Charlotte gave her sister a half-smile, then bent nearer. “Do not trouble yourself, little one. Your mother has this effect on all of us. I nearly want to cry every time I see her.” Margaret’s laughter bubbled out, quick and irrepressible.
Jane kept her voice calm, her posture modest but assured. “I am Miss Jane Ansley, my lady. I have been engaged to instruct your sister.”
Charlotte inclined her head in return, gaze cool as it lingered on the young woman. A delicate face, thoughtful eyes, and—though plainness of dress did its best to disguise it—a fine, womanly figure. She was undeniably pretty. Foolish, Charlotte thought, for her stepmother to bring such a creature into the house. But then, dressed in that mourning uniform of governesses, with its high neck and unadorned sleeves, the girl was almost invisible, as if the very fabric was meant to erase her.
The footmen moved silently, placing dishes before them. Charlotte took her seat at the far side, reaching for bread, when the door opened again with a rustle of skirts.
The Duchess swept in. Tall, impossibly slender, wrapped in a pale blue silk gown that looked as if it had come straight from Paris. Jane was struck again not only by her arresting beauty but by her youth. She had expected someone older—someone matronly, perhaps, with graying hair and the composed bearing of someone long past vanity. But the woman before her looked no older than her late twenties, possibly even younger.
Charlotte curtsied faintly. “I hope your journey from London was comfortable, Mother,” she said, the last word edged with irony, as they were scarcely a few years apart in age.
A flash of color touched the Duchess’s cheek. “It was tolerable, Charlotte. Thank you very much.” Her gaze slid to Jane. “So, you've met the new governess. She claims she can fill Margaret’s head with all manner of things. Perhaps we shall have another bluestocking in the family.”
Charlotte’s fingers tightened on her napkin, though her face remained serene.
The Duchess went on, voice smooth. “If you cannot be a great beauty, you may as well be known for learning. As you can see, Miss Ansley, my daughter favors her father’s side. I trust you will manage her.”
The insult stung, though Charlotte refused to show it. She looked across the table, her smile cool. “Oh, but I do not think you object to beauty on our side of the family.”
Her tone was mild, but the glance she cast carried the weight of the barb. For an instant the Duchess’s composure slipped; her glass rattled faintly against the plate, a dark drop of wine threatening to spill.
Charlotte lifted her chin, expression almost patronizing. “How fortunate, then,” she said lightly, “that being a great beauty has accomplished so very much for you.”
The Duchess turned her head slowly, her gaze like ice. “More than you could ever begin to imagine, my dear.”
The table fell into silence. The servants froze, uncertain whether to pour the claret. Margaret’s fork hovered halfway to her mouth, eyes wide.
It was Miss Ansley who spoke, her tone gentle, respectful. “Her Grace must be weary after such a journey. Was the road from London in good condition? I had heard there were repairs along the Norwich turnpike.”
The Duchess shifted, mollified by the redirection. “Indeed, there were delays. The roads grow worse every year.” She launched into a litany of complaints about post-horses, the weather, the state of travel in England, while the footmen moved again, wine was served, and the meal resumed its course.
Charlotte sat back, watching the governess anew. For all her modest garb, there was no mistaking the poise beneath it—an intelligence that knew when to intervene, and the tact to do it well. There was strength in her too, quiet but unmistakable. Charlotte pressed her lips together, unwilling to concede more, yet she could not deny she was impressed.
Chapter 4
The schoolroom had the air of a chamber seldom used. It smelled faintly of chalk and old wood polish, the long table worn smooth in places, scratched and ink-stained in others, a history of restless pupils carved into its surface. A globe leaned on its stand in the corner, its seas faded to a dull green, its continents mapped with boundaries long since shifted by war. Beside it, a cabinet of neglected primers sat under a film of dust. Margaret had darted off to fetch her doll, leaving Jane alone with the housekeeper.
Mrs. Blythe, her stout figure bound in black bombazine, moved about the room with the air of one conducting a tour. “This will be where you do your work with Lady Margaret, Miss Ansley. You will find slates and chalk in that cupboard, copy-books here.”
Jane nodded, clasping the neat packet of notes she had already prepared. She could not contain her eagerness. “I had thought it best, Mrs. Blythe, to begin with letters and reading, of course—but also with simple verses, perhaps a fable or two. It will strengthen her memory as well as her comprehension. I had even prepared a plan to show Her Grace, so she might—”
Mrs. Blythe cut her off, spectacles glinting. “That will not be necessary. Her Grace has more important matters to attend to than reviewing schoolroom notes. It is your place to decide such things, and if Her Grace wishes to interfere, rest assured she will make it plain. Until then, you must use your own judgment.”
Jane inclined her head, though the rebuke stung. Mrs. Blythe pressed on. “As for what is needed: reading and writing will suffice for now. In time, perhaps a little French, some embroidery, the pianoforte. A lady’s true learning lies in her manners and accomplishments, not in books.”
Jane allowed herself the faintest smile. “French, madam? We are at war with France—and have been, I think, for most of our history. From Joan of Arc to Bonaparte.”
Mrs. Blythe’s mouth hardened.
Jane lowered her eyes, gentling her tone. “But of course, I shall follow the direction given me. Only—” she gestured gently to the shelves “—I had hoped I might have access to the library. It would give me better material to set before Lady Margaret.”
The housekeeper’s face tightened. “I told you: what is here will suffice. Still, if you insist, I will ask Her Grace. Though I doubt the need.”
At that moment, the door—left ajar despite the chill of the late October afternoon—carried the sound of footsteps. Charlotte paused at the threshold, amusement lighting her face. “My dear Mrs. Blythe, must everything wait upon Her Grace? Surely the library is not such a dangerous place. Miss Ansley may use it as she pleases.” Her gaze flicked to Jane, cool and wry. “I am sure you will findSermons to Young Womenon one of the shelves. Do enjoy it.”
Mrs. Blythe bobbed a stiff curtsy and withdrew, skirts whispering over the floor.
Jane blinked, unsure whether thanks were expected. She knew Fordyce’s sermons well enough—her father had often pressed them upon her—but Charlotte’s tone had not been one of approval. Why should she mock a work so widely praised for its virtue?
