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Chapter Six
“A prudent young woman will pause, therefore, on words, before she utters them to men, and will regulate her action by unconstrained dignity.”
Private Education: A Practical Plan for the Studies of Young Ladies.
Elizabeth Appleton. 1815
“What do you make of the new governess, Betty?”
Seth checked his fob watch – a quarter before the hour of ten – tugged down his errant cuff and tidied his aquamarine silk waistcoat before straightening an illustration of himself with Mauler Mike on the study wall.
A snort answered his question, so he swivelled. “You don’t like her?”
Blue eyes flashed with mirth and her lips smirked as she tidied the coffee pot away, so Seth tapered his gaze in sternness, despite knowing it would not make a blind bit of difference.
When his wife had left them all those years ago, their Rookery neighbour, Betty, had taken up the reins, cooking them meals and letting down Chloe’s dress hems every fortnight, her husband Mick assisting with training and schedule.
A few years later, with enough money in his pocket from a championship win, Seth had left the Rookery, persuading them to come with him, and Mick now looked after the day-to-day running of the club whilst Betty still looked after the lot of them. They had a neat little house not far away on Haymarket and spent every August on the coast.
“Yer Miss Griffin is refined, honest and has a noggin big as Dorset. But she’s also hardy as old boots, and I like her very much, even if she don’t exactly use words that trip off the tongue. A bit wordy, like.”
“Well, that’s…good. Thank you, Betty.”
With a wink, she ambled out, and Seth hummed and hawed, waiting for the clock to chime ten.
Despite scarcely passing time with Miss Griffin, he had discerned much over dinner last night.
Firstly, as Betty had so eloquently described, her intelligence was obvious, French words bandied about with savoir faire.
Secondly, compared to that prospective governess who’d reassured him at the interview she’d have his pugilistic daughter beaten for such ‘unnatural inclinations’, Miss Griffin appeared understanding of Chloe’s interests.
And thirdly, for all the society events the lady must have attended, she appeared utterly oblivious of her own beauty and radiance.
His wife had known the price of her smile and sea-blue eyes from an early age – to get out of trouble…and into it. Had known how to cadge an apple with a pucker of lips or receive a free ale with a suggestive cock of hip.
Miss Griffin seemed unacquainted with feminine wiles, quite unaware of how her exquisiteness could drag a man to his knees.
Indeed, if he had to summarise the lady, it would be honesty in all matters. She’d revealed the truth at the interview, and when Chloe had asked a difficult question at dinner concerning meringue etiquette, she’d not fibbed or brushed it off with excuses but acknowledged her ignorance and replied they’d research it the very next day.
So many people pretended in these times, even himself with his accent and manners. He’d spent countless nights learning aristocratic diction, mimicking the swells’ mannerisms and airs, so that nowadays it was second nature. Only in the company of a fellow fighter did his veneer of respectability melt like mercury, displaying the warrior beneath.
Yet Miss Griffin’s character was as natural and clear as breathing.
The carriage clock chimed and he faffed with a letter to look busy.
On the eighth bell, a knock sounded.
“Come in.”
Nankeen-coloured cotton, more suited to a picnic by the Serpentine, garbed his nervous-looking governess, black hair severely pinned and lips bitten rosy red.
“I hope, Miss Griffin, that I am not interrupting your morn with this?”
“Not at all. I have left Chloe practising her singing, an accomplishment in which she is entirely euphonious.”
No, he had no idea either, so…
“After your comments last night, I thought I would conduct a small tour of the house. It was remiss of me not to do so on your first day.”
