Marguerite Kaye - From Governess To Countess

Wide awake by dawn, her head whirled as she recalled the sea of faces, the inquisitive looks and the myriad of seemingly innocuous yet patently barbed questions aimed at herself and Count Derevenko as they made the circuit of the Winter Palace’s ballroom. General Arakcheev—Allison shuddered, recalling the Vampire’s empty eyes—had been only the first of many to assume the intimate nature of their relationship. In England, as she knew only too well, society would have been scandalised—or at least they would have claimed to be. In St Petersburg, no one had batted an eyelid at the notion of Count Derevenko’s mistress playing governess to his wards.

And if society did not care, why should she? She was tired of railing against assumptions and prejudice. She realised she had gradually become—not ashamed, precisely, but she had come to wish her appearance otherwise, for it did not match what her patients expected of her. But she was sick and tired of that too!

Pushing back the sheets, Allison struggled down from the high bed and threw back the curtains. Outside, the sun was rising with her spirits. Inspired by The Procurer’s example, funded by the fee she would earn here, she would find a way to take charge of her own destiny, and she would not have to give any sort of damn about what St Petersburg, or London, or any other social elite thought of her. That was why she was here. That was why she would do everything in her power to succeed, whatever it was the Count required of her.

Curling up on the window seat, Allison rested her cheek against the thick glass. Her bedroom, on the third floor next to the children’s suite, looked due east. Through the gaps in the rooftops, she could see the glitter of the Neva River, where it flowed in an elegant curve before sweeping south through St Petersburg. The bedchamber was likely plain by the standards of the Derevenko Palace, yet it was opulent beyond her ken. The walls were covered in a dark-red paper embellished with gold. Her bed, a huge affair that required a step to climb into it, was dressed in velvet and brocade, the four posts gilded, the myriad mattresses and pillows designed to cocoon one in the cosiest, warmest embrace. Carpets of woven silk were soft underfoot. Her small collection of clothes was lost in the giant lacquered chest of drawers, her plain brushes looked like interlopers atop the matching dressing table.

Which was exactly what she was. An interloper. A stranger. A foreigner. Apparently the only person in this city that Count Derevenko could trust. Which begged the question, why couldn’t he trust anyone else? And why did he require his governess to be a herbalist? She’d assumed the children were poorly. Neither he nor The Procurer had either confirmed or denied this, yet what other reason could there be? Even before she met her charges, Allison was beginning to feel very sorry indeed for them. Poor little orphans, they must be feeling wholly abandoned. Something she could certainly empathise with.

Pulling on her robe, she quit her chamber and walked the distance along the corridor to the series of connected rooms allocated to the children. It was the custom, in some English aristocratic households, to confine the children to the basement or the attic, to furnish their rooms as spartanly as those belonging to the lowliest of servants. She’d tended to sick children shivering in bedchambers where the wind whistled through the bare floorboards, children living like moles in windowless rooms below stairs. Ideal preparation, she’d been informed time and again, for the character-building privations of the boarding school which almost every little boy attended, and an increasing number of girls too. The process of estrangement happened, in many cases, from birth, when babies were handed immediately to a wet nurse, and thence on to a nanny, a governess, a tutor.

Or in her case a grandmother, an arrangement which had turned out to be permanent. Her mother had not even deigned to turn up for Seanmhair’s funeral seven years ago. Or perhaps she had simply not dared. Seven years, during which Allison had worked tirelessly to establish herself. And now that life too was gone.

But now, she had been given the chance to make a new future for herself. Her charges might well have lacked parental affection but their material needs were abundantly satisfied. The children’s quarters were sumptuous, as richly decorated as the one she occupied. The playroom was an Aladdin’s Cave of toys. Wondering why the doll’s house looked familiar, Allison realised it was a miniature replica of the Derevenko Palace. The rocking horse which stood in the window had the look of an Arabian thoroughbred. A positive army of lead soldiers were lined up in one corner commanded, she noted with a wry smile, by an officer wearing Count Derevenko’s regimental colours. Next door to the playroom was a schoolroom complete with three desks and a large slate board, a cupboard full of text books, all in French and English. And next door to that, what must have been the nursery, but which now seemed to be the nanny’s room. There was no evidence of any sort of sick room.

Allison made her way back to her own chamber. She had thought herself accustomed to children, but really, she was only accustomed to children in distress, in the throes of illness. Fractious children, sobbing children, suffering children whose pain she relieved, whose maladies she remedied. Children who were grateful for her soothing presence, and whose parents too were grateful. But these three orphans were an entirely different proposition. Her presence would surely emphasise the absence of their mother and father. No matter how distant those parents had been, the children must be grieving. And then there was the governess who had also, mysteriously, deserted them.

There was no getting away from it, Allison must prepare herself to be perceived as an unwelcome intruder, and an inadequate one at that. Empathy did not make a teacher of her, and one thing she did know about children was that they were not easily fooled, seeing a great deal more than most adults realised. Her charges would likely sense she was a fraud.

Oh, for heaven’s sake! She was overthinking the situation. Honestly, Allison chastised herself, how hard could it be, really? Her life had been dedicated to caring for sufferers. Sympathy and understanding were as much a part of her armoury as her precious herb chest. What’s more, she had been selected, interviewed and judged capable. She had passed muster last night, she knew that, for if she had failed, she would have been ushered out of that hot, glittering ballroom tout de suite. The Count was not a man to tolerate failure. He hadn’t exactly relaxed by the end of the evening, in fact he’d been watching her like a hawk, but several times, when she had found the confidence to riposte some of the sly remarks, he had pressed her hand in approval or given her the most fleeting of nods.

Everyone to whom he introduced her had been informed that she was the new English governess. Everyone assumed she was also her employer’s mistress. ‘You are the envy of every unmarried lady in St Petersburg, Miss Galbraith,’ one of the courtiers had confided sotto voce. ‘As next in line to the dukedom, Aleksei is now one of the most eligible bachelors in the city. How unfair of you to force us to wait until he is done with you. You will understand why I hope that your liaison is short-lived. Though I cannot blame you for wanting to keep him to yourself. There is something about an officer in uniform, is there not? It makes one almost indifferent to the possibility that a ducal coronet may follow. Almost.’

That the Count was sought after did not surprise Allison. That she herself was drawn to him however, surprised her very much. That the attraction was mutual—now that was the biggest surprise of all.