Chapter 5
Chapter Five
The carriage rattled to a stop before a grand Mayfair townhouse that seemed to have been plucked from one of the romance novels Reverend Leighton so vigorously disapproved of.
Augusta peered through the window at the polished stone facade, the tall sash windows gleaming with lamplight, and the black-lacquered front door flanked by iron railings.
Cassie, who had dozed fitfully against Augusta’s shoulder for most of the journey, jerked upright at the change in motion.
“We’re here!” she exclaimed, pressing her nose to the glass. “That’s Mrs. Beale in the doorway, see? She’s the housekeeper.”
Across from them, Hudson straightened, his expression giving nothing away. “Cassie,” he said, his tone making the single name both a warning and an endearment. “Remember what we discussed.”
Cassie nodded, suddenly serious. “Not a word about where we’ve been,” she whispered, eyes darting to the driver’s box. “Not to anyone.”
The driver swung down and opened the carriage door, lowering the step with practiced ease.
Hudson descended first, then turned to offer his hand to Augusta. She took it—a simple courtesy, nothing more—but couldn’t help noticing the warmth of his palm, the slight roughness of his skin against hers.
The housekeeper was indeed waiting in the entrance hall, her back straight as a yardstick, her expression composed. Behind her stretched a line of staff: footmen in spotless livery, housemaids with pressed aprons, a cook wiping flour-dusted hands on her skirts.
“Your Grace,” Mrs. Beale greeted, dropping into a perfect curtsy. “We weren’t expecting you until tomorrow.”
“We made better time than anticipated,” Hudson said, his tone clipped. “This is Miss Augusta Norton. She will be acting as governess to Cassie.”
Augusta stood straight, meeting each pair of eyes with a polite nod, though her fingers curled slightly at her sides. She had no trunk, no valise, nothing but the clothes on her back and the pouch Hudson had pressed into her palm at the Nightingale.
The pouch suddenly felt heavy in her pocket, a reminder of how completely her circumstances had changed in a single night.
“Very good, Your Grace,” Mrs. Beale said, nodding at the servants who all looked aware of something interesting taking place at the estate. “We shall make preparations for her stay at once.”
“The guest wing will do for tonight,” Hudson said. “The governess’s quarters can be prepared tomorrow.”
Mrs. Beale nodded, already moving. “Shall I have a tray sent up to Miss Norton? I assume she’ll wish to retire after her journey.”
“Oh, but she has to see my room first,” Cassie protested. “And the schoolroom, and the library, and—”
“Miss Norton will see her own room first,” Hudson cut in firmly. “And you will have plenty of time to show her everything tomorrow. For now, you will go with Mrs. Beale and have Cook prepare you a proper supper.”
Cassie’s face fell. “But—”
“No buts,” Hudson said. “It’s well past your bedtime, and you’ve had quite enough excitement for one evening.”
Cassie opened her mouth to argue, then caught the look on her brother’s face and closed it again. “Fine,” she mumbled, the word heavy with resignation. She turned to Augusta. “You’ll really be here tomorrow? You promise?”
Augusta could not help but smile gently at the girl. “I promise,” she said. “And I look forward to seeing your room, and the schoolroom, and the library, and all the rest.”
That earned her a brilliant smile, before Cassie allowed herself to be led away by Mrs. Beale, though not without several backward glances to confirm that Augusta was still there.
Hudson watched his sister go, something softening in his expression before he turned back to Augusta.
“This way,” he said, gesturing toward a corridor that branched off the main hall. “We have matters to discuss.”
He led her away from the grand staircase and the watching portraits, his stride long enough that she had to quicken her pace to keep up. They passed a series of closed doors, the carpet beneath their feet muffling their footsteps, until they reached a room at the end of the corridor.
His study was a testament to masculine practicality, all dark wood and leather, with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves lining one wall and a wide mahogany desk dominating the center of the room.
“Sit,” he said, the single word neither an invitation nor a request.
Augusta sat, keeping her spine straight and her chin level.
Hudson did not take his own seat. Instead, he remained standing, his arms loosely crossed as he regarded her with a gaze that cataloged every detail of her appearance.
“Do you understand the duties of a governess?” he asked. “The schedule, the standard of conduct I require for anyone caring for my sister?”
“I believe so,” Augusta replied, her voice steady despite the way his eyes moved over her face, making her suddenly aware of the smudge of dirt on her cuff, the single curl that had escaped her hastily arranged coiffure.
She smoothed her skirts, needing something to do with her hands.
“Though I would welcome clarification of any particulars.”
Hudson nodded, apparently satisfied with her response. “Cassie rises at seven. Breakfast is at eight, followed by morning lessons from nine until noon. Languages, mathematics, history, and geography primarily, though she has tutors for music and dancing twice weekly.”
His tone was matter-of-fact, as though he was reciting from a ledger.
“Afternoon is for exercise: walking, riding when the weather permits, occasional visits to the museum or botanical gardens. An hour of music or drawing before dinner, which she takes with me at six. After dinner, she is permitted to read or pursue quiet activities until eight, when she prepares for bed.”
It was a more structured day than Augusta had anticipated—not the relaxed schedule of a country house but the regimented routine of a young lady being prepared for society.
She nodded, mentally adjusting her expectations.
“Your salary will be sixty pounds per quarter,” he continued, watching her face. “Paid on the first of January, April, July, and October.”
Augusta’s eyebrows lifted before she could stop them. Sixty pounds per quarter was more than generous, nearly double what she would have expected for a governess’s position. It was enough to live on comfortably, enough to save, enough to—
She stopped the thought before it could form completely.
She would not be here long enough to need savings. Once she located Olivia, once she was certain her sister was safe, she would—
“I trust that’s acceptable?” Hudson asked, his tone making it clear that the amount was not open to negotiation.
“More than acceptable,” Augusta said, meeting his gaze. “Thank you.”
His expression softened almost imperceptibly. “I think you and Cassie will get along well,” he said. “She needs someone who understands that rules exist for a reason.”
It was the closest thing to approval she had heard from him yet.
Augusta felt an unexpected warmth at the words. “We will.” She nodded. “I already admire her spirit.”
Their eyes met, and for a minute she couldn’t breathe. Her heart was racing furiously, and blood rushed to her cheeks. It felt as though a knot tightened in her stomach.
Before either of them could say anything further, a brisk knock sounded at the door. After Hudson’s permission, it opened to reveal Mrs. Beale, her posture as correct as ever.
“Miss Norton’s room is ready, Your Grace,” she announced. “I’ve had a fire lit and water sent up for washing.”
Hudson straightened, his demeanor shifting subtly, the intensity of the moment giving way to practical matters. “Thank you, Mrs. Beale,” he said. “Miss Norton… I believe you are tired.”
It was a dismissal, clear and final.
Augusta rose, smoothing her skirts with hands that were not quite steady. “Thank you, Your Grace,” she said. “I’ll see you at breakfast.”
He nodded, already moving back to his desk. “Good night, Miss Norton.”
Augusta followed Mrs. Beale up the main staircase. The carpet beneath their feet was thick enough to muffle all sound, the banister polished to a gleam that caught the light from the wall sconces.
Mrs. Beale stopped before a door of dark, polished wood and opened it with a flourish that seemed at odds with her restrained demeanor. “Your room, Miss Norton.”
Augusta stepped inside, momentarily speechless. The bedroom was larger than the entire cottage she had shared with Reverend and Mrs. Leighton, and so beautifully appointed that it might have been lifted from the pages of a fairytale.
“I’ve had a supper tray sent up,” Mrs. Beale said.
“It should arrive shortly. Cook’s made a nice lamb stew, with bread still warm from the oven.
And there’s an apple tart for after, if you’ve room.
” She paused, her expression making it clear that this bounty was not her idea.
“Breakfast is served at eight in the family dining room. His Grace values punctuality.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Beale,” Augusta murmured. “This is all very kind.”
Mrs. Beale gave her a short, appraising look—not unkind, but thorough, as though trying to determine exactly what sort of woman had arrived on her master’s doorstep with no warning and no luggage. Whatever she saw seemed to satisfy her because she nodded once, decisively.
“Good night, then, Miss Norton,” she said. “Ring if you need anything. The bell-pull is by the bed.”
With that, she was gone, the door closing behind her with a soft click that seemed to seal Augusta into her new reality.
She stood alone in the center of the room for a moment.
Three months ago, she had been the daughter of a viscount.
A disgraced lady, certainly, after her father’s arrest, but still a lady with a name and a history.
Now, she was Miss Norton, governess to the Duke of Oakhart’s sister, with nothing to her name but the clothes on her back and a pouch of coins hidden in her pocket.
A knock at the door announced the arrival of her supper tray, which bore a covered dish of stew, a basket of bread, a small pot of butter, and a plate of apple tart, all arranged with careful precision.
She ate slowly, savoring each bite, the rich flavor of the lamb, the warmth of the bread, the sweet-tart balance of the apples.
It had been years since she’d had a meal she hadn’t prepared herself, and longer still since she’d eaten anything that tasted of care rather than necessity.
Her life with the vicar had been beyond humble.
When she had finished, she set the tray outside her door as Mrs. Beale had instructed, then returned to preparing for bed.
She washed her face and hands in the basin of water, now gone cool, and brushed out her hair with the silver-backed brush that had been laid out for her use.
The nightgown slipped over her head with a sigh, settling around her ankles in a pool of pale pink.
Her hand clenched around the necklace she wore, and she closed her eyes, thoughts of what her apparent savior would want in return haunting her until she gave way to exhaustion.