A Lady Becomes A Governess. Diane Gaston
‘We may be comfortable there.’
The two women settled in Rebecca’s cabin, seating themselves across from each other at the small table. Through the small porthole choppy waves spewed white foam.
Rebecca bit her tongue. Instead of blurting out Why do you look like me? she asked, ‘Where are you bound, Miss Tilson?’
‘To a family in the Lake District. Not a family, precisely. Two little girls whose parents were killed in an accident. They are in the care of their uncle now, the new Viscount Brookmore.’
‘How sad.’ Rebecca had been nearly grown when she lost her parents to illness.
‘And you, Lady Rebecca? Where are you bound?’ Miss Tilson spoke without the hint of an Irish brogue, Rebecca noticed. As did Rebecca. She’d lost her accent in a Reading boarding school.
‘To London,’ she replied.
‘London!’ Miss Tilson smiled. ‘How exciting. I was there once. It was so...vital.’
‘Vital, indeed.’ Except Rebecca had no wish to go there. London would be a prison to her. With Lord Stonecroft.
Miss Tilson’s eyes—so like her own—narrowed. ‘You sound as if you do not wish to go.’
Rebecca met her gaze. ‘I do not. I travel there to be married.’
The young woman’s brows rose. ‘Married?’
Rebecca waved a hand. ‘It is an arranged marriage. My brother’s idea.’
‘And you do not wish to marry this man?’
‘Not at all.’ She straightened in her chair. Marrying Stonecroft was the last thing she wished to talk about. ‘May I change the subject?’
Miss Tilson blinked. ‘Forgive me. I did not mean to pry.’
Rebecca shrugged. ‘Perhaps I will tell you the whole story later.’ She leaned forward. ‘For now I am bursting with questions. Why do we look alike? How can this be? Are we related somehow?’
They traded stories of parentage and lineage, but nothing seemed to connect them. Miss Tilson’s family had been gentry. Her mother died giving birth to her and her overwhelmed and grieving father put her in the care of nurses and governesses and finally to school in Bristol when her father died, leaving her to fend for herself. She’d come to Ireland to be a governess and was now on her way to a new position.
Rebecca, on the other hand, was the daughter of an English earl whose estate was in Ireland, but she’d spent much of her life in England, in that boarding school in Reading.
Rebecca blew out an exasperated breath. ‘We are no closer to understanding this. We are not related—’
‘But we look alike,’ Miss Tilson finished for her. ‘An unexpected coincidence?’
There was a mirror affixed to the wall. They stood and gazed into it.
‘We are not identical,’ Miss Tilson observed. ‘Look.’
Rebecca’s two front teeth were slightly more prominent, her eyebrows more arched, her eyes a bit wider.
‘No one would notice unless we were standing next to each other,’ Miss Tilson added.
‘Our clothes set us apart. That is for certain.’ Rebecca swung away from the mirror to face Miss Tilson instead of her image. ‘If you wore my clothes, I’d wager anyone would take you for me.’
‘I cannot imagine wearing fine clothes like yours.’ Her likeness sighed.
‘You must wear them then,’ Rebecca said impulsively. ‘Let us change clothes and impersonate each other for the voyage. It will be a great lark. We will see if anyone notices.’
Miss Tilson shook her head. ‘Your clothes are too fine for you to give up. Mine are plain.’
‘Precisely. But I believe people pay more attention to dress than to other aspects of one’s appearance. Perhaps even more than one’s character. In any event, I think there is nothing undesirable about wearing a simple dress.’
The other woman touched the fine vigonia wool of Rebecca’s travelling dress. ‘I confess, I would love to wear a gown like this.’
‘Then you shall!’ Rebecca turned her back to her. ‘Unbutton me.’
They undressed down to their shifts and traded dresses, acting as each other’s maids. Miss Tilson pulled Rebecca’s hair into a simple knot at the back of her head. Rebecca placed Miss Tilson’s hair—it even felt like her own—high on her head and arranged curling tendrils around her face.
They checked their images in the mirror again and laughed.
There was a rap at the door.
Rebecca grinned. ‘Answer the door as me.’
Miss Tilson blanched. ‘I could not.’
Rebecca gave her a little shove. ‘Of course you can!’
Miss Tilson straightened into a more regal bearing and opened the door. Rebecca returned to her seat at the table.
The seaman who’d warned them to stay in their cabins balanced a tray as the boat continued to pitch. ‘Some refreshment, m’lady,’ he said to Miss Tilson.
Miss Tilson lifted her chin. ‘Thank you.’
Rebecca stole one quick glance at the seaman before averting her face.
Miss Tilson gestured to Rebecca. ‘Miss Tilson passes the time with me. Will you bring her food here for her?’
‘That I will, miss.’ The crewman stepped into the cabin and placed the tray on the table. He returned a moment later with two more trays. ‘Your maid, miss?’
Miss Tilson’s gaze darted quickly to Rebecca, who pretended not to notice. The governess finally answered, ‘My—my maid is resting. Perhaps you might leave her tray here, as well? We will tend to her.’
The seaman bowed. ‘Very good, miss.’ He placed both trays on the table.
When he left, Rebecca glanced up and they stared wide-eyed at each other.
‘I was afraid he would notice we look alike,’ Rebecca said. ‘He must have glimpsed me when he left the trays.’
Miss Tilson shook her head. ‘A governess is not important enough to notice, my lady.’
Their trays each held two slices of bread, some cheese and a tankard of ale with a cover on it. The two women continued to talk as they ate and Rebecca felt as if they’d known each other for ages.
As if they were sisters, although they clearly were not.
‘I believe we should call each other by our given names,’ Rebecca said. ‘It seems silly to be formal to one’s mirror image.’
Miss Tilson fluttered her lashes shyly. ‘If you desire it... Rebecca. Then I am Claire to you.’
‘Claire!’ Rebecca felt as if she were conversing with a sister.
Miss Tilson—Claire—must have felt a similar ease. ‘Might you tell me now why you do not wish to be married?’ She gave Rebecca a daring look. ‘Now that we are no longer formal?’
Rebecca stared into her tankard of ale which she held with both hands to keep it from spilling.
How could she explain?
‘A woman gives up everything by marrying,’ she said. ‘Any wealth or property she might have. Any right to decide for herself what she wishes to do. If I am to give up everything, it should be to a man who loves me and respects me and will not confine me.’
Claire’s brows rose. ‘And this man?’
Rebecca grimaced. ‘I met him only once. He merely wished to ensure himself I could produce