Page 10 of The Governess and the Rogue

Naturally he had one. What soldier didn’t? Especially a soldier with roguishly handsome looks and an equally roguish manner? He was just the sort of man young ladies would be chasing after in droves. A catch, and no question, particularly if he was indeed a colonel.

“It’s no business of mine,” she said quickly. “Forgive my mentioning it.”

“Not at all,” he said. “It’s no great secret.”

“Yet… It must be important to you for you to have reread it so many times.”

His smile reached his eyes. The icy-gray depths twinkled with humor. “You might say that. The lady who wrote it has a talent with words. It makes her letters entertaining, as well as informative.”

“How nice,” Bea managed. She set her hands on the cold ship’s rail. She wished she’d remembered to put on her gloves before venturing from her cabin. Without them, her bare hands were revealed in all their careworn glory. The red knuckles, callused fingers, and roughened skin. Decidedly not the hands of a lady. Not even the hands of a governess. Not anymore.

That role had diminished year-by-year since her arrival in India. With every unsuccessful posting she’d been reduced—accorded less privilege, less respect, less money—even as her duties had increased.

The colonel drew closer to her. “You must have letters you enjoy rereading from time to time.”

“Indeed, I do not,” Bea said. “A governess isn’t permitted to have followers.”

“What about friends?” he asked. “Surely you have some of those worth corresponding with?”

Bea hadn’t imagined she could feel any worse this evening. “I keep a journal,” she admitted.

“Ah,” he said.

The single syllable could have meant anything.

Bea forged ahead. “I’ve made a historical record of my time in India. And of the British occupation there. It’s a fairly thorough account.”

“Yet not the same thing as a correspondence with a friend,” the colonel pointed out.

“I’m not… That is, I haven’t…” She paused. “My positions have been such that I could make no lasting connections.”

“I don’t see why⁠—”

“I’ve had over two dozen postings,” she blurted out.

The colonel couldn’t conceal his surprise. “Two dozen? At your age?”

Heat threatened to creep into her cheeks again. Bea refused to allow it. She was aware she looked younger than she was. But the fact remained that she was not young, neither in years nor experience. She was, by any objective measurement, rapidly approaching spinsterhood. “I am six and twenty, sir,” she said. “Very nearly seven and twenty.”

He stared at her.

Bea had to steel herself not to squirm under his regard. “It’s nothing to the point,” she said. “I came to India when I was but seventeen, not long out of school. Since then, I’ve been all across the continent, from Calcutta to Bombay, Kashmir, Hyderabad, and back again. It’s not an easy life.”

“Even less so, I imagine, now you’re in the Dimsdales’ employ,” he said.

“A temporary position, as I told you yesterday. I only took it to secure passage back to England.”

Indeed, some might argue that all Bea’s positions had been temporary positions. She never kept them for long. One-by-one they all came to a swift end, either through mutual agreement or by courtesy of the firing squad.

“Everyone else was leaving after the uprising,” she continued. “Given my diminished employment prospects, I thought it wise for me to do the same.”

The colonel studied her face. “I trust you’re returning home to be with your family?”

“I have no family,” Bea said. Her conscience gave an immediate twinge at so bleak a statement. The conversation had taken an unfortunate turn toward the melancholy. “I’m returning to England to find a new position. Mrs. Dimsdale has promised me a glowing reference in exchange for my services.”

The silence that met her statement held a wealth of unexpressed opinion. Pity, disbelief, judgment. Or, very probably, all three.

Bea folded her arms tighter about herself, feeling very much alone. “Are you?” she asked finally.