More than a Governess (Regency Historical Romance) Read online

  More than a Governess

  by

  Jerrica Knight-Catania

  Smashwords Edition

  This book is a work of fiction.

  Names, characters, locations and events are either a product of the

  author’s imagination, fictitious or used fictitiously.

  Any resemblance to any event, locale or person,

  living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  More than a Governess

  Copyright 2009 by Jerrica Knight-Catania

  All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or part in any format.

  Cover design by Dara England

  For Eric, you are the husband of my dreams, the hero to my fairy tale life.

  And for Bella, you are the Happily Ever After we’ve been waiting for.

  Prologue

  Lady Isabelle Thornton stood at the back door of Blakeny House, her hand poised to knock, but her wrist refusing to go through with the movement. She didn’t care that the rain continued to soak through her dress even though she had a feeling it would take days for the thick, ugly material to dry completely. And Isabelle certainly paid no mind to the fierce grumbling in her stomach—the butterflies were far more bothersome than the hunger.

  Or perhaps it was the heavy pit of grief that truly overrode any physical discomfort at the moment.

  She tucked her bottom lip between her teeth and bit down. Hard. What was she doing here? She knew nothing of hard work, of being a lady’s maid or, God forbid, a scullery maid. What would it be like to be on the other side? To serve rather than be served? Would she ever be able to return to the station to which she’d been born?

  Probably not. Not after what had happened. Not after…

  Isabelle shook her head in a desperate attempt to toss the memories from her mind. If she dwelled on them, they would take her over, drown her in such despair she wouldn’t be able keep upright. But she needed to keep upright—she needed to survive. And Blakeny House was her only option right now.

  She raised her fist again and this time, she did not hesitate to knock. Within moments, the door opened to reveal a thin, older woman, dressed much like her own housekeeper. Her hazel eyes crinkled at the corners as she took in Isabelle’s appearance.

  “You must be here about the maid position,” she said with a smile. “Well, come on in, dearie. You’ll catch your death if you stand there much longer.”

  Isabelle followed the woman through the small door and into a large, toasty kitchen. Her muscles, which she hadn’t even realized had been bunched with cold and tension, began to relax, as the warmth of the stove penetrated the thick, wet wool of her dress.

  “Have a seat right there, miss, and I’ll be with ya in just a moment. Lady Grimsby will be wantin’ her tea now. Not usually my duty to deliver the tea, but since Sally up and left us to marry that Jimmy boy from Spitalfields, I’ve been doin’ near everything. It will be nice to have an extra pair of hands…”

  The woman bustled from the kitchen, her arms laden with a heavy tea tray, and the swinging door came to a rest moments later. Isabelle stared unseeing at the door, her heart racing with fear, her mind jumbling with thoughts and images that would disturb a grown man. For a fifteen-year-old girl, they were almost unbearable.

  She fought to concentrate on one emotion rather than the hundred that flowed through her at the moment. She chose the only one that would get her through this day, through the new life she’d chosen out of necessity: Hope. Hope that she was the first, if not the only one, to respond to the advertisement. Hope that her ruse would work, that she wouldn’t be recognized, that she would somehow be able to convince the kindly housekeeper that she was capable of doing a job she’d never even considered.

  Hope that in time she would be able to erase the memory of her mother’s broken and lifeless body at the bottom of the stairs; the memory of her father at the top of the stairs, staring down at her with the same loathing and contempt he’d shown for her mother. Hope that her father would think her dead and not seek her out.

  “All right, then!”

  Isabelle jumped at the abrupt reentry of the housekeeper and sought to control her racing pulse once again.

  “A bit jumpy, aren’t ya?” The older woman smiled at her and then set a plate of warm biscuits before her. “Perhaps you’re a bit hungry as well?”

  Isabelle looked from the biscuits to the woman and back again, very aware that she was salivating at the mouth. She’d had little to eat since she fled her father’s Mayfair home in the dead of night, three days ago. But she wondered if this was a test. Her father had never taken kindly to the servants taking what was not theirs to take, and that included food that had not been rationed to them. Certainly, their servants had never enjoyed such delectable looking biscuits. Gruel and bread crusts were more like it.

  “Well, go on before they turn cold,” the housekeeper urged, pushing the plate closer to Isabelle.

  She couldn’t take any more. If she lost the position, it might very well be worth it. She reached for a biscuit but stopped when the housekeeper let out a loud “Oh!”

  Isabelle looked up at the woman. “I’m sorry,” she mumbled, taking her hand away and tucking it into the damp fabric of her skirt. “I didn’t mean to—”

  “You’ll of course want something to wash those down with!” The housekeeper wasn’t even paying attention to her now that her head was buried deep in an ice chest. “They’re a bit rich—the kind that stick to the roof of your mouth.” She poured milk into a glass and slid it across the table to Isabelle. “Well, what are ya waiting for, dearie? You must be starving. Never seen eyes so round with hunger in my life.”

  And with that, Isabelle dove into the warm biscuits, heedless of crumbs, uncaring if she looked like a rabid animal as she stuffed them into her mouth. All she cared about was the slightly sweet, buttery taste on her tongue and the empty feeling in her stomach that was quickly disappearing.

  “There now,” the housekeeper crooned. “That’s better, isn’t it?”

  Isabelle nodded, her mouth too full to speak. She took a swig of the milk and swallowed down the last of the morsels. “Thank you. I-I…suppose I was hungry after all.”

  “Well, now that we’ve gotten that out of the way, why don’t you tell me a bit about yourself.”

  Isabelle gulped over the sudden formation of a lump in her throat. What the devil was she supposed to tell this woman? She couldn’t very well say that she was the daughter of a highly regarded member of the ton. Or that she’d watched her father—that highly regarded man—only three days ago, shove her mother down a flight of stairs to her death.

  Her heart ached at the thought of her mother and it was all she could do to focus on the task at hand. Somehow, someway, she must convince this housekeeper that she was an orphan, completely alone in the world, with not a penny to her name. And even more importantly, she needed to convince her that she could serve a tea tray and roll out biscuit dough, and whatever else might be expected of her now. Now that she was a servant.

  Drawing herself upright on the stool, Isabelle held out her hand, and said, “My name is Becky Thorn, and I am a maid.”

  One

  7 Years Later

  Ravenscroft Castle, Kent

  Becky stared at the letter before her, very aware that her employer and her employer’s sister-in-law were watching, waiting for a reaction. It wouldn’t have been so unnerving if they had been chatting or doing something—anything other than just staring. On a normal day, in a normal situation, Becky wouldn’t have been able to get a word in edgeways—not with Kat
the Canary leading the conversation. But today was different, and Becky found herself uncomfortably at the center of their combined attention.

  Phoebe, Marchioness of Eastleigh and Becky’s employer for the last seven years, cleared her throat in an obvious effort to prompt Becky into speaking. But what on earth was she to say? As much as she hated to leave Phoebe, who had admittedly become more to her than simply an employer, she’d been given an opportunity she would be foolish to turn down.

  Apparently, the lengthy silence finally proved more than Katherine, Duchess of Weston, could take. “Come now, Becky, you’ve left us in suspense long enough. Won’t you tell us what the letter says?”

  Becky arched her brows high and looked skeptically towards the duchess. “I hardly think that’s necessary, since I’m sure you could probably recite it to me yourself.”

  Kat sucked in a breath and looked to Phoebe, who reclined on the opposite settee. She would have looked like one of those beautiful goddesses in a Botticelli painting if not for the fact that she was eight months pregnant. But Phoebe just shook her head at Kat and said, “I told you we shouldn’t open it.”

  Becky decided to step in before the two started arguing about whose idea it was to open her correspondence. It wasn’t all that surprising. Both women were of far too curious natures. And being that Becky hadn’t gotten a single piece of correspondence in all her years with Phoebe, she could understand their piqued interest.

  “As you both already know, I’ve been asked to spend a trial period as a governess for the children of the Viscount and Viscountess Hastings—”

  “But they’re all the way in Rye, Becky! What will mother and I do without you?”

  Considering Ravenscroft Castle had upwards of a hundred servants, Becky doubted she would be missed. “You will find another companion, Phoebe,” Becky said gently. “You’ve already secured a maid—”

  “You know I don’t care about having another servant in my employ, Becky, I care about you. You're not my employee anymore, anyhow...you're my friend.”

  Phoebe’s words tugged at her heart and she swallowed over the lump in her throat. She wouldn’t cry—it would be silly to. She was a maid and sometimes, a companion, but nothing more. Sure, she and Phoebe had seen one another through difficult times over the last two years, and Becky had been the only one to stick with her and Lady Grimsby when all the other servants left. But she’d had no choice then. She had nowhere to go—no family to return to. At least, no family that she wanted to return to.

  “I know,” she said quietly. “But…” But what? She could never tell her the truth. The repercussions of anyone knowing who she really was could be disastrous, but she wasn’t meant for this life. She was educated, and she wanted to be more than a maid. But she wasn’t meant for the kind of life Phoebe and Katherine lived either. Sure, she’d been born to it, but she wouldn’t have the slightest inkling of how to conduct herself as a lady now. She’d run away from home just before she was to start finishing school, after all. This was her chance, her only opportunity to secure a respectable job and a future for herself. So, she lied.

  “My mother was a governess.”

  Both women’s eyes turned round with fascination.

  “She was?” Phoebe asked. “You never said as much. As a matter of fact, this is the first time you’ve ever even mentioned your mother.”

  Becky ignored the pang in her heart, and continued. “Yes, well, that was because I didn’t know her well. She died when I was…young. But, that was her profession before she married my father, and I want to follow in her footsteps. Surely you don’t wish to hold me back from such a pursuit.”

  Goodness, it was frightening how easily the fabrication slipped from her tongue! The guilty expression that passed over Phoebe’s lovely features gave her pause, but not for long. It was time. Time to find out what Becky Thorn was capable of.

  “Of course not, but are you certain this is what you want?”

  “Yes, Becky,” Katherine chimed in. “Perhaps you should explore options a little closer to home. There’s a bevy of eligible gentlemen here in Kent.”

  Becky snorted. “I’m not looking to marry.”

  “Ever?” This came from both women, in a horrified tone, and Becky had to laugh. God forbid a woman not want to marry.

  “I didn’t say that. And I know,” she rushed on, “that I’m getting rather long in the tooth, by your standards, but…” Oh, good Lord, why were they making this so difficult? It wasn’t as if they owned her, for heaven’s sake!

  Making up her mind to put an end to the nonsense, Becky leveled Phoebe with her most serious of stares, and said, “I’m going.”

  ***

  Three days later, as Becky stood in the drive preparing for departure, she wasn’t quite so sure of herself. She still had hours ahead of her in the carriage before she would meet the Viscount and Viscountess Hastings, yet her stomach was tied into a million knots and her palms already moist. It was going to be a very long drive.

  “Are you sure you don’t want me to come with you, Becky?”

  Becky turned her gaze from the manicured front lawn of Ravenscroft Castle to Phoebe, who seemed exhausted after the short walk from the front parlor. She glistened with perspiration, despite the cool morning air, and her breathing was labored. Even if Becky wanted her to go all the way to Rye with her, Phoebe would never make it.

  “Don’t be silly,” Becky replied. “You’re probably mere hours away from delivering that baby. Even if the doctor said it was all right, you’d have to deal with your husband. I can guarantee the marquess won’t let you out of his sight until that baby is out…and even then, I imagine you’ll have a tough time getting rid of him.”

  “Right you are, Becky.”

  Becky whirled around to see Benjamin Wetherby, Marquess of Eastleigh, approaching from the direction of the stables with a wide smile on his face. That smile had become a permanent fixture ever since Phoebe had told him she was enceinte last summer. And as often as he could, Lord Eastleigh practically pinned himself to his wife’s side. Phoebe certainly didn’t seem to mind that her husband smothered her with attention and affection, and Becky couldn’t blame her. She could only hope that one day…

  Ha! She shook her head of her fanciful thoughts. At twenty-two, she was almost on the shelf, and the likelihood of meeting someone while playing governess was slim. For the most part this didn’t bother Becky. She was used to being alone. It was only in a rare moment, when she caught the marquess staring longingly at his wife across the dinner table, or when Katherine’s husband, the Duke of Weston, stole a kiss when he thought no one was looking, that Becky felt the pangs of loneliness.

  Or when the marquess knew someone was looking on and openly kissed his wife.

  Becky averted her eyes while Benjamin lavished a bit of affection on Phoebe and then turned back again when she heard the tell tale smack of their lips drawing away from one another. Most ladies would swoon, or at least give a horrified little gasp to indicate her sensibilities had been offended, but aside from the fact that Becky was used to their behavior, she was also not a lady. She was a maid—

  No, a governess. Her stomach fluttered at the reminder, and she fought to tamp down the acid that threatened to rise to her throat. She would not be sick. Not now, not after all she’d done to secure this opportunity. She would embrace it.

  “The trunks are secured, miss,” the driver said, coming up beside her.

  Becky nodded in acknowledgment and then turned to a weepy Phoebe. She gathered her in her arms as best she could with the near-to-term baby belly between them.

  “I love you, Becky,” Phoebe cried into her hair. “You know that, don’t you?”

  Choking back tears of her own, Becky pulled away, and said, “Nonsense. You’re only saying that because you’re tired and emotional and…I’m just a maid like any other.”

  They both knew that wasn’t exactly true. Becky knew she meant more to Phoebe than did the average maid, and it was
impossible to deny their bond. But it would be much easier to leave if she didn’t think about all that.

  Becky turned to the rest of the family who had gathered to see her off. She hugged Lady Grimsby, Phoebe’s mother, for whom she’d also played maid and companion and whatever other role she required, which had even included nursemaid during her year of mourning for her husband. She hugged Katherine, too, and shook hands with the marquess and the duke, before finally boarding the coach.

  As the driver cracked the whip and the horses lurched into motion, Becky stuck her head out the small window opening and waved goodbye. It wasn’t until they reached the edge of the property and pulled onto the main road that Becky’s tears began to fall.

  Two

  Stephen Christie, Viscount Hastings, sat in his study hunched over his desk, his forehead flat on its surface. The screams of ill-behaved children echoed in his ears as he struggled for concentration. The noise had persisted for no less than ten minutes, and there was no indication it might stop anytime soon. At his wits end, he rose from his chair and swung wide the door to his study.

  “Will someone take these blasted children away!” he growled into the hall, fighting to be heard over the unruly brats.

  His portly housekeeper came bustling down the long corridor. “I’m so sorry, milord!” she cried. “I lost track of them when I went to oversee dinner.”

  “Mrs. Brown, I couldn’t care less what you were doing. Just get these hellions out of my sight.”

  “Yes, milord,” she complied, nodding her head in frantic submission. “Come along, children, back to the nursery with ya.”

  Stephen was about to shut the door to his study again, when his defiant nephew screamed, “No! Nurseries are for babies!”

  “Oh, no, lovey, they’re for all children, boys and girls alike. Now be a good boy and come along.”