Read The Governess Club: Sara Online
Authors: Ellie Macdonald
His wife interrupted him. “Come, let us sit down and discuss this like reasonable adults. I’ll order tea, shall I?”
The group reluctantly took to the sofas, Sara sitting close to Nathan, her hand still protectively on his arm. Jacob remained standing a safe distance away from him. “Now,” Claire continued. “What is this all about? When did all this happen? Forgive us, dear, but we are trying to understand. This is entirely unexpected.”
“Perhaps we should wait for Louisa,” Sara said. “Nathan and I wish to start on our journey soon and I do not wish to tell this story more than once.”
Claire blinked. “Louisa?”
Bonnie chimed in. “I haven’t seen her in some time. Where is she?”
Claire shook her head. “She was there at the church. She said she would see to Mr. Pomeroy. I haven’t seen her since.”
“I thought she came back with you,” Jacob said to Bonnie, who shook her head. “It was just Stephen and me in the gig.”
“This is ridiculous,” Claire said. “She must be upstairs, although why she would not have come down when you returned, Sara, I don’t know.”
“She looked calm at the church,” Stephen offered. “She did,” he repeated with a shrug when Bonnie looked at him.
Anna entered in response to the bell pull. Claire spoke to her. “Find Miss Hurst, please, and ask her to join us here.”
The maid shook her head. “I’m sorry, mum, I can’t.”
Claire raised her eyebrows. “I beg your pardon?”
The young girl looked nervous. “She’s not here. Her trunks were carried down this morning during all the hullabaloo getting ready for the wedding. She’s gone.”
“What is this?” Bonnie exclaimed. “Is it some sort of epidemic of unexplained disappearances?”
Louisa was gone?
To where?
Want to know what happens with Louisa?
Here’s a sneak peek!
An Excerpt from
L
ouisa pressed her nose to her stockings and sniffed. They were still damp, but didn’t have the musty odor from being wet inside her portmanteau. As she waited for her food and the bath the previous evening—that never appeared, despite the assurances from Giant Johnny—she had hung what items she could by the fire to dry out.
Setting the stockings by the fire again to give them a few more minutes, Louisa examined the room in a manner the darkness had not allowed last night. And she was glad it had not. Spider webs adorned the walls and ledges, a thick layer of dust covering the window hangings and floor; her footprints clearly marked every space she had stepped. The window glass was covered in such grime that she doubted the curtains were necessary. She had felt the thinness of the mattress, pillows and covers during her fitful sleep, but was still unprepared for the cold reality in the light of day. Indeed, she may have been just as comfortable on the floor.
The table where she had picked at her inedible supper was scratched and stained; one of its legs had been poorly replaced, which explained the wobble the night before. The chair was no longer matching, if it ever had been, but at least it had held her weight steady. The tray remained on the table, more unappetizing in the morning than it had been when it first arrived, a fact that Louisa had not thought possible.
Grimacing, Louisa returned to the fire and repacked her portmanteau before pulling on her stockings. Standing, she smoothed the wrinkles out of her dress and stepped into her slippers. She pulled on her cloak and lifted her bag, intent on leaving. She may not have much coin to her name, but she did have standards. Surely there was another inn within walking distance.
Lifting her chin, she marched to the door and opened it with a yank. She let out a shriek as a large body and a chair tumbled toward her, arms and legs flailing. Jumping out of the way, she managed to not have her toes crushed as Giant Johnny sprawled at her feet.
“Ouch! Bleedin’ hell,” he cursed, curling up on his side and holding his head.
“Mr. Taylor!” Louisa dropped her bag and knelt beside him. “Are you injured?”
“What do you think?”
She blinked at the pained growl coming from him and she sat back on her heels. “Well, judging from your ability to speak, I should think you will survive.”
He glared at her from underneath his hands. “Would you.” His voice was flat.
“Whatever were you doing outside my room?” she asked.
Another glare and a grimace as Giant Johnny—the alliteration pleased her for some reason—rolled himself into a sitting position. “I told you I would keep you safe. I slept against your door to ensure none would bother you. I have no illusions of the morals of drunkards.”
She blinked again, taken aback by his actions. “I see. I suppose you leaned the chair against my door, thus causing your imbalance when I opened it.”
“You suppose correctly.”
“Perhaps in the future you will find it prudent to lean against a more stationary object, such as the wall.” Louisa rose to her feet and clasped her hands in front of her.
“Perhaps I shall.”
“Nevertheless, is there anything I can assist you with?” she asked. “A cold compress for your head, perhaps?”
He moved his fingers gingerly to the back of head. “I think that is unnecessary. I have suffered—” he winced as he fingered a sensitive spot—“worse knocks to the head than this.”
“But not while in the service of my protection.”
A little unsteady, he rose to his feet and righted the chair that he had fallen on. “The reason for the injuries does not increase them, Mrs. Brock.”
“No,” she allowed, “but my subsequent obligation is now a factor.” Her eyes followed his movements as he straightened. Good Lord, but the moniker “Giant Johnny” was highly appropriate. The man was a mountain. A fleeting thought crossed her mind about what it would be like to have those large arms encompass her.
He waved his hand in dismissal. “Think nothing of it. You had no reason to expect me to see to my promise in such a manner.”
“Still—”
He spied her packed portmanteau and looked at her questioning. “You are moving on? I thought your plans were unconfirmed.”
Louisa lifted her chin. “They are. But that does not mean that I must stay here in order to solidify them.”
He put his thick hands on his hips, doubling his width. “But it also means that you do not have to leave in order to do so, either.” She opened her mouth to speak, but he stayed her with his hand. “I understand what it is like to be adrift. If you wish, you can remain here. It is clear that I need help, a woman’s help.” He gestured to the room. “I have little notion and less inclination for cleaning. I need someone to take charge in this area. Will you do it?”
Louisa stared at him. Help him by being a maid? In an inn? Of all things she had considered doing, working in such a place had never crossed her mind. She was not suited for such work. A governess, a companion, yes, but a maid? What would her mother have said about this? Or any of her family?
Keep reading to see how The Governess Club started!
An Excerpt from
“C
an any of you honestly say she hasn’t thought about it?”
Silence reigned; teacups hovered between saucer and mouth. Eyes flitted away with guilt—or secret shame, unwilling to admit that it had indeed crossed their minds.
“You’re not being fair,” one chided softly.
“But who genuinely wants this for the rest of their lives?”
“There’s nothing wrong with being a governess,” another chimed in.
“Of course not. Not if one disregards the fact that for women of our station it signifies a lowering of one’s situation. We were not born to be in service.”
“It’s not quite service, per se . . .”
“How is it anything else? We are being paid to render a service. Our lives are theirs to dictate. I cannot even count the number of times I have been called upon to even out the numbers at a dinner party. And they think they are bestowing some great honor upon me when they know full well I have attended more illustrious tables than theirs.”
“Now you’re just being aggressive.”
“And I dislike the being termed ‘one whom another pays for a service,’” said another. “It makes me feel dirty, like a . . .”
“Say it dear. A
whore
. We are being paid for a service, which in essence is exactly what a whore is paid for.”
“I believe my half day is nearly up. It is a long walk back, and the children will be expecting me back for their evening meal. I have no wish to be caught in the rain.” A small redhead pulled on her gloves and left the room.
“Louisa, what is the matter with you? You know very well your logic is flawed. The whole of the working class are paid for services; it is only a minority who have a negative stigma attached to them, and that is based on the service they render, not simply the fact that they are getting paid.”
Louisa sighed and sipped her tea. “I didn’t mean to offend anyone.”
Claire patted her arm. “We know. And Sara knows that, I’m sure.”
Bonnie spoke up. “What caused this rant, Louisa? You are not usually so ferocious in your opinions.”
Staring into her tea, Louisa said, “The Waldrons had a house party last week. One of my brother’s friends was a guest.”
“Oh dear.”
“When he first saw me, he seemed genuinely delighted. And he was. I welcomed his compliments and platitudes because it reminded me of how my life had been before . . . well, before. But when his attentions became more marked and aggressive, I knew the truth. All he said was . . . he said . . . that surely I must expect this as part of my duties.”
“Did you—I mean did he—”
“One thing I can thank my brother for is teaching me how to defend myself against unwanted male attention.” A small smile accompanied Louisa’s words. Twin sighs of relief escaped her two friends, and she raised her eyes to theirs, beseeching their understanding. “There must be more to life for us than this. We were raised to expect better.”
“But how?” asked Bonnie. “None of us earn enough money to live independently for the duration of our lives, and our marriage prospects have dwindled more quickly than our social statuses.”
“It’s not like we have regular exposure to the kind of gentlemen who would elevate us back up anyway, even if they could,” Claire joined in. “The gentlemen we work for are already married, and their friends see us as nothing more than sport, if they see us at all. We can no longer trust gentlemen of the titled class.”
“But who says we need a man or marriage to escape our positions? And who says that
independent
means
isolated
?” Louisa asked.
“I don’t think I quite follow,” Bonnie said.
Louisa turned to Claire. “Have you made any progress on Ridgestone?”
Claire blinked. “No, but my father’s—
my
solicitor remains optimistic.”
“And each of us has been saving our wages, correct? Even Sara, I’m sure.” At the confirming nods, Louisa became more adamant. “We could do it.”
“Do what?”
“We could pool our resources and live independently, yet not isolated, and without marriage. Say we continue saving our money for three more years, five at most. That would give Claire ample time to see if regaining Ridgestone is possible and for us to save nest eggs capable of supporting us, albeit not in the style we were raised, but still comfortably. If Ridgestone is a possibility, then we already have a place to live. If not, then with all four of us contributing, we could afford a place large enough for the four of us.”
An Excerpt from
B
onnie looked down at the blond boy walking next to her and pasted on a confident smile. “I am sure next time we will have more success.”
Henry glanced at her, but did not smile or share her enthusiasm. “It’s too late in the year, I think. It’s a poor time to fish.” He shifted the two poles he carried to the other shoulder. “And the worms are difficult to find. You said that they burrow deeper into the ground the colder it gets.”
“That is true,” Bonnie conceded. “But I do not think it is so cold that they will be hibernating just yet. They will be deeper, yes, but earthworms do not fully enter hibernation until it is almost freezing.”
“I remember,” Henry replied.
“Besides, it will simply mean that we have to dig a bit deeper,” Bonnie said with forced cheerfulness. “How about that, Arthur? Would you like to dig deeper holes in the garden?” She gave the three-year-old’s hand a squeeze. He just looked at her with solemn brown eyes.
“Mother does not like us ruining her garden,” Henry said quietly. “Father said it’s best to dig at night when she can’t see us. The deeper holes would not please my mother.”
Bonnie closed her eyes and bit back a sigh. “My lord, I do not think your mother would begrudge you worms for fishing.”
Henry said, “Still, I would rather not.”
The trio crested the hill and Darrowgate came into view. The house, granted with the viscountcy by King Henry VII, was in the tribute shape of an “H.” As they drew closer, the large red stone building imposed itself on the landscape, a testament to the legacy of the Darrows.
Bonnie led the boys through the garden; Henry kept his stoic eyes on the house and Arthur removed his thumb from his mouth long enough to trail his fingers on the flowers in late bloom. By the time they had climbed the four small steps to the terrace, the thumb was firmly back in place.
“Burdis,” Henry called the butler as they entered the main hall from the rear. “Please inform Mrs. Dabbs that there will be no fish complimenting dinner tonight.” He handed the poles to the portly man.
“Of course, my lord. Better luck next time. Hodges,” Burdis turned his steady gaze to Bonnie. “There is a gentleman waiting in the drawing room. His name is Montgomery.”
Bonnie was curious. “For me?”
“He asked for the viscount.” Burdis lowered his voice. “He does not seem aware of the recent change. They were friends.”