A Very Unusual Governess. Sylvia Andrew
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But even the Witch of Wychford couldn’t have foreseen the Barracloughs and their problem. Or…could she?
As Octavia walked on down the drive she was thinking of the last time she had seen Aunt Carstairs. They had said their farewells and the footmen were waiting to assist the old lady into her carriage. But just before she got in her aunt had turned round to take Octavia’s hand and say, ‘Be patient, child. Rescue is at hand.’ Then, as the carriage prepared to drive off, she had put her head out of the window and added with a crow of laughter, ‘There’s even a hero in prospect, though you’ll take time to recognise him.’
Octavia was turning these words over in her mind now as she drew near the gates of Wychford. A hero? Not among the Barracloughs, that was certain! Edward Barraclough was not only already married, he was the opposite of all her ideals. Dark, abrupt, discourteous, and not much gaiety about him…Anyone less like Tom Payne would be difficult to imagine! No blond prince among the Barracloughs, then. So where? Perhaps one of the local neighbours had a son…But how could she meet him if she was an employee, a governess at Wychford? Octavia gave a sigh. Surely Aunt Carstairs could have managed better than this! But as Will Gifford drove up she laughed out loud. She was beginning to believe her own nonsense!
Octavia got back to Ashcombe in daylight and, wasting no time before setting her plans in motion, invited Lady Dorney to have tea with her in private. ‘It’s an age since I saw Papa so happy, ma’am,’ she began as they sat down in her parlour. ‘You are so good for him.’
Lady Dorney looked at her with amusement. ‘I’m glad to hear that. But I believe I know you too well to think it an idle remark,’ she murmured. ‘Tell me, what plans are you hatching in that pretty head of yours? I don’t believe you invited me here just to pay me compliments. Incidentally, you, too, look happier—excited even. What happened today?’
Octavia hesitated, then launched into an account of her adventures. When she reached the point where Edward Barraclough said that she wasn’t the featherhead he had thought, Lady Dorney was so amused that she nearly dropped her cup.
‘So when did you tell him that, far from being an indigent governess in search of a post, you were the daughter of the Earl of Warnham, and the owner of the house he was renting?’
‘I didn’t. I haven’t.’
‘What? Why on earth not?’
Octavia took a breath and said defiantly, ‘I’ve agreed to begin as their governess in four days’ time.’
‘But how can you possibly manage that? Rupert would never agree! To say nothing of pretending to be something you are not! No, no! You can’t do it, Octavia!’
‘I could. With a little help from you, ma’am.’
‘Your papa will never consent.’
‘I wouldn’t ask him. I would tell him that it was as he feared—Wychford needs further attention than I thought, that I need to spend some time seeing to it. It’s not quite a lie, ma’am!’
‘It’s not the truth, either! What do you think he would feel if he learned that his daughter was working as a governess?’
‘I don’t suppose he ever will. At the end of two months I’ll come back here and take up my old life again. But I wish I could explain to you…Those children need me, ma’am.’
‘So does your father. How will you persuade him to do without you?’
‘Ah! That’s where the favour comes in.’
‘Tell me!’
‘Well, you did say that you’d like to stay longer this time. And if you were here Papa wouldn’t miss me nearly as much. Our housekeeper is perfectly competent, and the servants are all familiar with the routine of the house…’
‘If you are suggesting what I think you’re suggesting, the answer is no, Octavia! I won’t do it! Take charge of this house? Certainly not!’
‘You needn’t take charge, exactly—just be here. I could come back regularly to see that everything is working, though I’m sure it won’t be necessary. Please say you will, ma’am!’
Lady Dorney said somewhat coolly, ‘You realise, I hope, what I would be risking? Rupert and I have always been good friends. He would hardly believe it if he found out that I had helped you to deceive him. He would certainly be distressed. It might well mean the end of our friendship!’
‘It won’t! I swear it won’t. I just have a feeling…Cousin Marjorie, please do this! I know I am asking a lot. I can’t even explain why it is so important to me. Perhaps it’s the escape I’ve been looking for. Please help me!’
Lady Dorney hesitated, started to speak, then stopped again. Octavia waited in silence. At last her cousin said, ‘I’ve tried to persuade you so often to escape that I suppose I can hardly refuse to help you now. And I haven’t actually made any plans for the autumn, nor for the winter either. I don’t imagine I’ll be missed at Lutworth…’ She sighed, then sat up and said with decision, ‘Very well! I’ll do it! I’ll stay for two months. But I think I am as mad as you!’
With Lady Dorney’s help Octavia was on her way back to Wychford less than a week after her first fateful visit there. Will Gifford was once again her companion on the journey, but this time he would return to Ashcombe without her. At the back of the gig was a small valise with a selection of Octavia’s simplest dresses. Her hair was severely drawn back under an unadorned bonnet, her cape was of drab grey cloth plainly cut, and her gloves and boots serviceable rather than elegant. Lady Octavia Petrie, youngest child of one of the richest families in the south of England, and heiress in her own right of a handsome estate, had been replaced with simple Miss Petrie, newly engaged governess-companion to the Misses Barraclough.
A casual observer would not have known just how nervous she was. Her outward demeanour was composed and quietly confident. But the spirit of adventure had not disappeared. Inside Octavia was an unholy mixture of anticipation, apprehension, surprise at her own daring, and exhilaration at her escape. Two months. Two months to find out what she really wanted of life.
If anything, Wychford seemed more welcoming than ever. The day was overcast, but as the gig approached a fleeting ray of sunshine was reflected in those extraordinary windows. The house was smiling its quizzical smile. Lisette was hovering on the lawn, clearly waiting for her arrival. And as Octavia stepped out of the gig, Pip climbed down from the nearest tree. They took her over, Pip leading her to the door like a small tug in charge of a clipper, Lisette giving orders to the housekeeper.
‘We’ve given you a room near mine,’ said Pip. ‘Not exactly in the tower but nearby. Did you know that the old lady who used to live here was a witch? Mrs Dutton wasn’t here then, she lived in the next village, but she says all the villagers here were frightened of Mrs Carstairs.’
‘Really?’ As they went through the oak doors Octavia once again had the strange feeling that the house was enfolding her, welcoming her. ‘I think she must have been a good witch, Pip,’ she said, smiling. ‘Wychford is a friendly house. Don’t you agree?’
As a daughter of the Earl of Warnham Octavia had been accustomed all her life to the deference due to her rank and her wealth. But it was not difficult now for her to maintain her ‘disguise’. She was neither arrogant nor conceited, and she had more than her fair share of charm. Her normal, easy, matter-of-fact manner served her very well with everyone at Wychford. Everyone, that is, except the master of the household. She was still very much on trial as far as he was concerned, and more than once Octavia found herself biting back an unbecoming response when he made one of his critical remarks.
Fortunately he was frequently away on short visits to London. She learned that there had been three Barraclough brothers. John, the eldest and father of Lisette and Pip, had inherited a wealthy plantation on Antigua. Henry, the second son, also had land in the West Indies and was still over there. But Edward