Beneath a Governess’s Mask (Preview)

Chapter One

London 1818

The chandelier in the center of the ballroom glistened with such brilliance that Rosalind thought perhaps they had left London all together and instead were transplanted to somewhere up in the heavens, surrounded by stars. 

There must have been hundreds, or even thousands of waxed tapers, their flickering light catching on the silks, jewels and satins of the ball gowns around her. She barely noticed the heat of the crush of bodies dancing around her, or the laughter and chatter that filled the night air. She stood at the edge of the dance floor feeling both enchanted and restless. Her tall, willowy frame cut a striking figure, though she rarely stood still enough by society’s ever strict standards for a young lady of marriageable age. 

She shifted her stance lightly from one slippered foot to the other, yearning to slip herself free of the ballroom all together, and perhaps go off on her own, explore the house or the gardens. But that would hardly do. Her unruly auburn locks, so carefully pinned by her maid, Mary, earlier in the evening, already threatening to come loose and set their delicate curls upon her already flushed cheeks. 

As she tapped her foot in time with the lively music, her green eyes sparkled with a brightness and mischief that seemed to garner attention whether she wished for it or not. 

“Please do remember, Rosalind,” her mother Lady Margaret Chesterfield murmured next to her as she adjusted her lavender skirts, careful not to be overheard. “Our position grows even more precarious with each passing day. You must marry well, dear. We need the protection now you’re your father is gone. Even the barest hint of scandal or impropriety could be our undoing.” 

Rosalind turned to face her mother. Her eyes bright with amusement. “Mama, if scandal and impropriety were so ruinous, I’m afraid more than all of polite society would be forced to relocate to the Americas.” 

She could not help but notice the way her mother’s jaw tightened in response to her jest. 

“Be that as it may, daughter,” her mother bit out. “But if you cannot manage to keep yourself behaved and out of the scandal sheets, I shall have no choice but to send you off to the countryside. Perhaps your father’s sister can do more than I to keep you in line.” 

Rosalind had to bite back a smile. Her aunt, Lady Agatha Hargrove, her father’s much, much older sister had retired to the country years ago and ever since her mother would use the older woman as a threat to keep Rosalind in line. However, she knew full well her mother would never send her off. For one, there were no marriage minded gentlemen that far away from town, and for another, even her mother, on her worst days would never sentence Rosalind to a lifetime of exile with the mean-spirited old witch she called aunt. That would be too far, even for her mother. 

But still, there was enough of a pain in her mother’s tone, and seriousness to her gaze that bade Rosalind to make nice rather than suffer another lecture on her unruly behavior. 

“Very well, Mama,” she replied. “I shall be as gentle and docile as a lamb. The perfect English rose.” 

“See to it that you are,” her mother warned. 

Even still, Rosalind found she could not keep her restless gaze from wandering around the glittering room, her every movement, no matter how subtle, betraying the very spirit that made her promise so easily broken. 

A quadrille had just concluded when a familiar man emerged from the crush, his cheeks flushed with what Rosalind could only assume was drink. Lord Ashton Fairchild, tall and broad with just a hint of the excess he enjoyed as a titled lord on a healthy allowance showing in the almost too tight cut of his waistcoat, headed directly for her with a look of determination mixed with ownership in his gaze. 

“Lady Rosalind!” His exclamation filled her with a small amount of dread. “I must admit I’ve been looking for you everywhere.” 

She gave the man a slight bow, another curl coming loose from its pin and falling onto her brow. Lord Fairchild had been plaguing her at almost every society function for months. In her third season, Rosalind was no stranger to aggressive suitors, but somehow Lord Fairchild had so far failed to take note of her disinterest. It wasn’t that his attentions were ill-mannered. He was after all a gentleman of a certain standing. He was just…suffocating. To make matters worse, he also seemed to mistake her cordial good manners as encouragement. 

“My lord,” she said. “Are you well this evening?” 

“I should think I would be better, if you would grant me the pleasure of the next dance?” 

He held his hand out to her as if the matter were settled. 

“Um… unfortunately, I’ve promised the next dance to my…uh…my cousin.” She gave a quick curtsy but was afraid the flush in her cheeks would betray her irritation. 

“You cannot avoid me forever, my lady,” Fairchild’s voice dropped, and she knew his next words were meant for her ears only and laced with warning. “The ton has seen you spurn my advances more than once. I’m afraid it is beginning to look deliberate.” 

 “How unusually astute of them,” she replied. Her emerald eyes sparkling. This time Rosalind could not hide the mischief in her voice as she pulled away from the errant lord, turning to. take her leave. She held her head high in defiance to his warning. 

Fairchild followed at her elbow, close enough that she could scent the brandy on his warm breath. 

“Lady Rosalind, I must insist,” His voice was loud enough that several bystanders turned to look in their direction. 

Rosalind stopped short, keeping her back straight with practiced poise as she turned to face the lord head on. “And for the final time, my lord, I must decline. I would sooner sit alone, branded a wallflower than dance with a man who cannot seem to take no for an answer from a lady.” 

Rosalind did nothing to prevent her voice from carrying across the room. There was an obvious ripple of spectacle making its way through the onlookers. Some smirked, others gasped. Rosalind’s cheeks burned with the attention, but she did not falter. Her expression bright with indignation. 

Fairchild’s expression, however, lost some of its determination. His steel smiling faltering ever so slightly but then replaced with a smile laced fully with practiced charm that did not quite reach his calculating stare. 

“Ahh, my lady, ever so spirited. Some may think your boldness an admirable quality,” he said, voice slick with mockery. “But alas, spirited women do tend to make horrible wives, do they not?” 

The quiet laughter of the crowd cut through her as if sharpened glass fell from the sparkling chandelier. Rosalind felt it prickle against her skin like a thousand needles.

Not willing to be humiliated by the likes of Fairchild, more auburn curls rebelled against their pins, as she tossed her head. “Better to be thought of as spirited, than as a bore.” She turned and strode through the gathered crowd, her skirts swishing in defiance against the polished marble. 

Behind her she could hear the buzzing voices of the gossips rising in unison as if she had violently disturbed their hive.

The night air was chilled and bracing as Rosalind escaped the ballroom for the garden terrace. She gripped the stone balustrade. The sound of the orchestra coming through the open doors as she took deep, hopefully calming breaths of fresh air. Her chest tightened. Her hands shook. 

She didn’t truly care whether Fairchild thought she was wife material or not. She seldom paid any credence to the gossips in the peerage. But his words would be repeated and analyzed throughout sitting rooms and parlors all throughout London. Rosalind had managed in one small moment of self-preservation to accomplish the exact opposite of what she had promised her mother. There was nothing docile or lamb-like in her dealings with Lord Fairchild. 

From within the ball, voices carried out to where she stood in the shadows of the terrace. 

“Mark me,” Fairchild said, his voice low and carrying a hint of malice. “Lady Rosalind shall regret her words to me. No lady snubs and makes a fool of Ashton Fairchild without paying a price.” 

Rosalind’s stomach turned as she dared a glance into the lit room. Fairchild stood among five or six other gentlemen. His hand clenching his glass so tightly the whites of his knuckles glowed like moonlight. There was some murmured laughter from the men who surrounded him, which Rosalind knew would only serve to anger the lord more. 

Why did I have to push him, she thought. Fairchild’s tone was downright dangerous and when she steeled enough courage to peer into the ballroom again, her suspicions proved correct. There was a cluster of matrons standing not too far away from the gentlemen. The ladies held their heads close and fans over their mouths, but Rosalind did not need to guess at what they were talking about with such a flutter. 

Very well, she thought. Let society talk. She would not apologize for holding her ground and not allowing Fairchild to browbeat her into submission. But before she could summon any further courage to reenter the fray, the crowd of party goers shifted, and through the gap she caught her mother’s sharp gaze. 

Her face was dark and thunderous. Rosalind had never seen her mother in such a state. Her posture so rigid as she marched through the throng, fixed on the singular focus of the terrace doors. 

A shiver rushed down her spine as Rosalind’s pulse leapt in her chest. 

The time for sweet entreaties of forgiveness was past, she feared. One look in her mother’s direction proving that this night would not end in laughter or frivolity, but rather consequence. 

 

Chapter Two

Hampshire 1818

The hour was late, and most of Pemberton House was closed up, quiet and dark for the evening. With the sole exception of the duke’s study. Alexander Wexford, Seventh Duke of Pemberton sat in his high-backed, leather chair, slouched. His gray-blue eyes tired and unfocused in the warm glow of the lamplight and the fire burning low in the hearth. One hand braced on the arm of the chair while the other ran through his unruly, and slightly too-long dark hair. 

There were papers strewn across the solid polished oak of his desk, and though he could pretend he was thoroughly engrossed in tenant correspondence, ledgers, and reports from neighboring estates, there was no point. His mind was elsewhere. 

The candle beside him burned low, dripping hot wax onto the brass holder. His broad shoulders, hunched as the weight of grief pressed down on him. His lean frame, dressed smartly in a dark coat that was as somber as his mood was poised and carved with restraint. There was no trace of ease within him. 

But it was not the ledgers and numbers before him that caused him such distress, but rather memory that haunted him. 

In the stillness of the house, trapped in his own mind he heard Lydia’s laugh; low and melodic. He saw her golden hair, loose of its braids, gleaming in the lamplight. He could still hear the rustle of her skirts as she drifted out into the garden that last night before she disappeared forever, never looking back and never to return. 

It was as if life divided in that moment. There was before and now there was after. 

Alexander leaned back dragging a heavy hand down his face and across the hard line of his jaw. It had been three years. Three of the longest years of his life. The mystery of Lydia’s disappearance still clinging to him, like a dense morning fog on the moor. Had she run away? Was it him? Had some darker fate befallen her? He had searched and searched, but there had been no trace of his missing duchess. 

The unanswered questions haunted him. But it mattered not, society had formed their own opinions about him, and his wife’s death. He had retreated to the country, no longer welcome in town. Tired of the whispers about his cold nature, his severity. According to the esteemed members of the ton, it was him that was guilty of any number of grievances that drove her away. And after a time, Alex had begun to believe them. 

How easily it seemed the world moved on from Lydia’s death, if not the censure of him and his role in her leaving. Not that Alexander, himself, knew for certain what had occurred. That was a determination left to the ton and their gossip. 

It was only his duty as the Duke of Pemberton that required he had her declared dead. Truthfully, he had little memory of the time, leaving the particulars up to solicitors as he continued to search for her. 

In the end there was no true resolution. Though the courts and Crown considered her dead. Neither of them had to live inside his head, where he had been left for years wondering what he had done to cause her to disappear. 

He continued to rub his jaw, feeling the sharp stubble of the beard that was trying to come through. He had forgotten, once again, to shave. In his effort to try and shut the world out, he had no time or patience for anything other than his duty. He had a sister to shelter, a nephew to raise, and a large working estate to oversee. Yet, he was not entirely able, especially on late nights such as th0se, to shut out the silence, accusation and grief of the life he once hoped to have. 

The study door opened, with a soft creak. 

“You will go blind, brother, staring at the papers in front of you, that I doubt you even see.” 

His sister, Lady Helena Wexford, entered the room, her night robe twisted tightly around her, and a low burning oil lamp in her hand. Alex looked up at his sister, eyes shadowed as if he was trying to piece together whether she was real or some spirit come to give him a cautionary tale. 

“It’s almost midnight,” she continued, placing the lamp on a nearby table. “You are not without the need for sleep.” 

“Perhaps,” he replied, straightening in his chair, fatigue clinging to him like a shroud. “But the accounts will not balance themselves.” 

“If only you were actually working to balance the accounts,” she raised a brow. “This is not my first time passing by your study, Alex, and you have not moved. You didn’t even notice when I entered before.” 

He gave her a wry, humorless smile. “I’m not in the mood for sleep.” 

“Nor it seems for any measure of sleep,” she replied, moving to stand next to the fire. One hand resting on the mantel. “Alex, you cannot haunt this house forever. Benny needs you. He needs more than a guardian who is buried in his office behind memories and stacks of papers.” 

At the mention of Benny, he softened, though his eyes grew pained. “The boy avoids me,” he admitted. 

“He is only five years old,” Helena implored. “He has just lost his parents; he has no touchstone. What do you expect?” 

“I expect myself to be better,” he replied, straightening his frame. “I wish… no…I try, but it seems every word I utter to the boy causes him to retreat further and further away.” He resisted the urge to slam his fist into the desk. It was no one’s fault but his own, and he truly did not wish to cause his sister any further distress. 

“Let’s allow someone else to try, perhaps a governess?” 

He watched as Helena’s expression softened. The center of his chest tightened. It wasn’t pity in her gaze, but it felt close. 

“No,” he responded, his word final. 

“Yes,” she shot back, unflinching. “Alex you cannot expect to do this alone. Benny needs more than we can give. He needs instruction, companionship…perhaps someone who can draw him from his shell. He cannot grow and thrive as we have been living in a museum of silence and duty.” 

Alexander’s jaw tightened the once handsome lines of his face, now severe and fatigued. “I don’t wish to bring outsiders into the house, Helen.” Even he heard the resignation in his own voice. “They only bring pain and disruption. I’ll not have us suffer that again.” 

His sister faced him squarely, refusing to shrink or back down. “Not all that enter our lives will leave, brother. You are letting the ghost of your wife’s disappearance cloud every part of our lives.” 

His breath caught in his chest, a searing reminder that what his sister said held truth. “You speak as if it is so simple,” he replied. “Simple to go on.” 

“Not simple, but necessary.” 

The only sound in the study was the ticking of the mantel clock. Then, faint and slight the door to the study creaked again, this time there was a small figure standing in the shadow of the threshold. Staring at them both, wide-eyed, dark curls falling gently against a smooth, pale forehead. 

“Benny,” Alex whispered, standing to approach the boy, softening his stature as much as he could as to not scare the child. “What are you doing awake?” 

Benny did not answer, instead clutched the small toy soldier in his hand tightly. His feet bare on the rug. 

“Come in,” Alex encouraged. “Show me what you have there. A soldier?” 

The boy took one tentative step, then he trembled and faltered. 

“I had one just like that once, when I was a boy,” Alex encouraged, keeping his voice gentle. An expression flickered across Benny’s face. It could have been curiosity. “Mine was missing an arm, which made me think he was the bravest in the whole of the King’s army.” 

After a heartbeat of silence, Benny looked as if he was going to continue forward but instead turned on his heel and headed back into the dark corridor. 

“Benny…” Helen called. But it was no use. The boy had run, back to wherever it was he had come from. 

Alexander stood, frozen with his arm still half-extended out toward the space the boy left behind. Helen looked at him, her gaze matching the sorrow he felt. 

“See,” was all he could say. 

“He is a child,” she murmured. “He is frightened. He will come around. You shall see. He only needs patience and love.” 

“The two things I am very much the worst at offering,” he countered. 

“Then let me hire a governess. Let her bridge the distance that you and I are unable to cover. At least for a time. Try it out, let us see if there is any change.” 

“Very well,” he whispered.

He felt the relief radiating from his sister. 

“I shall write to engage services first thing in the morning,” she said. “Thank you, Alex.” 

He went back to slouch in his chair but not before waving Helena off back to her bed. She turned to gather her lamp before pausing. 

“There is one more thing,” she said, quiet and tentative. 

“Of course there is,” he replied, exhaustion leaking out of every syllable. 

“I received a letter. From Lady Ashcombe.” 

“Well, that is hardly news, you and Lady Ashcombe trade correspondence almost weekly during the season.” 

“Well, yes,” she added. “But this time the contents concern you, brother.” 

Alexander glanced up sharply. “What now?” 

Helena unfolded the paper she had kept hidden in the pocket of her robes. 

“She writes of gossip,” she began. “There is word that in your ever-increasing solitude that the estate’s lands and tenants are being ignored. That you are incapable of managing Pemberton, your grief has shown you unfit.” 

Alex sucked in a deep breath of stale air, trying desperately to calm the dangerous anger bubbling up through his chest. His steel gray gaze sharpening onto his sister. 

“Who? Who dares spread such lies?” 

“The same people who found pleasure in spreading gossip after Lydia disappeared,” she answered. “Your seclusion only serves to provide them fuel. They will continue to invent cause for concern. They have nothing better to do with their idle lives than spread rumor and gossip about those who do not conform to their ideals.” 

Alex surged to his feet, the legs of the chair scraping against the wood of the study floor. “Let them pass judgement from the comfort of their drawing rooms and gentlemen’s clubs. I will turn deed into action.” 

He strode across the room, stopping to grab his cloak from its resting place on the worn settee. He would not allow the gossip’s words to take hold here in the country. He would see to his people and his lands himself, this very moment. 

“Alexander,” his sister said, her voice filled with alarm as she followed him out into the corridor. “What are you doing?” 

“I will ride out and set eyes upon my lands and my tenants. Let no one say I neglect Pemberton. I’ll not have it!” 

“Alex, it is the middle of the night. People will think you mad.” 

But he was already crossing the great hall and heading toward the front foyer. His tall, commanding figure outlined in the moonlight shining through the tall windows. 

“Alexander! Please,” Helena pleaded. 

He did not turn. If he faced his sister’s kind, concerned eyes, he would lose his nerve, give in to her pleas. Instead, he squared his shoulders, summoning every ounce of the Duke of Pemberton within him as he flung open the door, allowing the cold night air into the foyer. 

“No rumor,” he said. His voice sharp as steel and cold as ice, “ will stop me from protecting Pemberton or my family.” 

And with that he left the house, ignoring the protests of his sister, as the night swallowed him fully.