set to swoon from the impropriety.

  For too long had he been surrounded by blustering company with no sensibilities whatsoever – and that was just Betty, let alone the boxing club patrons.

  Tonight at dinner, he must rummage for his manners.

  “Come in, petal, and we’ll discuss the day.”

  A bundle of energy since birth, Chloe careered over and bounded onto the bed, creasing the covers and scattering the pillows.

  For seven years, they’d repeated this ritual, ever since his wife had abandoned them both one warm Thursday night in June.

  He’d trudged to their shabby old home in the dark of St Giles, exhausted and sore from training, to find his daughter hunched on the front step, alone and clutching a letter, tears washing her dirty cheeks.

  A mere six years old.

  Hell, he’d been so lost. Not knowing how to comfort her, how to halt the weeping…or tamp the tight curl of failure within his own belly.

  So he’d brewed a pot of weak tea and chatted of his day, left the letter to one side and asked which waistcoat he should wear for their dinner.

  The red, he remembered. Always the bright ones.

  They’d not bothered with a stew that night but scoffed bread and butter instead, him nattering about boxing and the club that one day might be theirs.

  Chloe’s tears had dried so he’d put her to bed, tied her hair in a messed-up, bungled plait and whispered she dream of princesses.

  His daughter had replied that dragons were more exciting and promptly fallen asleep.

  Then he’d read the letter, sitting alone at the kitchen table…

  Now his nearly grown daughter was plonked cross-legged on the bed with dreams of pugilistic endeavour, rosy cheeks to her palms.

  “So…” Seth arched one eyebrow.

  Chloe arched one back. “Miss Griffin doesn’t use any short words, loathes yellow despite wearing it, can’t see for tuppence without her glasses and has absolutely no idea how to be a governess.”

  Seth arched the other eyebrow. “So…”

  “I adore her.”

  He exhaled in a gush.

  Having introduced his daughter in their practice room this morning, he’d left the two females to become better acquainted, for Chloe to show the new governess her quarters and for a tentative rapport to build.

  Chloe had inherited her mother’s open nature and gained his own patience to boot. Not one for tantrums, her only flaw to his biased eye was a laxity for following rules and a too-honest mouth.

  “Miss Griffin also, for some reason…” A beady green eye fixed upon him. “Believes you a sapsculled pudding-head. She never actually said that, of course… It was just an impression I got. Lack of books or something.”

  “I’m hardly a brainbox, Chloe.”

  “Hmm.” The beady eye narrowed to that of a blade of grass.

  “Anyhow, it matters not, petal. Miss Griffin will be able to teach you subjects that the vicar’s wife and I, as your father, cannot.”

  “Like?”

  “Fork placements and how to back out of a room when wearing a train.”

  Chloe squished up her face, loose blond hair falling over her eyes. “Do I have to?”

  “Yes. You need to learn feminine accomplishments alongside the boxing, thus gaining an all-round knowledge. It’s either Miss Griffin or…school.”

  Mulish lips pursed. For all her adult ways, she now scowled like a child of five years.

  This was his chance to raise the most difficult of subjects, whilst she was…quiet.

  “Chloe…” He sat on the bed next to her, faffed with the coverlet and hauled a deep breath. “You are thirteen now.”

  “Fourteen in November.”

  How could he forget. “I need to talk to you about something.”

  “Hmm?”

  “You must have noticed… Well, men…”

  “Hmm?” Her eyes had widened and he was aware the nobility would stay silent on such matters, letting their lambs blunder amongst wolves, but he believed his daughter should be armed with all knowledge in order to negotiate life.

  Not that it made this any easier.

  “Well, you…” Gads, he was pathetic. “You see, pet…”

  A gentle hand touched his shoulder. “I know, Pa.”

  “You do?”

  “Yes. Betty told me.”

  “She did?”

  “Yes, when I turned thirteen.”

  “Oh, right then.” Well, that was a waste of all the recitation and pacing in the basement. Not that he was complaining in any way whatsoever. In fact, as inestimable relief poured through him, he thought to raise Betty’s wages. “Although, I also…there’s a further matter.” This wasn’t going to be easy either.

  “And now you’re going to tell me I can no longer practise boxing in the main academy hall.”

  How the devil had she known that?

  “Well, yes. That was it.” Had she been at his tea leaves? “But I’m so sorry, pet. I know you love thumping nine bells out of the straw figures there, and having you nearby brought me comfort, brought us luck when we first started up the Academy, but you’re growing up and…”

  “I’m a girl in petticoats, I understand, Papa. Lord Hareborough was staring at my bottom yesterday.”

  “I’ll mill his duddering top-loft,” he growled. “Then revive the scurvy jackanapes to mill him again.”

  Chloe rolled her eyes. “He’s just being a typical man.” She patted his hand. “No offence meant. But I no longer feel comfortable anyway.”

  “Ah, daughter, I’m sorry.” And he dragged her into a tight hug. “You can continue boxing in our practice room, of course, but I’m aware you love to train in t
he Academy with all its chatter.”

  “And I can still be the next Stokes if I want to, can’t I?”

  Seth sighed and drew back to tug a lock of Chloe’s hair. Elizabeth Stokes had been a championess boxer some nine decades or so past. Yet had her fame been for her skill or the bloody novelty? Seth suspected the latter.

  Most went into prizefighting to claw their way from the stews, a winning purse of ten pounds lending a fierceness to the fist and a vitality to any weariness. Never would he deny his daughter her ambitions, merely wished that at such a young age, she leave every option open. Hence the need for a governess.

  “Of course you can. But I also want you to be your own person, Chloe. Not Stokes or a genteel lady or a prizefighter’s daughter. Just yourself. Do what you wish.”

  “I do enjoy it,” she assured. “The twisting and balance, how to tackle someone bigger than me and working out where my opponent is weakest. You must have enjoyed that? And the feeling when you won?”

  He’d done it for the money. To escape a brutal existence with no end. But… “Partly, but it’s not all glory and triumph. It’s also pain and blood, and the raw reality of getting your nose broken by Jack Scroggins.”

  “Well I’ve never been hit properly, I know.” Her mouth twisted. “So if I don’t become a championess, how else could I continue doing what I love?”

  “I’ll set my pudding brains to thinking, pet.”

  Chloe eyed him with chewed lip. “Which waistcoat are you wearing to dinner?”

  “Er…the brown?”

  A shake of blond head.

  “You choose then.”

  She pottered off to the wardrobe, her long blue dress now above her ankles. His petal was growing like a dandelion. Nevertheless, he clasped his hands behind his head and settled back amongst the pillows, content with life.

  “You should remarry, Papa.”

  “What?” Confound it, where had that come from? And he stomped to the set of drawers.

  “I won’t be able to choose your waistcoats forever. And then where will you be? Stuck in boring browns and ghastly greys.” She stood hands to hips, then swished back to the wardrobe with a huff. “You’re only just one and thirty. Old but not an utter has-been.”

  Scowling, Seth grabbed a cravat. “I could employ a valet to choose my waistcoats.” He yanked the cloth around his throat, almost garrotting himself. “Wouldn’t get half as much cheek either.”

  “But a valet won’t keep you warm on winter nights.” She peeked over one shoulder and winked.

  It appeared Betty had been quite thorough then.

  “Well, since we have a new dinner companion tonight,” Seth pronounced, “we’d better flash our best togs. How about the green silk waistcoat?”

  “Miss Griffin won’t be attending tonight. She was so tired, I sent her to bed.”

  Oh. That was exceedingly early.

  “Isn’t ordering a charge to bed without their supper Miss Griffin’s duty? The grey then.” And Seth unravelled the ornate cascade cravat he’d been creating and settled on his usual barrel knot.

  Chloe tapped a lip and then handed him a waistcoat that resembled a painted barber’s pole. Its wide collar flapped about and the fob pocket was garnished with clashing green embroidery – a Christmas present from a relative, if memory served. She yanked it straight. “I asked Betty to prepare a little something and take it up to her, of course. She said they could have a natter about your rules for the household.”

  Frowning, Seth buttoned up the striped monstrosity.

  He wasn’t aware there were any.

  “In my most troubled moments,” confided Matilda, looking left then right, “I called my cousin…Arsewood and not Astwood. Only to myself, you understand.”

  “Lawks, I like that!” Betty chortled and patted her on the hand as they sat together upon a tasteful indigo-blue chaise. “I didn’t think fine ladies knew such words.”

  “I’m quite well read, Betty, and Chaucer mentions that particular vernacular most prominently in his Tales.”

  “I don’t really do books,” the housekeeper admitted, puckering her forehead, “but if experience of life were pages, I’ve read a thousand.”

  How eloquent and honest Betty was.

  No over-elaborate wordage, just plain talk and shrewd eyes.

  Never had Matilda been allowed to befriend the servants before – even instructed to keep her loyal maid at a ladylike distance as her parents had foretold of calamity, plagues and apocalyptic disaster should the various English classes fraternise.

  Yet no disaster befell her talking to Betty – it was…joyful.

  “Experience of life is what I wish to gain, Betty. When I reach my birthday.”

  “Well, ’tis a good thing yer told me yer problems as I’ll keep a squinter out for any lurking viscounts, don’t yer worry.” Another pat and she rose with a hand to the small of her back. “Now, yer look all done in, so finish yer supper in peace and I’ll be seein’ yer in the morning. It’s kippers for breakfast.” And off she ambled, softly closing the door behind her.

  Matilda reached for another one-inch slab of cheese from the selection Betty had brought up and sighed in pleasure.

  Maybe employment at a boxing academy wouldn’t be so awful after all.

  She solely had to avoid the boxing, the academy members, the muscles – although those were under review – and any odd conversations concerning whiffles and muffles.

  Even this bedchamber appeared spacious for a governess, with a sumptuous four-poster, mahogany dresser and dainty looking-glass. A sitting room was attached with this elegant chaise, a rosewood writing desk and her very own key for the door, which she could lock if she so wished.

  Of late, life with Astwood had become oppressive, forever watched over, bedchamber keys held by the butler.

  Yet matters had taken a turn for the worse in the past few days – the servants admitting her repellent betrothed to the drawing room without announcement.

  The door pulled shut.

  His pouched eyes had greedily devoured her tight jonquil-yellow dress and only her pretence of a putrid cough had kept that fetid tongue at a distance of six feet and not inserted within her mouth. Surely a deed that no woman should ever have to endure.

  Matilda shuddered, and with plate in hand, rose to amble for the writing desk by the window with its filled ink well and fresh quill nestling upon a brass stand. A short missive must be sent to her confidante, Evelyn, to halt further communication till August, lest any messenger be followed.

  Gazing out the window, the foggy night of Green Park reflected back with her own pale features overlaid upon it, shadowed and tired and…anxious.

  For the consequences of her dawn flit.

  The servants would no doubt have discovered her absence by now and be sending a dispatch to Astwood – would he snort and debauch some more? Or ride back to London at first light?

  What if he located her before August? And dragged her home? After all, as her guardian and owner, he had the right of it.

  She was naught but a piece of furniture, inherited with the house, that could be sold for fifty guineas and a new coat.

  Narrowing her eyes at the misted dark, Matilda sought her courage and nibbled Betty’s wodge of sharp cheese – better the life of a governess with its half-day off per week than the wife of a dissolute mutton monger with no freedom at all.

  She would be diligent in her work, study all tomes available and research every nuance of governess-ship, and one day she would be the finest educator of young ladies that had ever existed.

  Chapter Four

  “A pun is a poor apology for wit.”

  Private Education: A Practical Plan for the Studies of Young Ladies.

  Elizabeth Appleton. 1815.

  The role of governess was more formidable than first assumed – which was more or less what the crabby Miss Appleton had stated.

  For upon Matilda’s first morning, between the hours of nine and ten, a reserv
e of patience had been required for the endless conjugation of one French verb.

  From ten until eleven, unwavering enthusiasm had been crucial in order to critique twenty-two perfect curtseys.

  And from eleven until midday, a certain never-ending joy had needed to be summoned to read Mr Molineux’s Introduction to the Globes, which upon reflection was as dull as boxing.

  Now, after a light luncheon together, Matilda sat at the schoolroom harpsichord whilst Chloe flipped through her music book to find her favourite song.

  At least this room was a pleasant place to work, filled with two desks, a comfortable sofa, shelves of her chosen textbooks, slates and writing implements. A window overlooked lively Arlington Street, allowing today’s stodgy light to enter, and a fire flamed blithely on the opposite wall to keep the May chill at bay.

  All in all, it could be worse, especially after reading of the cultivated Miss Appleton’s challenges, but apart from a roll of the eyes over letter writing, Chloe had been a delight.

  Not that Matilda had past experience anyhow.

  “I’ve found the words, Miss Griffin. It’s called The Pious Parson.”

  “Excellent. I know plenty of religious songs. Why don’t you sing it, and I’ll join in on the harpsichord when I recognise the tune.”

  Chloe stood and drew a deep breath…

  “‘There was a pious parson,

  Who lived in Upper Harding,

  That loved his lass.

  And another pretty lass.

  And cherished his dice and carding.’”

  Matilda frowned, fingers aloft the keys.

  Chloe drew another breath.

  “‘The parson went a-courting,

  For lasses more he wanted,

  He found a trollo–’”

  “Chloe, I dislike interrupting such a fine and angelic voice but where did you learn this song?”

  “Oh, a club member sings it when he’s washing.”

  “I see. I’m not sure… Do you know any others, perhaps?”