The Governess Club: Louisa (26 page)

“Now you’re just being aggressive.”

“And I dislike being termed ‘one whom another pays for a service,’” said another. “It makes me feel dirty, like a . . .”

“Say it, dear. A
whore
. We are being paid for a service, which in essence is exactly what a whore is paid for.”

“I believe my half day is nearly up. It is a long walk back, and the children will be expecting me back for their evening meal. I have no wish to be caught in the rain.” A small redhead pulled on her gloves and left the room.

“Louisa, what is the matter with you? You know very well your logic is flawed. The whole of the working class are paid for services; it is only a minority who have a negative stigma attached to them, and that is based on the service they render, not simply the fact that they are getting paid.”

Louisa sighed and sipped her tea. “I didn’t mean to offend anyone.”

Claire patted her arm. “We know. And Sara knows that, I’m sure.”

Bonnie spoke up. “What caused this rant, Louisa? You are not usually so ferocious in your opinions.”

Staring into her tea, Louisa said, “The Waldrons had a house party last week. One of my brother’s friends was a guest.”

“Oh dear.”

“When he first saw me, he seemed genuinely delighted. And he was. I welcomed his compliments and platitudes because it reminded me of how my life had been before . . . well, before. But when his attentions became more marked and aggressive, I knew the truth. All he said was . . . he said . . . that surely I must expect this as part of my duties.”

“Did you—I mean did he—”

“One thing I can thank my brother for is teaching me how to defend myself against unwanted male attention.” A small smile accompanied Louisa’s words. Twin sighs of relief escaped her two friends, and she raised her eyes to theirs, beseeching their understanding. “There must be more to life for us than this. We were raised to expect better.”

“But how?” asked Bonnie. “None of us earn enough money to live independently for the duration of our lives, and our marriage prospects have dwindled more quickly than our social statuses.”

“It’s not like we have regular exposure to the kind of gentlemen who would elevate us back up anyway, even if they could,” Claire joined in. “The gentlemen we work for are already married, and their friends see us as nothing more than sport, if they see us at all. We can no longer trust gentlemen of the titled class.”

“But who says we need a man or marriage to escape our positions? And who says that
independent
means
isolated
?” Louisa asked.

“I don’t think I quite follow,” Bonnie said.

Louisa turned to Claire. “Have you made any progress on Ridgestone?”

Claire blinked. “No, but my father’s—
my
solicitor remains optimistic.”

“And each of us has been saving our wages, correct? Even Sara, I’m sure.” At the confirming nods, Louisa became more adamant. “We could do it.”

“Do what?”

“We could pool our resources and live independently, yet not isolated, and without marriage. Say we continue saving our money for three more years, five at most. That would give Claire ample time to see if regaining Ridgestone is possible and for us to save nest eggs capable of supporting us, albeit not in the style we were raised, but still comfortably. If Ridgestone is a possibility, then we already have a place to live. If not, then with all four of us contributing, we could afford a place large enough for the four of us.”

An Excerpt from

THE GOVERNESS CLUB: BONNIE

B
onnie looked down at the blond boy walking next to her and pasted on a confident smile. “I am sure next time we will have more success.”

Henry glanced at her, but did not smile or share her enthusiasm. “It’s too late in the year, I think. It’s a poor time to fish.” He shifted the two poles he carried to the other shoulder. “And the worms are difficult to find. You said that they burrow deeper into the ground the colder it gets.”

“That is true,” Bonnie conceded. “But I do not think it is so cold that they will be hibernating just yet. They will be deeper, yes, but earthworms do not fully enter hibernation until it is almost freezing.”

“I remember,” Henry replied.

“Besides, it will simply mean that we have to dig a bit deeper,” Bonnie said with forced cheerfulness. “How about that, Arthur? Would you like to dig deeper holes in the garden?” She gave the three-year-old’s hand a squeeze. He just looked at her with solemn brown eyes.

“Mother does not like us ruining her garden,” Henry said quietly. “Father said it’s best to dig at night when she can’t see us. The deeper holes would not please my mother.”

Bonnie closed her eyes and bit back a sigh. “My lord, I do not think your mother would begrudge you worms for fishing.”

Henry said, “Still, I would rather not.”

The trio crested the hill and Darrowgate came into view. The house, granted with the viscountcy by King Henry VII, was in the tribute shape of an
H
. As they drew closer, the large red stone building imposed itself on the landscape, a testament to the legacy of the Darrows.

Bonnie led the boys through the garden; Henry kept his stoic eyes on the house and Arthur removed his thumb from his mouth long enough to trail his fingers on the flowers in late bloom. By the time they had climbed the four small steps to the terrace, the thumb was firmly back in place.

“Burdis,” Henry called the butler as they entered the main hall from the rear. “Please inform Mrs. Dabbs that there will be no fish complementing dinner tonight.” He handed the poles to the portly man.

“Of course, my lord. Better luck next time. Hodges,” Burdis turned his steady gaze to Bonnie. “There is a gentleman waiting in the drawing room. His name is Montgomery.”

Bonnie was curious. “For me?”

“He asked for the viscount.” Burdis lowered his voice. “He does not seem aware of the recent change. They were friends.”

“Oh.” Bonnie was startled. She took a deep breath and looked down at Henry. “Shall we greet this visitor, my lord?”

Henry regarded her with solemn eyes. “You don’t need to address me like that. I am still Henry.”

Bonnie knelt down to his level. “You know well enough that you are the viscount. It is proper. You had best get used to it.”

“As the viscount, I insist you address me as you always have, as Henry.” He looked at Burdis. “And for the other servants to call you Miss Hodges.”

The butler inclined his head in acknowledgment. Bonnie gave Henry a weak smile and smoothed his coat lapels. “Mr. Montgomery is waiting.” At Henry’s nod, they moved to the drawing room, Arthur’s hand in hers, his older brother with shoulders squared and chin raised.

Mr. Montgomery looked up at their entrance, his hands stretched toward the fire, warming his fingers. Seeing them, he turned and moved across the room, his eyes sharp as he looked them over. He stopped in front of Henry.

“Henry,” he said, his voice infused with a Scottish burr. “You have grown. Do you remember me?”

Henry didn’t answer. Glancing down at him, Bonnie could see his throat working as though he was trying to force a sound out of his mouth. She rested a hand on his shoulder and felt his paralysis.

The man looked to the other boy. “Arthur, is it?” The younger boy buried his head in Bonnie’s skirts.

It was Bonnie’s turn to fall under the man’s regard. His green eyes gazed at her unblinking. “You are?” he prompted.

Automatically, Bonnie cast her eyes down and dipped a small curtsey. “Hodges, sir, the governess.”

“Did the boys want to see me, then? They heard their uncle had arrived?”

Bonnie was confused. “I was unaware they had any uncles.”

He waved her off. “I will see them later. I am awaiting the viscount.”

Henry drew a deep breath as though he were about to speak, but nothing came out.

Bonnie kept her voice steady and quiet. “Henry is the viscount, sir.”

Mr. Montgomery furrowed his brow. “I know very well who the viscount is, Miss Hodges. I am friends with their father.”

Now Henry had moved to stand against her skirts, although he didn’t clutch her legs as Arthur did. “I regret to inform you that both the viscount and his wife recently perished in a coaching accident. Henry is the viscount.”

His eyes narrowed. “Impossible.”

“I assure you, I speak true.”

An Excerpt from

THE GOVERNESS CLUB: SARA

“W
ell,” Mr. Pomeroy said as he sat beside Sara in his gig and picked up the reins. “I can honestly say that not many visits have gone worse than that. Indeed, I believe we may have set a new precedent.”

Sara gave him a sympathetic smile and held onto the side as the gig lurched into motion, enjoying how the movement made her side press into his momentarily. “I don’t think it was that bad.”

“Oh no,” he said, “I assure you, this will become material at rectories all over England of how not to conduct visits.”

Sara shook her head. “You cannot be so hard on yourself. Mrs. Simpson was simply not in a good visiting mood. I doubt anyone would be, with an absent husband and three sick children, not to mention the other two who need constant attention.”

The vicar returned her smile, finally. “I am sure she appreciated you finishing up her laundry and putting a loaf of bread in the oven.”

“And you taking the two out for a walk,” Sara returned. “All she needed was a few moments of quiet to herself.”

He sighed. “I will return in a day or two to check on her and see if she needs any more help. And I will let Dr. Moore know of the illness. Perhaps he can do something for the children.”

“That is a good idea. I don’t know if I am able to accompany you then, but I can send along a basket.”

“Oh, I wasn’t suggesting you join me, Miss Collins,” Mr. Pomeroy said, looking at her with earnest brown eyes. “I believe I now have a good grasp on the needy families in the parish.”

Sara’s stomach dropped. Was he implying that her help was no longer needed? Dear heavens, if she didn’t accompany him on these visits, how could she prove to him that she would be a useful wife for a vicar? She swallowed and forced herself to speak. “That is good.”

Oh bother, that was more of a squeak than her voice. Mr. Pomeroy looked at her with concern in his eyes. “Are you unwell?”

Sara shook her head, unwilling to try to speak again.

His concern did not abate. “I would never forgive myself if you were to take sick after visiting Mrs. Simpson with me.” He reined in the horse and turned to face her, taking her hands in his.

“I am fine,” Sara assured him, though her voice was still little more than a squeak. His hands warmed hers, sending slow frissons of comfort up her wrists. She took a shaky breath and enjoyed the sensation.

“Have I distressed you in any way? I wish I had some water or lemonade to offer you. Your voice is still strange.” He rubbed her hands between his, his eyes filled with concern and anxiety.

Looking into his chocolate eyes, so full of emotion, all on her behalf, filled Sara with a sense of peace and security. He was a good man, a kind man, and would make her a fine husband. Her anxiety eased and her throat cleared, allowing her to speak normally. “Truly, I am well.”

Relief reflected in his eyes. “Thank God.”

She gave him a weak smile. “I am sorry for concerning you.”

Mr. Pomeroy looked at her, his face serious and intent. “The health and well-being of all my parishioners are my concern, Miss Collins. I would not be able to forgive myself if you were harmed while helping me with my work.”

“I—”

“I should not have put you into a situation where you were at risk. We are fortunate that nothing serious occurred. We must be more cautious in the future.”

Sara bent her head and looked at her hands, still being held in his. She ran her thumb over his, marveling at how soft and large they were.

His concern warmed her heart and she smiled to herself. Louisa was wrong; he did care for her. How could he express such worry over her well-being if he did not have some affection for her? She needed him to know, however, that she was up to the task of being a vicar’s wife.

Sara raised her eyes and met his gaze. “I am sorry for causing you concern, Mr. Pomeroy. But I assure you, in my experience of helping my father, I have seen and been exposed to much worse than the colds of Mrs. Simpson’s children.”

Mr. Pomeroy’s eyes held a rueful quality as the anxiety left them. He smiled at her. “I suppose that is true. I keep forgetting that you have more experience at this than I do.”

They shared a smile for a long moment. It was the horse nickering that broke them apart. Mr. Pomeroy suddenly seemed to realize he was still holding her hands and dropped them, an embarrassed look coming over his face. He picked up the reins again and once more set the gig in motion.

“Are we returning to Ridgestone?” Sara asked after several moments of quiet.

He pursed his lips. “There is one more visit I was planning on making and it is directly on the way to Ridgestone. Would you mind terribly if you accompanied me? I can return you home if you would prefer.”

She smiled. “Of course not. Whom would we be visiting?”

“The new owner of Windent Hall. He arrived just the other day and I wish to welcome him to the village.”

“Oh.” A new person in the neighborhood. The usual nervous ants started walking around her throat, making her feel queasy. She took a breath to regain some sort of control. She was a grown woman, for heaven’s sake. It was far past time to be so affected by the thought of meeting someone new.

Besides¸
she thought, looking at the vicar,
the last person I met was Mr. Pomeroy and look how well that has turned out.
She cleared her throat. “Do you know what his name is?”

“Mr. Nathan Grant, recently from London.”

Mr. Grant. A new neighbor. She could do this. Mr. Pomeroy was here to help her.

Sara nodded. Yes, she could do this.

A
BOUT
THE
A
UTHOR