The Third Governess

-The Third Governess

A Regency Novel

By Agnesa Reeve-Kidney

Copyright 2011 Agnesa Reeve-Kidney

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Prologue

Beg pardon, sir, but a situation has arisen.

Anthony Linden slammed his hand down on the mantel, narrowly missing the point of a sword displayed on the wall above and setting candle flames flickering.

By God! Cannot a man enjoy an hour of peace in his own house without some fool bursting in shouting at him?

He glared at the dignified butler. Wilson remained calm. He was familiar with the Linden temper, five generations by legend and two personally.

I apologize for disturbing you, sir, but I felt you should be informed as soon as you returned that Miss Cravenly has disappeared.

Do not be idiotic. What do you mean, disappeared? You were observing this woman when she went up in a cloud of brimstone? His voice lowered a decibel. "Who is Miss Cravenly?

"The governess, Miss Lucretia Cravenly. I did not see her go, er, by brimstone or other conveyance, but she has not been seen since last evening, and her things have been removed from her room.

Along with, no doubt, other moveable objects from that apartment.

I believe not. The only item missing appears to be a piece of linen, a pillowcase. He paused. Oddly, that was true also of Miss Wapping.

Miss Wapping?

The previous governess. She departed in a similar way some six weeks ago, if you recall.

"I do not recall."

Miss Wapping also left suddenly, with no notice, and a pillowcase missing.

I cannot be expected to remember every stupid female who takes a dislike to Lindenfield. He took a large swallow of whiskey.

No, sir. What do you wish to be done?

About Miss Whatever her name is? Nothing.

Wilson's voice held no hint of impatience. About Bryan. Your son.

I do know my son's name, thank you. What about him?

Concerning his supervision. In whose care do you wish him to be placed, now that Nurse Henley has removed to her sister in Brighton?

The younger man groaned and flung his long frame into a chair by the hearth. He ran fingers through already disheveled hair.

Was anyone ever so plagued? Other people seem to obtain competent domestic help   why is this house cursed?

Wilson refrained from pointing out that the entire staff of the household, with the unfortunate exception under discussion, was of long service and utterly dependable. As the senior member of the establishment and therefore responsible for its smooth operation, he deeply regretted the present problem. He especially regretted the unexplained aspects of the problem. The fact that two employees had decamped precipitously, and with no word to himself, seemed peculiar. Wilson objected to the peculiar.

Do you wish me to inquire in the village for a woman who might qualify as a nurse?

No, I do not. I am persuaded a six year old needs more than a nursemaid.

He tossed off his whiskey and held out the empty glass to be refilled.

There is nothing else for it. I shall have again to write that old harridan in London. She may understandably think it strange that I am asking her agency to provide a female for the third time in six months. I can see her disapproval when she reads the letter. `You will promptly dispatch to Lindenfield Hall, Hawkhurst, Kent, a third governess.'

Chapter One

Night and dripping skies had joined in a wet gloom, only partly relieved by a shimmer from the windows of the inn, when the Hastings to London coach jolted into the yard. The driver swung down with an order barked to the ostler, and rolled into the taproom for the refreshment necessary to sustain him for the next leg of his journey. His passengers clambered out of the vehicle and either addressed themselves to rescuing their bundles and bags, or followed their mentor into the taproom, their choice depending on whether their own journey had come to an end or they, too, had to face more rigors of the night.

The last passenger to descend did so hesitantly, as if reluctant to join the bustle in the yard. In truth, the scene offered little welcome to a stranger, everyone hurrying about his own business as if the only important events in the universe were that his trunk be fetched and his gig hailed. If anyone had noticed the face of this last passenger, under the trim wine colored bonnet, he would have seen a fresh complexion, a straight nose, and a pair of green eyes that glanced inquiringly around the yard as their owner put a neatly shod foot on the wet cobbles. If the face in question did not reflect the first bloom of youth, neither was it past its prime. Altogether, the face and a pleasing figure suggested a lady of about twenty six or seven summers, an age sufficiently great to explain, if not excuse, the fact that an obviously gently bred female was traveling alone in a public conveyance.

Alexandra Huntingdon, for that was the lady's name, looked about her with the brisk air of one who, if not precisely at home in her surroundings, was too self possessed to betray any uneasiness. What she saw was the large yard with comfortable buildings of one of the finest hostelries on the Hastings-London road, the Cricket. Its white stuccoed exterior, dark wood lacing the upper story, and diamond paned windows glowing from the fires within, did not show any evidence of their hundred and fifty years except for the unmistakable mellowing of age.

Beyond the main building she could see a corner of the stable, a lodging anticipated with pleasure, no doubt, by the more knowledgeable of the horses who traversed the post road, as it offered dry stalls, hay innocent of mildew, and grooms persuaded by their betters to pursue their calling vigorously. All in all, the Cricket appeared, even to her relatively inexperienced eye, to be a flower of its genre.

The prosperous aura of the inn had only an unconscious effect on Alexandra, however, as she was preoccupied with a more discouraging aspect of the scene. A quick assessment of the situation showed her that there was no equipage waiting to meet her. The stage on which she had arrived was the only vehicle in the yard, and it, by now, was preparing to depart again. Alexandra directed a groom to take down her trunk and strapped valise, and set them out of the way of the restless horses and heavy wheels of the coach.

Hardly were her belongings out of harm's way when the last of the departing passengers hurried from the inn, wiping a final draught of ale from his mouth with the back of his hand. As the laggard sprang through the open door, the coachman raised his whip and his voice, the door slammed shut, and the London Accommodation lumbered through the gate and on its way.

Immediately the yard emptied. The innkeeper returned to put his taproom and kitchens to rights after the onslaughts of customers who had been hungry and thirsty, and as demanding as if they had been nobility. Ostlers loped off to their domain to take care of the team, which had been unharnessed and stood, tired and steaming, waiting for a rubdown and a generous portion of oats.

By the time the last rumble of the wheels faded on the cobbled street, Alexandra stood alone in the yard. There still was no sign of anyone who might have been sent to meet her. As if this were not enough, the rain suddenly increased from a melancholy drizzle to a veritable downpour, and Alexandra realized that she stood in imminent danger, if not of being drowned, at least of looking as if she were.

With an uncertain welcome at best, I cannot arrive wet and bedraggled. She picked up her already damp skirts and half ran toward the shelter of the inn door. With a push on the heavy oak she burst inside, a little breathless, as she shook the raindrops from her cloak.

Although the taproom appeared to be deserted, with only the distant sounds of the kitchen and the crackling fire to give it life, she suddenly had a distinct feeling she was being watched. Glancing around with some apprehension, she realized that almost hidden in a shadowed corner near the hearth was a man who, through the smoke of his cigar, was observing her with slightly raised eyebrows. His boots gleaming in the flicker of firelight, and his pose of unconscious elegance, proclaimed him a gentleman, but something in his critical gaze as he surveyed Alexandra made her shiver involuntarily.

Not above average height, Alex had learned to face the world with an erect stance that made her seem taller and with her small pugnacious chin at a haughty angle. Under this rude surveillance she tilted it a fraction higher. It was not surprising he would gaze at her, as the brisk wind had swirled her dark hair around her face in a most becoming manner, and the frosty air brushed a touch of pink across her cheeks and even the tip of her nose. Pink nose notwithstanding, the whole effect was the sudden appearance of a dashing, brunette beauty.

It was not only the wind which heightened Alexandra's color, but a rapidly increasing discomfort in her situation. She was in a public inn without even a servant, certainly no acquaintance. The village of Hawkhurst, of which she had never heard before the previous day, was no more than a modest cluster of cottages and this posting house. Furthermore, the room in which she found herself seemed to be in the possession, not of a subservient or at least accommodating landlord, but of a man who appeared at first glance to be unpleasant, or worse.

For a moment she stood, undecided whether to venture farther into the room or retreat to wait outside. Whether it was the sound of the drumming rain, the invitation of the blaze roaring in the huge fireplace, or a refusal to be daunted by the unsettling regard of a stranger, Alexandra gave what would have been a toss of the head in one less well brought up, and advanced to the exact center of the seven foot wide hearth. With an unbidden sigh of pleasure as warmth touched her chill hands, she undid the strings of her bonnet and shook her damp curls into a shimmering cap. It was certainly a matter of indifference to her that a complete stranger whom she would never see again should stare in that objectionable manner. In fact she had practically forgotten there was anyone else in the room.

She unbuttoned her cloak and spread it carefully over the bench to dry; it was fine melton cloth and who knew how long it might be before she could afford to buy such another.

At least, she reflected, Lady Longacre was punctilious in paying the wages owed to me, even if she did have too unforgiving a nature to give me a reference.

Most of that hard earned salary the impulsive young lady had immediately transferred to a certain Mlle. Celeste, in exchange for a wardrobe designed to give her the courage to continue being a governess by not looking like one, and thereby dressing with an understated elegance so annoying to employers of governesses.

The ladies in whose households she had lived detested the effect achieved by exquisite fabrics cut perfectly to fit her slender figure, but as the colors were subdued and the patterns conservative, they were at a loss to find specific points to criticize.

It was certainly unsuitable for a person in her position to enter the dining room looking like a fashion plate but if, for example, the offensive dress were a close fitting blue wool of simple lines, with only a row of the tiniest black velvet bows from throat to hem, more than one satin upholstered and diamond studded dowager had found herself quite unable to explain to Miss Huntingdon why she was garbed in a manner not befitting her humble status in the household.

It was equally impossible to find fault with that erect posture- so exactly what they wished their daughters to acquire but imbuing the governess with an aristocratic air they deplored.

The traveling dress now revealed when Alexandra laid aside her wrap was of a particular shade of warm gray and cut in the latest mode. There was nothing of the sober spinster in the dark curled, rosy cheeked young woman who held her hands out stretched to the blazing logs.

As the cold began to leave her fingers, and the heat of the stone floor to penetrate the soles of her half boots, Alex became aware that she was still under close observation, and remembered to feel uneasy. She was somewhat relieved to reassure herself that he did look like a gentleman, as a glance from under the fringe of her dark lashes told her. A lean frame, carelessly arranged, nevertheless conveyed the idea of force, an impression enhanced by a dark, harsh featured countenance and cool grey eyes, now watching her with slight interest.

A log slipped, sending a shower of sparks onto the hearth at Alex's feet. The clock standing near the door ticked. The dim clatter of distant activity sifted into the room. The rain beat upon the windows, and the wind whined softly as it tried the window sashes and doorsill, then, frustrated, whirled away around the corner.

The man in the shadows smoked silently, the aroma of his cigar mingling with the fragrance of burning logs.

Increasingly ill at ease, Alex wished the stout innkeeper she had seen greet the coach would come in.

I might go look for him, she considered, but doubtless he is somewhere deep in the labyrinth of kitchens and halls, and how in the world would I go about finding him? It would not be the thing for a lady, however valiant, to go wandering about a strange public house. Surely he would come in presently.

The tick of the clock seemed to get louder. The smoker continued idly to contemplate her, and she began to feel rising to her face a flush not caused by the heat of the fire. Just as she was resolving that anything would be better than staying in the taproom, even venturing to look for the landlord, the gentleman rose, threw his cigar into the fire, and strode to a door in the farther end of the room.

At least he is leaving, Alex thought with relief. He did not exit, however, but opened door and called Landlord! in an authoritative tone.

Almost immediately footsteps were hurrying down the hall, and the landlord bustled in, saying as he entered Yes sir, how can I serve you, sir?

Someone to see you, a prospective chambermaid or bar maid, I've no doubt, the infuriating gentleman said, indicating Alexandra. I recommend you keep an eye on her if you hire her though, as she seems inclined to laze by the fire.

Alexandra was rendered almost speechless by such incivility, but found her voice enough to say, pointedly to the innkeeper only, Indeed, I am hopeful that you may be of assistance. I have come on the stage and find there is no one here to meet me. I wonder if perhaps a message has been left for me?

At her voice, unmistakably cultured (however annoyed), the gentleman looked surprised, and the landlord gave a short bow, saying I'm sorry ma'am. I don't recall any message. What name would it be being for, and where was you expecting it from?

Miss Huntingdon. . .Miss Alexandra Huntingdon, and I am expected at Lindenfield Hall.

It would be hard to say which of her two hearers appeared the more startled at this announcement. The innkeeper looked at the gentleman and began, Sir, I. . . He was ignored.

Impossible. I don't know why you are masquerading as Miss Huntingdon, but it won't do. I don't know who you are, except that you are not she. I trust no harm has come to her, although I was under the impression she could well take care of herself. His tone was cold rather than angry, and the last was added under his breath.

Now it was Alexandra's turn to be startled.

I cannot conceive why it is any business of yours. However, I assure you I am Alexandra Huntingdon, and if you will be so good as to allow me to consult with the landlord without interference, I intend to make arrangements to be conveyed to Lindenfield before the evening advances further.

Turning to the harassed looking proprietor she was starting to inquire as to what vehicles might be available, when she was interrupted, this time in a voice quite as angry as it was cold.

"Young lady, I am Anthony Linden, the prospective employer of a Miss Alexandra Huntingdon as governess for my six year old son. You are not Miss Huntingdon and I must insist that you explain this imposture. The stage on which she was to arrive has come and gone and she did not arrive. I was displeased to find my appointment had been missed, of course. Where you have come from I neither know nor care, but I am disturbed that you, for some unknown, but no doubt questionable reason, have chosen to pass yourself off as the lady I was expecting."

Stifling feelings both of anger at this astonishing attitude, and of dismay that the meeting with the master of Lindenfield was getting off to an even worse start than she had feared, Alexandra drew a breath.

And why is it so difficult for you to accept the fact that I am indeed the lady you were expecting?

"Not difficult. Impossible. Mrs. Rigsby herself, the proprietor of Rigsby Situations, gave me full information. This is a governess of uncertain years, at least ten years experience, of good birth but impecunious circumstances, qualified to instruct in French and Italian as well as the globes, possessed of a mercurial disposition and a sharp tongue. On all but the latter you are clearly ineligible."

The situation, although annoying, piqued his usually languid interest, and Linden ticked the items off on his long fingers.

You are far too young to fit Mrs. Rigsby's description, therefore making it impossible for you to have had the experience; your clothes are hardly those of a purse pinched governess; your birth I would not presume to judge, but your manner is that of a young lady rather more likely to be proficient at the pianoforte and watercolors than in languages and geography. Furthermore, a lady who enjoys the reputation of an unpleasant personality and rude manners is certain to be bracket faced, which you are not. However, I am beginning to fear you may have considerably more criminal faults.

His voice became grim. Now you will have the goodness to inform me immediately of the whereabouts of Miss Huntingdon and why you have appeared in the role.

Alexandra had heard the beginning of this recital with some amusement, but by the end she was furious, not the less because she knew her infelicitous reputation was at least partly deserved. Her first reaction was a strong desire to give Mr. Linden a set down he would never forget, and thereby abandon any idea of entering his employ. Just in time, this impulse was squelched by the memory of Mrs. Rigsby's warning that she did not have, nor was likely to have, any other position which did not require references, and the further unhappy but certain knowledge that her own biting tongue had reduced her to the point where no one would give her a reference, however intelligent and industrious she might be.

No lady would risk recommending a governess who could be counted on to insult her employers and make unflattering criticisms of their spoiled and indolent progeny. It had been sheer luck that the position at Lindenfield Hall became available at the same time that Lady Longacre came to the conclusion she would rather her children grew up in total ignorance, than be afflicted with Miss Huntingdon's acid tongue another month.

When Alexandra walked into Mrs. Rigsby's office a week later, that conscientious lady first threw up her hands in despair and said she could do nothing for her, then or ever again. As Alex fought down a surge of panic, the older woman had a sudden thought. There is one possibility, she said, her lips tightening into a thin line of disapproval.

A widower is desirous of obtaining a governess for his six year old son. He is willing to pay a good wage, and the position is available immediately.

Alex's eyes widened in hope.

The house, Lindenfield Hall in Kent, is an elegant one and the Lindens a very old and respected family. Having said that, I must tell you I hesitate to mention the position, even to you. In fact, she said in an uncharacteristically hesitant way, I informed Mr. Linden I could not in conscience send a third governess.

She gave herself a little shake, and in her usual brisk voice continued. Those things happen, of course.

When