Capturing the Governess’s Heart by Sally Forbes
Chapter One
Five years later, Emma awoke in the night. Elizabeth lay nestled beside her in the big bed they shared, and she was grateful for her sister’s warm presence. Now fifteen, Elizabeth was growing into her sharp limbs, and she no longer flailed about in her sleep.
She used to dream and call out, grieving their lost mother, and Emma had often been awakened by the hard rap of her sister’s precious doll against her head. Emma sat up cautiously and saw Elizabeth’s doll propped up on a shelf across the room. Unable to find the cause of her sudden waking, Emma slipped silently from the bed and wrapped a shawl around her shoulders.
The summer weather had finally started to fade, and there was a chill in the air. Five beautiful summers full of flowers and long days spent admiring the sparkling water of the harbor. Five long summers her mother had missed.
Emma pressed a hand to her chest but still could not fill the emptiness. Life had not been a hardship, and their circumstances had not changed, and yet, Emma felt her whole world had been tumbled like the rocks on the beach.
She turned and tucked Elizabeth under the covers securely. Her younger sister needed someone to tend to her needs, guide her, and think of her future. After Mrs. Fletcher died, Emma had taken on those responsibilities almost immediately. Their father, on the other hand, had turned all his attention to business.
For the first three years, he had worked tirelessly. He had taken all his meals out or at his club if he ate at all. He rarely saw his daughters before they retired for the night, and he never set foot in Mrs. Fletcher’s sitting-room again. Mr. Fletcher found as many reasons as he could to travel often from Whitehaven under the guise of securing his family’s financial independence.
Her father had succeeded in almost ruining his health. For the last two years, he had struggled to keep his relentless business schedule. A succession of doctors had all prescribed him bedrest and lightened his attention to his duties, but he refused to listen.
The worry and the weight of her responsibilities made it hard for Emma to breathe. Suddenly, their small, shared bedroom felt too small. She opened the door silently and padded downstairs in her bare feet. If she could just slip into the back garden for a moment, Emma knew she would glimpse the stars and feel some modicum of comfort.
Despite the distance and the chance of clouds, even the faintest starlight still reminded her of her mother’s words and helped ease the pain in her heart.
But it wasn’t just the starlight that lifted Emma’s spirits. The deep hours of the night were the only time she could be alone. Elizabeth’s bright chatter, the housekeeper’s questions about menus, the butler bringing visitors’ cards, and the hundred myriad directions she needed to give the household staff kept her in company from the time she opened her eyes until the time Elizabeth’s breath finally settled into the rhythms of sleep. Emma moved fearlessly down the darkened stairs and felt the thrill of autonomy.
For one brief moment, she was her person, and it was only then that the world seemed to fill with possibilities. Every other hour was too busy for daydreams.
Emma was twenty years old now, and there were no expectations of her marrying. After her mother’s death, she had missed her coming out and, instead, spent all her time raising her sister. The social circles of Whitehaven commended her choices, as she was a comfort to her father. She was also heir to his shipping channels and could, one day, learn about the family business with help from her father’s chosen overseers. Only in the dark and lonely hours of the night could Emma even think of being an independent woman, and the daring notion made her heart race. She smiled dreamily as she reached the marbled foyer and turned down the hall toward the door to the back garden.
The housekeeper and maids were asleep in the attic, and the butler and footmen were in their rooms on the lower floor, but still, a light burned on the main floor of their townhome. Emma paused in the passageway and saw the candlelight came from her father’s study.
The door was pulled almost closed, and Emma could have easily moved past unnoticed, but she knew it was that fear very which had gripped her mother in the end. Mrs. Fletcher wanted nothing more than for her family to hold fast together without her and always take care of each other. Emma couldn’t leave her father awake in the night without feeling her mother’s worry.
“Father?” she whispered at the door.
There was no answer, and Emma cautiously opened the door another inch. Once tidy and well-organized, her father's study now reminded her of the shifting dunes along the coast. Piles of papers drifted from one surface to another, some settling on the floor, and ledgers lay open with their spines broken. Near the door, propped against a clock that had not been wound in over a year, stood a stack of unopened letters. Emma pushed the door open farther and glimpsed her father slumped over his work-strewn desk.
“Father?” There was a sharp note of worry in her voice.
The doctors had cautioned her in the gentlest terms possible that Mr. Fletcher’s heart was failing. Even on his best days, her father’s face had an ashen pallor, and he often leaned against the wall as he shuffled from room to room. He needed rest and the abatement of all his worries, but what if it was too late?
Emma tiptoed quickly across his study and was relieved to see the sheaf of papers under his head flutter as he breathed in and out. Her own heart had tripled its speed, and, for one moment, Emma pressed her hand again to her chest and tried to bring her fears back under control. Mr. Fletcher was still alive, though clearly not well. Emma tried to imagine what her mother would have done in such a situation.
Her father’s study was at the back of the house, and directly below the Mister bedroom, he now avoided so assiduously. When she was alive, Mrs. Fletcher had curtailed his late-night work by rapping on the floor to remind him when it was time for bed. A flash of inspiration loosened Emma’s hard-fisted hand, and she removed it from her heart with a hopeful flutter.
In the morning, she would convince her father to rearrange the townhome finally. He could make his study both his bedroom and workplace, avoiding the strain the stairs put on his heart and encouraging him to get a decent night’s sleep as often as possible. Emma knew he would resist, but he was bound to agree right away if she claimed Elizabeth wanted her room.
And, secretly, Emma imagined being able to open the casement in her room without disturbing anyone; she would be able to gaze at the stars, think of her mother, and dream of an independent future for herself.
Her revelation lifted the weight from her steps, and Emma quickly padded to the old divan, pulling a blanket from under the crooked stacks of books balanced there. She decided it would be worse to shock her father awake, so, instead, she laid the blanket around his shoulders as gently as possible.
While she fussed with the loose folds, Emma’s eyes accidentally strayed to the open ledger on the edge of his desk. Her father had taught her numbers early on, and her mother had done her practice every day. By the time she was twelve, she was in charge of the household ledger, so the tight columns of numbers made perfect sense. And what she saw stopped her breath: Mr. Fletcher’s business was sunk into debt.
Eyes stinging, Emma looked away from what she knew she should not have seen and quickly slipped out of her father’s study. She forgot all about going into the garden to glimpse the stars and rushed back upstairs to bury herself underneath the covers.
Her pillow was still wet with tears when Elizabeth woke her the following day.
“Oh, I do hope you are not catching a cold, dear Sister. I wanted us to walk to the market today, but your eyes do look red!” Elizabeth paused to study her sister, but only for a moment before she turned to select a different scarf to wear.
Emma wanted to cancel their plans, but the day was sunny and bright, and it would be hard to justify doing so. “Don’t fear, Elizabeth. The fresh air should do me all the good in the world.”
“It will. Hurry now!” Elizabeth seized her favorite reticule, stuffed her handkerchief and a few hat pins inside, and dashed downstairs.
Emma tried to tell herself the walk would clear her head, but she could not help worrying about what amount of money there was to spend. She lingered over her wash basin and took her time dressing, all in the hopes that her father would be gone before she descended the stairs.
She was afraid he would see the worry in her face and know she had stolen into his study uninvited. How had he hidden such a terrible secret from them for so long?
Finally, knowing her sister was waiting anxiously, Emma gathered her strength and went downstairs. The housekeeper met her at the door to the dining room and informed her Mr. Fletcher had already gone out for the day. The older woman met her young mistress’s eyes with a frown that said she had tried to persuade him otherwise for the sake of his health, but yet again, he had refused to listen.
“Thank you,” Emma told her before she joined her sister at breakfast.
“It’s such a lovely day; don’t you think we should buy some fruit? Cook could make your favorite fruit jelly for tonight,” Elizabeth suggested.
“Perhaps just simple fare for tonight is best,” Emma said. The housekeeper again caught her eye, and Emma wondered how well-acquainted the sharp woman was with her family’s dwindling fortunes. “We can indulge another day. Perhaps when Father can join us.”
“Yes, Mistress.” The housekeeper nodded her assent, gave a shallow curtsy, and disappeared through the servants’ door and down to the kitchen to inform the cook.
Emma took a deep breath once the woman was out of earshot and tried to exhale all her worries. Elizabeth, still chattering on about the joys of the marketplace and shopping, did not notice her sister’s heavy sigh, and they finished breakfast quickly. Hopeful she would be able to breathe easier outside, once they were ready, Emma hurried her sister out of the door and down the street.
They had only gone a few yards when Elizabeth gave an exuberant cry. “Oh, Sister! There is Anna. Could we walk with her and her family?”
“Go ahead, Elizabeth, and walk with your friend. I want to take in the fresh air. We can meet up again at Market Place,” Emma told her.
Emma waved to Anna’s family as Elizabeth joined them, then continued her slow pace, giving herself time to think. The worrying questions crowded her mind: Could Father save his shipping business? Was there any way he could supplement his income? Should they sell the townhome and move to a smaller holding?
Underneath all her worries and grief, Emma felt the same unexpected thrill she had felt when walking freely in the dark of the house the night before. Might there be something she could do to earn a living and help support her family?
It was almost an illicit idea, and her cheeks warmed at the thought, but there were no other immediate solutions she could think of. She was still deep in her daring thoughts when she met up with Elizabeth in the crowded market square.
“I’m glad to see some color back in your face,” Elizabeth announced, though she had lost her bright smile.
“Whatsoever is the matter, dear?” Emma asked her sister.
Elizabeth’s lips parted on a soft wail. “Anna is going to London this season, and I shall be left all alone! She’s only going to be taking care of the younger ones and run errands for her older sisters, but she’ll still be in town.”
“Anna is not of age yet. And, with three elder sisters who have already celebrated their coming out, she’ll most likely spend her season playing seamstress and maid,” Emma pointed out, trying to comfort her sister.
“And governess to a pack of her own siblings,” Elizabeth added with a thoughtful smile. Perhaps her friend wouldn’t have such a grand time as she had first imagined.
Her excellent humor at once restored, Elizabeth moved on easily to shopping, but Emma remained distracted. Children ran unsupervised throughout the market square, and Emma realized how aptly her sister had likened them to wild dogs. Those on a shorter leash were always attached to a frazzled mother or trailed after by an exhausted servant.
The older siblings were always responsible for the younger ones and Emma found herself glad she and her sister came from a small family. While she had been forced to abandon some of her educational studies when she took charge of Elizabeth’s upbringing, the loss had never been a trial for her. But she felt she would have enjoyed those studies now … if they didn’t remind her so sharply of the loss of their mother.
That thought stayed with her throughout the busy day and, even though her father had made a rare appearance at the dinner table, it remained foremost in her mind. “Father, do you remember the name of my drawing teacher?”
“Mrs. Smith?” he guessed at random.
“Mrs. Smythe,” Elizabeth corrected him. “She used to praise Emma all morning and berate me all afternoon. I’ve still not learned to sketch a decent landscape.”
“Your talent always lay at the spinet,” Emma reminded her.
“Your music teacher’s name was Bennett,” Mr. Fletcher remembered suddenly. “He told your mother repeatedly that you both had talent and should attend a music salon, but she did not want you to narrow your interests.”
“So, we added French and Italian to our studies instead,” Elizabeth said with a groan. “Oh, how terrible I was at tenses!”
Emma smiled. “You’re much better now; we’ve been reading French literature out loud in the afternoons.”
Mr. Fletcher gave his eldest daughter a small smile. “How good of you to continue to improve yourself, my dear.”
He stopped before he dared to say their mother would be proud of them, and a heavy silence settled over the table until the main course. When the footmen had cleared away the soup, and the butler had brought in the roast for Mr. Fletcher to carve, the subject of their accomplishments arose once again.
“You should see Emma’s needlepoint, Father,” said Elizabeth. “One small needle is all she needs to create a veritable garden of perfect flowers.”
Emma refrained from remembering how fond Mrs. Fletcher had been of embroidering butterflies and accepted the compliment with bowed head. She was accomplished at drawing, could play a decent air on the spinet, and was well-versed in two languages. She had also learned writing and arithmetic and had read every book in their father’s jumbled library. The combination of her experiences gave support to the budding idea she had carried around with her all day.
“Perhaps I should unearth the letters of recommendation our teachers left with us and put together a portfolio of my best work,” Emma mused aloud.
“Whatever for?” Elizabeth asked.
Emma took a deep breath and announced: “So that I can go to London and become a governess.”
Both daughters looked to Mr. Fletcher with bated breath. Elizabeth’s face betrayed the fact that she feared she would be left behind, bereft and alone, never to make her debut or be anywhere near a fashionable ball. Emma was afraid he would see through her to the real reason behind her suggestion and forbid her to find employment and try earning an income.
He surprised them both by smiling. “What a truly inspired idea, my dear. I’ve long been considering writing to Cousin Matilda. She loved your mother dearly and always hoped you would stay with her whenever you finally go to London. I’m certain, between her good connections and your excellent letters of reference, you’ll be accepted by the best agency and placed before the snow has fallen.”
“But, Father, what about me?” Elizabeth burst out.
Mr. Fletcher looked at his youngest with a tired but indulgent smile. “You, my dear, will be a companion to your mother’s cousin until you come of age. With your sister there in London, I have no fear of you, and you will be well-taken care of.”
With that fortuitous conversation, the matter was settled. Letters were dispatched, travel arrangements made, and, after two long weeks of hard traveling by coach, the Fletcher sisters arrived in London.
