A Governess Should Never… Wager a Duke (The Governess Chronicles #4.5)

Chapter 3

CHAPTER THREE

“No dramatic reading should be permitted till a certain age.”

Private Education: A Practical Plan for the Studies of Young Ladies.

Elizabeth Appleton. 1815.

R ibbons trimmed with gold and sprays of holly with portly berries bedecked the corridor to the schoolroom and Charlotte halted her step, to breathe in the scent of greenery and Christmas.

Under the direction of Mrs Mossop and Dinah, the footmen had been kept most busy with the decorations – too busy to move the schoolroom to the upper floor of the manor. Indeed, Miss Dinah Lovecott appeared to hold the servants in the palm of her dainty hand. As Charlotte had partaken of breakfast in the kitchens not a half-hour past, the housekeeper had praised the girl’s cheerful nature, a sprig of a footman had blushed a fiery scarlet and a housemaid had told how the little Miss so enjoyed hearing about the daily life of a servant – likely the maid would find herself the heroine of a romantic tale one day.

This morning was to be their first lesson and as Christmas was fast approaching, Charlotte had decided to dispense with the more onerous subjects and begin with a lesson on poetry. A verse to engage the young girl’s vivid imagination.

She crossed to a corridor window that overlooked a bare garden of winter and flicked open her governess manual – Private Education: A Practical Plan for the Studies of Young Ladies.

Miss Appleton, the authoress of this rather hefty tome which had cost Charlotte a fortnight’s wages, could always be relied upon to put her in the appropriate mood for a first lesson.

The morn light from the window was meagre but she ran a finger down the page…

One reading lesson of poetry in the week is surely enough for children, but we must be careful in our choice of pieces…

Poetry, treating too often of love or satire, excites the most powerful feelings and should be selected with the utmost care. We should be ever on our guard against them if we do not wish to implant the seeds of romance in our pupils.

Charlotte pursed her lips – it might be too late for that.

She’d headed to the schoolroom early in order to assess its collection of books and, with the guidance of her governess manual, to choose an appropriate piece. But Miss Appleton’s list of suitable works was not extensive.

Tales of the Robin… An innocent and pretty work.

Ode on Solitude… Children are delighted to read.

Edwin and Angelina… A beautiful ballad, but there is too much of love in it.

Hmm.

Shoving the tome beneath her arm, Charlotte pushed open the schoolroom door, stepped forward and closed it behind her.

A comfortable room for a governess and her pupil, there was a lit fire, two oak desks sat opposite from one another and a long shelf bearing a row of pristine books. She wandered over to them. Arranged by height, they appeared untouched and–

The door flew open with such force that it toppled the weighted brass lion’s paw door stop.

“Miss Webster! I’m so glad you’re here!” Dinah brandished a leather-bound book aloft. “For I’ve discovered the most wonderful poem.”

“Good morning to you also, Dinah.”

“Oh. Yes. Good morning.” She closed the door and curtseyed, eyes rounding to blue marbles. “And I apologise for not knocking. At my old school, Miss Fanshawe said she’d never known anyone with such energy in the mornings. That it was…exhilarative.” She pouted. “Or some word like that.”

Charlotte suppressed a smile. “Well, how fortuitous as I was considering poetry for a first lesson also. Is that book from the schoolroom?”

“Oh, no!” Dinah wafted a hand towards the bookshelf. “They’re so dull. Ode on Solitude ! I ask you!” She waggled her nose. “Where’s the romance? No, no. This came from Cousin Marcus’ library.”

Charlotte fretted a little for who knew what unsuitable volumes the library held upon its shelves. She placed Miss Appleton’s tome to the desk and wandered for the hearth to warm her hands. “Which poem are you enjoying so much, then? Perhaps we can study the structure. Detail the themes and assess what it teaches us about life.”

“Oh, yes! It’s called Edwin and Angelina .”

Ah. The poem with too much of love in it. And not a poem that Charlotte herself was overly familiar with.

Her gaze slid along the mantelpiece decorated with laurel and to the mirror above. Last night she’d slept poorly, mulling on the further Christmas events, and shadows hung beneath her eyes like saggy shawls.

With a sigh, she twisted from her reflection to suggest they read a different poe–

A miniature portrait caught her eye, one that had been shoved behind a brass candlestick, and she reached for it.

It was of Marcus.

As he had been all those years ago.

His lips were curved, hazel eyes merry and his cravat was somewhat crooked.

At Dinah’s age, Charlotte had certainly harboured seeds of romance within herself, powerful feelings flourishing and seeking of their own will. And all without the influence of poetry.

Just Marcus.

With a glower worthy of the man he was now, she shoved the miniature back behind the candlestick and turned.

But perhaps romance was overrated.

“Why not give me a synopsis of the poem, Dinah. It will be a good exercise in literary critique.”

Her pupil clasped hands together with such charm.

“A boy…” Dinah winked for some reason. “Lost and forlorn in the dale encounters a lonely ragged hermit.”

Charlotte perched on the edge of her desk.

“The hermit offers the lost boy his frugal dwelling and frugal fare, for the frugal hermit doesn’t eat meat but frugal herbs and frugal fruits.”

Charlotte rather wished she’d eaten another mince pie for breakfast.

“The boy accepts and enters the hermit’s frugal dwelling with its frugal fire.”

Frugality was certainly overrated.

“The hermit tries to cheer the boy but unable, asks him what the matter is? Could it be unrequited love? The boy’s answer is scornful of love and the hermit is in accord, telling him to spurn fair ladies when…” Dinah winked again. “The boy blushes, and… You’ll never guess, Miss…”

Charlotte shook her head.

“The boy admits that… He is really a she!”

“Well I never. And the hermit never suspected?”

“Of course not! For she was dressed ever so boyish. Then she relates her tale to the hermit, for in truth, she was the daughter of a wealthy lord and had suitors aplenty. She’d been fond of a wise and virtuous boy named Edwin but he’d been exceedingly poor while she’d been exceedingly fickle, too full of pride and, if you ask me, rather bird-witted because due to his humble status, she’d spurned his love.” Dinah sniffed. “So distraught had Edwin been that he’d left to seek solitude in a dale and…lay down and die.”

“Poor Edwin. So did she marry one of her rich suitors?”

“Of course not!” The young girl huffed. “She’d felt naught but sorrow and fault, realising she was in love with Edwin. So, she’d disguised herself as a boy and left to seek him in that same solitude, lie beside him until…” A hand went to brow. “Death was also upon her.” Her eyes closed. “Except…” Dinah flung her arms wide. “At that moment, the hermit… You’ll never guess, Miss…”

Charlotte thought she might be able to guess but shook her head in any case.

“The hermit announces that he is Edwin!”

“Well I never. And the lost boy, er, girl, never suspected?”

“Of course not! For the hermit was ever so ragged. Then Edwin clasped Angelina to his heart and vowed they’d live and love so true, never to stray from the dale and never ever to part.”

Dinah flumped into her desk chair and let out a long romantic sigh.

Charlotte peered to the window, to the freezing fog rolling across the lawn. “And so, Dinah, what do you think that teaches us about life then?”

“Well, considering they failed to recognise one another, I’d say…” A grin curved her pupil’s lips. “If you need eyeglasses, wear them.”

They both laughed and Charlotte knew they would deal very well together, for Dinah was a delight, keen and intelligent, although with an impetuosity that could one day cause grey hairs for all concerned.

“Well, an excellent synopsis.” Charlotte circled her desk and sat. “Perhaps for the rest of the morn, we should discuss tomorrow’s Christmas ball and what will be expected of you. I am sure Miss Fanshawe’s School covered all the necessary etiquette but we will rehearse curtseys, formal introductions and comportment at the supper table.”

Dinah’s head bobbed eagerly, even her curls jumped for joy. “Thank you so much for permitting me to attend, Miss Webster. A Christmas Ball sounds soooo romantic.” Abrupt wrinkles creased her forehead. “Although I overheard Cousin Marcus say balls are dull. And that he dislikes dancing.”

Charlotte pressed a fist to her chest. Is that what he’d thought all that time ago at their Christmas ball together? When they’d danced?

But she smiled. “A Christmas ball can be anything you wish, Dinah. A time to meet old and new friends. A time to reflect or look forward. And a time, just once in a while, for romance. So I hope the duke will find some pleasure in it.”

And maybe, just maybe, she might win this damn wager.