Chapter One
There was a deep scratch upon the side of Maggie’s valise.
She could not recall how it had happened.
Perhaps the last coach she had taken had flung it a little too roughly to the ground?
Her previous conveyance had been a public stagecoach, so crowded that all the luggage was lashed to the roof—even her worn old valise.
The coachman, being neither careful nor courteous, had dropped it with something close to contempt when she changed vehicles.
It had almost certainly happened then, she supposed.
Carefully, she turned the case so that the mark would not show when she stepped out. This was the final leg of her journey, and she must look as composed as possible.
On impulse, she drew out her cracked silver hand-mirror and opened it, studying her reflection.
I look like a governess. Perfect.
Her hair, brushed smooth from its rich chestnut curls, was drawn into a modest knot at the back of her head. Not a strand dared stray. Her face, though pale from travel, bore no smudge or blemish. She met her own eyes—clear green-gold, fringed with dark lashes.
Not modest enough for a governess.
She lowered her gaze, practising meekness. It did not come naturally. She would have to learn it.
On cue, a man’s voice echoed in her head—low and amused.
“What pretty eyes you have, my dear Maggie. I shall always call you Maggie, and never Margaret. A woman named Margaret would never have such bewitching eyes. Didn’t your poor, dead Mama call you Maggie?”
The recollection made her shiver. Clenching her jaw, she snapped the mirror shut and thrust it away. She was weary of her reflection—weary of his voice that clung to her like a stain.
I will not think of him. He cannot find me here. Three months have passed; I am safe. I am Maggie Winters, governess. Margaret Camden is long gone.
She would have to remind herself often. Perhaps she ought to have chosen another name entirely, but it was too late now. Her application had been signed Maggie Winters, and that was whom they expected.
The coach lurched suddenly, turning up a steep, gravelled drive. Peering through the cloudy window, she caught sight of her destination—a great house crowning the hill. Burenwood Manor. It looked more imposing even than she had imagined.
The final ascent seemed interminable, though perhaps her nerves made it so. At last, the coach rolled to a halt before the largest house she had ever seen.
She pushed open the door herself and stepped down, manoeuvring her scratched valise after her. Her boots sank into the well-raked gravel.
A sharp tut met her ears. An elderly butler advanced, lips compressed.
“You should have allowed me, or the footman, to open the door,” he reproved. “You are Miss Winters, I presume?”
“I am,” Maggie replied with a smile. “I am used to opening my own doors, you see.”
It was meant lightly, but the butler did not so much as twitch a smile.
“Things are done properly here at Burenwood Manor,” he said austerely. “His Grace is most particular.”
Maggie curbed her amusement. “I shall endeavour to remember.”
He inclined his head, apparently appeased. “See that you do. I am Crawford, the butler. John, take her case.”
A footman appeared as if conjured, seized her valise, and strode away. Maggie felt oddly bare without it and clutched her gown to steady herself.
“Come inside,” Crawford said briskly. “Mrs Thornton awaits you. The housekeeper—I believe you corresponded with her.”
Without waiting for an answer, he turned and marched towards the great stone steps and arched doorway.
A small tremor of apprehension passed through her. She wished she could hold her valise again—heavy, awkward, scratched though it was.
Inside, the air was as chill and pristine as outdoors. Their footsteps echoed so sharply that Maggie wondered if she would forever announce her presence wherever she went.
Should I put felt upon my soles? Would the duke object to his servants clattering through the house?
At the foot of the elegant, red-carpeted staircase stood a small woman of about fifty. Her hair was pale as milk and neatly drawn back, and her skin so clear and white that Maggie gave a quick start.
“I am Mrs Thornton,” she said crisply, her pale grey eyes assessing. “We had hoped to introduce you at once to your charge, but you have arrived later than expected. Do you require rest or refreshment first?”
Maggie longed for both—a meal, a cup of tea, anything warm. Yet better to see it through.
Make a good impression, she reminded herself, and smiled.
“I should be delighted to meet Miss Hartwell,” she said brightly. “She sounds the sweetest child in the world, from your letters.”
“You may call her Miss Emma. She will be Miss Hartwell when she is grown, but for now, she is but seven. Follow me.”
Mrs Thornton turned to ascend, then paused. “I shall order tea—and perhaps cake—in the nursery. You must be hungry after such a journey.”
Maggie merely inclined her head, relief softening her fatigue, and followed.
The house was just as she had imagined—stately, echoing, faintly unfriendly. Mrs Thornton seemed kind enough, but Maggie would not relax yet. No doubt the little girl would be spoiled, the servants proud, and the duke—her guardian—mercifully distant.
“The nursery is on the third floor,” Mrs Thornton announced. “Miss Emma has a nursemaid, a local girl, Jenny Miller. You may find her of use—she is well educated and a great reader.”
“A nursemaid? A great reader?” Maggie repeated before she could stop herself.
Mrs Thornton cast her a sidelong look. “Voraciously so,” she said, with the faintest curve of amusement. Maggie sensed she had blundered.
She was grateful, then, for her choice of attire—her best remaining gown, a pale green muslin trimmed with modest lace. Her finer silks and jewels had long since been sold, but this, at least, gave her an air of neat respectability.
At last they reached the top. Mrs Thornton swept down a corridor muffled with carpet, and Maggie hurried after her.
“The nursery is here, and Miss Emma’s bedchamber adjoining. The schoolroom lies beyond.”
“I see. Am I to meet the duke afterwards?”
Mrs Thornton halted so abruptly that Maggie nearly collided with her.
“His Grace,” she said slowly, “is a fine employer. Like many great men, he has his eccentricities. He keeps odd hours and is not to be disturbed unnecessarily. Your charge, Miss Winters, is Miss Emma’s education and welfare—and, of course, your own health.
None of us here may overstep our remit, not even the duke himself.
You will bring any concerns to me, or to Crawford. It is best if His Grace is left alone.”
Exactly as Maggie had suspected. Mrs Thornton’s letters had made clear that the duke was not the child’s father but her uncle and guardian. His reputation in London had been formidable; it was no surprise that he wished to fulfil his obligations without personal inconvenience.
“I understand perfectly,” Maggie said, and Mrs Thornton’s shoulders eased.
“Well, we should go in, then.”
The nursery was a spacious, wedge-shaped room that faced the sun. The walls were painted in cheerful hues, lined with shelves and toyboxes, little chairs and books—a paradise for any child. A narrow bed was piled with cushions, and a table in the corner bore traces of recent use.
The abundance of toys took Maggie aback; she had never seen so many. Her own childhood had held but a few rag dolls and wooden animals.
Two figures occupied the room. One, clearly Jenny Miller, rose as they entered—tall, fair-haired, and bright-eyed. But Maggie’s attention was instantly claimed by the small girl at the easel.
Miss Emma Hartwell sat intent upon a painting—a garden scene, half finished, yet remarkably good. She was small and slight for seven, with enormous dark eyes and prominent front teeth that lent her an air of solemn charm.
“Miss Emma,” said Mrs Thornton, “this is Miss Winters, your new governess.”
For a moment, silence. Then Maggie, trusting her instinct, knelt beside the child and smiled.
“I am very glad to meet you,” she said warmly. “I hope we shall be friends. What a lovely painting this is! Have you copied it for a print?”
“She never does,” Jenny interjected. “All her drawings come from her own fancy.”
Maggie looked again, impressed. “How clever!”
Emma’s mouth curved in the faintest smile. “I like to paint,” she said shyly. “Jenny told me you might want more lessons, and that I should not have as much time. My other governesses said painting was too disorderly for a proper young lady.”
“I can assure you that will not be the case,” Maggie replied. “There will be lessons, yes—but always time for painting.”
This seemed to set Emma’s mind at rest. She glanced up at Jenny, who gave her an encouraging smile.
“And this painting—is it from your imagination too?” Maggie asked.
“Not exactly,” Emma said. “Uncle described it to me. He tells me stories about Mama’s home—all the gardens and flowers. I never met her, you see. Uncle says I must try to remember her.”
Maggie blinked, at a loss. It was not what one expected from a child. Managing her might prove more delicate than she’d thought.
“How very nice,” she said gently.
Emma beamed, inching closer.
She wants me to hug her, Maggie realised suddenly. Does no one ever hold this child?
Before she could act, quick footsteps sounded in the corridor. A footman appeared at the door, breathless. He whispered to Mrs Thornton, whose face stiffened.
“I see. Thank you, Simon.”
Turning back, she said heavily, “It seems His Grace will see you after all. Come at once.”
“That is good,” Maggie replied briskly, rising and smoothing her skirts.
To her surprise, Emma slumped back onto her stool, tears springing in her eyes.
“Oh, no, Mrs Thornton. I like Miss Winters,” she mumbled mournfully.
Maggie gave a nervous laugh. “Why, I shall come straight back, Miss Emma!”
“Uncle has already frightened away all my other governesses,” the child murmured.
Surely a jest. Maggie smiled uncertainly at Mrs Thornton, who only sighed.
“Yes, Miss Emma, we know. But perhaps Miss Winters will be the exception. We shall see.”
With that, she swept from the room, and Maggie hurried after her.
Yes, Maggie thought grimly. We shall indeed.
Brace yourself, your Grace. I am going nowhere. There is nowhere for me to go.