The Observations of a Curious Governess (3 page)

For a moment Lady Stanton stiffened, before His Lordship bellowed with laughter once more. I found my bread suddenly felt lodged within my throat. What possibly could have caused such rude amusement? I was beginning to think that Lord Stanton was not the gentleman I had initially perceived him to be.

After a moment of obscene snorting and gulping at his ale, His Lordship recovered – yet it was Lady Stanton who spoke. ‘Forgive my husband, Miss Swan, you will become used to his unusual humours.’ She hesitated for a moment. ‘Did you not get out much in London society when you were there?’

I shook my head. ‘No, my family – as you are most certainly aware, have little in the way of finances to support society outings – and I have no interest in them regardless. My passion, Lady Stanton, lies firmly in the realm of improvement of the mind, education and the acquisition of knowledge,
not
the gossip and intrigue of society.’

At this, the rude Lord Stanton slapped his thigh with mirth and guffawed once more. ‘Ceecee, you have chosen the whitest and purest rose of London to educate our children! How you have found one so blessedly untainted by the gossips, I have no notion – but well chosen, dear wife.’

Lady Stanton smiled and inclined her head, and after a continuing moment of peculiar mirth, the Lord resumed his meal and thus his wife, my charge and I did the same.

When the sweets were served, Lord Stanton spoke once more. ‘It seems we have another acquaintance in common, Miss Swan, aside from your grandfather’s friendship with my wife’s.’

I looked at the man and then back at my food and frowned. ‘Indeed? Pray, who may this mutual acquaintance be? As I have said, I did not get about much in London and am therefore most surprised that we could know anyone in common. I rather prefer books to company, I’m afraid.’

The gentleman smiled, ‘He said as much himself.’

I felt a little something twist in my lower stomach.

‘
He?
’ I asked, ‘Please, do not tease me. I am anxious to know, of whom do you speak?’

I felt the eyes of all Stantons on me then.

‘Are you familiar with a Mr Jonathan Reeves, perchance?’

That peculiar twist in my stomach tightened once more. Of course I knew of Mr Reeves, the one – nay only – man I should ever have wished to marry.

I took some time before answering. ‘Of course, his family had a terrace not far from my London home. The Reeveses are a fine family.’

‘Fine but poor,’ Lord Stanton shook his head. ‘It’s a damnable shame so many good families went to ruin with these wars.’

I thought about the senior Mr Edward Reeves, Mr Jonathan Reeves’ elderly father, and felt an uncompromising pinch of sadness. Yet I couldn’t allow Lord Stanton to suggest these gallant and most amiable men were somehow tarnished by their situation. For I did not think thus, and nor should anyone who knew them.

‘Not ruin,’ I replied, ‘They are still very fine men. I know the Reeves sons are working well towards replenishing their family’s wealth, and with luck shall be most successful in their endeavours.’

Lord Stanton nodded sagely his sparkling eyes shrewd upon me. ‘Indeed, and well spoken Miss Swan.’

I hesitated, knowing it rudely forward to ask, but curious nonetheless. ‘How is it that you know the Reeves family, Lord Stanton?’

The Lord threw back a glass of wine and ran a hand through his hair. ‘Mr Edward Reeves oft came to Wiltshire to assist with my tenants. I have little interest in those matters, so he was very helpful in that regard. He has a way with the common folk, you see, that I do not. He’s getting on in years now, so in his stead, his son assists me; the young solicitor, Mr Jonathan Reeves.’

I felt a small, insignificant burst of happiness at the notion of perhaps seeing Mr Reeves again, but flattened it swiftly. We were nursery friends, and I have ever admired him. Still, it would not do to allow the return of overly amorous feelings towards Mr Reeves – handsome, dashing, clever and witty though he may be. The fact still remains that his family are poor, and my family are poor. If Mr Jonathan Reeves were to ever solicit me in courtship he would be a very great fool indeed. No, as a young solicitor he does not have the finances to make a marriage betwixt us function. I have always been aware of his high regard for me, and have never made secret of my regard of him. Yet romance or marriage has not been an option for either of us – and we have made it something of an unspoken agreement. Of course, Mr Reeves will rise in fortune as his career progresses, and still has the hope of making an advantageous marriage to some wealthy bride or perhaps a wealthy widow out of mourning – and I am certain one day he shall. I, on the other hand, have declined domestic life for one of learning and improvement of the mind as a governess, which will help supplement my sisters’ dowries. I do not resent my choice. I am not a beautiful woman and my sisters have better chances at advantageous marriages than I. This is simply a fact of my existence and is unlikely to change - but nor do I care for it.

Still, as I listened to Lord Stanton speak of the Reeves family, I couldn’t completely quell the uncharacteristic hopefulness that swelled in my breast at each mention of his name.

* * *

It is late now, and I sit by candlelight in my most lovely room, yet I cannot help but wonder what is occurring in this house. The peculiar interaction between Lady Stanton and the other woman in that room, and Lord Stanton’s shockingly ribald comments, have piqued my wicked curiosity.

As I sit recounting the day, I find myself lamenting that I have never listened to gossip in London. Oh, I know – I have had neither the time nor inclination for it, but this night I have found myself reconsidering that position. Mayhap if I had listened to the gossips, I would understand a little bit more about the clearly unusual situation in this house.

Is it not peculiar that I, one who aspires to the lofty heights of moral fortitude, would ever think that the vice of gossip may have some redeeming features? It is indeed something I shall ponder and consider in greater depth.

Thursday, 10 June 1813

My position as governess has commenced in earnest now. I have spent many hours over the last few evenings preparing lessons for my young charges, both of whom are clever children, eager to learn. These lesson preparations I confess have left little time for me to diarise my daily thoughts as I had hoped. I therefore apologise for the sporadic nature of my entries, but hope at length a level of coherence in narrative shall be conspicuous to the learned reader.

This day something has occurred that warrants a greater level of introspection and reflection. Any reader of my writings will understand that after my initial meeting of Lord Stanton, I began to have doubts about his character. My position on this account has not changed. The ribald humour and suspect
double
entendres
behind many of his comments has lead me to believe that he may be something of a libertine in gentleman’s clothing – and today this suspicion has been proven well-founded.

As my charges are scarcely out of infancy, of an afternoon they are required by Nanny to have a dedicated rest period. During this time, I am free to do as I wish. On previous days, I have explored the grounds and woodlands surrounding Stanton but today, I had decided to take a turn around the house itself.

Stanton is well-known for being a beautiful building, and its recent renovations have made it something of a jewel in the crown of Wiltshire. One could really not wish for a more handsome place of employ. There are several long corridors within the house, and all are well decorated with fine art, porcelains from all around the world, paintings, Greek and Roman artefacts and carvings. Why, the collections within Stanton are as handsome and as fine as the house itself.

I was walking up a long vaulted hall looking at the works. I like to think I have a good eye for the finer things, and had paused before marvellous marble statue of Achilles battling the Amazon Penthesilea. As a woman who wishes for independence, I have a place in my heart for the Greek heroic tales of Penthesilea and her sisters. Such strong women, with lives cut so brutally short by the men eager to dominate them. Was the fate of the Amazons not echoed countless times after, even today? Were not men still forcing women to submit to them, whether it be their daughters or their wives? Were not countless ladies, many of my own peers in fact, pushed into arranged marriages to serve men and bear children? I knew the truth of it, even if others seemed blind.

I stared at the marble Penthesilea, her beautiful face contorted in eternal agony by a futile battle. Her breast had fallen from her dress, as she collapsed before Achilles beaten but defiant. I glanced up at Achilles’ face, so stern, enraged.

Was every woman a Penthesilea, Hippolyta or Melanippe?

As I pondered this profound notion I heard a most peculiar sound; a giggle, a grunt and whispers. I frowned; the very skin of my arms prickled beneath my shawl. I stood still once more, looking from the agonised face of Penthesilea down the corridor towards the sound’s origin.

More grunting - undeniably masculine grunting.

A gentle feminine cry.

Something verily tightened in my belly at the sound. I found myself abandoning the statue of the suffering Amazon and begin to walk down the corridor. I confess my interest in the epic battles of the statues and the delights of the magnificent portraits that decorated the walls had diminished. I felt a peculiar sense of urgency lead me forwards towards the mysterious and strangely exciting sounds.

Within a moment, I stopped before a closed door, certainly the home of the noises. They were much louder now and I could discern a repetitious pattern to them. A male growl followed by a reciprocal female cry, again and again. At this proximity the cries were accompanied by a regular thumping. Something more southerly than my belly warmed and my heart began to beat a tempo faster.

I thought perhaps to peek through the keyhole – but quickly decided against it. Such peeping-tommery was beneath me, and though I cannot deny my furious curiosity, I would not demean myself so. I knew with that strange sense of
instinctus
that it was something most carnal and inappropriate – and yet this knowledge did not so much disgust me as excite me. I wanted to see what was occurring in that room, and though I knew a lady such as myself ought not wish such things I found myself unable to stem the desire.

I knew no man of fine breeding should attempt such activities in daylight hours – and most certainly a male was in that room. An argument formed in my head, to justify my curiosity. Was it not my moral duty to interrupt the proceedings – if they were so suspect? Whomever it was in that room – no doubt a maid and a footman – were wickedly taking advantage of their employers’ gentle natures and must be stopped.

Yes, indeed! Such acts of amorality should not be taking place under this hallowed roof – and in interrupting the proceedings I could also quench my curiosity about the act itself.

The sounds from within the room increased in urgency again. The thumping, the grunting, the gasping seemed to reach a feverish pace. My face burned, and I am ashamed to admit that other, more private places seemed to strangely reciprocate the heat. I placed my hand on the gilt doorknob and twisted it silently. Before I became too perturbed, I opened the door a small amount and slipped inside.

Well, words cannot accurately recreate the scene that met mine eyes. A woman, whom I immediately recognised as the nurse Nancy, reclined upon a writing desk, her face a mask of agony or pleasure, cast towards the ceiling. Her skirts were pushed up high above her waist. Her state of
deshabille
was alarming, but it was nothing to what was occurring betwixt her legs. They were splayed wide and parted by the form of a tall man who stood between them. For a time I took little note of anything but the taut, bared buttocks that clenched and pulsed with each lunge forward.

My mouth felt dry as I absorbed the scene before me. The man’s breeches were crumpled about his boots, his legs long and dusted with fine hair. Yet all these details seemed perfunctory, meaningless, as I became mesmerised by the increasingly brutal rhythm and motion of his hips and buttocks as he sought some kind of salvation betwixt Nancy’s open thighs. I could not much see his male parts, buried as they were within the wet nurse, but as he withdrew, I caught a glimpse of a smooth, glistening, ruddy pink rod before he buried himself once more.

‘Ah,’ he grunted as his flesh slapped hers.

‘Oh yes, Milord, yes, like that,’ Nancy cried, her voice high and tight. She twisted her head against the surface of the writing desk, freeing her hair from its cap, as her body rocked with force of the man’s rut.

I was struck instantly with the image of Penthesilea’s agonised face as Achilles gripped her. Was I perversely witnessing the degradations of an Amazon? Was this the ancient, most primal battle betwixt man and woman? The notion exhilarated me. Yet, would I never experience it myself? As this thought confounded me, I did not grasp the meaning of the nurse’s verbal ejaculation.

Then it struck me.
Milord?

I gasped out aloud, foolishly. Nancy’s eyes fluttered open, and caught me standing beside the door.

‘Milord!’ she shrieked again her hands flying to her skirts.

‘Hush girl, hush now, I’ve nearly got to it …’ Lord Stanton’s hips flexed and tensed with even greater momentum, and Nancy’s body shuddered beneath the force. My hand flew to my mouth to stifle another gasp. Nancy scrabbled wildly beneath the Lord’s ministrations, her eyes wide and terrified by the discovery that her lover still remained so oblivious to.

‘Ah, little cat! You love it a little wild – do you not? ’ Lord Stanton gasped and laughed a little as his hands went to Nancy’s thighs, gripping them tight and holding them yet wider.

I knew I ought leave, lest Lord Stanton discover my interruption – yet my body seemed to refuse my suggestion. I felt something heavy and peculiar betwixt my own legs, when, in his fervour, Lord Stanton withdrew to renew his thrusting and I glimpsed the hairy, reddened, wet flesh of Nancy’s most private place. Would mine own flesh look thus, if ever I were to take a man there? My womb tightened with the thought.