Page 2 of The Governess and the Rogue (Somerset Stories #6)

Chapter Two

“A re you aware that there are anonymous soldiers traveling on the ship?” Bea inquired as she bent to remove her well-worn leather half boots.

Pearl turned over in her upper berth to peer blearily down at Bea in the lamplight.

A petite Anglo-Indian girl with sleek black hair, she was employed as a maid-companion by Mrs. Rawson, a portly colonial dowager.

Mrs. Rawson and her temperamental Maltese dog, Benjamin, had departed Bombay at the same time as Bea’s employers.

As a consequence, Pearl and Bea had often been obliged to bunk together, first on the voyage to Suez, then overland to Alexandria, and now on the Pera.

They weren’t close in age (Pearl being several years younger than Bea), but over the past three weeks, proximity had inspired something like a friendship.

“The injured ones that came aboard in Alexandria?” Pearl asked in return. “What about them?”

“How was I unaware of their existence?”

“Because Mrs. Dimsdale keeps you on the trot from dawn until dusk,” Pearl answered.

Bea stripped off her wool bodice, hanging it on one of the clothing hooks that were affixed to the small cabin’s wall.

Pearl wasn’t wrong. Since entering the Dimsdale’s employ, Bea had been run off her feet, acting as governess, nursery maid, and as occasional laundress.

It was no wonder she’d failed to notice the presence of injured soldiers on board.

“Yes, but—” Bea stepped out of her skirts, petticoats, and crinoline. “Don’t you think it odd that we don’t see them?”

“Who would wish to?” Pearl asked. “Some of them are grievously injured. I heard Mrs. Farraday tell Mrs. Rawson that it’s a mercy we’ve been spared the sight of them.”

Bea winced. The widowed Mrs. Farraday was the most top-lofty lady on board, boasting both pedigree and enviable connections.

She was, it was said, the daughter of a gentleman.

And her own daughter—a very pretty, if somewhat insipid, girl of nineteen—was rumored to have come within a whisker of being engaged to the son of the Earl of Allendale.

Whoever that might be.

“What a dreadful thing to say,” Bea replied.

“But the truth,” Pearl pronounced.

“Her truth,” Bea said, hanging up her skirts. “Not mine.”

Pearl flopped over in her berth, snuggling back into her pillow. “That’s your trouble. Everything is a quarrel. You’d be better off agreeing with them. It’s what I do.”

Bea unpinned the tightly braided coil of her hair. “I’m practicing saying nothing.”

“That isn’t the same as being agreeable,” Pearl informed her. “Mrs. Rawson says unwarranted silence is tantamount to insolence.”

“That’s because they wish to regulate every aspect of our behavior, even our thoughts,” Bea retorted. Stripped down to her chemise and drawers, she went to the basin and hastily washed before dousing the lamp and climbing into her own cold berth.

There was no time to write in her journal this evening. Not that it mattered. Since leaving India, she’d had precious little to record save for the mounting indignities she’d been subjected to.

Her cheek was still stinging in grim reminder of the latest one— and of the task that awaited her in the morning. Like it or not, as soon as the sun was up, Bea was going to have to confront Mrs. Dimsdale about her children’s behavior.

It wouldn’t be the first time Bea had faced the proverbial firing squad.

During the course of her brief employment, she’d brought Mrs. Dimsdale countless complaints, all to no avail. Whatever harm her brood inflicted, the woman inevitably found a way to lay the blame on Bea’s shoulders. On the last occasion, she’d even gone so far as to threaten Bea with dismissal.

Tomorrow’s encounter was all-but guaranteed to be an unpleasant one.

“What do you suppose happens to servants who are sacked midway through a long sea voyage?” Bea asked.

Pearl didn’t answer. She’d already subsided into sleep.

* * *

Bea stood in front of her employer in the ship’s well-appointed saloon, her back straight and her hands clasped in front of her, feeling more like a scullery maid awaiting a dressing down than a dignified governess addressing a legitimate grievance.

Raising her voice, she repeated her previous sentence over the screeches of her young charges.

“I said that I’d hoped to speak with you alone, ma’am! ”

Mrs. Dimsdale remained seated before her.

She was a faded, fair-haired woman, easily angered and overly fond of iced gin, with a hard mouth and an approaching double chin.

The kind of English lady one encountered with frequency in India.

She was flanked by her nine-year-old son, Albermarle Junior, and her eleven-year-old daughter, Lilith.

The two children glared at Bea in unmistakable challenge as their younger siblings—twin six-year-old boys—ran circles around the saloon, punctuating their permutations with various whoops and shrieks.

There was no one about to object to the chaos. Not at this time of morning. The other passengers had already gone into breakfast.

“And who would look after the children during this interview?” Mrs. Dimsdale asked.

“Perhaps their father—” Bea broke off as one of the twins flew past. Like his brother, he was clad in a blue flannel sailor suit. Bea had pressed the matching garments for them herself at dawn, well before tending to her own toilette.

Mrs. Dimsdale jerked the full skirts of her ruffled morning gown out of the little boy’s path. “Do have a care, Brent! You’ll trod on my hem.”

“I’m not Brent, I’m Damian,” the twin returned cheekily before galloping off across the carpet with another shriek.

Albermarle Junior’s mouth curled into a sly smile. “Miss Layton can’t tell them apart either,” he said. “No one can.”

“On the contrary,” Bea replied. “That was Brent.”

Albermarle Junior’s smirk froze on his face.

“She’s marked their clothes,” Lilith said scornfully. “I told her she wasn’t allowed to?—”

“Mama!” Damian leapt by with a high-pierced cry. “Mama, look at me! See how high I can jump!”

Mrs. Dimsdale pressed her fingers to her temples. “Can you not control them, Miss Layton? All this shouting is bringing on one of my megrims.”

“No, ma’am, I can’t control them,” Bea snapped back, her patience at an end. “Which is precisely why I wished to speak with you this morning!”

Mrs. Dimsdale’s bosom swelled with indignation. Beside her, Albermarle and Lilith froze in unholy expectation. Their mother was known for raking her servants over the coals. And she had no great fondness for Bea. She’d only hired her out of desperation.

Bea’s eyes closed briefly, knowing what was to come. She inwardly braced herself, cursing her unruly tongue.

“You will moderate your tone when you speak to me, Miss Layton,” Mrs. Dimsdale commanded with bone-chilling severity. “I will not be addressed with impudence, no matter your complaint.”

“As to that complaint, ma’am,” Bea began.

“Do you comprehend me?”

Bea flinched. “Yes, ma’am.”

“May I remind you that you’re here on sufferance? Any other servant in your circumstances would be kissing my feet to have been treated with such generosity. Instead, you speak to me with disrespect and ingratitude?”

“I beg your pardon, ma’am,” Bea said hastily. She affected what she hoped was a penitent manner. “But the circumstances are extreme.”

Mrs. Dimsdale appeared even less disposed to hear of them than she had when Bea had first approached her. She gave a furious wave of her lace-trimmed handkerchief. “Well?” she demanded. “Get on with it. Or do you propose to waste even more of my morning?”

Bea clasped her hands tighter to keep from clenching them into fists. It was unjust. Unfair. All the same, it wouldn’t serve her to lose her temper. “Last night,” she said levelly, “when I was readying Miss Dimsdale for bed, she refused to retire. When I insisted, she struck me across the face.”

Lilith flushed red. “I did not! She’s lying, Mama!”

“I am not lying,” Bea said. “For evidence, you need only consult the mark on my cheek. It is the exact size and shape of your daughter’s open hand.”

Mrs. Dimsdale resumed massaging her temples. “What’s the use of hiring a governess if I must deal with these trials myself?” she muttered. “Am I to have no rest? No peace? Better I should dismiss you and let the children do as they will than be constantly vexed in this tedious manner.”

Bea persevered. It mayn’t do her any good—to be sure, she very much doubted it would—but the mysterious rogue on the deck last night had been right. Bea must draw the line somewhere. If she didn’t, it would only get worse.

“I cannot perform my duties if I’m subjected to physical abuse from your children, ma’am,” she said. “It is beyond all bounds.”

Lilith tugged at her mother’s arm. Her voice took on a familiar wheedling tone. “She was bullying me, Mama. And she is only a servant. I knew you wouldn’t object?—”

“You did strike her, then?” Mrs. Dimsdale wearily inquired of her daughter.

Lilith’s face contorted. “Why should I go to bed at the same time as the babies? I’m the oldest! Papa promised?—”

“God preserve me,” Mrs. Dimsdale said. “My head is splitting. And I’ve yet to have my breakfast. Really, Miss Layton, this is not to be borne!”

“I might say the same, ma’am,” Bea replied. “The seriousness of the matter?—”

Mrs. Dimsdale was on her feet before Bea could finish. “You mentioned their father. Speak with him, by all means. Until such time, I would have you attend to your duties. Heaven knows they’re light enough as it is.”

Bea took a reflexive step toward her employer in protest. She may have brought up Mr. Dimsdale—desperately, foolishly—but the elusive gentleman was no favorable alternative to his wife.

He was a hard-going colonial, consumed with shooting, drinking, and (it was rumored) the company of questionable women.

Bea had never been alone with him even once since joining the Dimsdales’ household.

“Mrs. Dimsdale—” she objected.

“That will be all, Miss Layton,” Mrs. Dimsdale said curtly. “The children require their morning meal. If you value your position, you will have them at the table in the next five minutes.” With that, she sailed from the saloon, leaving her brood behind her.

Bea was left alone with the children, the two oldest still standing by their mother’s now empty chair, and the twins continuing to ricochet around the room.

Flaxen-locked Lilith regarded Bea with a kindling eye. “You won’t get any further speaking to my Papa,” she informed her.

Bea’s gaze fell to the child’s mutinous little face. Doubtless, she was right. All the same…

Is this what Bea’s life had come to? To be bested in a battle of wills with an eleven-year-old despot?

No.

Emphatically , no.

However bleak Bea’s circumstances, there was still some fight left in her.

She looked back at Lilith. Her stomach tightened with resolve. “We shall just see about that , young lady.”