Virtue of a Governess (36 page)

“I didn’t realise I’d hurt him so severely all those years ago. I am sorry for that.”

He patted her hand. “It was an unintentional hurt, my dear. You know, anniversaries can be dreadful things.” Belfroy sighed. “They make people remember things that are better left alone.” He patted her arm. “Come, this isn’t the occasion for sadness. Smile, my dear, or your husband will have me locked away for upsetting you.”

Grinning at the remark, Nicola covered his hand with hers. “He wouldn’t dare, he knows how much you mean to me.”

“Nicola. Mr Belfroy.” Florence, holding up the skirt of her green gown hurried towards them. “It’s time for the speeches.”

The serious expression she wore made Nicola want to laugh. “Why are you looking so worried? You won’t be talking in front of everyone.”

Florence, a twinkle of mischief in her eyes, dropped her skirt and straightened her shoulders. “Being second in charge does have its advantages, you know.”

With her free arm, Nicola slipped it through Florence’s. Together the three of them walked back up the garden to the paved area where people waited, eating and drinking. She left Florence to help Mr Belfroy get ready and quickly stepped over to Fran, who stood behind one of the refreshment tables. “What are you doing? We hired staff to serve.”

Fran rolled her eyes. “I thought I’d just help out for a moment as they got a little busy and well…I couldn’t let them struggle for the want of hands.”

Hiding a smile, Nicola gestured for her to come out from behind there. “You should be staying with your fiancé, the poor man.”

“Oh, he’s right enough. He was debating with the mayor about the state of the roads near his shop.” Fran stood on tiptoe seeking out John Lawson, the baker and son of Mrs Lawson, who helped at the soup kitchen. John had courted Fran for eight years and she finally agreed to marry him next spring. The difference in their stations caused gossip at first, but Fran didn’t bat an eyelid at that, as Nicola knew she wouldn’t.

Nicola searched too, but for a different reason. “Have you seen the children?”

“The girls were here…” Fran looked around, acknowledging certain guests with a nod of her head and a cheery smile. “Milly was holding Thea’s hand. They might have been looking for you or Bertha.”

“I told Bertha to keep a close watch on them today. There’s too many people around and you know how little Thea is, she’ll be trampled.”

“That’s why Milly was holding her hand, mothering her, but I could tell she was bursting to run off and play.” Fran laughed.

Nicola raised an eyebrow. Her daughters were total opposites. Milly, at six years of age was dark like her father and older brother. Boldly beautiful, she behaved like a boy, which exasperated Nicola and consequently Milly was the apple of her Aunt Fran’s eye. Whereas, Thea, only four, was a delicate image of Nicola and adored by her father. Most times, when Thea couldn’t be found, one only had to look for Nathaniel and Thea would be close by.

“There they are.” Fran pointed to the area past the tea tables to a group of children sitting on the grass. Miss Barker was handing out macaroons to them. “They are completely happy, so go and enjoy yourself.”

“Mama.” Nicola twisted around as Nicholas tugged on her sleeve. “Mama, I’ve lost my spinning top.”

Before Nicola could reply, Fran took his hand. “Come, Nicky, I’ll help you find it.”

Nicola pushed back his light brown hair tenderly. He was a boy version of his father, complete with his violet eyes that Nicola adored so much. “You look hot, my love. Go with Aunt Fran and get a drink, then ask the others to help find your top.” She watched them weave through the people and her heart swelled with love and happiness.

She turned as Florence drew the crowd together and announced Mr Belfroy. The people grew quiet and Nicola stepped closer to the house steps where Mr Belfroy stood.

“The poor fellow appears tired,” Nathaniel suddenly whispered in her ear from behind.

“He’s old,” she whispered back, sad at the thought.

“He’s lasted longer than any of us believed he would.”

She looked up at him from over her shoulder and felt his hands on her waist. He kissed her cheek and then concentrated on listening to Belfroy. Apart from a dusting of grey in his hair and the odd line around his eyes, Nathaniel was still the handsomest man she’d ever seen. Over the years, her love for him had only grown and deepened.

Within minutes, Belfroy was introducing her and indicating for Nicola to go up and join him on the steps. Taking a deep breath, she walked up to stand beside him and faced the crowd, who clapped loudly.

Smiling, she paused, and gathered her thoughts. So many familiar faces looked at her, friends, acquaintances and most importantly, former and current governesses. She took a deep breath. “Distinguished guests, ladies and gentlemen, family and friends. Thank you all for coming on this special day as we celebrate ten years of Mr Belfroy’s Home for Governesses being open.” Another round of clapping started and as she waited for it to ease, Nathaniel winked encouragingly.

Straightening her shoulders, Nicola raised her chin so her voice would carry. “Early in eighteen sixty seven, I heard Miss Maria Rye speak at an assembly. This great lady, who works tirelessly for the good of single, educated ladies, inspired me to come to Australia to work as a governess. Little did I know I would be working to help these dedicated women rather than be one. I am proud of what has been achieved here and my part in it.” She paused and stared lovingly at her family. “But let me begin at the beginning…”

By

Maggi Andersen

1894 Clapham, England

Vanessa Ashley planned to arrive at her destination cool and composed, but she felt like a wilting lily. She dabbed her handkerchief at the sweat trickling into her collar as heat gathered beneath her chip-straw bonnet. Clapham High Street Railway Station was a noisy and smelly hub of activity, luckily the residence that was to be her new home lay in the countryside.

A short, bearded man approached her and politely touched his hat. “For Falconbridge Hall, miss?”

“Yes, I’m Miss Ashley. Thank you . . . Mr.?”

“They just call me Capstick, Miss Ashley. This way.” He led her to a trap. After he’d loaded her trunk and her bicycle on board, they seated themselves. He slapped the reins and told the horse to walk on. “You’re the new governess?”

She smiled. “Yes.”

“Another one,” he muttered and shook his head.

Startled, Vanessa stared at him. “How many have there been?”

“A few. They don’t stay long.”

“But why?”

Capstick declined to comment. He just grunted and shook his head.

“Well, I intend to.” Vanessa straightened her shoulders. It was true she had never wished to be a governess. Even though she was still quite young, her wish for children of her own now seemed unlikely, and if this was to be her fate, she intended to make the best of it. A person without funds, indifferent looks, and a lack of grace had no other course open to them.

“Good luck to yer, then.” Capstick grinned at her, revealing a large gap in his front teeth.

With reassuring skill, he negotiated around a horse-drawn tram as they passed the bandstand on the common and then drove down tree-lined avenues. Villas were soon replaced by streets of gracious homes set amid beautiful gardens. A sign, reading Clapham Park Estate, appeared, followed by larger country houses on acreages.

They passed the last of the houses and were out in the countryside now. Green fields crisscrossed by hedgerows stretched away to a line of forest in the distance. The trap followed the road beside a high brick wall for about a mile until they came to a pair of impressive wrought iron gates with Falconbridge Hall emblazoned on them in gold lettering. Capstick drove through, and a house appeared above the trees. Many chimneys rose from the massive slate roof.

Ahead of them, a stocky dark-haired man rode a magnificent bay horse across the lawn and vaulted a hedge. Vanessa had a glimpse of dark, gypsy eyes and a white smile beneath a black moustache. Before they drew level, he turned the animal and rode towards the woods.

“Who was that?” she couldn’t help asking, watching him disappear into the trees.

“That’s the groom, Lovel, exercising the master’s horse.” Capstick shook his head. “The gardeners will not be pleased.”

The gravel drive bordered by lime trees curved around through formal gardens to the front of the house where he left her, disappearing with her trunk and bicycle toward the rear entrance and, she presumed, the coach house and stables.

The sprawling red brick house had sandstone trim around the windows and a tower at one end, ivy covered its walls. It was older and far bigger than those they’d passed on their way from the station. The house had settled into its surroundings, and she had the feeling it had been here for a very long time while the urban sprawl of Clapham edged ever closer.

Conscious that she looked rumpled and untidy, Vanessa smoothed the skirt of her olive green linen dress and straightened the limp white collar with travel-stained cotton gloves. She picked up her bag and stepped up to the paneled door flanked by stout white columns.

Before she could knock, a maid wearing a mobcap and a white apron over her grey floral dress opened the door. “Miss Ashley? Please come in.”

Surprised not to be met by a butler in such an establishment, Vanessa stepped into the wide entrance hall. One of those new inventions, the telephone sat on a table. A fine Persian carpet ran the length of the parquet floor, pale green satin papered the walls, and fringed and tasseled emerald velvet drapes hung from the windows. Potted ferns clustered in corners, and a gracious staircase led upward. Despite fractured light filtering down from a stained-glass window above the stair, the house was so gloomy inside dusk might have fallen.

“The master’s in his study, miss. Please wait here while I announce you.”

Vanessa sank gratefully onto the edge of a straight-backed chair. It had been hours since she’d had a drink, and her mouth was horribly parched. Now her knees had developed a worrying tendency to tremble. To distract herself, she studied the remarkable flesh tones on the naked woman’s torso of the oil painting hanging on the opposite wall. A François Boucher if she was not mistaken. More flesh than was decent, surely.

Her father had preferred the sea and boats as his subjects. He considered the naked body to be soft pornography and not fine art but altered his opinion after nudes became an important asset to any wealthy man’s collection and began to fetch high prices. More than once, Vanessa had come across nude models posing in his studio, barely covered by drapery and, sometimes, wearing nothing at all.

At the thought of her father and their home in Cornwall, a wave of homesickness passed over her; she had never envisaged such a drastic change in fortune. She swallowed and focused her mind on the letter and the offer that had brought her here.

In his fine script, the viscount had been brief and to the point. He was a widower with a young daughter in need of tutoring. An associate of her uncle’s had approached him on her behalf. She’d read his words with disquiet. He sounded so business-like and … unsympathetic. He had been informed that her mother and father died from the influenza, but his few words of condolence failed to make her more confident of what lay ahead.

The maid’s head appeared over the banister rail. “The master will see you now.”

Vanessa walked up the wide oak stair to where the maid awaited outside a door. A deep voice answered her knock. Vanessa turned the knob thinking how she would have liked to wash before meeting her new employer; it was difficult to appear cool and in control when so hot.

The room she entered was also gloomy. A gas lamp glowed where a man sat in shirtsleeves and braces, his dark head bent over a desk. She took two uncertain steps and paused in the middle of a crimson Persian rug. Vanessa clasped her hands together and inspected the room. Shelves of leather-bound books lined one wall. Heavy bronze velvet drapes, pulled halfway across the small-paned windows, framed a narrow but magnificent view of parkland where broad graveled walks trailed away through well-grown trees. She suffered a sudden urge to walk across, pull the curtains back and throw open a window.

Lord Falconbridge put down the butterfly under-glass he had been examining and pushed back his leather chair, rising to his feet. As she edged closer, he donned his coat and came to shake her hand. “Miss Ashley.”

“How do you do, my lord?”

He motioned her to sit then sat himself.

He would be in his mid-thirties, she guessed. His good looks made her feel even more untidy. His dark hair swept off a widow’s peak, and he had a deep cleft in his chin. He removed his glasses, and his eyes were a similar bright blue to the butterfly. Dark brows met in an absent-minded frown as if she was an unwelcome distraction. “Welcome to Falconbridge Hall. I hope you had a good journey?”

“Yes, thank you, my lord.”

“You’ve come quite a long way. You must be tired.”

“I broke my journey with an aunt in Taunton, my lord.” Her aunt was quite elderly, and Vanessa had slept on the sofa, but she didn’t feel at all tired. She expected fatigue would strike once the initial rush of excitement had faded.

“My sympathies for your loss, Miss Ashley.”

“Thank you.”

“You have had no experience as a governess, I believe.”

“No.”

“Do you like children?”

“Very much, my lord.”

“Then you have had some involvement with them.”

“Yes, I was very fond of my neighbors’ children. I minded them quite often as their parents were both in business.”

“You had no opportunity to marry in Cornwall?”

“I had one offer, my lord.” The widowed vicar, Harold Ponsonby, had offered, in an attempt to rescue her from the heathenish den of iniquity in which he found her.

He eyed her. “And you refused him?”

Might he think her imprudent? “Yes.”

“Do you have a particular skill, Miss Ashley, which you can impart to my daughter?”