Rules for a Proper Governess

The door was opened by a very stiff and slender young man who didn’t grin like Peter at Mr. McBride’s house did. He knew Cat and Andrew, though, and ushered the three of them into a wide foyer.

A sweep of stairs with a carved wooden railing wound upward through a lofty hall, large windows on each landing pouring in light. Bertie craned her head to look all the way to the top of the stairs, where a painting on the ceiling showed clouds and flying creatures.

Andrew, next to her, exploded into sound. “Aunt Eleanor! We’re staying with you, so our new governess can go home and fetch her things before her dad gets into a right state!”

A door shut somewhere above them. Bertie heard light footsteps, and then a lady, so extraordinarily lovely she might have stepped from a fine painting, started down the stairs, her face alight with curiosity. Her dress rustled as she descended—its skirt had stripes of lighter and darker blue green, with a solid blue green overskirt pulled open to fall in ruffles down the back. Her shining red hair was all braids and curls, probably the latest fashion, though Bertie had no idea, and her long-sleeved bodice hugged a body of curves, not pencil thinness.

Bertie had supposed a duchess would be stout and gray, stern and commanding. Not so this woman. She was young and robust, and she moved with an animation that Bertie found fascinating.

The duchess stepped off the stairs and gave Bertie a stare of frank interest from eyes of delphinium blue. “New governess, are you?” she asked.

“Her name’s Bertie!” Andrew shouted. He took a deep breath and threw his head back, so his voice could reach the ceiling many stories above them. “We’ve come to play with Alec!”

“Well, he’ll be awake now, that’s for certain,” the duchess said, her smile widening. She held out her hand to Bertie. “How do you do, Miss Bertie? Quite an unusual name, I must say. You may call me Aunt Eleanor, as everyone in the family does. The grace-ing and duchess-ing can become a little complicated, so within the family, I am simply Aunt Eleanor. Except to my husband, but one never knows what will come out of his mouth. Fortunately for you, he is not home. What did you say your full name was?”

Chapter 7

Bertie hadn’t said, and she cleared her throat, suddenly nervous under the duchess’s shrewd gaze. “Miss Roberta Frasier,” she said, taking the offered hand. She remembered Sophie’s teachings and made a brief curtsy, as gracefully as she could manage. “Ma’am.”

Eleanor’s grip was strong. She kept hold of Bertie’s hand and pinned her with a very thorough stare, her blue eyes bright and assessing. “The governess, yes? You never answered.”

Andrew was already halfway up the stairs. “She’s the best governess in the world! She’s going to stay with us forever!”

“Really?” Eleanor didn’t release Bertie’s hand. “Andrew, please don’t climb on the railing. You know what Uncle Hart said when you fell off last month. Pardon me for saying so, Miss Frasier, but you don’t look much like a governess.”

“Well,” Bertie said, wetting her lips. “Maybe I’ve just started.”

“I see.” Eleanor peered at her harder, as though she could read every thought in Bertie’s head. A frightening woman, this, despite the fact that she was pretty and smiling. “Caitriona, what say you?”

When Eleanor said the name, Caitriona, it rolled off her tongue with a hint of the broad Scots Mr. McBride had. Scots, the lot of them, the chambers clerk had said, shaking his head. The only Scotsmen Bertie had met in her life were those that came out of the backstreets of Glasgow to try their luck in London. Much of the time, Bertie couldn’t understand a word they said. Mr. McBride and Eleanor spoke more clearly, but with a lilt that proclaimed they certainly weren’t English.

Cat gave Eleanor an open look. “We want her to stay.”

Eleanor’s expression softened as she gazed down at Cat, compassion entering her eyes. “I see. Well, I’m sure that can be managed.” She switched her attention back to Bertie, still hanging on to Bertie’s hand. “You’re depositing them here to be looked after? Where are you going, exactly?”

The keen stare wouldn’t let Bertie lie. “Whitechapel. Little lane off it.”

Eleanor gave a decided nod. “Well, you can’t walk all the way. I’ll send for the coach.”

Bertie’s eyes widened. She imagined the reception of a duke’s carriage in the warrens off Whitechapel and St. Anne’s Street, where she lodged with her father.

“No, no, I’ll take an omnibus,” Bertie said quickly. She leaned forward and lowered her voice, conscious of the footman at the door listening as hard as he could. “They’ll steal the gilt off the wheels there, and the horses from the harness, before you know where you are.”

“That’s settled then. Franklin, fetch his grace’s coachman,” the duchess called to the footman. “He’ll be driving Miss Frasier to Whitechapel.” She moved her attention back to Bertie. “Or, if you’d like, I can have Franklin go collect your things for you. Save you the bother, and you can stay with Cat and Andrew—Andrew, what did I say about the railings?”

“He likes to climb things,” Bertie said faintly.

“Doesn’t he just. One day, he’ll be a famous acrobat and put out his tongue at all of us. Shall you stay and have tea with me, Miss Frasier? Go on, Franklin, there isn’t much time.”