Page 7 of The Defiant Governess
“Yes. I’m sure no one saw me leave.”
The man grunted in reply and scrambled up beside her. “Well then, let’s be on our way.”
The cart bumped over the rough track as he twitched the reins, urging the horse to as great a speed as he dared. “I’m sorry for the discomfort, Lady Jane,” he said. “It will get better when we reach the main road.
“It doesn’t matter,” smiled Jane as she reached over to pat the driver’s arm “And I can’t thank you enough for your help, Martin. I shall never forget it.”
Martin returned her smile gamely, but she saw how nervous he was. “After all you have done for my Mary, ‘tis the least we could do for you.”
He looked back over his shoulder into the pale mist rising off of the fields. “The stage arrives at Hinchley at half six and you should be safely away before any of your people are are aware of your absence. And hopefully no one will take notice of a simplefarmer’s wife—begging your pardon, milady.” He tugged his own hat down low over his brow as he spoke.
“Don’t be nervous, Martin. No one will know of your part in this, I swear. I promise that you will not suffer for helping me—and Mary will tell you that I never break a promise.”
“Oh, milady, it ain’t the duke I’m worried about. It’s Mary who will have my head on a pikestaff if I don’t get you away safely.”
Jane laughed softly. “Well, put your mind at ease. All will go well. And now,” she added as the cart turned onto the market road, “I think you may put us to a trot.”
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 passesquickly 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 coachmanwho 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 Cookhas 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.
