The Impossible Governess (2 page)

Her gaze drifted to the other side of the room.  Lord Raynor stood behind a massive, carved oak desk which did little to dwarf his size.  With his aristocratic features, dark heavy eyebrows, strong cheekbones, straight nose and square, obstinate jaw, he looked unapproachable.  Black hair was swept back off his high forehead.  He was tall, nearly six feet, impeccably dressed in a coat of blue superfine that required no padding to fill out his broad shoulders.  A meticulously tied cravat tucked into a yellow satin waistcoat accented the buff unmentionables hugging his slender hips.

Georgeanne hadn’t realized she’d been staring until he coughed.  When he indicated she take a seat, she sat in one of the two leather wingback chairs positioned in front of the desk.  Ducking her head to hide her embarrassment, she brushed her skirt and clasped her hands in her lap.

“Your references, please,” he demanded without preamble.

Georgeanne shifted uncomfortably in her chair and cleared her throat.  “I am afraid I have none, my lord,” she said, raising her eyes and meeting his unyielding gaze. 

He had the most beautiful blue eyes, clear like a summer’s sky, framed with long dark lashes.  She wondered if his black eyebrows were still bushy when they weren’t drawn together.  She hoped not, for they quite ruined what otherwise was a very handsome countenance.

“Is this your first post?” he asked.

“Oh, no.  This will be my third position.”

“Your third!”  He sounded incredulous while his eyes studied her more closely.  “How is that so?  You cannot possibly be more than eighteen.”

“I do thank you for the compliment.” Georgeanne beamed a bright smile.  “Actually, I am two years older than that.  But I have only been, er
. . . working for the past four months.”

“Two employers in a span of four months,” he repeated drily.

“Oh, dear, you do make it sound so very bad.”  She gave him a beseeching look before taking a deep breath.  “I should explain, my lord, that my circumstances changed rather drastically.  My old nanny was able to help me get a position through the Hawkins Employment Agency, whereby I first became a companion to Lady Melford.  Unfortunately, her memory was a bit faulty.  You see, at a dinner party one night she complained of her neck hurting, and naturally, I suggested the obvious, that she remove her pearls.  Three long, heavy ropes, if you will.  Anyway, she passed them to me to put in my reticule for safekeeping.”

She paused to ga
uge his reaction.  Seeing his whole attention was trained on her, she drew a sustaining breath.  “Well, what a to-do there was the next morning when she searched for the strands in her jewel box and found them missing.  I answered her summons carrying my reticule, crammed full with the pearls.  Of course, when Lady Melford saw it, she guessed where her precious necklace was and nearly had an apoplexy.  Then, she discharged me on the spot for thievery, of all things.”

Lord Raynor had observed
her as she recited the incident.  But he made no derogatory comment and motioned for her to continue.

“I was last employed by Mrs. Fench as governess for her two children.”

“You did not care for your charges?”

“Oh, they were likable enough.  It was my employer’s husband that was the problem.  He persisted in misinterpreting my position, if you understand my meaning,” she added, feeling the heat of a blush rise in her cheeks.

“An interesting history to say the least,” he responded derisively.

“As to my qualifications,” Georgeanne hurried on, hoping to divert his thinking
, “I have studied history extensively, along with French and Latin.  My mathematics is adequate, and I do consider myself to be a progressive thinker,” she concluded with pride.

“You’re not a bluestocking?” he asked, his eyebrows snapping together.

“Good gracious, no!  I mean, I do like to read but only romances,” she added.  “I did enjoy Lord Byron’s
Childe Harold
.  But that would hardly classify me as a blue since so many ladies of the
ton
think him quite acceptable, you know.”

“I am aware that he is well received.  But I suspect it is because of his brooding good looks and rank more than his talent, which I don’t mean to belittle in any way.”  Lord Raynor rose and looked gravely down on Georgeanne.  “However, I am afraid, Miss Forsythe, you lack the experience I am seeking in a governess for my niece.  The child lost both parents a year ago and is still having difficulty adjusting.”

“I see.”  Georgeanne bit her lower lip thoughtfully.  “I could, of course—“

“No, you could not,” he cut her off ruthlessly.

“I see.”  Georgeanne accepted her dismissal with a rueful smile, rose, and turned to leave.  She was almost at the door when Mrs. Hawkins’s portentous words returned to her.  Whirling around, she took two steps toward the beetle-browed nobleman.  “If I may be so bold, my lord?” she began tentatively.

“You can save your breath, Miss Forsythe.  You do not have the expertise needed to handle my niece.”

“Yes, but what will you do now?”  She stood before him brazenly with her head high, meeting his cool gaze.

“What do you mean?” he asked, shaking his head in confusion.

“Without a governess, how do you plan to go on?”

“You are hardly the last governess to be had in a city of this size.”

Ah, she had him there, she thought, and she smiled, her glee barely containable.  “But that is just it, my lord. I am your very last hope, at least from a respectable agency!”

Lord Raynor rounded his desk in a couple of long strides and stood before Georgeanne glowering down at her.  “Explain yourself.”

So she did, just as it had been relayed to her by the proprietress of the employment agency.  “You do see that we need each other?” she finished on a hopeful note.

He stared at her for a long moment.  Then slowly, he walked back behind the desk and sat down.  Propping his elbows on the desktop, he steepled his fingers together and requested in a calmer voice that she retake her seat.

“We seem to be at an impasse,” he said, regarding her from under lowered dark eyebrows.  “You understand, I want only the best for my niece.”

“I
am
a qualified teacher,” she reminded with spirit.

“Yet, by your own admission, you have had little experience with children.”

“Oh, but I love children,” she contradicted him.  Her gaze wavered for a moment before she asked, “The child is not unnatural, is she?”

“Unnatural?”  He looked puzzled again.

“Yes, like hateful, mean.  She won’t do things to hurt or scare me?”

“No, no, nothing like that.”  The crease in his high forehead unfurled.  “Marissa’s tantrums
stem from her confusion over losing her parents.  My brother and his wife doted on her.  She misses them dreadfully.”

“W
ell then, it appears we both have something to gain, my lord,” she offered.  When he did not answer, Georgeanne prompted, “You are in desperate need of a governess while I am in desperate need of employment.  Please, give me a chance?  I can hardly do worse than the others.”

There was no pleading in her voice, Lord Raynor noted absently, as he studied the young woman before him.  He was impressed with how she carried herself, despite her onerous circumstances.  Sitting with her back ramrod straight, the large chair seemed to almost engulf her petite form.  Besides, if what she said was true, and she had given him no reason to doubt her word, he really didn’t have much of a choice. 

Unfortunately, she was extremely attractive.  Too attractive, he thought, observing lustrous auburn curls poking out from under her dark blue bonnet and unusual leafy green eyes fringed with long dark lashes.

While Lord Raynor studied her, Georgeanne sat patiently waiting.  Not once did his expression give away his musings.  Just when she thought the situation was hopeless, Lord Raynor placed his hands on the desk, splaying long tapered fingers upon the leather blotter, and leaned forward.

“We both seem to be in a bit of a predicament.”  He snapped his brows together.  “I will give you one month, Miss Forsythe.”

Rising from his chair, he came from behind the desk, walked across the room and jerked the bell pull.  Within moments, the door opened.  “Take the new governess up to the nursery, Bivens.  Have Hattie, that is Marissa’s maid,” he explained for Georgeanne’s benefit, “acquaint Miss Forsythe with the schedule and settle her in.  Your trunks?” he inquired, turning again to her.

“I can send for them.”  A small sigh of relief escaped her.

“Give the direction to Bivens and he will see to the matter.”  He returned to his chair and immediately busied himself with some papers.

“Is that all?” she asked, slightly miffed with his cavalier dismissal.

He glanced up with his bus
hy eyebrows meeting and asked irritably, “Is there more you wish to say?”

“No, my lord.”

“Then you may go,” he barked, bending his head over the papers again.

Georgeanne smiled through gritted teeth, trying to check her tongue.  Rising she bobbed a curtsy and replied, “As you wish, my lord.”

She knew her effort at meekness had failed miserably when he raised his head and directed another dark scowl at her.  Fearing her unruly tongue would cost her another position, she quickly hurried out the door after the dapper Bivens.

The starchy Bivens paid not the least heed to Georgeanne trailing behind him as he led the way across the foyer to the wide stairs set against the far wall.  A masterpiece designed by Robert Adams, the staircase’s simple yet elegant lines acted as a frame for the numerous portraits of Raynor’s ancestors hanging above it.

Not surprising, dark bushy eyebrows were the prominent trait among the males.  When Georgeanne noticed that one unfortunate woman had been cursed with the affliction, she could not help gasping, “Good heavens!”

Two steps above, Bivens stopped and looked down his short nose at Georgeanne to see what had caused the exclamation.  He followed her line of vision to the Elizabethan painting of a formidable female robed in heavy, ruby red brocade.  In a wooden tone, he informed her, “Only a superior artist could capture the family likeness so
remarkably well.”

At a loss for a response, she nodded her head and perceived the butler’s observation as a hint of what she might expect.  Her vivid imagination instantly conjured up an uncharitable picture of Lord Raynor’s niece.  As she resumed the trek up the stairs, she was overcome with pity for the poor little girl.

Though it retained the ornately carved mahogany banister and slender spindle spokes, the stairway narrowed considerably as it ascended to the third floor.  As they traversed a carpeted hallway, Bivens indicated Georgeanne enter a room midway down the corridor.  When Bivens went to find the maid, Georgeanne poked her head into a well lighted chamber.  She was surprised by the relative luxury and spaciousness of the appointments.

Stepping in, she was delighted to find a full sized bed with a quilted counterpane and hangings that matched the floral printed muslin drapes adorning the two windows.  Opposite the bed, an oval mirror reflected back her image from over a small vanity with a white organdy skirt.  A large wardrobe covered most of another wall, and several hook rugs were scattered about the floor, adding a warm, homey touch.

The sound of small feet running down the hall warned Georgeanne to school her expression.  She swung about to face the door and presented an impassive mask to greet her new charge.  A child, small for her age with long blond curls and huge doe-like eyes, came to an abrupt stop just outside the room.

“You must be Marissa,” Georgeanne said brightly, inordinately relieved by the sight of the soft, pretty features of an earthly cherub.  The little girl bobbed her head in answer to her name but remained at the door.  “Please come in,” Georgeanne said.  

“There you be, Marissa.  I see you’ve already met your new governess.”  This cheery call came from a short and slightly plump young housemaid.  She was dressed in the usual servant’s uniform, a gray bombazine gown covered by a crisp white apron with a mob cap perched atop her head.  Giving Georgeanne a quick appraisal, her merry eyes became wary as she took in the new governess’s rather elegant attire.  Cautiously, she eased her way around the child and into the room.

“I’m Hattie,
Miss, and right glad I am you’re here, too,” she said in a broad cockney accent.  “And this here’s the Honorable Marissa Raynor.  I’m the nursery maid, but I can help you too, if you like.”

“Thank you, Hattie.  I am Georgeanne Forsythe, and I will appreciate any help you can give me.”

Hattie returned Georgeanne’s smile with a broad toothy grin and bobbed a curtsy.

“You won’t stay,” interjected a small voice from the doorway.

Looking behind the maid, Georgeanne saw that Marissa’s mouth was set in an obstinate pout.  Her eyes met the child’s brown eyes with a dare.  She went over to the child, smiled, and firmly stated, “Oh yes, I will.”

“No you won’t!  No you won’t!” screamed the little girl before she turned and raced down the hall with her heels flying up behind her.

“Never mind that, Miss,” sighed Hattie in resignation.  Shaking her head, the maid headed out the door after Marissa.  “Ain’t no doubt you’ll see more of the little lady’s ways before the day is out.”