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Chapter Six
“The company with whom you mix are all either your superiors, or are those who consider themselves as such.”
Private Education: A Practical Plan for the Studies of Young Ladies.
Elizabeth Appleton. 1815.
“Beware, beware the Y Tylwyth Teg don’t toy with you at the banquet, Miss Beaujeu.”
“The…what?” Isabelle twisted from the entrance hall mirror with a frown but the housekeeper slunk away, leaving her staring agape. “Wait, what are the…”
“They’re fairies,” came a whisper and Isabelle swivelled to a Daphnean dark-haired woman, similar in age to herself, with sky-blue eyes and a long sweep of eyelashes. “Mischievous ones.”
Fairies? Mrs Pugh must be getting desperate. Fairies Isabelle could cope with.
“Thank you. I am learning Welsh but…”
“’Tis not easy.” The woman’s accent was delightful, not as marked as the housekeeper’s but pitching like a song, smooth as silk. “I’m Lady Gwen. As a child I plagued Tristan and Rhys, eternally trailing after the two of them, I was.”
“I’m Miss Beaujeu. The governess.” Isabelle bobbed a curtsey and waited for the reaction, which could be varied – disdain more often than not, which still stung even after all this time.
“Such a pleasure to meet you.” She smiled with kind eyes. “I’d heard Mari had a new governess. Are you both joining us for pre-dinner sherry in the Ddraig’s lair?”
Isabelle scrunched her brow. “The dragon’s…”
“The drawing room.” Lady Gwen laughed. “I’ve called it that since I was a child as the earls of Llanedwyn have always hung their dragon artworks in there.”
Isabelle returned the smile. “Yes, we will be joining the guests, but I must await my charge as she forgot her shawl.”
“Of course. I’ll see you both in a moment, Miss Beaujeu.”
Isabelle returned to the mirror, her curved lips drooping to a scowl at the sight of herself because tonight she did not conform to Miss Appleton’s instructions on a subdued plain appearance.
The special wax she used to dull her hair had turned rancid after the tin had been damaged on the long stagecoach journey, and without it her washed locks shone like a newly hatched conker, a tint of auburn to their depths. Worse, without the wax, her chignon refused to pin back tightly, treacherous strands demanding escape and curling around her cheeks. The amethyst-hued dress from Madame de Jones also caused her skin to gleam and eyes to lighten – which would not do at all.
The mask of governess had been stripped to reveal a normal spinster of seven and twenty. Neither pretty nor dull, but certainly not a strict educator of young ladies.
A few nerves flittered as they often did on the first occasion she dined with a family. Some employers wished the governess to remain silent, some wished for her to converse and others enjoyed establishing their superiority.
At a banquet such as tonight’s, anything could happen…
“Here I am,” came a mutter. Dressed in a frilly white frock with pink shawl, Mari trailed down the stairs, appearing…unsure and youthful.
Isabelle straightened the girl’s red hair ribbon and patted her shoulder. “You look beautiful. Now remember Miss Appleton’s seeds of wisdom?”
Mari inhaled. “‘A prudent young woman will pause on words before she utters them and will regulate her action by unconstrained dignity.’”
“Splendid. Therefore, let us observe the young ladies and see if anyone follows her advice.”
Mari sniggered.
Mr Morgan the butler stood guard at the drawing room door, his nose so high, Isabelle could note his nostril hair was grey. Could he perhaps be a descendant of the infamous Sir Henry Morgan, the Welsh pirate and scourge of the high seas a century ago? He was certainly high-handed enough.
“Would one care to enter?The duke and his guests are already assembled.”
“If we could be permitted, Morgan, that would be most appreciated.”
A sideways nose and sniff were aimed in her direction. “One is at your service,” he replied in a tone that conveyed the exact opposite, but the double doors were opened nonetheless for them to step into the room.
