The Extraordinary Tale of the Rebellious Governess: A Historical Regency Romance Novel Read online

  George scoffed. “There are always rumors abounding over the King’s health. Every month we have a new influx of them – the King is dead; no, he’s quite well and might return to the throne; no, last week he lay abed, dying and receiving last rites. The week before, he slobbered all over the carpets in his madness.”

  “I agree,” Oliver chuckled, shaking his blond head. “The rumors fly across all of England and which are to be believed?”

  “We should not partake of rumor mongering until we have facts,” Sampson told them.

  Despite his words, the two continued their friendly wrangling over what rumors might be close to the truth, leaving him to ponder his own inner troubles. Up ahead, his manor house appeared around a bend in the road, its spreading green lawns and hedges a welcome sight despite his sister’s anger. He planned a private word with her before supper, as he wanted no tantrums in front of his friends and guests.

  In the stable yard, dogs leaped round their horses, barking, as grooms emerged to take their mounts. One held his stallion’s bridle as Sampson dismounted, others holding George’s and Oliver’s. Walking across the stone cobbles toward the house with his companions in tow, Sampson pondered his words to Henrietta. The wide oak doors opened as he approached, and his butler, Thomas, bowed low.

  “Welcome home, Your Grace.”

  “After I have changed,” Sampson said, “I wish to see my sister in my study.”

  “Of course, Your Grace.”

  “Tea in an hour, gentlemen?” Sampson asked, turning to his friends.

  “Of course,” the both murmured, offering him short bows as he walked with quick strides up the huge, winding staircase to his private apartments. Martin, his valet, bowed low as he entered his rooms, ready to assist him in washing and dressing in clothes that did not smell of horses and the road.

  Shortly after, now dressed in a white muslin shirt, pale blue waistcoat, and a white cravat, Sampson permitted Martin to help him with his Hessian boots, onto his feet and over his dark grey trousers.

  Thus dressed, he found Henrietta already in his study, examining the books on his shelves.

  “Dear Sister,” he said, warming at the sight of her.

  Henrietta offered him a curtsey before wrapping her arms around his waist. “I missed you, Sampson.”

  “And I, you. Come, sit and talk with me before we must go downstairs for tea.”

  Taking an armchair for himself, Sampson watched his young sibling seat herself in a less comfortable, hard chair opposite him. He suspected she knew what he’d planned to say. Henrietta wore a gown of soft mauve with ruffled sleeves, lace hinting at her throat and wrists. He thought the color looked good on her, with her pale blonde hair and hazel-green eyes. Small for her age, his little sister gazed at him with a cool aloofness that had not been there a few months ago.

  “You are going to lecture me, aren’t you?”

  Sampson lit his pipe, puffing and squinting slightly through the smoke. “I prefer to call it a talk.”

  “It is still a lecture.”

  “But as I desire your input and opinions, it is not a lecture.”

  “Very well.”

  The words he planned to say vanished from his head. She looked so alone, forlorn, sitting there as though awaiting her execution. Henrietta had been only five years old when their father died, and endured their mother’s, the late Duchess, slow slide into depression and death. Affected by it more than Sampson, who worked hard maintaining his ducal estates, his stud farm, and his role at court, Henrietta withdrew into herself, speaking little and smiling seldom. Sampson tried to remember the last time he had seen her laugh.

  “I love you very much, you know,” he said.

  His words apparently caught her off guard, for Henrietta glanced away, nibbling her lower lip. “I know,” she said, her tone soft.

  “I would do nothing to ever hurt you.”

  “Then tell the governess not to come.” Henrietta’s tears gleamed in her eyes, and Sampson’s heart wrenched in his chest.

  “I cannot,” he said gently. “Whether you agree or not, you must have a governess.”

  “No, I do not. She will try to take Mother’s place.”

  At her fierce and desperate words, Sampson started up from his chair, his pipe forgotten. “Is that what you fear? That she will take Mother’s place?”

  Turning her head so he would not see her tears, Henrietta nodded. “I will not have it. I will not.”

  Sampson leaned forward. “Please listen to me, sweet sister. This governess will not take our sainted mother’s place in this house nor in our affections. She is to look after you, be your tutor, and I hope, your friend. I would ask this favor of you, Henrietta.”

  “What favor?”

  “Give her a chance. It is all I am asking. If you give her time and patience, I am sure you will find it is not hard to have her here.”

  “And if I hate her?”

  He leaned back in his armchair, puffing on his pipe. “I hope it will not come to that,” he said slowly. “But if it does, we will reconsider the matter then. Are we agreed?”

  Henrietta nodded, not smiling but meeting his gaze with a calm levelness that he thought only to see on faces much older than hers.

  “But I know I will hate her,” Henrietta declared. “I know I will.”

  Chapter 3

  With all her possessions packed, which amounted to a single decent-sized box, Lucretia stood outside the Foundling Hospital. Willie and a few of the older boys stood with her, trying manfully not to cry. The older girls, whom she helped raise when they were young, had no such constraints and wept. She had said her farewells to the small children, all who bawled when she told them she was leaving. Rose, one of her favorites, begged to be allowed to go with her.

  “I am sorry, Rose,” she told the child. “You cannot come with me. But I promise, I will write you letters.”

  “I cannot read,” the little girl wailed.

  “Someone will read them to you, sweetling. And when you are older, you can read them for yourself.”

  “Will you write letters to all of us, Miss Lucretia?” Willie asked, his pinched round face red with the effort to not imitate the girls.

  “I promise, I will do my best,” she said, tousling his hair. “Remember, I am very fond of you all. I will miss you.”

  As Mrs. Marsh told her the Duke would send a carriage for her, she stood waiting for it, her fears and anxieties reined in so as not to upset the children. Yet, she wanted to weep as the girls did. The Foundling Hospital was her home. It frightened her to leave it, to go across England to the service of the Duke of Breckenridge.

  “It will be an adventure, right, Miss Lucretia?” Willie said, as though reading her fears. “You always told us you wanted an adventure. To see new places and things.”

  She smiled, and cupped his chin in her hand. “You are quite right, Willie. It will be an adventure. And soon, you will be old enough to go on them, too.”

  “When I am old enough,” he declared, “I will ride to Gloucestershire and rescue you.”

  “That you will, my brave lad.”

  As she spoke, a team of four with post boys riding the left-hand horses clattered around the bend and trotted toward them. The beautiful yellow carriage, a post chaise she knew were often called ‘Yellow Bounders,’ pulled up beside her as the small men reined in the team.

  “You Miss Lucretia Brent?” the lead rider asked.

  “Yes, I am.”

  “We be hired to bring you to His Grace, the Duke of Breckenridge.”

  “I am ready.”

  As Willie and another boy struggled to stow her box aboard, she turned for one last lingering look at what once had been her home. Her face hidden by her bonnet, she permitted a single tear to track down her pale cheek. That was all. She wiped it away, and, lifting her skirts, climbed into the chaise.

  With the children clustered so close, she touched each of their hands as the riders prepared to signal the horses to
move out.

  “Wait! A moment. Wait.”

  The post boys hesitated, their team shifting restlessly under them, as Mrs. Marsh hurried from the huge double doors of the Hospital. “I am sorry I am late, but I just could not make up my mind.”

  “Mrs. Marsh?” Lucretia asked, confused.

  “Let me by, children, let me by.”

  The Hospital’s matron pushed her way through the milling, crying children, a small box in her hand. She handed it up to Lucretia, who accepted it with a puzzled smile.

  “A small token of my appreciation for all the help and work you have given us through all these years.”

  Untying the string that held the box closed, Lucretia opened it. Several leather-bound volumes lay within – a book of poetry, three novels, and a book of essays. Tears brimmed in her eyes as she took Mrs. Marsh’s hand. “Thank you.”

  “Be well, my dear. Godspeed.”

  The post boys set the horses into a quick trot, carrying Lucretia away. Leaning from the chaise, she waved as the children and the stout matron waved back. A sick feeling swirled through her stomach when she realized she would most likely not ever see any of them again.

  “This be your first time travelin’, mum?”

  Swallowing hard in an effort to not cry, she glanced up. The wheel boy gazed over his shoulder at her, his expression cheerful.

  “Yes. Yes, it is.”

  “We be takin’ good care o’ ye, then, mum. You be needin’ anythin’ you be lettin’ us know.”

  “I will. Thank you.”

  He tipped his small cap to her, then faced forward. Despite her fears and despair, Lucretia stared out of the moving carriage in fascination. While she had often gone into the city shopping, she seldom ventured far from the Hospital, as the neighborhood shops carried most anything she needed. Now she found herself staring, dazzled, at the parts of London she had never before witnessed.

  The wide street held a multitude of carriages, single horse-drawn cabriolets, an impressive landau drawn by four magnificent black horses. She wondered what lord passed her by in that carriage, as she did not recognize the coat of arms on its doors. She stared in fascination at hansom cabs, wagons drawn by huge horses and piled high with logs, or bricks. Despite the heavy traffic, people walked into and out of shops and along the sidewalks. Apprentices hawked wares, yelling to be heard over the cacophony.

  The chaise passed through a big market teeming with shoppers, delivery men, vendors. Street urchins ran amok amid the thick crowds, grabbing what they could before dashing off. Dogs barked, often running between human legs, all but toppling their victims to the filthy street.

  Leaving the market and the heavy traffic behind, the post chaise took her toward the River Thames. Long before she saw it, Lucretia scented the stench of fish, and for the first time ever, she heard the lonely crying of seagulls. As they drew closer, she saw the great ships tied to the piers, sailors loading or unloading, bobbing gently against their hawsers. She’d seen drawings of ships, but never an actual sea-going vessel. Until now. Leaning out of the chaise, she watched them until they finally passed out of sight.

  Having never been out of London, Lucretia gaped at the green, open fields, farmers and their sons planting oats or barley. Other travelers, many farmers in laden wagons heading into the city, passed them by, most offering friendly waves as they passed. Had she not been so frightened of what awaited her at the Breckenridge estates, she would have found her first adventure thrilling, exciting.

  Thusly enrapt by the sights before her, the hours passed quickly. Before she realized how the time had fled, the post boys reined the team to a halt in a small village. Glancing up, Lucretia realized they must stop to change horses and post boys, as the afternoon waned toward dusk.

  The cheerful little man helped her down from the chaise. “Go on inside, mum,” he said. “There be a box dinner and a bed ferth’ night awaitin’ ye, courtesy of His Grace, the Duke.”

  After taking advantage of the privy, she sat at one of the clean wooden tables. A stout, red-faced matron approached with a basket covered by a cloth napkin and a tankard. Setting the fare in front of her, she offered only a quick nod before hustling away to serve the inn’s patrons.

  The tankard held crisp, cold water, the basket had hot fried chicken, a small roll of bread, and a hard, yellow cheese. She had not known how hungry she was until she breathed in the fine odors. Trying to maintain some decorum of manners, Lucretia ate everything, licking her fingers before wiping them, and her lips, on the napkin. The matron showed her to a small room, with a tiny bed covered in clean, fresh sheets.

  She slept well that night, and after a quick breakfast the next morning, the new wheel boy came in search of her, informing her they were ready to depart. He helped her climb into the chaise, then vaulted onto the wheel horse. Within moments, they set out once more, Lucretia belching contentedly into her fist.

  “How long until we get to Tewksbury in Gloucestershire?” she asked.

  “We be takin’ ye as far as Oxford, miss,” the wheel boy said. “But ye should reach Cheltenham before nightfall. Ye will stay at an inn, courtesy of the Duke.”

  Mrs. Marsh said His Grace’s estates were close by the town of Tewksbury.I hope it does not take too long to get there.

  Sitting back in the comfortable seat as the carriage rolled smoothly over the road, she hoped the Duke would prove to be a fair and just master. If he was not…

  Her fears returned, despite her delight in watching the countryside slide past at a quick pace. What if the Duke of Breckenridge proved to be a harsh or wicked man? What would his children be like? Would they be hellions, out to make her life miserable? She knew nothing of the Duke’s reputation, his family, or his nature. Mrs. Marsh told her only that he owned a townhouse in London for his frequent trips to the Prince Regent’s court and his duties in the House of Lords.

  Of course, growing up in an orphanage, Lucretia had listened to dark tales of evil masters murdering their servants in the night, of horrible beasts that roamed the moors after nightfall, howling under a full moon. She’d heard wild stories of man-sized bats that fed on the unwary traveler, of highwaymen and robbers who robbed the rich and the poor alike and left their bodies to rot on the ground.

  Shivering as she gazed at the green, rolling hills, she wondered what roamed out there when the good people of the land slept. Feeling very glad she would not be traveling after the sun set, she resisted the urge to ask the wheel boy about huge bats and highwaymen.

  No doubt, he would think me a fool and laugh.

  The hours passed as quickly as the miles, and just before supper, the chaise halted at another inn in the village of Cheltenham. Once again, she found a hearty, hot meal and a clean bed awaiting her, paid for by His Grace. In the morning, fresh horses and boys would continue conveying her to her new home. The next stop the following day, after a short journey, would place her at the door of the Duke.

  “Have you met His Grace, the Duke of Breckenridge?” she asked as the new wheel boy assisted her into the chaise.

  “Nay, mum,” he answered with a gap-toothed smile. “I’ve not the honor.”

  Swallowing her trepidation that within a few hours, she would meet him face to face, she settled back into the seat as the carriage rocked forward. She clenched her trembling fingers into her lap, vowing that neither he nor his children would make her cry. No matter what they did.

  Watching the sun sink toward Wales and distant Ireland, Lucretia’s nerves strung tight as the carriage left the road and headed north on a narrow lane. Sheep and cattle grazed the green hills behind low walls made of moss-weathered stone. Smoke curled up from the chimneys of crofters’ huts, and she listened to the chirk-chirk of a hunting hawk. As the chaise rounded a sharp bend in the lane, she sucked in her breath, not realizing she held it.

  Passing under a wrought iron sign held up by two tall stone pillars, she read the words Breckenridge and Quantum Fidelis. Her Latin being a tad rusty, she thou
ght it translated to, as faithful. Finding it a hopeful sign, hoping that the owner of the magnificent house straight ahead was as honorable as his family motto, she stared in wonder.

  I have never seen anything as stunningly beautiful as this place.

  Sprawling green lawns hemmed in by neat hedgerows spanned the front. Tall white pillars graced the wide veranda. The manor house stood four stories tall, and nearly as wide as a London street was long, and a dozen stone chimneys poked up from the roof in her view. Outbuildings and sheds sat well back from the house as to not mar its singular magnificence. Stars danced in front of Lucretia’s eyes, reminding her she had not drawn breath since sighting the place.

  As the chaise entered the wide circular drive in front of the house, she noticed several people standing between the pillars, awaiting her. Several liveried footmen in powdered wigs, and two female servants in white caps and aprons, stood behind a tall man and a young girl. Reminding herself to breathe, she felt her heart fluttering in her breast as the team drew her closer to her fate. Fear returned with a vengeance, and she fought to keep it from showing on her face.