The Impossible Governess

Author’s Disclaimer:
  The contents of this novel are a work of fiction.  Any personal name or description is solely coincidental as is any event or incident.  Likewise, the views and opinions expressed in the text do not necessarily represent those of the author.

Published E-Book: February, 2013 by Margaret Anne Bennett Feuerbacher

PROLOGUE

London, 1812

“Really, Raynor, a bachelor living with a small female and no governess.”   Lady Lydia Russell pressed her thin white lips together disparagingly. 

Anthony Russell Raynor, Viscount Raynor
, observed the older woman’s dark hair, liberally streaked with gray and pulled back into a tight bun, long straight nose, and hazel eyes. One might possibly consider her a handsome woman for her age, except for the colorless lips perpetually pinched in a sour expression, a harbinger of her temperament.

Beside her on the burgundy damask settee sat her daughter, Lady Olivia Cosgrove, blond, blue-eyed, a diamond of the first water.   Olivia and Raynor were related by her mother’s marriage to his uncle, Sir Richard Russell.  Throughout the visit, Olivia had said nothing.  Instead, her large blue eyes watched Raynor as she gave him small smiles of encouragement. 

Lord Raynor snapped his eyebrows together.  “Marissa had governesses.”

Lady Lydia held up a hand.  “But none stay.  It’s disgraceful.”

A discreet knock sounded on the drawing room door.   Raynor and both women eyed the five-year old the Honorable Marissa Raynor as she entered holding the hand of her nursery maid, Hattie.

“Ah, Marissa, come and meet your cousins,” Raynor said, rising fro
m his chair.  The child’s blond curls, creamy complexion, ruby lips, and soulful brown eyes never failed to tweak his heartstrings.  Still, Raynor knew his niece’s cherub countenance was deceiving.

Led by Hattie, the child went to her uncle and daintily perched on the edge of the wingback chair he’d vacated.  Raynor quickly made introductions and was proud of Marissa’s polite responses.  “Would you like a treat?” he offered her as a reward.

Marissa nodded and slid off the chair.  Slowly she inched her way over to the tea cart in front of Lady Russell.

“Come here, child,” cooed Lady Russell encouragingly
. 

Marissa didn’t answer but stood on the other side of the cart, eyeing the dish of macaroons among the plate of scones and small cakes and the silver teapot.

“Would you like a cookie, Marissa,” Raynor asked, noting how the child stared at the macaroons.

“Yes, please,” Marissa replied in a tiny voice.

“She may have one after she comes to me, Raynor.”  Lady Russell spoke sharply, ignoring the child’s response to her uncle.   “Come here, Marissa.”

“I want a cookie,” Marissa said petulantly, then added, “please.”

“After you do as you are told,” Lady Russell replied curtly.

F
eeling powerless as he watched the inevitable, Raynor stiffened.  His little niece frowned and pouted and clenched her tiny fists at her sides.  Then at the top of her lungs, she began chanting, “I want a cookie! I want a cookie!”

Raynor nodded to Hattie, and the nursery maid went to the screaming child, picked her up, and carried her toward the door.  The screeching never stopped, but blissfully receded as the pair made their way down the hall and up the stairs to the third floor nursery. 

Lady Russell tsked, tsked.  “Really, Raynor, the child is completely out of control.”

Raynor arched one dark eyebrow.  “You could do better?”

Lady Russell bristled.  “It’s plain to see the child needs a woman’s influence.  Besides, she will also have Olivia.”  She nodded her head toward her daughter. “No doubt the child will benefit with her cousin living nearby.  They will be close, like sisters.”

“We’ve been through this before, Lydia,” Raynor said, trying to rein in his anger.  “As the closest
blood
relative, my brother’s daughter is my ward.  I will maintain Marissa’s fortune.”

Lady Russell’s thin nostrils flared as she glowered at him.  “Are you insinuating—
“

“I am insinuating nothing,” Raynor said.  He was tired of this woman trying to assume responsibility for his brother’s only child. “My decision will not change.”

Rising, Lady Russell said, “I have every right to see my niece.”

Raynor met her gaze.  “Whenever you like, feel free to come by and visit.”

Lady Olivia Cosgrove gracefully rose and walked over to Raynor.  She placed a hand on his sleeve.  “Forgive Mother, Anthony,” she said in dulcet tones.  “She is truly concerned for Marissa’s welfare.  We all are.”  She smiled and gave his arm a squeeze.  “We’ll come see the child another day.”

~~~~~

“Hmmp.”  Lady Russell plopped down on the carriage seat, then turned to her daughter.  “You greatly disappointed me, Olivia.  You did not say one word in defense of my arguments.”

Olivia Cosgrove tugged at her kid gloves while eying the palatial façade of Lord Raynor’s Curzon Street townhouse.  “Really, Mother, you did little more than make Anthony dig in his heels.”

“The child is worth a fortune, Olivia. And Raynor certainly doesn’t need a shilling of it.”

“Yes, Mother.  Nor shall he have it,” Olivia replied with a sly smile.

“And just how do you propose for that to happen?”

“Anthony and I are on excellent terms.  I will simply marry him,” Olivia said.

Her mother noted the determined glint in Olivia’s eyes.  “That’s all well and good for you, but my problems won’t be solved.”

“Dear Mother,” Olivia said letting out a melodious laugh.  “I certainly don’t want to contend with someone else
’s brat.  After we are married, I will convince Anthony to give the child to you and papa.”

***   Chapter 1   ***

The morning had been no different than the other two previous visits, thought the Honorable Miss Georgeanne Forsythe.  As before, she’d had to wait over two hours before being admitted into the austere office of the Hawkins Employment Agency for Domestics.  A shiver ran through her slender frame as she stood in front of the formidable agency owner.  She met Mrs. Hawkins’s cold gray stare.  Georgeanne squared her shoulders, took a deep breath and began to relate the events of yet another dismissal.

“Well,” the proprietress began disparagingly, “I cannot fathom what more you expect of me, Miss Forsythe.  I have tried to be compassionate, taking into account your situation and knowing you would not fare well in anything other than a genteel establishment.  Accordingly, you were assigned to two perfectly acceptable positions.  Yet, you have managed to lose both positions under adverse circumstances.”

“But, Miss Hawkins—“

“
Mrs
. Hawkins,” interrupted the agency owner, pushing up her wire-rimmed spectacles.  There was no Mr. Hawkins.  There never had been.  But the shrewd business woman knew it would bode ill for her thriving agency if that ever became common knowledge.  Her clientele would never accept the fact that a spinster was capable of running a successful agency without the guiding hand of a superior male.

“Yes, I am sorry,
Mrs.
Hawkins,” Georgeanne replied, her vivid green eyes squarely meeting two unflinching gray ones.  “As I was saying, the Fenches’ children were a delight.  But I ask you madam, what would you have me do?  Mr. Fench grabbed the neck of my dress.  Why, he ripped the bodice.”

“Perhaps if you had worn a more decorous gown. . . “

“Fustian! It was one of my better dresses that I wore to church on Sundays, and never have I had to resort to putting a scrap of lace in my bosom.  No, I tell you that lecherous old goat was simply trying to have his way with me.”

“But to blacken the gentleman’s eye was most unseemly.”  Clearly, mused Mrs. Hawkins, she’d have to eat a l
ot of humble pie to keep Mrs. Fench as a client, thanks to this young miss.

“I tell you he would not listen and gave me little choice in the matter,” Georgeanne persisted, feeling the heat of an angry bloom gracing her cheeks.

“It is all of a piece, Miss Forsythe, for it matters very little.  Unfortunately, with your background and previous failure, I have nothing available for you.”

“I am desperate, Mrs. Hawkins.  I will take anything.”

Mrs. Hawkins eyed the young girl before her.  A mass of auburn curls defied staying in a neat bun at the nape of her slender neck.  Then with her heart-shaped face and creamy complexion, add a smile that would beckon any man with blood running in his veins . . . well, the girl was too pretty by far for her own good.  Any matron housing a male over ten years old would never allow such a temptation under her roof.

But you had to give the plucky chit credit.  Not many of these pampered girls from her class would have bothered to come here a first time, and now this, her third application.  Most would have preferred to beg a position as a poor relation rather than put themselves out for hire.  In spite of her misgiving, Mrs. Hawkins liked the girl.

“There is one possibility. . .” she said, her voice trailing off as her fingers beat a staccato rhythm on her desk.

“Anything,” begged Georgeanne with her hands prayerfully clasped in front of her.

“Lord Raynor has a five year old niece who is an absolute terror.  I will not mince words with you.  I have sent half a dozen governesses over, and only one made it through a whole month.  As I see it, Miss Forsythe, this is your last chance.”

A
fraid to inquire what could possibly be wrong with the child, she asked, “What if Lord Raynor refuses to hire me?”

“The gentleman has no choice.  No one else will take the job.”

A short while later, Georgeanne sat in a smelly old hackney heading for Curzon Street.  She searched inside her beaded reticule for a small bit of linen edged with lace to wipe some of the grime off the window.  Although she’d been in London for several months, she couldn’t rid herself of how different her circumstances were now compared to her last visit.

A soft sigh escaped her as she replaced the hanky, smeared with black filthy deposits from her attempt to clean the glass.  Not that she could see out any better than before her fruitless effort.  What did it matter anyway?  The posh neighborhood of Mayfair with its tree lined walks, manicured parks, and large mansions only served to remind her of the dramatic contrast between her current lifestyle and that of two years ago when she was in London for her one and only Season.

As the hackney drew up alongside the curb in the middle of the block, Georgeanne observed an imposing, gray stone edifice, rising four stories.  Glancing around the square, she recognized the house where she’d once attended a soiree with a young gentleman . . . ah, yes, Sir Roger Hempstead.  A nice sort, but not too plump in the pockets.             

She shook her head at her own folly.  That was in another lifetime.  She was here now, sitting before Lord Raynor’s townhouse with her whole
future riding on his lordship accepting her as a suitable governess.

On that depressing thought, she wrinkled her nose and muttered a most unladylike expletive under her breath.  She counted out a few precious coins to pay the driver, then lifting her skirts, ascended the wide flagstone steps.

After a judicious use of the brass, lion’s head knocker, the door swung open.  A short, balding butler looked past her to the rickety cab pulling away.  When he finally gave her his full attention, Georgeanne stiffened at his raised eyebrows.  Dutifully, she handed him the letter of introduction Mrs. Hawkins had prepared and waited patiently as he digested its contents.

“You are applying for governess,” he asked disbelievingly in a deep, sonorous tone, which was incongruous for a man of his small stature. 

“Yes, I am,” she answered.

He stepped aside and let her enter the marble tiled foyer.  After instructing her to be seated, he left to inform Lord Raynor of her presence.

Georgeanne had barely sat down on a narrow cushioned bench against one wall when a door down the hall opened.  A darkly handsome gentleman emerged and called to the butler.

“Who is it, Bivens?”

“An applicant for governess from the domestic agency, my lord,” the butler replied.

“It’s about time.  Show her in,” the gentleman said and ducked back inside the room. 

Returning to where she sat, the dapper Bivens peered down his short nose at her before requesting that she follow him.  Georgeanne stood, and before she could smooth the silk skirts of her dark blue gown from under the black velvet pelisse, Bivens started forward.

“Step lively,” he hissed.  “It won’t do to keep his lordship waiting.”  From his tone, it was obvious he thought little of her prospects.

They walked toward the opened door.  With a somewhat condescending sniff, the butler announced her, impatiently gestured for her to make haste and enter the room.  Then the door softly closed behind her.

Georgeanne quickly scanned the large library.  One look at the much used room told her this was Lord Raynor’s domain.  Leather bound books filled shelves from ceiling to floor on two sides.  An Axminster carpet covered a good portion of the oak floor boards.  Heavy red drapes hung at the tall windows overlooking a small garden.  Several burgundy armchairs were grouped a
round a burgundy and cream striped sofa facing a marble fireplace in which a banked fire glowed.