“I am so sorry, boys,” she sobbed into the lumpy pillow, the ghost of a dancer’s daughter weeping for a life she would never know. “I am so, so sorry.”
“I won’t speak to her, Uncle!” Philip’s voice drifted down the stairs, shrill and shockingly defiant once more for the reserved boy Ambrose knew.
Ambrose sat in the drawing room, massaging his temples. The air in the house felt heavy. The morning had begun with Miss Flaherty, a young Irish woman with a sharp tongue and a sharper wit, arriving for an interview as the next governess. Ambrose had hope upon first meeting, but she hadn’t lasted twenty minutes before she fled the nursery.
“This place is haunted by an old duchess who walks the halls in a blue dress, the same color as your dress…” Arthur had teased, making ghostly sounds as he jumped around her.
“She sent the last governess away after she rained frogs on her!” Philip cried as they both threw small toads at the woman.
Miss Flaherty had turned pale and run out the front door before tea was even served.
Next came Mrs. Lowell, a formidable widow who boasted of “taming the wildest spirits” to Ambrose upon her entry. He wished her luck, then she emerged from the upstairs hallway ten minutes later, her eyes wide as saucers.
“Your Grace,” she had whispered, “the elder twin was sharpening a letter opener while staring at my neck. He told me he was practicing for the next French War.”
Ambrose merely waved her away, and she left with a huff.
Miss Ross had been the most optimistic. She lasted a full hour, mostly because she stayed in the drawing room, stalling with small talk, and refused to go upstairs. However, when she finally ventured up to introduce herself, she returned soaked from head to toe. The boys had rigged a bucket of icy wash water above the nursery door. It was a classic, but effective, maneuver that had worked on their second governess.
Now, a middle-aged woman named Mrs. Forrest, in a pale green dress, scurried past Ambrose, looking as terrified as they all had. She was the fourth and final candidate of the day.
“Your Grace,” the woman squeaked as she gave a hasty curtsy. “Please pardon the intrusion, but the boys… they told me that if I touched their books, they would set my bonnet on fire. The small one was already striking a match!”
“Right.” Ambrose didn’t even look up. “Leave your details with Mrs. Higgins on your way out. Next,” he called out absently, though he knew there was no one left.
I am hopeless, he thought to himself as he rose to his feet to pour himself a much-deserved snifter of brandy from the bar cart. He took a long sip and walked over to the fireplace, leaning an arm onto the mantle as he stared down at the swirling fire.
What will I do without a governess? Better yet, what will I do without… her?
Silence finally descended on the house as a most painful day finally turned to night, but it was not a peaceful one. Ambrose spent the hours after the interviews just sitting in the drawing room, staring at the spot on the settee where Imogen used to sit with her embroidery when she would accompany the boys there for a short diversion after supper. The fabric there seemed less worn than the rest, a preserved island of her presence that mocked his efforts.
I amwallowing.
And he knew it. He felt restless as he stormed out of the drawing room and made his way upstairs. He threw open the mahogany door and began pacing the confines of his study like a caged beast. The boys were lashing out because they didn’t know how to navigate the dark world without her light, and he was failing them because he was lost in the same darkness.
Every time he closed his eyes, he felt the ghost of her touch, her taste. It was a phantom warmth that mocked his current isolation. It felt all the worse that she had left after they had been so close, how his body ached to feel her.
He looked at the empty doorway. The boys needed a governess, certainly, but as he listened to the defiant thud of boots upstairs, he realized he needed someone who wasn’t afraid of the fire. For he knew that his nephews were currently intent on burning the world down, just to see if the smoke would bring her back.
Chapter Thirty
Each passing day was a descent further into despair for Imogen. Armed with her ducal reference, she had approached three high-ranking families in search of a post. Each time, the interview had started with promise, only to end in a cold, abrupt rejection.
The first interview had taken place in a morning room so white and pristine it felt like an ice palace. Lady Danvers had reviewed the ducal reference with an appreciative hum until she reached the signature.
“His Grace, the Duke of Welton, speaks very highly of your…versatility,” Lady Danvers said, her eyes narrowing as they flicked from the parchment to Imogen’s face. “Tell me, Miss Lewis, how does a young woman of your station manage to secure such a glowing, personal testimonial from a man known to be so notoriously uninterested in matters of one’s household?”
Imogen had opened her mouth to speak of her hard work, but the Lady’s gaze had already soured, likely recalling some of the more salacious rumors about the once rakish Duke. “I think it best we look for someone with a less…conspicuoushistory, with more than a single reference.”
“I can assure you, My Lady,” Imogen started with a small smile, mustering up strength to press.
“Good day, Miss Lewis,” she said with a wave, her shrill voice going up Imogen’s spine.
“Good day, My Lady,” Imogen said as she gathered her cloak and followed the butler out.
The second attempt led to an even shorter interview if that was possible. The Marchioness hadn’t even invited Imogen to sit. She held the letter between two fingers as if it were contaminated.
“A Duke’s reference is indeed rare, as such things of the household usually come from the Duchess,” the Marchioness remarked, her voice dripping with practiced condescension as she narrowed her chestnut eyes. “I find it curious that a woman of your talents is seeking a new position so quickly. One wonders if you are running away from a scandal, or if His Grace found a more efficient way to dispose of a complication.”
