Chapter 3
The carriage crested a gentle rise, and there it was at last—Westford Castle.
Jane’s breath caught. For a moment, the ache of the journey receded.
The sleepless nights in drafty inns, the five days of jostling travel, the quiet dread, all of it fell away.
The sight before her was nothing like any place she had ever known.
It wasn’t a fortress. The original Norman walls were long gone, their stones now folded into the foundations of a vast Palladian estate, its golden facade glowing in the afternoon sun.
Towers crowned with balustrades framed the central portico, where massive columns upheld a pediment carved with crest and garland.
The grounds stretched wide and immaculate, and beyond them, a glass-smooth lake gleamed beneath the sky like a polished mirror.
She had once thought her grandfather’s seat impressive. Now it seemed little more than a gamekeeper’s lodge by comparison.
She hadn’t expected her uncle to find her a post so quickly, let alone one like this. But he had written to an old friend—the steward of Westford Castle—who had remembered him kindly. They had been in luck: a governess was needed for the young daughter of the Duchess herself.
Uncle Robert had arranged everything. He hired a post-chaise, enclosed and dependable, and sent Mrs. Cole—the housekeeper from his Southampton home—to accompany her.
Not because Jane still needed a chaperone, but because a woman traveling alone invited talk.
And reputation mattered. Especially now.
She was not arriving as a guest, but to be assessed.
A governess was not a servant, but neither was she one of the family. She must be above reproach and invisible. And if the Duke’s household was anything like its facade, one misstep, however small, could see her quietly turned away.
The carriage slowed, then stopped. Mrs. Cole shifted beside her and gave a brisk nod toward the window. “We’ve arrived, miss.”
Jane looked down at her gloved hands, folded in her lap, and felt the first true flutter of unease. This was a world away from the quiet dignity of her father’s rectory, or the serviceable comfort of Uncle Robert’s parlor.
* * *
She had rehearsed what to say a dozen times on the road, but in the end, it hadn’t mattered.
A single meeting had been enough. The Duchess had asked a few questions, offered fewer pleasantries, and made her decision with what seemed a glance.
It hadn’t been an interview so much as an appraisal—followed by a brief instruction to report to the housekeeper.
She was shown to a chamber grander than any she had ever seen.
The bed alone was a marvel, its tall posts draped in damask hangings, the counterpane plush beneath her gloved hand.
A writing desk stood near the window, polished and waiting—she could imagine herself there, reading, drafting essays in the spare moments between duties.
She lingered by the casement, looking down upon gardens unfurling in geometric perfection, lawns edged with boxwood and fountains of bright spray catching the sun like molten silver.
If this was a governess’s room, what must the family’s apartments be like?
The magnitude of the place pressed upon her again, half wonder, half dread.
A knock broke her reverie. A maid entered, curtsying. “Her Grace requests your presence at luncheon, miss.”
Jane blinked. Luncheon? For a governess to be invited—it was unusual, almost improper. Yet curiosity stirred in her; this was the household she must learn to navigate, and every glimpse of its order—or disorder—was precious.
She smoothed her dress, preparing to descend, when a sharp cry pierced the corridor. A child’s voice, shrill with temper and misery. Jane stiffened, then turned. The sound came from the nursery, only a few doors away.
She followed it, hesitating at the threshold. Inside, Lady Margaret stood with cheeks blotched crimson, fists balled at her sides, her small frame shaking. Opposite her, a harried nursemaid bent low, her tone pitched in soothing cadences that fell on deaf ears.
“I won’t go!” the child cried. “She doesn’t love me—she never comes! She never cares to see me!”
The words rang through the paneled room, raw and desperate. The nursemaid cast Jane a helpless glance, as though pleading for aid.
Jane stepped forward slowly, softening as one might when coaxing a half-wild kitten out of hiding. “Lady Margaret?” She had her mother’s name, and the thought warmed her unexpectedly.
The girl spun, startled. Wide gray eyes met hers, wet with unshed tears. She bore no likeness to the Duchess—her features were slightly uneven, her hair a pale, almost washed-out blond against her mother’s fiery mane.
“I am Miss Jane Ansley,” she said, dipping her head slightly in greeting. “Your new governess.”
Margaret’s lips trembled, but she said nothing.
Jane drew a breath. “I think I understand. When a mother must leave, it can feel terribly lonely. But your maman is a duchess, and a duchess has so many duties—so many eyes upon her—that she cannot always be where she wishes. Still, all that she does, she does so the world will honor her daughter as well. And one day, when you stand tall and speak with learning, she will be proud beyond measure.”
The child frowned, uncertain. Jane crouched to her level, lowering her voice to a conspiratorial hush.
“You and I will learn together. Not only sums and letters, but Latin and Greek—ancient tongues that make the very walls listen. We will read poetry that turns the heart and philosophy that sharpens the mind. And when next you stand before your maman, you shall recite something so fine and clever that she cannot help but smile.”
Margaret’s fists loosened. “Greek?” she whispered, almost suspicious.
Jane allowed herself a small smile. “Even Greek. I will show you the letters myself. And you shall master them.”
The nursemaid exhaled with relief. “Come now, Lady Margaret—Her Grace awaits.”
Margaret cast one last searching glance at Jane, then nodded stiffly. “Very well. But I will sit beside my governess.”
It was concession enough. The first stone in her new life at Westford Castle had been laid—and already she sensed how fragile the foundation might be.
* * *
Jane had scarcely time to collect herself after Margaret’s outburst. The child, still subdued, allowed her hand to be taken by her attendant, and the small party made its way down to the family rooms. A footman led them through a corridor lined with gilt-framed landscapes: placid lakes, ruined temples, and skies forever caught between storm and calm, until they reached the small dining parlor.
Margaret slipped into a chair, Jane settling beside her. She barely had time to arrange her skirts before the door opened again and Charlotte entered, fair-haired, her posture assured though her looks were plain.
To Jane, she had a marked presence—not dazzling like the Duchess, nor ethereal as beauty is often praised, but her eyes were keen, intelligent, taking in everything at once. Whatever she lacked in charm of face, she carried in clarity of mind.
“Spitfire,” Charlotte greeted, dropping a hand lightly on Margaret’s shoulder. “How are you? Giving your nursemaid hell again? I heard your cries all the way from my room.” Margaret giggled despite herself.
Jane, mindful of propriety, rose at once and offered a small curtsy. She spoke before the child could answer. “She was agitated, my lady, but she is calmer now.”
Charlotte gave her sister a half-smile, then bent nearer. “Do not trouble yourself, little one. Your mother has this effect on all of us. I nearly want to cry every time I see her.” Margaret’s laughter bubbled out, quick and irrepressible.
Jane kept her voice calm, her posture modest but assured. “I am Miss Jane Ansley, my lady. I have been engaged to instruct your sister.”
Charlotte inclined her head in return, gaze cool as it lingered on the young woman.
A delicate face, thoughtful eyes, and—though plainness of dress did its best to disguise it—a fine, womanly figure.
She was undeniably pretty. Foolish, Charlotte thought, for her stepmother to bring such a creature into the house.
But then, dressed in that mourning uniform of governesses, with its high neck and unadorned sleeves, the girl was almost invisible, as if the very fabric was meant to erase her.
The footmen moved silently, placing dishes before them. Charlotte took her seat at the far side, reaching for bread, when the door opened again with a rustle of skirts.
The Duchess swept in. Tall, impossibly slender, wrapped in a pale blue silk gown that looked as if it had come straight from Paris.
Jane was struck again not only by her arresting beauty but by her youth.
She had expected someone older—someone matronly, perhaps, with graying hair and the composed bearing of someone long past vanity.
But the woman before her looked no older than her late twenties, possibly even younger.
Charlotte curtsied faintly. “I hope your journey from London was comfortable, Mother,” she said, the last word edged with irony, as they were scarcely a few years apart in age.
A flash of color touched the Duchess’s cheek. “It was tolerable, Charlotte. Thank you very much.” Her gaze slid to Jane. “So, you've met the new governess. She claims she can fill Margaret’s head with all manner of things. Perhaps we shall have another bluestocking in the family.”
Charlotte’s fingers tightened on her napkin, though her face remained serene.
The Duchess went on, voice smooth. “If you cannot be a great beauty, you may as well be known for learning. As you can see, Miss Ansley, my daughter favors her father’s side. I trust you will manage her.”
The insult stung, though Charlotte refused to show it. She looked across the table, her smile cool. “Oh, but I do not think you object to beauty on our side of the family.”
Her tone was mild, but the glance she cast carried the weight of the barb. For an instant the Duchess’s composure slipped; her glass rattled faintly against the plate, a dark drop of wine threatening to spill.
Charlotte lifted her chin, expression almost patronizing. “How fortunate, then,” she said lightly, “that being a great beauty has accomplished so very much for you.”
The Duchess turned her head slowly, her gaze like ice. “More than you could ever begin to imagine, my dear.”
The table fell into silence. The servants froze, uncertain whether to pour the claret. Margaret’s fork hovered halfway to her mouth, eyes wide.
It was Miss Ansley who spoke, her tone gentle, respectful. “Her Grace must be weary after such a journey. Was the road from London in good condition? I had heard there were repairs along the Norwich turnpike.”
The Duchess shifted, mollified by the redirection. “Indeed, there were delays. The roads grow worse every year.” She launched into a litany of complaints about post-horses, the weather, the state of travel in England, while the footmen moved again, wine was served, and the meal resumed its course.
Charlotte sat back, watching the governess anew.
For all her modest garb, there was no mistaking the poise beneath it—an intelligence that knew when to intervene, and the tact to do it well.
There was strength in her too, quiet but unmistakable.
Charlotte pressed her lips together, unwilling to concede more, yet she could not deny she was impressed.