A governess was not a servant, but neither was she one of the family. She must be above reproach and invisible. And if the Duke’s household was anything like its façade, one misstep, however small, could see her quietly turned away.
The carriage slowed, then stopped. Mrs. Cole shifted beside her and gave a brisk nod toward the window. “We’ve arrived, miss.”
Jane looked down at her gloved hands, folded in her lap, and felt the first true flutter of unease. This was a world away from the quiet dignity of her father’s rectory, or the serviceable comfort of Uncle Robert’s parlor.
* * *
She had rehearsed what to say a dozen times on the road, but in the end, it hadn’t mattered. A single meeting had been enough. The Duchess had asked a few questions, offered fewer pleasantries, and made her decision with what seemed a glance. It hadn’t been an interview so much as an appraisal—followed by a brief instruction to report to the housekeeper.
She was shown to a chamber grander than any she had ever seen. The bed alone was a marvel, its tall posts draped in damask hangings, the counterpane plush beneath her gloved hand. A writing desk stood near the window, polished and waiting—she could imagine herself there, reading, drafting essays in the spare moments between duties.
She lingered by the casement, looking down upon gardens unfurling in geometric perfection, lawns edged with boxwood and fountains of bright spray catching the sun like molten silver. If this was a governess’s room, what must the family’s apartments be like? The magnitude of the place pressed upon her again, half wonder, half dread.
A knock broke her reverie. A maid entered, curtsying. “Her Grace requests your presence at luncheon, miss.”
Jane blinked. Luncheon? For a governess to be invited—it was unusual, almost improper. Yet curiosity stirred in her; this was the household she must learn to navigate, and every glimpse of its order—or disorder—was precious.
She smoothed her dress, preparing to descend, when a sharp cry pierced the corridor. A child’s voice, shrill with temper and misery. Jane stiffened, then turned. The sound came from the nursery, only a few doors away.
She followed it, hesitating at the threshold. Inside, Lady Margaret stood with cheeks blotched crimson, fists balled at her sides, her small frame shaking. Opposite her, a harried nursemaid bent low, her tone pitched in soothing cadences that fell on deaf ears.
“I won’t go!” the child cried. “She doesn’t love me—she never comes! She never cares to see me!”
The words rang through the paneled room, raw and desperate. The nursemaid cast Jane a helpless glance, as though pleading for aid.
Jane stepped forward slowly, softening as one might when coaxing a half-wild kitten out of hiding. “Lady Margaret?” She had her mother’s name, and the thought warmed her unexpectedly.
The girl spun, startled. Wide gray eyes met hers, wet with unshed tears. She bore no likeness to the Duchess—her features were slightly uneven, her hair a pale, almost washed-out blond against her mother’s fiery mane.
“I am Miss Jane Ansley,” she said, dipping her head slightly in greeting. “Your new governess.”
Margaret’s lips trembled, but she said nothing.
Jane drew a breath. “I think I understand. When a mother must leave, it can feel terribly lonely. But yourmamanis aduchess, and a duchess has so many duties—so many eyes upon her—that she cannot always be where she wishes. Still, all that she does, she does so the world will honor her daughter as well. And one day, when you stand tall and speak with learning, she will be proud beyond measure.”
The child frowned, uncertain. Jane crouched to her level, lowering her voice to a conspiratorial hush. “You and I will learn together. Not only sums and letters, but Latin and Greek—ancient tongues that make the very walls listen. We will read poetry that turns the heart and philosophy that sharpens the mind. And when next you stand before yourmaman, you shall recite something so fine and clever that she cannot help but smile.”
Margaret’s fists loosened. “Greek?” she whispered, almost suspicious.
Jane allowed herself a small smile. “Even Greek. I will show you the letters myself. And you shall master them.”
The nursemaid exhaled with relief. “Come now, Lady Margaret—Her Grace awaits.”
Margaret cast one last searching glance at Jane, then nodded stiffly. “Very well. But I will sit beside my governess.”
It was concession enough. The first stone in her new life at Westford Castle had been laid—and already she sensed how fragile the foundation might be.
* * *
Jane had scarcely time to collect herself after Margaret’s outburst. The child, still subdued, allowed her hand to be taken by her attendant, and the small party made its way down to the family rooms. A footman led them through a corridor lined with gilt-framed landscapes: placid lakes, ruined temples, and skies forever caught between storm and calm, until they reached the small dining parlor.
Margaret slipped into a chair, Jane settling beside her. She barely had time to arrange her skirts before the door opened again and Charlotte entered, fair-haired, her posture assured though her looks were plain.
To Jane, she had a marked presence—not dazzling like the Duchess, nor ethereal as beauty is often praised, but her eyes were keen, intelligent, taking in everything at once. Whatever she lacked in charm of face, she carried in clarity of mind.
“Spitfire,” Charlotte greeted, dropping a hand lightly on Margaret’s shoulder. “How are you? Giving your nursemaid hell again? I heard your cries all the way from my room.” Margaret giggled despite herself.
Jane, mindful of propriety, rose at once and offered a small curtsy. She spoke before the child could answer. “She was agitated, my lady, but she is calmer now.”
