The Defiant Governess of Rosenhill Manor: A Historical Regency Romance Novel Read online

  She could not have stopped now even if they had asked it of her. Too many families depend on me. She had given them her word to help provide for their little ones, and she would not go back on that for anyone.

  It had been a trick to provide enough food and medical supplies for those who needed it. She arranged with the local grocer that she would sit and read to his ailing mother in exchange for foodstuffs.

  Occasionally, she was forced to supplement her nightly excursions from the Cole’s kitchen, but never took enough to be of trouble. Mrs. Cole always assumed the missing food had been consumed by Eliza during one of her midnight perambulatory episodes. From the time she had come to live with the Coles, at the age of six, she had moved about while still asleep, performing various tasks from eating to hiding in the armoire. The doctor had told Mrs. Cole night terrors were brought on by the traumatic murder of her parents.

  Eliza left the kitchen to do as bidden. The Coles had five children: two boys and three girls. Eliza loved her siblings, and the time they spent together. She loved their beautiful, wide-eyed innocence untarnished by the evils she herself had endured. She was present for each one of their births and had lost her heart to each arrival. Mr. and Mrs. Cole were loving parents, and though they could never replace her birth parents, they had cared for her as if she were their own.

  When Eliza came to live with the Coles, she had not spoken a word for nearly a year after witnessing her parents murder. She had been terrified out of her wits and had awakened every night screaming. Mr. and Mrs. Cole had rushed to her bedside or to wherever she had sleepwalked and offered what comfort they could. Reverend Summers had made weekly visits to offer prayers.

  It had taken a long time for her to realize that she was indeed alive and not actually sentenced to an eternity in Hell like the rich man in Reverend Summers sermons. When she had finally figured that out, her first words in nearly a year had been to ask the reverend why the Devil had taken her parents. Reverend Summers had explained that it was evil men, criminals, that had killed her parents and not a biblical supernatural being.

  The idea that another human being could do such a thing had hurt Eliza to her very core. She felt betrayed by her own people. Not knowing who had killed her parents made it hard to trust anyone, because to her mind anyone she encountered throughout the day could have been the culprits.

  She had no way of knowing where to even begin to figure out who had murdered them. The local authorities had gotten nowhere as any evidence that might have been accrued had been destroyed in the fire. Probably the villains’ intent all along.

  With so many questions as to who had brought about their demise or why they had done so, Eliza turned to books as her refuge from the internal onslaught of emotional turmoil. At night when she could not sleep, she had lain beneath the light of a lamp and lost herself in the stories of romance and legend. In a world of fiction, she had ridden in and saved her parents much like an armor-clad knight on a white steed. She read anything and everything she could get her hands on in order to block out the images of what had actually happened.

  The Coles knew reading provided her safe a harbor in the pitch black of night, and never chastised her for using more lamp wicks and oil than anyone else in the household.

  It had been her father who had developed her love for literature. He had read to her nightly before her mother had put her to bed. Eliza closed her eyes to picture the scene. I can still see it now, all of us sitting around the fire listening to Papa’s voice as he read of far off places and amazing adventures.

  Opening her eyes, Eliza looked down at the sleeping faces of the Cole children and thanked God that they had not suffered the fate of her loss. To lose one’s parents in such a way is cruel beyond measure. Cruelty no one should ever have to endure. Cruelty I should never have had to endure. She shook her head to eliminate the sorrowful thought. God protect them now and always.

  Eliza bent over to kiss the smooth blonde brow of the littlest child. “‘Tis time to arise, my sweet,” she whispered, brushing the hair back from his eyes. Oliver was the youngest of the five siblings at three years old. She always woke Oliver first, as he so enjoyed waking his siblings by pouncing upon them as they slept. It was a morning ritual that brought about a round of giggles as each sibling tickled him in revenge for his exuberant greeting.

  Eliza watched as Oliver rubbed his eyes awake. “Mornin’ ‘Liza,” he greeted, using his pet name for her.

  “Good morning, Oliver,” she replied, assisting him to a sitting position.

  Oliver crawled out of bed and pattered over to his eldest brother, Henry’s bed. Crawling up on the side, he positioned himself to leap on his brother. As Oliver’s tiny body landed on Henry’s torso, a grunt escaped the blanket-clad figure upon the bed. Mere moments later a cascade of giggles fell upon Eliza’s ears as Henry tickled Oliver’s feet. “Come here, you little imp,” Henry growled in good humor.

  The sound of the brothers’ antics awoke their sisters in the next room, and three young faces peeked around the door casing and grinned at the sight before them. “Good-morning,” the eldest girl, Mary, greeted.

  “Good mornin’,” Oliver called back, scrambling down from Henry’s bed to race past his sisters and toward the kitchen. Henry arose and dressed before following. The girls returned to their room to dress then went to join the family for breakfast.

  “Will you be reading to Mistress Keen today, Eliza?” The middle daughter, Jane, inquired around a mouthful of porridge.

  “Yes, I believe so,” Eliza answered, handing her a napkin to wipe her mouth.

  “May I come with you?” The youngest girl, Anne, pleaded, folding her hands together as if in prayer.

  “I don’t see why not,” Eliza agreed. She couldn’t help but smile over her sister’s exuberance.

  “Yay!” Anne cheered in excitement.

  “You must be on your very best behavior,” Eliza warned her firmly.

  “I shall,” Anne promised.

  “I will hold you to that.” Eliza rose from the table to prepare for her walk to the grocers.

  Eliza went to her room, gathered her cloak and reading materials and returned to the kitchen. She found all three girls stood ready and waited to accompany her.

  Mary looked up. “May we all go with you, Eliza?”

  Eliza smiled and ruffled her young sister’s blonde curls. “Of course, you may.”

  “Me too!” Oliver yelled clambering down from his seat to grab at Eliza’s skirts.

  “No, not today, my sweet,” Mrs. Cole scooped him up in her arms. “You and Henry are going to stay and help your dear old mother in the garden.”

  “Yes, Mother,” Oliver begrudged. His frown made it evident that he was not pleased with the arrangement.

  “Come straight home once you have finished,” Mrs. Cole instructed.

  “We will,” Eliza promised, kissed her on the cheek, then left the house for the grocer’s, her sisters in tow.

  Eliza wondered how she would explain the foodstuffs she received from the grocer that never made it onto the Cole’s kitchen table. She had intended on distributing it on her way home to avoid a midnight excursion, but it could not be helped. She would have to hide the goods until she could disperse them among the neediest of families later.

  The girls reached the grocer’s and made their way up the back stairs of the shop to the drawing room above. Mrs. Keen sat awaiting Eliza’s arrival and was surprised to see three little girls march up the stairs to curtsy then take seats on the bench beneath the room’s largest window overlooking the street below. Eliza smiled at her sisters’ manners then took her usual seat opposite the older woman.

  Mrs. Keen rang a bell from her side table. A maid appeared in the doorway. “It would appear that I have more guests than expected today. Please bring us a number of sweet treats with our tea.”

  “Yes, Mistress.” The maid curtsied and scurried away.

  “That is most kind of you, Mrs. Keen. I apologize if b
ringing my sisters has caused any inconvenience,” Eliza replied, concerned that she had broken with proper decorum allowing them to accompany her.

  “Think nothing of it, my dear. You and your family are always welcome,” Mrs. Keen reassured her. “What have you brought for us to read today?”

  “I have brought two selections for you to choose from. Would you prefer Sir Walter Scott’s The Lady of the Lake or Miss Jane Austen’s Pride and Prejudice?” Eliza asked Mrs. Keen knowing her sisters would prefer Miss Austen’s work as they found it to be more relatable to their own lives. Eliza loved the fantasy and adventure of Sir Walter Scott’s literary prowess.

  Mrs. Keen turned to the Cole sisters. “What do you think, ladies?”

  “Austen!” The three of them exclaimed as one.

  “Miss Austen it is then,” Mrs. Keen agreed.

  The ladies spent the next several hours immersed in the romantic tale. Eliza watched her sisters’ eyes glaze over in pleasure as they daydreamed of the future lives they wished for themselves. “Oh, can you imagine marrying a gentleman of such caliber?” Mary gushed. “To be swept off of one’s feet by a nobleman of such wealth, perhaps even a duke…” Her words faded away into a sigh of longing.

  Eliza chuckled. How could she tell her sisters that such a life was well beyond any of their grasp? Their husbands were destined to be tradesmen or mayhap soldiers. A nobleman was far beyond the realm of probability, and a duke was utterly impossible. But did it do any harm for them to dream? Reality would alter their fanciful perceptions all too soon.

  Eliza was fairly certain that she herself would never marry. She could not imagine a husband supporting her nocturnal missions of mercy or find his wife cowered in their armoire after sleepwalking. A husband was a hindrance; she simply could not countenance.

  She knew that an unmarried woman of little fortune would need to find sustainable employment if she wished to remain so. Employment options for young ladies were limited at best. Eliza considered becoming a lady’s companion or a children’s governess, but she had no desire to serve as a maid or cook. Above all else, she wished to put her intellect and love of books to good use.

  When Mrs. Keen grew tired, Eliza knew it was time to take her sisters and return home. On her way out, the grocer, Mr. Keen, called her name. “Eliza!”

  “Mary, please take Jane and Anne outside, and I will meet you in front of the store.” Eliza did not wish the girls to witness her exchange with Mr. Keen.

  Mary complied and Eliza turned to speak with the grocer. “Yes, Mr. Keen?”

  “I have your food ready. Do you wish to have anything added to your usual order?” He placed the items into a cloth sack.

  “No, thank you, Mr. Keen.” Eliza took the sack and concealed it inside of her cloak. She then met her sisters at the front of the store and escorted them home.

  “How was Mrs. Keen today?” Mrs. Cole inquired upon their entering the kitchen. “Were you girls on your best behavior?”

  The girls chimed, “Yes, Mother,”

  “Mrs. Keen is doing well. She grew tired from our visit, and so we departed to allow her to rest.” Eliza walked to her bedroom, placed the sack in her armoire, removed her cloak, and returned to the kitchen to assist in preparations for the evening meal.

  “My friend, Mrs. Philips, will be dropping by for tea tomorrow afternoon. Will you be present to assist with the children or will you be with Mrs. Keen?” Mrs. Cole asked, dusting flour from her hands.

  “Yes, I will be here,” Eliza promised.

  * * *

  That night Eliza lay awake until the rest of the household fell silent in slumber then arose to retrieve the hidden parcel of food from the armoire. She threw her cloak over her shoulders and exited the house, quietly going from cottage to cottage distributing her week’s earnings among those most in need.

  Her last stop was the Wainwrights. She entered to assist the wife with cleaning and dressing her husband’s wound.

  “The fever is getting worse,” Mrs. Wainwright fretted, wringing her hands as Eliza unwrapped the old bandage.

  Eliza wrinkled her nose at the odor. “The wound smells putrid. Has the doctor been by again?”

  “We can’t afford to pay him for any more visits. The amputation and his following visit drained our ever-dwindling coffers.” Mrs. Wainwright bowed her head in shame. “We were living hand to mouth as it was after paying for my husband’s father’s funeral expenses. The legacy duties finished us off after that.” It was considered poor decorum to discuss money, but it was quite apparent that the woman was at her end.

  “Mrs. Wainwright, I fear that if you do not call the surgeon back to tend your husband’s wounds, he may die,” Eliza warned as the last bit of bandage fell away.

  “Holy mother of God.” Mrs. Wainwright gasped at the sight.

  All that remained of Mr. Wainwright’s leg was a gangrenous, angry, red stump that oozed green and yellow pus. The horrendous smell of putrefaction was overwhelming. It filled the room, causing its occupants to gag in reflex. His skin burned to the touch. He passed in and out of consciousness as Eliza cleaned the wound. She did not have any medicine on hand but had brought a jar of honey. She knew from past experience that honey had healing properties in caring for such issues.

  I hope I am making the right choice. Eliza coated the stump with the honey and wrapped a new bandage around it. A surgeon would be better.

  “I will return upon the morrow to see how you are both doing. Perhaps there is something in one of my books that can help us to know what to do.” Eliza washed her hands in the kitchen basin, then redonned her cloak, pulled the hood up over her head, and slipped out into the night.

  Distracted by the gruesome images of Mr. Wainwright’s leg still clear in her mind, Eliza did not notice the dark figures that emerged from the shadows of an adjoining alleyway. The first she took note of their presence was when one of them grabbed her arm and demanded that she turn over any jewels or money in her possession.

  “Unhand me this instant.” She attempted to remove her arm from the assailant’s grasp.

  She saw a knife flashed in the moonlight as another of the figures moved forward. “Turn over your valuables or die where you stand. We can take your possessions just as easily from your corpse.”

  The men’s voices were rough and their faces covered. She didn’t notice any distinguishing marks to tell them apart from any other man. They moved just like the shadows of the men who had murdered her parents long ago.

  She froze as memory overwhelmed her. Could they be the same men? Her anger at the idea quickly overcame her fear.

  She was not strong enough to fight them off. She looked around for any passersby who might offer her aid but saw none. A cry for help would expose her secret, but without it, she might not live to see the morrow. She took a deep breath and screamed, “Help! Help!”

  The man who gripped her arm placed his hand over her mouth, “Be still!”

  Eliza bit down on one of his fingers and stamped her heel on his toes. The man let out a yell and swung his fist at her, barely missing her face. Eliza stumbled to avoid his assault and was grabbed by the other fellow who placed the knife to her ribs and demanded she remain still. Eliza chose to obey.

  She trembled both in fear and anger; her breaths came in short bursts. Her mind searched for a way out of her precarious situation through the fog of terror. I cannot die here alone in this alley. I have barely begun to live. I will not allow myself to be murdered as my parents were murdered. I will not! Eliza considered all of the options available to her and found she had none. God help me, she prayed.

  “Unhand the lady,” a deep masculine voice commanded from the darkness that startled both Eliza and her attackers. The sound of a gun being cocked echoed off the cobblestones, and a masked figure stepped out of the shadows and placed the muzzle of a pistol to the knife wielder’s head.

  Eliza heaved a sigh of relief. She looked to her savior, but the only thing she could see were the pier
cing blue of his eyes reflected in the light of the streetlamps. They snapped in violent anger as he demanded immediate obedience. “Now.”

  Chapter 2

  Arthur Huntley, Duke of Rosenhill, rolled his blue eyes, frustrated at his mother’s unceasing complaints. Margaret was currently bemoaning her misfortune at having birthed his twin siblings, Charlotte and Gabriel. They had been through five governesses in the last ten years, all of whom had quit or been fired, one right after the other. The twins were prone to antics, but the cruelty of their parents had been the real cause of the rapid succession governesses.

  The household staff filled in the best they could, but with their other duties, it had been trying at best. With the late Duke dead, Margaret completely rejected the twins at every turn. Arthur knew she would have gladly rejected him were she not under his care as lord and master of Rosenhill and their family.