PROLOGUEThe light on the floor slanted gray, another horrible dawn. But that was nothing new.
Every day of the last two months had been horrible.
However, today’s dawn was the last that Phoebe Baker would spend here, in her little room at the little, elegant school that had been her home for the past five years.
She was already awake. Already sitting on the bed, the gray wool cloak about her shoulders, covering up some of the unrelieved black of her gown. Which gown, Phoebe couldn’t tell. Was it the one that used to have the stripes? Or the little flowered cambric? It didn’t matter.
All the pretty pinks and yellows of her wardrobe were now this awful, inky black. The only one she had refused to dye was her soft blue ball gown. Her father had given it to her in one of his fits of generosity. Meant to be worn at her debut next year in London.
She would never go to London now. Never dance with young, handsome men. Never be a part of that world.
How was she going to be?
And whom would she share it with, now that her father was gone?
In some respects, Phoebe had been lucky. Her father had paid her tuition at Mrs. Beveridge’s School through the end of term, so she had been able to stay until now. And their house had been enough to cover his debts, so she was not responsible for any further monies lost.
Lost by his foolishness. Lost by his trusting nature.
Lost, she thought as she crumpled the brief note she had found among her father’s belongings on that last visit, because some men did not have the decency to clean up their own messes. They left them for others to deal with.
But even though she was able to stay at Mrs. Beveridge’s, everything had changed. People looked at her differently. Girls she had thought were friends began to shun her, refuse to associate with her, told by their parents and their teachers that she was no longer “one of them.” Like she was poison.
Also, her lessons had shifted course. Where she had once been one of the girls their painting master always held up as an example of good work, suddenly Miss Earhart asked her to step out and assist the younger girls with their reading lessons. Then, during the dancing hour, Miss Earhart had come in and requested that she help correct Latin slates.
But requested was the wrong word. “Demanded” was more like it. There were no apologetic smiles from Miss Earhart, no kindness within her. She simply commandeered Phoebe as she saw fit.
Funny. Phoebe had used to like Miss Earhart. Back when she had first arrived at the gawky age of twelve. She had been firm, but good to her.
But not anymore, apparently.
It didn’t take her long to realize that skinny, pinched Miss Earhart had been elected by the rest of the instructors to take care of the “problem” of Phoebe. To keep her away, out of sight. The hateful looks she got from the other teachers mirrored those of their students, and even the eponymous Mrs. Beveridge herself sniffed the air as if something had gone sour whenever Phoebe was near.
It made her hate Miss Earhart all the more.
But not nearly as much as she hated him.
Phoebe looked down at the note in her hand. The words she had pored over the past few weeks were among her few remaining possessions. She had sold most of her personal belongings at the school—hairpins, shoe buckles, frilly bonnets, her books. All gone to greedy girls for the coins she would need to feed herself, as soon as the houseboys came to throw her out on the street.
He had done this. The Earl of Ashby. He had let this happen to her father, warning him too late, taking no precautions to protect those less fortunate than himself.
If she had told anyone of her hatred of a man she’d never met, she would have been informed it was ludicrous, irrational. But then again, she had no one to confide in.
Besides, there was no one else left to shoulder the blame.
Suddenly, she was overcome with the desire to make him feel as terrible as he was. Overcome with the need to spit in his face, and make him recognize that other people existed in the world. That actions—or lack thereof—had consequences.
She stood abruptly, marching over to the little desk under the window. It was stocked with paper and fresh ink, as all the rooms were at the school. The supplies might have been placed there for the rich, spoiled girl who would occupy the room next, but at this moment, they still belonged to Phoebe. She lit a candle—the weak light of dawn not enough for what she must do. She sat. Placed pen to page.
Sir—
This will be a short letter. I have little time to write and not much to say. Other than . . .
Phoebe was just signing her name at the bottom when the knock came. It was short, direct. It did not frighten, but it offered no sympathy. Nor did the woman who let herself inside.
“Miss Baker,” Miss Earhart said calmly, “it is time to go.”
Phoebe sprinkled the sand on the page, folded it neatly, and wrote the direction—as best she could guess—on the front.
“Phoebe,” Miss Earhart repeated. “Did you hear me?”
“Yes, Miss Earhart,” Phoebe replied obediently. “As you said, it is time to go.”
Phoebe took the candle in hand, let its wax drip onto the paper, making a seal. Finally, she rose from her desk and turned to face the cursed woman.
Miss Earhart stood in the center of the room, her stillness presenting an outward sense of calm that made Phoebe want to rage and scream. But there was nothing to rage and scream about anymore.
Behind the teacher stood two houseboys. Gruff and mute, ready to force her out if she put up any resistance.
“Where are they taking me?” Phoebe asked, nodding to the two menservants.
“They will drive you as far as the Brighton Road in the cart. There is an inn at the cross-section,” Miss Earhart answered evenly.
Ah yes, the inn. Where parents stayed while visiting their daughters. Phoebe would not be able to afford a single night there with the coins in her pocket, such did the innkeepers gouge their patrons.
“And where do I go after that?”
“Wherever you like,” Miss Earhart answered.
And that was the difficulty. Phoebe had nowhere to go. Her father’s relatives were thousands of miles away in America. She had never met them. She would have to write, tell them of his death. And her mother’s family would sooner spit on her than take her in.
She must have looked pitiful, because for the first time in the past two acrimonious months, Miss Earhart showed her some pity.
“If you find you do not know where to go, I have a suggestion.” Miss Earhart reached into the folds of her school-issued plain gray gown. “This is the direction of a family near Portsmouth. They are in dire need of a governess for their three little girls, and asked me for a recommendation. I told them about you.”
Phoebe’s head whipped up. “A . . . a governess?”
“You are good with the younger students. I have written you a fine reference, and I forced Mrs. Beveridge to do the same. They are expecting you. If you want the position, that is.”
“I . . . I don’t understand.” Phoebe looked down at the note in Miss Earhart’s hand. “What do you mean you forced Mrs. Beveridge . . . ?”
Miss Earhart just snorted. “If it was up to her, you would have been thrown out two months ago. You’re lucky to have stayed here this long—I taught you what I could in that little time.”
Phoebe felt the ground spinning. Then suddenly, everything locked into place. She had been pulled out of her beloved painting lessons, out of dance class, not as punishment, not to be kept away from her former friends. Instead, it had been to learn something far more valuable.
How to teach.
And Phoebe instantly knew how far she had fallen in the world. She was not a pampered, loved daughter destined for a shining future. No. She was destined to be a governess.
Her eyes fell to the letter in her hand. Her knuckles went white she gripped it so tightly.
Her life, altered irrevocably. Because of one man’s carelessness.
“I know this is not easy,” Miss Earhart said, taking a quiet step forward. “You are one of the few young ladies to graduate from this school with the knowledge that life is rarely easy. Or fair.”
A hysterical sob escaped Phoebe’s lips. She stifled it ruthlessly.
“Your security . . . your future is up to you now. No one else will look after you. You must be strong. It is the only way through this.”
“Through this,” Phoebe repeated dully. “Does that mean there is a way out of this darkness?”
“Of a kind,” Miss Earhart said, hesitant. “It will get easier. With time. And one day you will realize that this new self you have become is not so bad. You may even find some happiness in it.”
“Happiness?” she replied. “In being alone? In being a governess?”
“Yes.” Miss Earhart gave a ghost of a smile. “If happiness is in one’s nature—as it is in yours.”
Phoebe could only scoff.
“Once upon a time, you were one of my happiest students. You took pleasure in little things and found joy where you could.” Miss Earhart laid a tentative hand on Phoebe’s shoulder. “You can let this break you, leaving you bitter and hateful. Or you can try to find some good in the world, and let that comfort you. Life will be hard either way, but I hope you find your happiness again.”
Phoebe looked at the hand on her shoulder, at the woman before her, who had somehow lost some of her pinched disapproval in the last few minutes. Now she wore her concern plain as day.
Then Phoebe’s eyes drifted to the letter in her hand. Addressed to an earl. The man who was the reason she was faced with a different letter now. A different future.
“Thank you, Miss Earhart,” she said, taking the letter with the address near Portsmouth. “But I cannot think there is any good left in the world.”
She turned to one of the houseboys behind Miss Earhart and handed him the earl’s letter, with one of her few pennies for his trouble. “Please see that this makes its way into the morning post.”
Then she picked up her small valise and marched past Miss Earhart.
She would go to this family in Portsmouth. It was the only option she had. But Phoebe knew that from now on, she would be alone. As Miss Earhart had said, her security and future were up to her now. No one else was looking after her.
After all, who gave a damn about the governess?
TO LORD EDWARD GRANVILLE,
EARL OF ASHBY
GROSVENOR SQUARE
LONDON
1817
Sir –
This will be a short letter. I have little time to write and not much to say. Other than “damn you.” Damn you for what you have done—directly or indirectly, you have caused the greatest possible pain, and it is you who should bear the blame for it.
My father, God rest his soul, has left this world. Although he quit this world miserably, and I fear God will not let his soul rest.
I read the letter you wrote to my father. What I found most telling in it was that, in your warning to stay away from Mr. Sharp, you gave information that implied he had rooked you too. That he had stolen from you, in the guise of investments gone bad, and diverting funds from your estates. But none of that made the papers. It was discreetly hushed up. Mr. Sharp was never taken away and made to pay for that crime. Doing so would have made you a laughingstock. Instead, he was let loose into the country, where he could use your name and association to take advantage of those of us who are not as connected as those in town. Who are not as clever.
You protected your precious reputation, and let my father pay the price for it.
I doubt you and I will ever have the chance to meet. My circumstances are changing swiftly now, and I must make my own way in the world. I want nothing from you. I simply wish for you to feel the horror of your carelessness. And I want you to know one simple truth:
If I ever have the opportunity to cause you pain, know it will happen. I will take the chance as God given and my right as my father’s daughter. But it will not be malicious.
It will be justice.
Miss P. Baker
Mrs. Beveridge’s School
Surrey