The Unconventional Governess. Jessica Nelson
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Swallowing a smart retort, Henrietta opened the paper. Her shock increased with every line. Her fingers trembled as she read. Her heartbeat strummed to a near stop. Feeling very grim indeed, she set the letter to the side. “I suppose you know all about this?”
“It had been discussed.”
According to the letter, Uncle had left England without her. He had gone to Wales in order to instruct more students, but felt that Henrietta was in no shape to be traveling. He asked Lady Brandewyne to watch over Henrietta until he returned. He worried for her safety. He no longer believed a woman’s place should be assisting him at wartime, serving the poor souls of wounded soldiers. Henrietta’s battle with rheumatic fever had shown him that he wanted her safe in England, away from illness and the ravages of war. He did not believe her heart could sustain the exhaustion of working in the field again.
“Well?”
“He wants me to stay in England,” she said flatly. As she had expected, but to have it confirmed was more of a shock than she realized it would be.
“A wise decision. You are of marriageable age. The orphan daughter of an earl. Your plainness is not detracting, and your form is comely. We shall get you to London, spiff you up and find you a baron in no time. Perhaps even a viscount?”
“I have no dowry, nothing to bring to marriage but my bloodline. An engagement is out of the question.”
“A baronet, then.”
Henrietta squared her shoulders. Her life was with Uncle William, practicing medicine. He might not want her there, out of misplaced fear, but she would prove those fears to be unfounded. Time for her alternate plan.
“I shall search for a post until I have the money to join my uncle. Will you write a letter of recommendation?”
“Certainly, but I cannot approve such nonsense. This makes me quite unhappy, Henrietta.”
“Happiness is ephemeral. I have no doubt it shall return to you shortly. In the meantime, I will begin searching for a position somewhere.” She paused. “I would ask discretion from you on this matter. Please do not say anything to my uncle at this time.”
Lady Brandewyne’s hand went to her mouth. “You are not telling him?”
“I think it’s best to find the position first, and I do not wish to worry him.”
She nodded, but there was a worried glint in her eyes. “Secrets are unwise.”
“It is not a secret,” Henrietta assured her. “I would like to tell him myself, though.”
“Very well.”
Satisfied, Henrietta nodded. After tea, she immediately wrote two letters of inquiry to nearby neighbors whom Lady Brandewyne intimated were looking for governesses. She left them with the butler to be delivered later.
Knowing that Lord St. Raven was now without a governess offered a slight temptation. She disliked his effect on her nerves, yet she found herself reflecting on his unexpected kindness toward the governess who had left.
No doubt Louise would prove an apt pupil. Very bright and most likely challenging. And then they were both orphans. Oh, how she sympathized with the child. She did not want to teach her, though. It would require a great deal of stamina, patience and forethought. And time.
Then there was St. Raven... She did not want to be a governess in his household. Only the most severe of circumstances would change her mind. She prayed he healed quickly so that he could leave.
An uncharacteristic restlessness plagued her. Dinner was not to be ready for several hours, so she wandered into the gardens. Lady Brandewyne kept a well-stocked pond at the edge of the path. Succulent flowers hugged the stone walkway, growing in wild, colorful profusion. The path itself was neatly groomed, creating a relaxing walk for Henrietta. She had not been outdoors yet today, and the gentle breeze riding on muted sunlight that filtered through the leaves of ancient oaks soothed her thoughts.
They had been hard to ignore.
She supposed she could be a companion of sorts to Lady Brandewyne, but their dispositions were so very different that no doubt it would not be long before they came to a disagreement. Henrietta felt no inclination to hold her tongue, and though she’d had lessons in deportment and the requirements of polite society, when her parents died, everything changed.
She no longer had the patience required to be an English lady.
She had discovered that good manners were unnecessary when struggling to save a soldier from death’s embrace. One did not need to wear the proper style to nurse back to health a child ravaged by fever. While helping Uncle William in the Americas, she had grown used to making her own decisions and speaking her mind without the petty rules of etiquette she’d been raised to hold dear.
And now he’d left her to the clutches of a traditional Englishwoman bent on finding her a husband. How could he?
She sank down onto a pretty stone bench nestled beneath a poplar some distance from the pond. Butterflies danced in fluttering abandonment around her, blissfully unaware of the bitter disappointment that tainted their visitor’s respite. She sighed deeply, closing her eyes to pray in the personal way she’d discovered overseas.
Treating God as a kind and heavenly Father was not something she’d learned from her family. Rather, a soldier recovering from an amputated leg had introduced her to a new perspective of God. She’d found the discovered relationship with her creator healed a void even Uncle William could not fill.
There was still pain, though. The loss of her parents remained a bruise within, sometimes unnoticed, but always tender to the touch.
She prayed now for wisdom, for forgiveness, because she resented that Uncle William had left her. She prayed that God would open a way for her to join him. Provide the funding.
The earl had called her a hard woman. The comment resonated uncomfortably, and she pushed thoughts of him from her mind.
When she finished praying, she simply sat and breathed. It was a lovely day, to be sure. Too lovely to squander. Nearby, a twig cracked. Then another. Louise emerged on the far side of the path, from a small copse of flowering bushes. Leaves stuck out from her hair and dirt stains smeared the front of her dress.
“Good afternoon,” Henrietta said.
“What were you doing with your eyes closed?”
“I was praying.”
“I don’t pray anymore.” Louise plopped beside Henrietta without any consideration of space. Her dress brushed against Henrietta’s hand. “Did you know that when my parents’ carriage crashed, Father was decapitated?” She paused for dramatic effect. “I plan to visit the place where they died. I overheard the servants saying it was a gruesome sight.” The girl stared wide-eyed at Henrietta, perhaps waiting for her to faint from a fit of the oh-so-feminine vapors.
Henrietta had never been afflicted by such a malady.
She felt a deep empathy for the child, who was obviously struggling with coming to terms with her parents’ death. Instead of allowing herself to heal, she tried to remove herself from the pain by speaking about the situation in an objective way, by covering the terrible tragedy with a blanket of detachment and, to some, shocking commentary.
She thought it best to match the child’s coping with equally objective answers.
“Death is never pretty.” She met Louise’s aggressive expression with a sober look. “Charlotte Corday is rumored to have looked at her executioner after her beheading at the guillotine.”
Louise gaped.
“However,” Henrietta continued calmly, “you are quite right in your comment that a beheading is a messy affair. Unless you’re a chicken. Then perhaps it would be less untidy.”
“A chicken?”
“Due