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Chapter One
“Her whole air bespeaks the gentlewoman. Her language is correct, pure, and free from the slightest affectation.”
Private Education: A Practical Plan for the Studies of Young Ladies.
Elizabeth Appleton. 1815.
No. 8 Berkeley Square, Mayfair, London. August 1816.
“So tell me, Miss…Beaujeu, why should I employ you as governess?”
Sacre bleu.
And Isabelle twitched her skirts on this duke’s comfortable but frayed leather chair. Was it not obvious?
A certain Vicomte de Brive-la-Gaillarde had once remarked that she waltzed like a sunbeam upon the waves of the ocean.
A Monsieur Turenne had pronounced her lightness upon the pianoforte akin to an angel’s flutter of wings in blessed heaven.
And King Louis XVI had tapped her infant self beneath the chin and pronounced her “une belle fille exquise”.
Before his head had been removed from his shoulders by Madame Guillotine, of course.
However, none of that was relevant in this moment, the past together with its anguish confined to memories, so she straightened her spine and coolly stared across the cluttered desk to her inquisitor – or prospective employer, if one must.
“I am able to impart a comprehensive education,” she stated. “Mathematics, languages, history and so forth but also a broad range of accomplishments necessary for any lady – needlework, music and etiquette.”
He steepled his fingers, a silver signet ring encircling the smallest. “My cousin has some misgivings as to your youthful age and…” Her interrogator cleared his throat, brow furrowing. “Your French upbringing.”
Forcing her eyebrows to hold horizontal, Isabelle inwardly growled: more often than not, there were noblemen, mothers or, as in this household, a cousin who harboured such misgivings. In order to counter them, she dulled her hair with wax to appear older, wore drab-brown wool which caused her skin to sallow, submerged her temper beneath layers of English decorum and had long ago eradicated her accent through hours of precise mimicry.
“England has been my home since I was but a child, Your Grace. Certainly, I grew up with French émigrés, but I have been a governess for a decade since I was seventeen. My speciality is preparing young ladies for their debut Season. You have my references, I believe.”
“Hmm,” came the enigmatic reply, and his dark head bent to the desk, blunt fingers sifting through the sheaves laid out before him.
The bracket clock ticked and his leather chair creaked.
Isabelle sat still as marble.
Over the years, she had learned not to be intimidated at interviews, especially by peers of the realm. If they thought you atremble, they lowered the wage, treated you as nursemaid or pinched your derrière.
Or all three, if they were so inclined.
Whilst he was absorbed in her references, she glanced at her surroundings: a nobleman’s study often imparted much about its owner.
Despite the rich scent of beeswax, it bore an air of…sombreness and neglect.
The shutters were wide yet the dense light of a late August morn scarcely lit the interior, necessitating a lantern on the desk. Above the wainscot panelling to the left, a painting of a wild seascape caught one’s attention, specifically as there appeared to be a crimson dragon breathing fire from the gloomy sky.
Leather books were scattered upon dusty shelves – as though the maids were banned from this male domain – while reams of paper were bundled together with brown string and stuffed in corners.
English noblemen could be rather…étrange.
Which was why Isabelle had conducted her own inquiries as to this duke’s suitability.
Governesses were by profession isolated creatures but many corresponded with one another – a network of rumour and warnings. So Isabelle had consulted the estimable Miss Culpepper, a fellow governess she’d first met when walking her charge in St James Park.
In her fifth decade, Miss Culpepper had been employed by the great and not so good of the Ton and hence knew everything about everyone – and doubtless those she didn’t know could not afford a governess.
