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Chapter Thirteen
“At eight and thirty, or forty at most, a governess should retire upon her well-earned competency.”
Private Education: A Practical Plan for the Studies of Young Ladies.
Elizabeth Appleton. 1815.
Framed in mid-morn light, the duke strode down the garden path, his white sleeves billowing and hair tousling in the breeze. He paused at the gate which led to the cliffs, twisted, and peered up at the house.
Isabelle startled and stepped back from the schoolroom window.
Despite the late hour of the ball, her slumber last night had been a fitful tempest of masculine lips and fierce dragons and passionate ebony eyes.
Brainless blowsabella!
Restraint and control were a governess’ mantra. Responsibility and conscientiousness her hymn. Miss Appleton’s words of experience preyed upon her, of how one should act… Her mind calm, her senses under the control of good reason.
Yet last night she had lost her control of good reason, allowed herself to be…tempted.
Gullible goosecap!
She was no fool and realised a certain…desire had flickered between the duke and herself. But flickers were purely that: unsteady, fitful, snuffed out by a breath.
Oh, why had she twisted to face him. Drawn closer?
Witless widgeon!
Blame could be cast upon the fright in the gardens, the fiery brandy and the intimate ambience.
Yet…
Even now in the cold light of day, the devil on her left shoulder whispered that a mid-morn stroll might be pleasant, mayhap wander those cliffs for a dose of sunshine, perhaps happen upon the duke.
The angel on her right shoulder reminded Isabelle that her Retirement Savings Pot solely comprised twoscore guineas and if she lost her employment through improper behaviour, it could too easily dwindle to naught. Then, the angel remorselessly continued, rumours would spread. No one would employ her, mothers would shield their charges from the sight of the ruined governess, and left with no recourse, the horrid angel persisted, she’d end up on the London streets, selling her dubious wares for a penny until she caught the Maladie Anglaise – or the French Pox, if you were English – before, in agony, she’d breathe her last in some St Giles’ gutter.
The angel folded her wings and grinned.
Isabelle scowled and turned her back.
As she had departed the study last night, she’d dismissed their brush of intimacy with nonchalance, yet if truth were told, deep within, she had burned with a jumbled mix of regret, desire, anger and longing.
Longing for the unattainable.
The Duke of Aberdare was reserved for one of the beautiful and highborn Welsh ladies, not the lowly governess.
She strode to the mirror and surveyed her aspect.
This morning, she’d donned the gown of drab-brown, used the wax from a candle as a last resort to smooth her hair flat, and then pinned it into a bun so tight it caused her head to ache.
Now, she endeavoured to smooth all expression from her features.
The impeccable governess.
From hence forth, she would focus on her profession, her duty, and she placidly glided to her bookcase and serenely reached for Moral Instruction for Young Ladies, Volume IV,by a Mr Perkins. Perfect, this would–
The door crashed open.
“No, Mari,” said Isabelle calmly, without turning. “Try once more.”
