Recalling the size of the country estate, it dawned on her that Mr Whiskers could stay and would just need to be kept out of sight. Surely both of these too high in the instep males would not cross paths. Mr Whiskers would not care for the duke’s arrogance either. Impatiently, she rose and shook out her arms as she turned her gaze to the room. The furnishings were rich–newer Hepplewhites blended in with antique pieces she imagined had been in his family for decades, if not longer. The Aubusson carpet underneath her feet was soft and comforting as she slowly stepped around the study. She had always had an eye for furnishings, having paid keen attention in her training about working for the aristocracy. A childhood friend was now a maid for an earl and had detailed the house and where its contents had been made, and Maribel had revelled in the knowledge of it all.
As she continued her examination, it began to dawn on her that, while everything was rich, it was uninviting. The room was cold and austere, all shades of brown and white without any colour. The portraits on the wall depicted unsmiling people, and despite it being common practice, she could tell these people would have rarely smiled. The duke clearly came from a long line of stern ancestry—people of wealth and privilege who demanded respect and obedience. Her mind stuck on obedience as she trailed her fingers over a canonical metal ornament and silently seethed. The way he had spoken to her had indeed been master like. As if she were an obedient dog.
How dicked in the nob do I sound at this moment? I have secured a role as a governess for a Duke where our class divide is immeasurable, and I have taken insult at this very fact. I am the hired help. This is how I will be spoken to, how I will be treated. If he asks me to hop on one foot, I shall say yes. If he turns his back on me while I am mid-sentence, I will merely close my mouth.
Maribel was too practical to dwell on this further and instead embraced her earlier impish impulse.
I will not send Mr Whiskers away! I will keep him here and out of sight, and if his grace comes across him, he will have to pass as any stray! Surely there is many a stray cat on the grounds.
Feeling more in control, she turned back to her seat when a tap on the door made her turn. The butler opened the door and said he would show her to her rooms where her belongings would be waiting. Here was another person in this home who it seemed had not learned to smile, as his face was a stern duplicate of his employer’s. Maribel had known she would miss her family for many reasons, but one she had not counted on was so simple.
Smiles.
Chapter Four
Thomas stood in the parlour staring out the window as his staff brought in Miss Lewisham’s belongings. Three travel trunks, which surprised him. Why did she have so many things? He saw something black dart into the bushes. A vole? They weren’t black though. Thomas reflected on their encounter and the feeling it had left him with. Eager, was that the right emotion? He was feeling eager for her to settle so he could leave. He would allow a few days to ensure Clara was not proving too much for her. But something niggled in the back of his mind, taunting him that he was eager to see more of the impertinent Miss Lewisham. He was still in disbelief at her forthrightness—she clearly was not accustomed to dealing with anyone of rank. And she needed to learn her place as his employee.
This side of her would prove beneficial in dealing with Clara, for she would not tremble at the idea of being firm. Something his wayward daughter surely needed. Miss Lewisham held strong promise in that regard, even if it meant she would try his own patience from time to time. Asking if she could bring a pet? As if she was coming to stay at a menagerie. Country girls, he thought, shaking his head. A type of woman he was not accustomed to dealing with. Well-bred ladies of high social standing and high-class courtesans of exquisite skill. These were the kind of women he was familiar with. Opposite sides of the social ladder, but they had one thing in common. Obedience. Knowing when to speak and when not to. His departed wife, brief as their marriage had been, had been skilled in that art. He knew many ladies of the ton who did not share those values, and while he found the stories of his fellow peers humorous, he was glad to not have to deal with these dramas.
His close peer, the Earl of Brookfield, kept him apprised of the on-dit. Fingering the signet ring on his left hand, a symbol of their unspoken alliance, he wondered what he had missed so far in London, where the season was underway. He knew he had missed the opening opera and Almack’s. In comparison to the thrill Miss Lewisham’s arrival had given him, the season now paled. While he was in London, she would be here, with her big brown eyes and soft curves, attempting to chasten his insolent child. Never before had he had an impulse to observe the day-to-day activities of a governess and his daughter. Realising he had the next few days to quell his curiosity, he was glad.
“Bronson, send Clara here to me. And some refreshments—something sweet to temper the news of a new governess.”
His footman hurried off to provide instruction to the housekeeper, and Thomas stretched his neck, enjoying the slight crack of tension released. Dealing with his daughter required additional patience he never gave anyone else.
Clara, my sweet child, come sit here,” he said, patting the seat next to him. The fair-haired angelic-looking girl sat down with a beaming smile.
“Father! I was wondering when I would see you today.”
A maid came in with a tray of sugar plums and a glass of milk, and Clara’s blue eyes widened with joy at the sweet treats placed before her.
Not minding her manners, as usual, she snatched one of the plums and plopped it into her mouth. Withholding a sigh, he turned to her with his full attention.
“I employed a new governess today—her name is Miss Lewisham. I think you will like her. She is different from the others. Younger in age and perhaps more interesting to take your lessons with.”
Clara’s face immediately soured. Her arms were now crossed, and her lips pouted as she gave him a petulant stare.
“Father, I do not need a governess. Why must I have one when I do not need a mother?”
Thomas held back a sigh. This was the same question she asked each time a new governess was appointed. Clara had no qualms about him not remarrying—if anything, he imagined she would take it quite poorly. But the clever child had now drawn this conclusion, and the matter was settled in her mind.
“Clara, we have discussed this many, many times. A governess is not a mother, you are correct. And even if your mother was here with us, you would still need a governess. You must be educated, your talents honed, and your manners polished. One day I will present you at court. One day you will have crowds of men clamouring for your hand in marriage. And all the lessons you learn now will prepare you.”
“Marriage! I am never getting married father. You are not married, so why do I have to be?” She sprung from her seat and stomped her little feet in outrage.
This time, the sigh escaped. Clara had only heard a fraction of what he said. It was clear she should have been a son and not a daughter, with these ideals. All he could do now was hope Miss Lewisham would be the one to tame his daughter.
“Clara, Clara, you, my child, are incorrigible.”
She shrugged and picked up another sugar plum. It seemed that, as far as she was concerned, their conversation was finished. He picked up one of the sweet treats and plopped it into his mouth. The oversweet fruits exploded sickeningly on his tongue, and Clara giggled at his pinched face.
“Father, I think you are too old to eat sugar plums. Which I am glad for, as I do not like to share.”
With that, she grabbed one more and walked confidently out of the room, leaving him shaking his head.
Chapter Five
“I have orders to show you to your rooms, Miss Lewisham.”
