More than a Governess (Regency Historical Romance) Read online

  There was a small bed in the far corner and a writing desk sat in front of the sole window. There was a chest with three drawers as well as an armoire to hang her dresses.

  It wasn’t Ravenscroft Castle, but it was home now.

  “It isn’t much, I know, but everybody’s real nice and you’ll be so busy with the children...” Mrs. Brown trailed off, having run out of things to say to try and make Becky feel better. Not that it would have mattered. So far, things had not gone exactly as planned, and she was already missing home.

  “That’s all right, Mrs. Brown,” she said quietly. “This will do just fine.”

  Once Mrs. Brown had talked her through some of the basics of living at Hastings House, she left her alone to settle in and rest. But Becky’s mind was racing and when she closed her eyes to take a short nap, it raced ever faster. Was she doing the right thing? Should she have stayed? What would Phoebe think of her new employer and the fact that she had clearly been brought here under false pretenses?

  Becky knew exactly what she’d think as well as what she would do, eight months pregnant or not. Phoebe would be bound for Rye within seconds of learning the truth to take her back home and to give Lord Hastings a bit of her own mind on the way out the door. Or, at the very least, she would send her husband. Becky cringed at the thought.

  No, she could not tell Phoebe any of it. She would pen a simple note stating she was safe and that the family had agreed to take her on. Any more detail would set off red flags and that was the absolute last thing Becky wanted to do.

  But what of her new employer? His surly disposition was not at all softened by the fact that he was incredibly handsome. He was boorish and brutish and no amount of fine chiseling or sky blue eyes would change that. And someone had to protect those children. Clearly they were suffering – they all were. Including the master of the house. No one was born like that: bitter and angry. Something or someone had turned him into the brooding monster he was today.

  She almost felt sad for the man. Almost.

  ***

  “You wanted to see me, milord?” Mrs. Brown stood sheepishly in the door of Stephen’s study.

  “Sit down, Mrs. Brown,” he said, his tone purposely sharp. “I trust you had something to do with this governess business?”

  Mrs. Brown was clearly contemplating how much she should admit to. “I’m not sure what you mean, milord.”

  “Either you tell me the truth or you pack your bags, Mrs. Brown. I don’t have time for games.” Stephen was growing increasingly impatient with his housekeeper.

  This was not the first time she had tried to go behind his back to do what she “felt was best” for the children. He was tired of it. Fed up with her games. And fed up with her unwillingness to discipline the children herself. He was far too busy to spend his days screaming at or paddling those misbehaved brats.

  “Forgive me, milord,” she began tentatively, “but the work load has become far too much with the children. You must understand I cannot oversee the entire household and look after the children as well. They need constant supervision and schooling, milord, and that I just cannot give them.”

  Stephen found himself annoyed at the old woman’s complaining. How hard could it be to watch the children and tell a staff of grown adults what to do? It wasn’t as if she did all the work herself. And if she could only learn how to discipline properly, the children wouldn’t be so unruly.

  As for schooling, well, dammit, he'd never even thought about that.

  He sighed. She was right and if it stopped her complaining, he would keep the girl, this Rebecca Thorn, for a trial run. Not that she would have been his first pick. She had a tongue like the devil and had already succeeded in flaring his temper. But as long as she and the children remained out of his sight, he would tolerate having her in the house.

  “You may go now, Mrs. Brown,” he said as he scanned a bill.

  “You mean, you’re not going to dismiss me?” she asked with wide eyes.

  “I’ve already taken up too much of my time today with interviews. I don’t relish going through it again. You’re staying only because I’m far too busy to find a replacement.”

  ***

  Becky ate a small supper in her room that night, although, admittedly, she didn’t have much of an appetite. She had become so used to having large family dinners at Ravenscroft Castle, with the people she had come to regard as her family. The sadness at knowing they were all gathered together made her incredibly homesick. This was going to be quite an adjustment, but one she would have to make.

  She penned a quick note to Phoebe after she ate and then dressed in her nightclothes, ready for bed. But sleep refused to come and so she picked up the one book she had brought along with her and began to read. Unfortunately, she was near the end, thanks to her long trip from Kent that morning, and within a half hour the book was done.

  “This is ridiculous,” she complained aloud as she rose from her bed, and continued talking to herself as she donned her robe. “I’m so beyond exhausted, I can’t fall asleep.”

  She opened her door and peeked down the hallway. It was only ten o’clock, but everyone seemed to be sleeping already, or at least close to it. A servant’s day started at quite an ungodly hour.

  Grateful that she could avoid any awkward conversations in her night robe, she tiptoed down the hall and then down the stairs to the main level of the house. Shielding her candle with her hand, she crept quietly along the corridor, eager to find the manor library so she could choose a new book and return to the safety of her room.

  Quietly, she inspected several rooms, a lavish parlor done in what might have been dark blue and gold, the opulent dining room with a table that stretched into the black, beyond the reach of her candlelight, and a reception room with red damask walls and chandeliers that sparkled in the light of the moon.

  Finally, she peered into a room lined with hundreds of books. The library, at last. Though a fire burned low in the grate, the room appeared to be empty, so she ventured in, on a mission to find a reasonably entertaining book and leave as quickly as possible.

  “Good evening.”

  Becky gasped and spun from the bookshelf to find herself face to face with the lord of the manor. She stammered as she fished for an appropriate excuse. Truth be known, she should not have been traipsing about the house at this hour, let alone on a mission to borrow one of the library’s books. She would be dismissed before she’d even had a chance to begin.

  “I’m so sorry, my lord, I was just...”

  Lord Hastings raised his brows in question and sipped lazily from the snifter he held in his hand.

  “I was just leaving, actually. Good night.”

  Becky bobbed a shallow curtsy and then backed towards the door, eager to return to her room.

  “Miss Thorn, you needn’t leave on my account,” Lord Hastings said dryly. “You interrupted the rest of my day, why not finish it out?”

  Becky stood frozen, trying to decide whether she should be grateful for the chance to stay and choose a book or outraged that he’d insulted her yet again. Unable to keep her thoughts or feelings to herself, she opted for the latter.

  “Forgive my impertinence, my lord,” she began, “but may I ask why you have taken it upon yourself to be exceedingly rude to me since my arrival?”

  A sinister chuckle escaped from Lord Hastings’ lips. “Don’t take it personally, Miss Thorn. You’re a servant. I treat you no differently than I treat anyone else in my employ.”

  “Considering I’ve been brought here under false pretenses, I find your behavior reprehensible.”

  “Behavior?” he asked indignantly. “Need I remind you that you are governess to my niece and nephew and not to me? However you find my behavior it is none of your concern.”

  “It is when it affects me.”

  “Then I suggest you grow a thicker skin, Miss Thorn, for I am not in the habit of walking on eggshells for the sake of my servants’ feelings.”

&nbs
p; Becky remained silent. She had already overstepped her boundaries more than once today and she would not put it past Lord Hastings to turn her out even at this late hour. Though a thousand retorts swirled in her head, she merely clamped her lips shut and walked to the shelves of books that lined the walls, drawing her robe tighter around her as she did.

  But there was no hope of concentrating on the books or their titles. She was outraged and tired and feeling completely lonesome and helpless. All she really wanted was to go to sleep but she was still too wound up from the day’s events.

  When the hairs on her neck stood involuntarily, she was certain she was being watched. She turned around to see Lord Hastings regarding her with a cynical smile.

  “Would you please stop staring at me? It makes me uncomfortable.”

  “Would you care for a drink, Miss Thorn?”

  That caught her off guard. She was prone to a glass of wine or a pint of ale from time to time, but only amongst friends, never with intimidating strangers.

  “No, thank you,” she said proudly and turned her attention back to the books.

  “It might help you sleep.”

  He had a point there.

  “All right, then,” she sighed. “Perhaps just a little.”

  While Lord Hastings got up to pour her a glass, Becky sat down on the settee facing the fireplace. She wasn’t completely comfortable with the situation, but she was too worn out to fight it.

  “Can you tell me more about the children, my lord? Perhaps how you came to be in possession of them?”

  Lord Hastings handed her the brandy and sat back down in his leather armchair. “Why don’t you tell me about you, Miss Thorn?” he said, evasively.

  “What would you like to know?”

  “How old are you?”

  “Two and twenty.”

  “Where do you come from?”

  She took a sip of the spicy liquor while she contemplated the question. Where did she come from? Certainly she couldn’t say she’d been born at Thornton Park, for her father’s home was well known amongst the ton. “London,” she said, hopefully leading him to believe she’d been born to a poor family in an ignoble part of town. “Although I’ve spent the last year of my life in Kent at Ravenscroft Castle.”

  “Doing what?”

  She hesitated a moment. If she told him she’d been doing little besides enjoying the company of the Marchioness of Eastleigh and the Duchess of Weston, he’d think she was out of her mind. As a matter of fact, she was beginning to wonder about that herself. She had left a great deal of luxury behind to come here. Perhaps he needed to know that.

  “I took up a post as a maid seven years ago for the woman who is now the Marchioness of Eastleigh. Since she married the marquess a year ago, I’ve been more of a...companion, I suppose.”

  Tears threatened as she spoke of Phoebe, but she choked them back. She would not cry in front of her employer, no matter what.

  Lord Hastings looked at her sleepily through a veil of thick, black lashes. “Why are you here, Miss Thorn?”

  She gave a little laugh at the question for she wasn’t sure she knew the answer to that anymore. So, she decided to propagate the lie she’d told to Phoebe. “My mother was a governess, and I wish to follow in her footsteps.”

  Lord Hastings stared at her, or rather, stared through her, as if he’d stopped listening. It was rather perturbing. Why ask questions if you weren’t going to listen to the answer? When he finally spoke, it was with his usual rancor. “You’d best be off to bed, Miss Thorn. The children always rise early.”

  “Of course, my lord.” She set her snifter on the side table, somewhat frustrated that the conversation had come to such an abrupt end, and at the same time relieved. “Good night.”

  She slipped through the door into the hallway and started back to her room, noting that not only had he evaded the questions she’d asked of him, but he’d also distracted her from her task. She blew out a breath, knowing it would be a long and sleepless night without that book.

  ***

  Stephen sat in the darkness of the library, terrified by the strange emotions that had just come over him. As his new governess, perched so elegantly across from him, told her story, he began to take note of certain characteristics.

  Characteristics that typically went unnoticed by him. For instance, the way her golden hair draped around her shoulders or the bright color of her cheeks in the warmth of the fire. Or most notably, the shocking green of her eyes that seemed to capture the light like a supremely cut emerald.

  It had been some time since Stephen felt the base desires of a man. He had been brooding in self pity for two years, submersing himself in his work, his properties, his business ventures, giving little attention to the needs of his body and even less to the needs of his soul.

  Not that he hadn’t been with women. There had been a string of bawdy beer wenches when he returned from the war, distractions from the horrific scenes that played in his head almost constantly. But eventually the novelty wore off, and he no longer found solace in anything other than his work. Keeping busy seemed the only way to prevent his mind from remembering the tragedy the war had brought to his family. To his life.

  No longer able to enjoy the simple pleasures of life, he found himself growing into a bitter man. A man with no soul. A man resentful of his station, his responsibilities and the children that had been left in his care when his sister so selfishly took her own life.

  He clung to his anger like a bulwark, afraid that should he let it go, he might find he lacked the strength to go on. To face his fears. And just like his sister, he might find himself face to face with the barrel of a gun.

  But tonight Miss Thorn had aroused emotions that he was not at all used to feeling. And he was surprised to find that those feelings were welcome.

  The girl was everything he hated in other people: outspoken, opinionated, headstrong. But he was drawn to her somehow. Perhaps it was the lilting sing-song of her voice or the way she had tried so valiantly to suppress the tears when she spoke of her former employer.

  Stephen hated it when people cried, especially women, for there usually seemed to be little reason in their doing so. But the fact that she had choked the tears back with such determination told Stephen she was not going to be like the women he had known all his life. She thankfully seemed to have quite a bit of fortitude.

  As he rose from his chair, convinced he might finally be able to sleep, he chuckled to himself. A chuckle that was devoid of any cynicism or sarcasm.

  Perhaps Miss Thorn would make a welcome addition to the Hastings household after all. Either that or she would become a damned nuisance. Either way, he would learn to live with her. For the first time in months, perhaps even years, Stephen Hastings slept through the night.

  Five

  The sun had not yet risen when Mrs. Brown knocked on Becky’s door the next morning. Even when she had acted as a maid in the Blake’s employ, Becky had not been required to rise before seven in the morning. And since moving into the realm of companion, she had grown accustomed to the hours Phoebe and her mother kept, which most often meant late nights and late mornings.

  This was certainly going to take some getting used to.

  She opened the door to find the portly housekeeper holding a tray of tea and toast, a broad smile on her face.

  “Good mornin’, Miss Thorn!” she exclaimed, far too excited for such an ungodly hour. “The children are havin’ their breakfast in the nursery, but you take your time. I’ll keep an eye on ‘em till ya get there.”

  She placed the tray on the desk and then turned to go, but Becky stopped her.

  “Mrs. Brown, are they always up this early?” she asked, her voice thick with sleep.

  “Afraid so, Miss Thorn. But not to worry, I’m sure the three of ya can figure out a more conducive schedule.”

  “Right,” Becky murmured as the housekeeper bustled away. “Like sleeping until five-thirty perhaps.”

  Becky
ate her breakfast and dressed for the day, all the while contemplating just what she was going to do with the children. Max wasn’t too far from being of an age for Eton or Harrow, so he would need knowledge of Latin and the classics of course, as well as ancient history. And with Lydia being so young, Becky imagined that for now rudimentary reading and arithmetic would be on her agenda. And perhaps French. Not that Becky was any great linguist, but she’d been fluent before...

  She shook her head of the wayward thoughts. She needed to focus on the task at hand. The rather daunting task, now that she thought about it. Good heavens, what was she doing here? What did she know about teaching children or preparing them for the world? She closed her eyes and took a deep breath to calm her racing heart. She could do this.

  She just needed to get to know the children, assess their levels and figure out why on earth they were so troubled, for that was of greater concern than their academics.

  Finally dressed, she made her way to the nursery on the top level of the main house. It was a massive room, if not a little stuffy, filled with toys and books and two tiny desks and chairs. Max and Lydia were in a row over a doll as Becky entered, and Mrs. Brown seemed at a loss for what to do about it.

  “Max, that’s not your doll, lovey- oh, no! Please don’t bang her head like that!”

  “Clarabelle, tell him to stop!” Lydia’s voice was shrill as she screamed orders at her imaginary friend.

  Max ignored the pleas of his sister and Mrs. Brown and continued to bash the doll’s head against one of the small wooden desks.

  “Good morning,” Becky said, but no one could hear her above the noise. “Good morning!”

  On her second try three heads turned to her, a bit startled that they had not heard her come in.

  “Oh, Miss Thorn, thank God!” Mrs. Brown sighed. “I’ve a great deal of work to do in the kitchens. You two be good, now.”