Page 5 of The Defiant Governess (Intrepid Heroines #6)
Martin did as she suggested, bucking up his own spirits at the calm assurance in her voice.
They rode the rest of the way in silence, arriving at the staging inn with plenty of time to spare.
Martin kept to the edge of the stables and reined in behind two other farm carts.
There was just one other person awaiting the coach, a short heavy man dressed in a greasy coat, with two equally grubby burlap bags at his feet that moved in a most peculiar fashion.
He blew into his stubby fingers to ward off the early morning chill and stamped impatiently in the dirt and chaff, sending up little clouds of debris with each smack of his worn boots.
Jane momentarily blanched at the idea of sharing a coach with such a person, but then chided herself on such weakness of spirit. She had better get used to such things, she reminded herself—for from now on, she was no different from that man.
A sharp horn blast punctuated the stable sounds, announcing that the mail coach was fast approaching. Martin helped her down from the cart. She caught him about to bow his respects and threw her arm around his shoulder to forestall any such display.
“None of that, Martin,” she whispered in his ear. “You must hug your wife goodbye and hope that her mother’s illness passes quickly so she may return to you and the children.” She noticed a faint blush spread across his cheeks.
“Lady Jane, I couldn’t …” he began, but realizing she was right, he took her arm and walked toward where the mail coach had lumbered to a stop.
Raising his voice he announced, “Now off with ye, Mary and here’s hoping yer mother recovers soon.
” He winked broadly at the coachman. “‘Of course the children will miss ye, as will I.”
He tossed the valise to the roof of the coach and helped Jane into its dark interior, giving her a pat on the backside which would have sent her into a fit of giggles if her throat hadn’t felt so constricted.
Jane settled in between the greasy farmer and an older woman who was snoring loudly through an open mouth.
The heat of their bodies and the musty smells of unwashed clothing and stale tobacco overwhelmed her senses.
She closed her eyes to hide the shine of tears from anyone who might care to notice, hoping she might as easily close out her past life.
It was but a small price to pay for her independence.
That thought revived her sagging spirits—how many young ladies of Quality would be corkbrained enough to consider going to work as a governess as freedom?
Suppressing a small smile of irony she sank back against the seat and tried to sleep, telling herself not to think too much about what the coming days might bring.
The coachman who had fetched her from the coaching inn knocked on the massive oak door, and from behind his shoulder Jane saw it swing open slowly to reveal an elderly butler attired in somber clothes.
“Miss Langley has arrived.”
“Thank you, William. You may put her valise in the hallway.”
Jane was left alone to face the butler. She searched his visage for any reaction to her arrival, but his features were impassive, as was his voice when he finally spoke to her.
“We have been expecting your arrival, Miss Langley. Come inside while I inform Mrs. Fairchild that you are here.”
Jane stepped into a capacious entry hall whose polished oak floors and handsome carved paneling and furniture were redolent of beeswax and lemon oil.
As she glanced through the open morning room door at the elegant drapes and spotless carpets she noted that although the master of the house might only rarely show his face, the estate was being managed by someone who cared . ..
Her thoughts were interrupted by the jangling of keys, then the opening of a side door.
She turned toward the sound to meet the gaze of a stout woman with rather plain features, who stood no taller than the tip of Jane’s chin.
Her grey hair was pulled back in a simple bun, though some stray strands had loosened themselves from under the white mobcap, giving her the air of someone in perpetual motion.
From her ample waist hung the source of the noise—a huge iron ring with all manner of keys silhouetted against a pristine starched apron.
Jane quickly remembered Mary’s admonitions about proper behavior and bobbed a graceful curtsy. The woman nodded in approval, Jane noted with relief, and the broad smile that lit up her face was warm and reassuring.
“Welcome to Highwood, Miss Langley. I am Mrs. Fairchild and I manage the household in the marquess’s absence. I’m sure you must be exhausted after your journey
—I myself cannot abide spending a full day in a coach—so let me show you to your room. When you have refreshed yourself, I hope you will come share a cup of tea and some cakes that Cook has made up for us. And then we can have a chat about your duties here, shall we?”
“Why that would ... be very nice,” managed Jane. Silently she gave thanks to her good fortune. The woman’s friendly words, as well as kind looks, boded well for the future.
She was led up the imposing main staircase, feeling quite small under the stern gazes of the marquess’s ancestors.
Somehow she felt they were staring at her accusingly, as if they saw through her charade.
Swallowing hard, she dropped her eyes to the polished treads.
Mindful of Mary’s description of life in service, Jane fully expected to continue up, into the attic rooms and then be shown a back stairway, the one she would be expected to use from now on.
Instead, Mrs. Fairchild stopped on the second floor and led her down a corridor to the right.
“I’ve put you near the schoolroom and Master Peter’s room. I hope you’ll find it agreeable,” she said as she threw open the door to a small room flooded with sunlight and simply decorated in blue sprigged chintz.
Jane stared in confusion. “Oh, how lovely,” she exclaimed, taking in the polished pine dresser and armoire arranged to one side of a simple painted bedstead. “Are you sure this is for me?” she blurted out. “Surely this isn’t a servant’s room?”
Mrs. Fairchild smiled again. “We want you to be happy here.” As she said those words, Jane noticed a slight cloud pass over her face.
But just as suddenly it was gone. “I’ve had Polly bring you a pitcher of water to freshen up with.
When you are ready, come back down the same way we came up and ask Glavin—he is that imposing figure you met by the door, but I assure you he is not such a dragon as he appears—to bring you into the drawing room.
” A pause. “Is there anything else you need?”
Jane shook her head, and when Mrs. Fairchild had closed the door, she sank onto the bed, her head in a whirl.
She knew that she should consider herself more than fortunate in having landed in such a seemingly agreeable position.
She sensed that she and Mrs. Fairchild would rub along very nicely together.
But now that she had finally arrived and was sitting in a modest little room with none of her familiar things or faces around her, the enormity of what she had done finally overwhelmed her.
She had to fight back tears as she remembered the two nights at an inn, having to take her supper in the common tap room rather than a private parlor .
.. having to endure the leers and comments of the men as she made her way to the tiny room consigned to a female traveling alone.
A room where the sheets were suspect and the floor unswept.
Jane rose and splashed some water onto her face, then regarded her own reflection in the small looking glass above the washstand.
Did her chin really have a defiant tilt?
Did her eyes truly storm like an angry sea when she felt passionately about something?
Though Thomas had teased her countless times on those counts, she couldn’t see it herself.
At the moment, she saw only a stranger—a plain, bespectacled young woman dressed in a Quakerish gown of brown muslin, with mousy hair drawn into a severe bun.
And that woman looked frightened.
After contemplating the image a bit longer, she straightened her shoulders, the look of apprehension replaced by one of resolve. No , she vowed, she wouldn’t be cowed that easily . Her pride wouldn’t allow her to give up so soon and return home to accede to her father’s dictates.
No, she would meet the challenge.
Bucking up her courage, she dried her hands and proceeded downstairs.
Glavin showed her into an elegant drawing room which, like the rest of the rooms she had seen, was decorated with exquisite, yet understated taste.
She was about to comment on the furnishing when she suddenly realized she shouldn’t be cognizant of such things.
So, swallowing her words, she silently took a seat on the couch on the spot that Mrs. Fairchild had indicated and folded her hands primly in her lap.
Mrs. Fairchild busied herself with pouring two cups of tea, and it was only after she had passed one of them to Jane and liberally sugared the other one for herself that she spoke.
“I’m sure you are anxious to hear of your duties here at Highwood, and to meet your charge.
” She paused to take a sip from her cup, while Jane dared not lift hers for fear that her hands would shake.
“You will be expected to teach Peter his letters, history, geography and—you do speak French, do you not?”
Jane nodded.
”And French. You may decide the hours of your schoolroom, however you shall also be expected to look after him during the rest of the day as well—Cook has threatened to give notice if another gooseberry tart is knocked from the windowsill or if spiders keep appearing in the cream jug.”