The Highlander And The Governess. Michelle Willingham
Scotland—1813
Everything will be all right.
Frances Goodson suppressed the tremor of nerves in her stomach, uncertain whether it was panic or luncheon that roiled within her now. But she stiffened her spine and reminded herself to find her courage. It didn’t matter that she was alone or that her family had turned their backs on her. She had an offer of employment and a roof over her head. Surely it would be enough.
The agency had trained her to be an excellent governess, although this was her first position. She had never expected to choose this path, but when a lady became destitute, there was no choice but to resort to desperate measures. At least being a governess was somewhat respectable, even if it was not the life she had planned.
Frances prided herself on her education, and she felt confident that the Laird of Locharr would be quite pleased with her work. His daughter would become the toast of London after the young girl completed her lessons in etiquette—she was convinced of it.
She gripped her hands together before smoothing the grey bombazine dress she wore. Her blonde curls had been tamed and pressed inside a matching grey bonnet, and she looked all the world like a virtuous woman. No one in Scotland would know about her past. This was a new life for her, a new country, and a new beginning.
It was a pity that her new beginning involved torrential rain. It slapped against the windows of the coach in punishing sheets of water. Scotland was rather formidable, so it seemed. A heavy mist lingered in the air, obscuring her view. Even so, she would not let the terrible weather dampen her mood. She tried to imagine a blue sky with puffy white clouds, for surely it could not rain all the time.
The coach pulled to a stop in front of the laird’s castle, and Frances craned her neck to look at the grey stone fortification. It looked like something out of a haunted fairy-tale. She counted seven towers nestled at even intervals around the castle, with arched windows and parapets. Best of all, it overlooked the sea, resting atop a cliffside. She’d never expected Lachlan MacKinloch to own a castle of this size. It was far larger than she’d imagined, and she was beginning to wonder exactly how wealthy the Laird of Locharr was.
Although her heart was pounding out of anxiety, another part of her was delighted to live in a castle—even if it was only for a year or two. How many young ladies could boast of such a thing? Not many, she’d wager.
Frances let her imagination take flight as she envisioned giving history lessons in a room with stone walls and perhaps a medieval suit of armour in the corner. Or, if the laird’s daughter did not care for exciting stories of knights and battles, perhaps she could give the young lady botany lessons in the garden. She smiled at the thought, hoping his daughter would be a sweet girl, eager to learn.
That is, if he had a daughter.
A spear of uneasiness thrust into her stomach. She hadn’t really considered the possibility of a boy. The agency had been vague about her pupil’s age, saying only that the laird required an experienced governess who could train a student in manners and etiquette of the London ton. Surely, he meant a daughter. Frances was one-and-twenty herself, but she had been brought up as a well-bred young lady. Her mother had drilled her in all the lessons necessary for finding a good husband. She was completely confident in her ability and knowledge, even if she had been unable to use it for her own purpose.
Frances supposed it was possible that the laird had a young son who was not old enough to be sent off to school. She had no information about the child, but that didn’t matter. She had prepared for anything, and the agency had given her a trunk filled with borrowed books for all ages.
The coachman opened the door and held out an umbrella for her. Frances took a deep breath, gathering command of her nerves. She straightened her posture and raised her chin, hoping that if she behaved in a confident manner, her courage would return. ‘Thank you,’ she told the coachman as she took the umbrella.
The gravel was soft beneath her feet, and she was careful not to step in any puddles. Behind her, the coachman followed with her bags. She didn’t see a servants’ entrance, but instead walked up the main stairs. It was possible that inquisitive eyes were watching her from the windows.
Frances knocked at the door and waited. It took some time before the door opened, and she saw an elderly footman with snowy hair and a white beard. ‘Are ye lost, then, lass?’
She straightened and said, ‘I am Miss Frances Goodson, the new governess. The Laird of Locharr sent for me. I have come to instruct his daughter.’ Frances forced a smile on her face, clenching her shaking hands.
‘The laird has no daughter,’ the footman replied.
Oh, dear. Panic caught her in the stomach, and Frances blurted out, ‘Then he must have a son in need of my tutelage?’
‘The laird has no children. I’ll bid ye a good day and be on your way, Miss.’
No children? Before she could make sense of that, the footman started to close the door. No—she could not let him throw her out. Not until she had answers. Frances stuck out her foot to hold the door open. From her pocket, she withdrew the letter she had received from the laird and held it out. ‘Then please explain this to me, sir. I have travelled hundreds of miles to be here, and if there has been some mistake, I need to know what has happened.’
The footman took the letter, but before he could unfold it, a voice commanded, ‘Let her inside, Alban.’
Frances didn’t stop to wonder who had given the order, but she closed the umbrella and stepped across the threshold. Her gown was damp from the rain, and she tried to smooth it as she gathered her composure. Then she squared her shoulders as the laird approached.
Lachlan MacKinloch was the tallest man she’d ever seen. Judging by his broad shoulders and raw strength, he looked like an ancient warrior more accustomed to wearing chainmail than a kilt. His brown hair was unfashionably long and rested upon his shoulders. There was a faint tint of red to it, and his blue eyes stared at her as if he didn’t quite know what to make of her. Across his cheek, she saw an angry jagged scar. It made him appear more of a monster than a man, but she forced herself not to look away. From his fierce scowl, he appeared to be accustomed to frightening others.
Frances didn’t know what was going on or why this man had hired her. If he had no children, then the footman was right—there was no reason for her to be here. She couldn’t, for the life of her, understand