“Clearly, God had other plans, Mrs Hawthorne,” Sarah murmured in the demure manner she assumed a dutiful governess might adopt. Under ordinary circumstances she would never have passed the time of day with a woman who supplemented her sparse ginger curls with what surely must surely have once graced a squirrel’s behind. Worse, the combination of primrose pelisse and gold striped gown was a positive assault upon the senses.

     But these were not ordinary circumstances.

     Curbing the impulse to strain forward for a closer look at the furry russet appendage peeping from beneath the lappets of Mrs Hawthorne’s lace cap, Sarah inclined her head. “But now I am here—”

     Ignoring her, Mrs Hawthorne pressed on. “You’re not what I expected and, to be blunt, Miss Morecroft, nor am I convinced you are you suited to the job. Mr Hawthorne, however, was most insistent.  Now!” She frowned. “I’m told your French is flawless and you’re especially gifted on the pianoforte.”

     Again Sarah inclined her head.

     “And you can dance a minuet? Caro is coming out next year but needs just a little polishing in the meantime. Harriet and Augusta want only some rudimentary education. Their feminine accomplishments will count for so much more than book learning.”

     Leaning over the side of the brocade settee, she pulled the bell rope before turning back to Sarah with a condescending little smile. “No doubt you’re anxious to meet your new charges.”

     Good Lord, what a woman! Sarah channeled her distaste into amusement. Patience was not her strong point, but she would have to acquire a good measure of it — and humility — if she were to survive the three weeks she needed to remain here.

     A challenging task for one who was in the pleasant position of not generally being required to suffer fools gladly, or continue an unpalatable association; a thought which instantly produced an image of her dear friend Captain James Fleming.

     And he, of course, was the reason she was here.

     Before she could dwell further on the kind and charming man who had caused her more sorrow than anyone else in her short life the door opened to admit the three girls who wove their way amongst the clutter of occasional tables and gilt chairs to stand before them: the youngest a gap-toothed eight-year old with a cheeky grin, a serious-faced ten-year-old. And Caro, the future debutante. The most unprepossessing debutante Sarah had ever laid eyes on.

     “Girls! Your curtsies!”

     Dutifully, the girls obeyed.

     Sarah inclined her head. Dear Lord, she thought again. Governess to two infants and a girl who resembled a studious giraffe. How was she to survive?

     She smiled indulgently at her three new charges.

     She would survive the way she always had: through natural charm, grace and wit. Her long list of suitors attested to these attributes in abundance. Patience and humility would have to be acquired, she realized, although she considered they were being exercised very successfully this very moment.

     The little girls looked at her with curiosity. Caro, she noticed, merely looked mulish.

     Ah, thought Sarah. A rebellious adolescent. She smiled bracingly at the awkward young girl and received a level stare laced with suspicion.

     Never mind! Hadn’t she been just as obstinate not so many years ago towards her own Papa?

     Her beloved Papa!

     The consciousness of what she was doing struck like a blunt instrument and she winced.

     Rallying, she hardened her heart. Three weeks was not so very long. In three weeks’ time her beloved, tyrannical father would be welcoming her back like the Prodigal daughter and the subject of marriage would never be broached again.

     In three weeks’ time James would surely have fixed his interest with one of the current season’s latest crop of debutantes. Having never been properly in love with her he’d not mourn her supposed drowning like he would a proper sweetheart’s.

     With an effort Sarah banished any residual doubts about the course on which she was headed.

     Footsteps sounded in the passage outside and her eyes darted to the door. The maid with tea and cakes, she hoped. She was ravenous! The convent fare dished out by the nuns who had nursed her back to health after she’d been plucked from the North Sea had been Spartan, to say the least.

     Instead, a tall youth with a mop of sandy curls above the stiffly pointed collar that marked him out as a man of fashion stood at attention.

     “Aunt Cecily, forgive the intrusion. I’d forgotten you were receiving the girls’ new governess.”

     His assessing eye as it roamed over Sarah gave the lie to his erring memory. She had, however, expected more of an appreciative gleam from the lad. Well, she consoled herself as she smiled at him, one hardly looked one’s best in someone else’s cast-offs and puce, which always reminded her of coagulating blood, was hardly her color.

     He bowed, blushing.

     “Cosmo, this is Miss Morecroft.” Mrs Hawthorne’s tone was sharp. “My sister’s child,” she explained when the young man had gone. “A flighty boy, he’s unused to young ladies. Besides, he’ll be returning home soon.”

     The warning was inherent. Sarah managed to look suitably chastened, even as she recalled the number of youths, greenhorns just like Cosmo, who had declared to her their undying love. But she murmured, “Rest assured, I take my duties very seriously, Mrs Hawthorne.”

     “I’m glad to hear it, my dear . . . though I hope you’re not too much of a blue-stocking. Caro has tendencies in that direction which, I’m afraid, can only be to her detriment. I look to you to instill in her a healthy aversion to pursuits of too knowledgeable a nature.”

     Poor Caro! What hope had she with such a tartar in control? thought Sarah as she was led to her room.

     . . . Before being rendered immobile with horror upon the threshold as she saw the chamber allotted to her. Only the servants at home had shoe boxes like this: no view, pictureless walls, the garish rag rug providing the only color, a bed, wash stand and chair. And what was her trunk — or rather, the other Sarah’s trunk — doing upon the bed? It hadn’t even been unpacked yet!

     “You’ve just enough time to put your things away and change, Miss Morecroft. The girls have their supper at five.”

     Sarah struggled to hide her dismay. Did she have to supervise them as they slopped their eggs all over their bread? Was there not a nursery maid to do that?

     “It might not be the most exciting fare, especially after what you’ve been used to in India—” Mrs Hawthorne’s tone held a note of censure — “but it’s good and wholesome.”

     So she was to sup with the girls? Not at table with the adults?

     Sarah contemplated the iron bedstead with its no-doubt lumpy mattress, and recalled her own Spartan nursery days. Nursery fare consisted of endless bread and butter, disgusting lumpy suet puddings and — she swallowed — no Madeira!

     “And Caro?” she managed, faintly, while mentally shrieking:  This will not do! Not even for two or three weeks!

     “In the nursery, of course,” said Mrs Hawthorne with mild surprise. “She is not yet out, as I told you.”

     Sarah reflected upon the gauche, sallow-skinned young woman in whom she was supposed to have wrought miracles by next Season.

     Squaring her shoulders, she decided Caro would have to be her special mission. Even in two or three weeks she could make a difference, she thought. Naturally, Caro must learn to move in adult circles. Soon! Three days at table with the children would be Sarah’s limit.

     But as she gazed at the clumsy trunk on the ghastly rag rug once Mrs Hawthorne had withdrawn she was assailed by another inconvenient pang of remorse. James’s distress and her father’s anguish would be limited to the three weeks she chose to remain hidden. Poor dead Sarah Morecroft was plain and simply dead. Drowned when the Betty Augusta sank off the coast of Belgium leaving only two survivors.

     Of course it was not her fault she had been mistaken for the governess who had been traveling to England to take charge of the Hawthorne girls. Perhaps Sarah should have corrected the mistake immediately, although in her defense there had been a lot of salt water sloshing around her brain at the time.

     A week in the deceased young woman’s company had supplied Sarah with a wealth of information about the real Miss Sarah Morecroft so it had been easy to slip into the role. Both Sarahs had been young, attractive and unescorted and as the captain clearly relished female company they had been his feted guests during the voyage, each regaling the attentive captain and company with tales of their past lives and future expectations.

     Sarah had shuddered at the hardships described by her companion of her drab life as a soldier’s daughter in Bombay. She’d much preferred to answer the young woman’s endless questions regarding Sarah’s life of ballgowns, assemblies and handsome young men.

     Surely, Sarah thought now as she made a half-hearted and essentially ineffectual attempt at undoing the trunk’s straps, she was hurting no one by pretending, for just a short while, to be the other Sarah who, after all, had no loved ones to mourn her. Poor Sarah Morecroft’s entire family had succumbed to fever in the month before she had left India.

     But as her hand brushed against the coarse cotton of the appalling, home-sewn cotton print dress she wore which the nuns had obviously retrieved from Miss Morecroft’s trunk, she wondered if she had the stomach to continue her charade. 

     What had become of her own finely tooled leather portmanteau with its wardrobe of muslins and silks and dancing slippers? At the bottom of the ocean, or had the real Miss Morecroft swum away with it and was creating her own fantasy somewhere?

     Distracted by the clattering of hooves on the cobblestones outside, Sarah went to the window and threw open the casement.

     Down in the stable yard a couple of newly arrived horsemen swung round at the sound. Two pairs of eyes fixed upon her: Cosmo’s full of undisguised interest, those of the other clearly and disconcertingly unmoved by the sight of the new governess leaning her elbows upon the window sill and smiling out at them.

     Compelled, apparently, by good manners, the stranger doffed his hat, giving Sarah only a cursory glance before dismounting. Then he was addressing a somewhat reluctant Cosmo who appeared to be checked in his impulse to brandish his own headgear in a more enthusiastic greeting.

     Sarah retreated a little and studied the pair.

     The older man appeared to be in his late thirties. A family friend perhaps? Certainly from a distance he appeared rather attractive with black, wavy hair and a pair of well chiseled cheek bones beneath dark, serious eyes. Top boots reached the knees of a pair of buckskins that covered shapely, muscled legs and an immaculately cut coat of navy superfine stretched across broad shoulders.

     There was nothing of the fop about him, although his attention to detail was apparent in his attire. A nonpareil, decided Sarah. And a particularly dashing one.

     Dashing, just like James.

     She sighed. No point in thinking about that again. Just because James was dashing and would inherit Sarah’s family home  on account of it having to pass to the nearest male relative -distant though that kinship might be - her father must be positively cork-brained if he imagined Sarah would be happy to marry him.

     Her gaze lingered. She wanted to see if the handsome stranger would glance in her direction once more. Cosmo’s initial lackluster greeting had dented her confidence somewhat.

     But no. A groom led the horses towards the stables and the two men disappeared into the house. She could hear their boots upon the stairs and their voices echoing from two floors below.

     No doubt she would meet them later. The familiarity with which the older man had put a hand upon Cosmo’s shoulder as they discussed some matter must mean he was closely connected with the family.

     The sight of her reflection in the tarnished looking glass hardly bolstered her spirits. She looked tired, her dark blond hair lank and plainly dressed. Well, she thought as she drew back her shoulders, with her curls bouncing back after a good washing and her normally flawless complexion glowing, the lowly governess would soon receive the same admiration to which the feted beauty, Lady Sarah Miles, was accustomed.

     Sarah returned to the dilemma of her trunk. It wasn’t difficult, she found as she fumbled with the straps. Just vexing there was no one else to do such a tedious job for her.

     And then she pulled out the first garment that came to hand and nearly died of shock. As if the dull, serviceable traveling dress she was wearing wasn’t horrifying enough, this was beyond anything!

     Dropping the drab, high necked grey merino gown, she took a step backwards, hands held to her flaming cheeks as she gasped. How could she possibly hold up her head in public wearing such a repulsive object? It would be more mortifying than anything she’d ever done in her entire life.

     She took a steadying breath, supporting herself on the bed end. This, surely, must be the worst of the garments Miss Sarah Morecroft had packed. She’d probably tossed it into her trunk at the last minute, just because there was room enough for it.

     Sarah began laying out the gowns, petticoats, chemises and other items in an orderly pile, the sick feeling in the pit of her stomach not easing as she progressed in her task. Either Miss Morecroft had absolutely no style or taste, or she’d had not a penny to spare for adornment of any kind.

     As the gravity of her situation sank in, Sarah sat on the bed and put her head in her hands. This was madness. Of course it was. Her family lived only one hundred miles away but here she was in a strange household about to become a menial when a mere letter would soon have her bouncing off home post-haste in grand style ready to take up life just where she left it.

     She sighed. She wouldn’t do it. Too much had happened since that fateful week-long journey to visit her grandmother which had nearly cost her her life but which had cost the unfortunate Sarah Morecroft hers, not to mention Jeanette, the maid she had employed only days before the journey.

     She bit her lip, returning to her task as she gingerly pulled loose a dark blue woolen dress with long sleeves. It was less modestly cut at the neckline — although it certainly was a long way from baring anything remotely tantalizing. Was this supposed to pass as an evening gown? It might be appropriate for eating nursery tea, Sarah supposed, but as she had no intention of being relegated to the nursery for long, what then could she deck herself out in? She had no money, for one thing. Her reticule had gone down with the boat.

     She put her hand to her throat and fingered the gold chain with its jeweled cross. She could always pawn that, she supposed.

     Good! She sighed with relief, her characteristically buoyant spirits rising above the present gloom. It was all settled then. She’d be the model governess for a few weeks. She’d enjoy the novelty of seeing how other people lived. And she was undoubtedly in a respectable household so she need not fret about her reputation and future prospects.

     A rap on the door was followed by the entrance of the nursery maid, a stout, ruddy-faced creature who looked like she must gobble up all the nursery leftovers. But then, Sarah’s opinion was not very high of anyone who didn’t wait to be invited in before doing so.

     “Miss, you’re not even dressed. And there’s the little girls waiting for their tea!”

     Did this little mop bucket, Sarah wondered, think she actually had precedence over her in the household?

     “Well, they’re hardly going to starve if I’m five minutes late,” she said loftily, examining the blue dress. She tossed it over the iron bedstead and sighed. “I declare, the sea water’s ruined my entire wardrobe.” She sank back onto the threadbare grey blanket and covered her face with her hands. “Shrunk and stained it beyond redemption. I consider that a greater calamity than keeping a couple of six-year-olds waiting for nursery tea.”

     “Yes, Miss.” Sarah’s authoritative tone appeared to have put the young girl in her place. She shifted position, scuffing the oilskin floor covering with her toe. “Right sorry we all were to hear of the accident, Miss. First losing your family to fever in India and then nearly going before your time, yourself. Beg pardon, too, for me lack of manners only I was in a right state as Mrs Hawthorne gets on her high ropes when it comes to punctuality. I’m Ellen, by the way. Anyway, I’m sure she’d understand and forgive you this once in light of what you just said, Miss.”

     “That’s encouraging,” replied Sarah, sitting up, her irony clearly lost on Ellen. “I shall be down shortly.”

     Struggling into the blue dress was indeed an effort. Sarah had not thought it at the time but she was more generously endowed with curves, especially up top, than the young woman she had met on the boat.

     One narrowed look from Mrs Hawthorne, who met her in the nursery, made no secret of the other’s disparagement. But when Sarah cunningly and plaintively said, “Oh, ma’am, two days floating in the ocean has done my wardrobe no favors,” a look of guilt immediately crossed her mistress’s face.

     “Of course not, my dear. I shall have to see what we can do. I daresay there are a few of my things I no longer wear that can be altered. They may not be in the first stare, but that hardly signifies in your situation.”

     No, thought Sarah. But at least they’ll be of finer quality fabric than the coarse cottons and serviceable woolens that were all Miss Morecroft had possessed.

     The nursery was as Spartan as Sarah had feared.

     The moment the door closed behind Mrs Hawthorne who had come to exhort the girls to mind their manners and eat all their supper, Sarah turned to the girls.

     “Now that I’m here, what would you like me to teach you?”

     Her spirits had risen above the gloom. She must make the most of this. While she would obviously have to endure the most appalling deprivations there were compensations. Indeed, it could be fun: the erudition of three sponge-like little girls. It gave her a sense of power she was unused to at home, despite her privileges.

     “Augusta needs to learn her letters better, I’d like to know more about worms, and Caro needs to catch a husband,” lisped Harriet, pushing back her dark ringlets as she looked up from her exercise book. Sarah glanced admiringly at her drawing of a stern-faced worm wearing a monocle.

     “Augusta, we’ll have you reading in no time.” Sarah spoke above Caro’s protests. “The secret is to think of the adventures and exciting new worlds away from Larchfield reading will take you. Harriet, I really don’t know much about worms, nor do I like them very much. But at least I know where to find them. And Caro . . .” Sarah crinkled her nose thoughtfully while her eldest charge glowered, mumbling something incoherent as she stared down at her empty place setting.

     “What was that?” asked Sarah. “You’ll have to learn to enunciate, Caro. All I caught was the word ridiculous, and I do concur that it’s a ridiculous notion you’ll never catch a husband. Certainly you’re no beauty. But then, sixteen is a very awkward age. I was at my most unprepossessing at sixteen. Spotty, sallow skin, just like yours. Oh, and I well remember girls who were much worse off at that age who turned into veritable swans. So I wouldn’t worry on that score. What we need to concentrate on is making sure you are confident and accomplished when you’re moving in competitive circles.”

     “You didn’t hear, Miss Morecroft,” Harriet piped up from the other side of the nursery table as nursery tea – predictably, egg and toast – was served. “Caro says she doesn’t want a husband. She’s always said that, only nobody listens.”

     Sarah looked at her, aghast. “Not want a husband? Whyever not?”

     “Finding a husband is not the most noble pursuit in life,” mumbled Caro.

     “Noble? Indeed there’s nothing noble about securing a husband. A girl must use all her wits and wiles to ensure she is as well-placed as possible. It is a very serious undertaking and you need to be as prepared as possible ... unless you wish to be a nun.”

     “Caro wants to be a blue-stocking,” said Harriet.

     “A blue-stocking,” Sarah repeated thoughtfully. “Will you be of independent means some day?”

     “What?” Caro looked affronted.

     “Unless you are,” said Sarah patiently, “an indulgent husband who is happy to grant you the necessary license to pursue your intellectual leanings is a far more desirable proposition than playing unpaid servant to those others in the household who feel they have a legitimate claim upon your time.”

     “You’re not married,” Harriet pointed out. “And you’re very old compared to Caro.”

     “I am twenty-four,” said Sarah, “and have not yet found a husband suitably manageable or worthy of me.”

     “What’s the point, then, if there aren’t enough to go round?” asked Caro.

     “Oh, there are,” said Sarah. “It’s just a question of meeting enough of them. I nearly married some years ago and at that time I was meeting many, quite suitably manageable prospective suitors.”

     “What happened?” Despite herself, Caro looked interested.

     “He died during the Peninsula Campaign, two weeks before our wedding day.”

     Thoughtfully, Sarah traced the tabletop with her forefinger. To her surprise she had felt only the slightest pang recounting this distant chapter in her life.

     When the girls tried to press her she refused to be drawn. While once she might have made more of her tragedy she was not so sure what the Hawthornes knew of Miss Morecroft’s history.

     “Enough, enough!” Sarah banged the table for silence. “We all must learn to triumph over tragedy and adversity.”

     “You must be very brave, Miss Morecroft.” Admiration shone from Augusta’s serious dark eyes. “You’re not scared of elephants, are you? You wouldn’t even be scared of Master.”

     “Your dog?” asked Sarah, and Caro giggled.

     “Father,” she said. “Everyone’s scared of him.”

     “Goodness.” Sarah frowned. “Nobody should be scared of their father. Why, mine’s the world’s most terrible ogre. . . but I’m not scared of him. Or rather, I wasn’t,” she amended, hastily.

     “You defied him?” whispered Caro, round-eyed as she fidgeted with her lilac sash, her food untouched before her.

     Lilac! Shuddered Sarah. Only the most unfeeling parent would dress a girl of Caro’s coloring in such a shade.

     Transferring her attention from Caro’s frightful ensemble to the girl’s intense expression, Sarah crinkled her brow. “Not outright. That would have been to no purpose, whatsoever.”

     “But . . . but how? How did you manage such a thing?” Caro strained forward as if the question were of the greatest importance.

     Sarah hesitated. “You have to work out how a person thinks,” she said, slowly. “Learn cunning, while all the time appearing ever so meek and obedient. So they think they’re getting their own way but really you’re getting yours. Or, at least, you’re not completely giving into them. Take these eggs, for example,” she added, gaining inspiration from the soft-boiled eggs that were growing cold in front of them. “Pass the charcoal, please, Harriet.”

     Perplexed, the girls watched as Sarah drew a face on her egg. She pushed it towards Caro together with the charcoal.

     “Now draw the face of whoever frightens you most in the world. And then we’ll do an exercise in conquering your fears.”

     With great deliberation Caro penciled in sideburns, a head of wavy hair, adding a smart cravat before touching up Sarah’s attempts at a face.

     “You’re quite an artist.” Sarah’s tone was admiring. “Obviously this person is a man of consequence. Now, face him squarely and tell him what you feel. Then chop off his head!”

     Open-mouthed, the girls turned horrified looks upon Sarah.

     “I couldn’t possibly,” gasped Caro.

     “Well, if you can’t even tell it to an egg, no wonder the man himself reduces you to a quivering jelly. And I ask you, how can you possibly be sufficiently persuasive and convincing to get your own way if you turn to jelly every time he looks at you? So go on, look at your egg, and begin. I’ll prompt you and you follow. Say: “I hate the way you . . .”

     Sarah broke off and looked at her expectantly and Caro, taking a deep breath, suddenly launched in: “I hate the way you look at me as if I were the most unprepossessing creature in the room. I hate knowing that you’re ashamed of me, that you wish I were a boy yet are slavishly concerned at the impression I make upon people who in your opinion matter but who I am quite content never to see again. I hate the way you ignore me, think I’m ugly and stupid-”

     “All right, Caro.” Sarah’s tone was soothing. Her charge’s nerves seemed to be getting the better of her, her voice rising to alarming decibels. “That’s a good start. I think it’s time to cut off his head now.”

     “And so I cut off your head! Like this! So I don’t ever have to suffer the agonies of your ill opinion again!”

     Seizing the bread knife, Caro sliced it through the air, wielding it with as much enthusiasm as any of London’s notorious executioners.

     In stunned silence they all watched as the egg shot out of its cradle and hurtled through the air towards the door, leveling off at chest height . . . at the precise moment the door opened.

     And as nursery dinner made contact with the immaculately clad torso of the handsome gentleman Sarah had made eyes at earlier that day, Caro cried out in anguish: “Father!”