Page 13 of The Governess and the Rogue

“Bravo,” she said to Lilith. “Tu parles très bien français.”

Lilith beamed back at her with near angelic innocence. “Merci, Mademoiselle.”

“Perhaps you might walk with us until luncheon?” Miss Farraday suggested. “We could practice our French phrases together. If your governess will permit?” She looked to Bea. “I would be happy to return her to the dining saloon afterward.”

Bea held tight to the twins’ sweaty hands. Under other circumstances, she’d have resented the challenge to her authority. But Miss Farraday’s interference appeared kindly meant.

That didn’t prevent Bea from feeling a stab of self-consciousness. Her drab wool dress and severely plaited coiffure stood in sharp contrast to Miss Farraday’s fashionable ensemble.

“She may,” Bea said. “If she behaves herself.”

Lilith reddened. “I don’t require her permission,” she told Miss Farraday as they joined the other ladies. “My mother says that…”

Bea remained standing with the boys, hearing Lilith’s words drift off as she and the ladies strolled away, and marking the laughter that followed. Her face went hot with embarrassment.

This was what she’d become. An object of derision. A person to be struck. To be laughed at.

Oh, why had she ever taken this job with the Dimsdales! Better she had stayed in India. At least there she’d have had her dignity.

But dignity was poor recompense when one was without food and lodgings. When one was starving, destitute, alone.

Brent tugged at her right hand. “Come on!”

Damian pulled at her left one, directing her attention upward to the birds that were circling the ship en masse. “How many seagulls are in the sky, Miss Layton? Can you count that high?”

“In French?” Albermarle Junior suggested.

“No more math today,” Bea said. “We shall turn our attention to botany.”

“No!” Brent protested.

“We’re at sea,” Albermarle Junior said. “There are no trees or plants to examine here.”

“There are potted palms in the grand saloon,” Bea said. “Those will suffice for our lesson.”

* * *

An hour and a half later, after depositing the three boys in the dining saloon, Bea had just enough time to return to her shared cabin to make herself fit to join them. Pearl was already there, doing the same.

“I tore my stockings crawling under the bed to fetch Mrs. Rawson’s sewing bag,” Pearl said as she rolled on a fresh pair. “Goodness knows how it got there. I suspect Benjamin must have carried it off.” She glanced at Bea. Her eyes widened. “What happened to you?”

“The twins pressed their muddy hands all over my skirts during our botany lesson.” Bea wet a sponge in the basin to clean away the dried dirt. “And my plaits weren’t equal to the wind on the deck. I appear as though I’ve been caught in a hurricane.”

Pearl stood to assist her. “Let me,” she said, setting to work on Bea’s hair.

“I can manage.”

“Rubbish. We both know you’re only given ten minutes to eat. It’ll be five minutes now you’ve had to set yourself to rights. And no minutes at all unless I help you.” Pearl speedily re-plaited Bea’s tangled locks, securing them in a neat coil at her nape. “There. All done.”

“Thank you.” Bea flashed her a grateful smile as she finished sponging her skirt. It was damp now where the mud had been, but taken altogether a wet skirt was preferable to a filthy one.

“Have you talked to Mr. Dimsdale yet?” Pearl asked, crossing to the door.

“Not yet.” Bea tossed the sponge into the basin. She hadn’t time to rinse it. Not if she hoped to eat. Giving her skirts a final shake, she followed Pearl out of the cabin. “I can do nothing until he summons me.”

“So long as you do something,” Pearl said.

Bea gave an unladylike snort as the two of them hurried toward the dining saloon. “This is a fine change. Aren’t you the one who’s always advising me to bite my tongue?”