“It’s the master’s fault,” a kitchen maid named Betsy told Olivia one day. “He’s a good sort and all, but totally clueless regarding his ward and what she requires.”
Unwilling to engage in gossip, Olivia offered the maid a smile to acknowledge she’d heard her, then picked up the tray with the pancakes Miss Edwards desired. No sooner had she done so when Miss Chatwick, the governess, burst into the kitchen with a wild sort of outrage burning in her eyes.
Her jaw moved, clamping and unclamping while she stood there, starched and tense while her gaze swept the room. And then she said, or rather sputtered, “She sacked me. Miss Edwards…” Miss Chatwick cleared her throat. “I am to pack my things and depart at once.”
Good lord. Olivia stared at Miss Chatwick until the woman huffed a breath and swept from the room. She blinked, then glanced at Betsy who stared slack-jawed at the doorway through which Miss Chatwick had vanished. “Can she do that? I mean, can Miss Edwards sack an employee?”
“Apparently so, though she’d probably have to do so in accordance with Mr. Dover.”
Mr. Dover being the butler.
“But—”
“I would suggest you hurry upstairs with those pancakes,” Betsy said, “lest she send you packing next.”
Unwilling to risk her position since she rather liked the comfort and pay she’d found here since her arrival a month and a half ago, Olivia chose to heed Betsy’s advice and made her way to the conservatory. When she arrived, Miss Edwards appeared to be admiring a lemon tree.
“Your tea and pancakes, miss,” Olivia said and placed the tray on a table near the tall windows overlooking the pond. She began to retreat and was almost at the door when…
“I’m not a child,” Miss Edwards remarked, “and I hate being treated as such.”
“I beg your pardon, miss?” Olivia wasn’t sure if Miss Edwards had actually spoken to her and whether or not she expected an answer.
Miss Edwards turned, her imploring blue eyes meeting Olivia’s across the distance. Blonde curls framed her face. At sixteen years of age, her features still bore the gentle softness of a child while her body had fully matured. It was the oddest thing to behold. “Is it so terrible for me to want to do more than dance well, play a musical instrument, or paint landscapes? Is it fair to punish me for demanding a broader education?”
Stunned, Olivia stared at Miss Edwards without a clue as to how to respond, except to ask, “How were you punished?”
Miss Edwards dropped her gaze. Her fingers trailed across a glossy green leaf. “Miss Chatwick locked me in the dining room and told me she’d not let me out until I’d penned her a letter of apology.”
“What on earth for?”
A pause, and then, “I might have dissected a frog in my bedchamber when I was meant to be reading Debrett’s.”
Olivia’s mouth fell open. This, she’d not expected. “Why would you do such a thing?”
“To see what’s inside. Obviously.”
Of course. How foolish.
Interest captured Olivia’s mind. “Might I see?”
“I’m afraid not. Miss Chatwick had it removed. Just like she had the beetles I’d collected removed and the mice I was keeping fed to the cat. She never understood or approved, and today she actually locked me up. Had it not been for Mr. Dover’s interference, I’d still be trapped in the dining room.”
Olivia considered this. Clearly, Miss Edwards had unusual interests – interests which were not only being ignored but actively crushed. As a young lady who would soon make her debut, she’d still have to acquire the skills and poise one expected from an upper-class woman.
But perhaps a middle ground could be achieved?
“May I speak plainly?” Olivia asked. When Miss Edwards nodded, Olivia said, “I know what it means to want something beyond your reach. However, considering your position, you must know the steps of a quadrille to perfection while being able to converse in fluent French.”
Miss Edwards scoffed and cast a withering look at the tray where the pancakes waited. “You’re just like everyone else.”
“I believe,” Olivia pressed since she very much feared Miss Edwards was close to swiping the tray from the table and stomping off in a fit, “a young lady in your position can do both, provided she practice discretion. The trick will be choosing in whom to confide your true self, Miss Edwards, since many will be unwilling to accept your views.”
“You mean to suggest I pretend to be someone I’m not?”
“What I am saying is that in order for you to gain the sort of education you desire, it might be wise not to conduct scientific research in your bedchamber where you risk discovery. It might also be prudent of you to excel at the lessons that are required of you, so no one can fault you for lack of perfection.”
A moment of silence followed and then Miss Edwards stepped forward. She studied Olivia with an assessing gaze. “Parlez-vous français?”
“Oui. Couramment.” Yes. Fluently.
“But you’re just a maid.”
“So?”
Miss Edwards smiled for the first time since Olivia’s arrival at Sutton Hall, the expression lighting her eyes in a way that warmed Olivia’s heart. “I do believe Mr. Grier will return from London as soon as he learns of Miss Chatwick’s dismissal. And when he does, I shall recommend you to him as my new governess.”
As had become tradition, Grayson Stuart Grier met his friends, James Dale and Colin West, in a quiet corner of White’s for a commemorative drink. Today, Friday, March 21, 1820, marked the nineteenth anniversary of their comrade, Richard Hughes’s, death at the battle of Aboukir.
Grayson took another swig of his brandy. Even after all these years he still recalled with perfect accuracy the blistering heat and pliant sand beneath his feet. The stench of smoke, blood, and gunpowder swiftly returned while screams of agony filled his ears. Before the war, he’d believed it his duty to serve king and country. Now, he thought it a barbaric waste of life.
“He would have been four and forty years old by now, had he lived,” Colin muttered morosely. The scar he’d received at the hands of an enemy soldier puckered his right cheek as he spoke.
Far from home, Egypt had served as hell on earth for them all, but at least Richard hadn’t been one of the wretched souls forced to writhe in the sand while he suffered. His death had been swift. One shot, and he’d been gone, like a flame snuffed out in an instant.
“Do you suppose he would have married?” Grayson asked, willing himself to recall Richard during happier times, when they’d been at Eton and Cambridge together. Before their decision to buy commissions.
James scoffed. “Only a fool would tie himself to a woman for any duration of time. You’re lucky you managed to avoid the parson’s mousetrap, Grayson. And at least you realized your mistake quick enough to get an annulment, Colin. I wish I’d been as wise.”
“You wouldn’t have Michael then,” Grayson pointed out. He knew how much James loved his son.
“But you could have divorced your wife once you realized what she was up to,” Colin said, “as Mr. Hewitt is doing.”