The Governess and Mr. Granville. Abby Gaines
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see.” Her employer folded the letter and set it on the desk. “I don’t recall my sister mentioning your connection to the Spenfords. Are your families old acquaintances?”
In other words, how did a mere governess end up so well connected?
“My father is the Reverend Adrian Somerton, rector of Piper’s Mead in Hampshire,” she said. “Papa was given his parish living by the Dowager Countess of Spenford, his patroness.” She hoped that would be enough.
“There must be more to it, for Spenford to have married a parson’s daughter. Somerton...” Mr. Granville drummed his fingers on the desk as he contemplated her. “I’m acquainted with Sir Horace Somerton, brother of the Duke of Medway.”
“Sir Horace is my grandfather,” she admitted reluctantly.
Her father disapproved of any boasting of their high connections. “We’re all equal in God’s eyes,” he often said.
Mr. Granville blinked. “So your father is the nephew of the Duke of Medway? Does my sister know? Why on earth are you working as a governess?”
She clasped her hands demurely, in the dwindling hope it might make her look more governess-like. Her prospects here at Woodbridge Hall appeared increasingly dim. “Miss Granville is aware... It came out in conversation one day. But, sir, my father became estranged from most of his family the moment he took his holy calling more seriously than they would have liked. Before I was born, my parents spurned London society in favor of a simpler existence.”
“You will forgive my intrusion into your affairs—” that was an order, not a request, Serena noted “—but even if your father is estranged from the Medways, your family is surely not destitute.”
“Our circumstances are comfortable,” she admitted, embarrassed.
“So why do you need to work? Surely the life of a governess is not comfortable.”
“I love my work,” she said in surprise. “The children are wonderful and Miss Granville is kindness itself.”
At the mention of his sister, he gave her a sharp look. Some people considered Miss Granville a little odd; Serena wasn’t one of them.
She carried on. “But in answer to your question, my father has recently been in disagreement with his bishop. Papa favors preaching the Word to people wherever they may be—in the fields, if necessary. The bishop sees his approach as Methodism, and is afraid Papa will create disunity in the church. Which he never would—” aware of rising indignation in her voice, Serena took a moment to calm herself “—but he worries the bishop might remove him from the parish.”
If that happened, her parents would lose their home and livelihood.
“And that’s why you sought this position?” Mr. Granville asked.
“I don’t want to be a burden on my parents if their circumstances change,” she said, which was true, but not the entire truth. That had been the impetus for applying to be a governess, but not the reason she’d accepted this post over the two others she’d been offered. “I should explain, I’m the oldest of five sisters.”
Many fathers would consider five daughters a burden. Serena’s parents made it clear their girls were their joy. They’d never exhorted them to marry, though as Papa had said when she was home at Christmas, “If God should provide wonderful husbands for any or all of you, my dears, I will not quarrel.” Serena hadn’t been able to discern from her parents’ letters what they thought of Constance’s marriage. Whether Lord Spenford was “wonderful.”
Mr. Granville leaned forward, pressed his fingertips together. “Miss Somerton, you must see it’s impossible for you to remain a governess now that you have an earl as brother by marriage.”
She lowered her eyes. He was right. But this wasn’t just about what society, or even Lord Spenford, considered proper. She grasped the edge of the desk and said, “Mr. Granville, please don’t say I must leave.”
He eyed her encroaching fingers warily. “Of course you must.”
“Sir, the children need me. It’s been such a joy to teach them, to see Thomas develop his interest in nature, and Hetty learn to form her own opinions.”
Mr. Granville appeared doubtful about the joys of both of those. She considered telling him the truth: that when Marianne Granville had explained how the children had lost their mother, and implied that their father had grown distant and cold, Serena had seen the possibility for a second chance for this family. A chance for the widowed Mr. Granville to put behind him the mistakes he’d made out of grief. To start afresh with his children. Serena, who knew about making mistakes, would help him. And just maybe, she would earn her own fresh chance.
But it was difficult to explain all that without causing offense. Better just to talk about the children. “Then there’s Charlotte’s wonderful—”
“Compassion,” he interjected. “Yes, so you said.”
She beamed at him. “And William. He was so shy when I arrived, but just the other day he took the starring role in a drama we created.”
“Really?” Mr. Granville might well be surprised; his second son was notoriously bashful. “That drama lesson wasn’t, by any chance, at the expense of something more useful?” he asked. “Arithmetic, for example?”
“Of course we do arithmetic,” she assured him. “But I’m thrilled to say William positively relished the limelight in our drama.” One only need look at the crippling shyness of Marianne Granville, Mr. Granville’s sister, to see that helping William become more sociable was of far more use than practicing his already excellent arithmetic. “The fact that he got to brandish a carving knife for much of the last scene was a useful incentive,” Serena recalled fondly.
Alarm flashed across her employer’s face, reminding her of that day he’d scolded her for letting the children slide down the banister. What child wouldn’t eventually take advantage of such smooth, tempting wood? Far better they do it under her supervision. She moved swiftly on. “And Louisa.” She felt her face soften at the mention of the youngest Granville. “As long as she has someone to hold on to, she’s the happiest girl in the world.”
“She sounds clinging,” Mr. Granville said.
“She’s five years old,” Serena pointed out. “Sir, it would be a very bad idea for me to leave now.”
“Bad for them or for you?” he asked. “Frankly, Miss Somerton, it sounds as if you’re having the time of your life, while my children’s education could be suffering.”
Just in time, she refrained from leaping to her feet in self-defense. The kind of reaction Mr. Granville wouldn’t appreciate. Instead, she pressed her slippers firmly into the carpet, anchoring herself. “I report regularly to Miss Granville on my curriculum and the children’s progress. She has always expressed her satisfaction.”
It was both true and, Serena hoped, a tactical masterstroke. Mr. Granville was inclined to let his sister have her way. “But I see my role as more than that of a teacher of reading and arithmetic,” she continued.
“I would hope,” he said, “the curriculum of which you boast also includes French for the older children. And sketching and the like for all of them.”
Maybe she could just hint at her deeper purpose.
“When Miss Granville appointed me,” Serena said, “she told me the children were worried they might forget their mother. Yet they were afraid to talk about her.”
Mr. Granville’s jaw—strong, with a tendency to square when he disapproved—showed definite signs of squaring. “That’s absurd. My sister shouldn’t have said such a thing to you.”
“The reason they were afraid to talk about your late wife was a sense that you discourage such conversations,” Serena persisted. Oh, this confrontation was long overdue! And now,