Page 2 of A Brush With Love at Brookview Hall (Noble Hearts)

“Was I unclear, Miss Lyddon? I said all the children. I do not expect to be questioned by my governess.”

“May I beg your pardon, sir, but as governess, I must state what I think is best for their education. Still, an art instructor cannot be a detriment to a child’s formation.

He might help Master Charlie’s handwriting.

I shall inform them, and Miss Kingstone.

When does this master arrive? Next week?

Or later? I shall endeavour to prepare accordingly. ”

Mr Derriscott pulled a watch from his fob pocket and dropped his eyes to the dial.

“He is expected at any moment. Go up to the schoolroom and await him. Be sure the children are on their best behaviour.”

“Today? Sir, the children are still…” she glanced down at her filthy attire.

“They are not yet back in the house, and must still tidy up after our outing to the gardens. We cannot possibly be ready in time. Furthermore, we have a full afternoon of lessons planned. I would, by no means, suggest that art is unimportant, but surely arithmetic and geography must take priority.”

“Did I not express myself clearly, Miss Lyddon?” There was an edge to Mr Derriscott’s voice, one that Julia knew not to question. “He wishes to meet them at once, to assess their abilities. You must simply adjust your own lessons accordingly.”

He raised his eyes to meet hers. Icy blue under heavy dark brows, they were the eyes of a man not accustomed to being denied.

“Yes, sir.”

“And Miss Lyddon?”

“Sir?”

“Wash your face.”

What an annoying man her employer was! Sometimes she wondered if he had the children’s best interests at heart after all, or if he simply enjoyed ordering people about.

It ought to be the children’s mother who conferred with the governess, but Mrs Derriscott was absent more than she was present, quite content to leave the raising of the children to their nanny and their education to their father.

Of course, she must be grateful. He had taken her on as their governess against all her expectations, being satisfied with a strong letter of reference from a respected gentleman and Julia’s own willingness to move out to these remote shores.

He had not questioned her experience and asked only a few questions about her own education, which seemed to satisfy him.

“I still expect them to be taught as well as if I had engaged an expert schoolmaster,” he had insisted when he offered her the position.

And now he was disrupting her plans for the day, her carefully designed lessons, simply for the new painting master to assess the children!

And not even having warned her that such a person existed?

Unbelievable. All this coming immediately after the debacle with the frog and the children wallowing in the mud was too much!

Julia fumed with every step as she made her way up the stairs to her room at last.

Had this art master only wished to speak to Selina, to examine her paintings and drawings, that she could approve.

Selina had no real need for the schoolroom anymore.

The young lady had learned what was expected of her—for Mr Derriscott had refused Julia’s suggestions of more studies in science or Latin—and was merely waiting for her coming out, when she would take her place in society.

Hers, now, was to polish her manners and refine her skills at dancing and conversation, at elegance and poise, and to hone whatever other accomplishments she might wish to exhibit before potential suitors and their demanding families.

Being a skilled artist was such a valued accomplishment, and Julia could well approve of such encouragement.

But the others? Why, Charlie was only six!

He was scarcely old enough to hold a pencil properly, and had exhibited no particular aptitude for drawing or even for precise handwriting.

Annie was interested in her sister’s sketches and wished to emulate her, but there was no remarkable talent in the girl, and Roger—well, Roger wished only to run in the fields, talk to the family’s horses, and play in the mud.

Julia undid the buttons at the side of her bodice and stepped out of the stained gown as it pooled on the floor by her feet.

There was, thankfully, enough water remaining in her jug to wash her face and dab at the few flecks of mud in her hair, and to scrub away the filth that still encrusted her hands.

She shuddered in memory of that poor frog.

Selecting another garment was simple; her clothing was all quite similar, practical and plain, just fashionable enough to be presentable in society, in light greys and browns, as suitable for spending her time with young children, with no regard as to what made her fair complexion glow, or what brought out the warmth of her brown eyes.

One frock was as good as another, and she pulled something from her wardrobe without a thought.

A memory, faint and ephemeral as sea mist, taunted her, a vision of a wardrobe full of elegant silk gowns, shimmering pale tones embellished with elaborate embroidery.

Shaking her head, Julia banished the image from her mind and finished buttoning her cuffs.

The past was gone. She was exceedingly fortunate to have a present.

Checking her hair was suitably pulled into a tight coil at the back of her head, she readied herself to return to the children and see what this unwanted painting master had planned.