A Refuge for the Runaway Governess (Preview)

Chapter One

Sophia’s world was muffled by black crepe. 

The house itself echoed with loss, the mourning gown weighing heavily on her shoulders as she made her way through it. There came the strangest sensation that if she moved too quickly, if she spoke too loudly, or even breathed with any great strength, it would be a mark of disrespect to the father she had lost. The late Viscount Longsbury was being laid to rest only a short distance away, the Kent sky gray and heavy as the funeral drew near completion. Winter had long held a grip upon their world, and now, with the chill in the air and the gray holding fast to the sky and the sun, it felt fitting for such a distressing time. Walking into the drawing room, Sophia closed the door quietly behind her and, making her way to the window, wished silently that she could have been in attendance. Yes, the customary exclusion of women from the funeral was to be expected, but to have her grief quietly held within her rather than shared was a burden she had not anticipated carrying alone. With a sigh, she swept back her veil, allowing her to see clearly rather than through a dark shroud. Catching her reflection in the glass, she took in the golden curls her father had so often exclaimed over, her green eyes glistening with tears as she recalled how he had told her so often that her beauty of both face and character was surpassed by no one aside from her mother. His pride in her, in his family, had bolstered her continually. 

Whatever shall I do without him?

The sound of the door opening and closing again had Sophia turning, her expression softening at the sight of her mother. “Mama, I thought you were resting.”

“I was.” Lady Longsbury came slowly toward Sophia, her steps slowed by loss and sorrow. Her eyes were shadowed, her lips stretched thin. “They will return from the funeral soon. We must be ready.”

Sophia reached out and grasped her mother’s hand tightly, concerned at how cold she was. Together, mother and daughter stood as one, looking out the window and waiting for the procession of carriages to return. 

“It is absurd, I know,” Sophia whispered, as tears clogged her throat, “but I half expect to see my dear papa returning, to see the carriage emerging from between the yew trees as he waves to us from the window.”

Her mother let out a quiet, sorrowful laugh, tears beginning to spill from her eyes. “He always did lean out from the window, did he not?” she asked, as Sophia nodded, her throat closing up. “How great a pain we must now endure.” Her voice cracked. “And what struggles are still to come upon us?”

Sophia frowned but did not ask her mother what she meant. No doubt it would be the struggle of continuing in this life without the patriarch of their family, the one who had guided them all with both warmth and gentleness. To have lost him to an accident – not to war, to illness, nor simply the passage of time but to a moment’s misfortune – had left Sophia reeling with the shock of it. There had been no time to prepare, no slow fade, no final words spoken at a bedside. One moment, he had been present. Next, he was gone.

Glancing toward her mother, Sophia slipped one arm through hers in an attempt to support her. Lady Longsbury had gone very still, rigid and upright as though carved from grief. Her face was pale but composed, her eyes heavy with grief but free from tears. 

“Your uncle, upon his return, will desire to speak to us both, I am sure.”

The hint of warning in her mother’s voice gave Sophia pause. “I am sure that my uncle will act diligently and considerately, Mama.” After all, he was to be the new Viscount Longsbury, given that Sophia’s father had not been blessed with a son. “He has appeared to be most understanding and kind thus far.”

Lady Longsbury pressed her lips tightly together, blinking rapidly. “Your uncle is the new Viscount Longsbury,” she said, hoarsely. “He will do as he pleases and we – just as we had no choice but to remain at home while my husband was being buried – will have no opportunity to speak a word against whatever he decides.”

Sophia’s frown returned. “We are in mourning, Mama,” she said, as her mother closed her eyes, swaying just a little. “I am sure our uncle will respect that.”

There came no response, and an unwelcome unease crept into Sophia’s frame. Turning her attention back to the scene before her, she looked out across the gardens, waiting for the carriages to return, to tell them all that the funeral was at an end. The sky was the color of pewter, low clouds threatening to press themselves lower to the earth. It was as if the world around her was in mourning, as if it too held the same grief within itself, trying to find a way to soften its sharp edges. 

“There, now.”

Sophia blinked back tears as her mother’s quiet words held a finality that tore at her heart.

“The carriages return. My darling Longsbury is gone.”

Closing her eyes so that no further tears would drip to her cheeks, Sophia took in a steadying breath that gave her no offer of strength. In moments like these, she fought to understand how she could continue, how she could move through her world when her dearest father was absent from it.

“We must prepare for the guests to arrive,” she heard her mother say, the words seeming to come from a great distance. “Sophia, do you need a few moments to gather yourself?”

Sophia nodded, looking at her mother with eyes that stung with sorrow. “Might I step out briefly? I do not want to leave you here alone, but –”

Her mother stepped back, gesturing to the door. “Take as long as you require my dear girl,” she said, her composure remaining steady. “Your uncle and I will care for our guests until you return. Remember to put your veil over your face as you leave in case you come upon one of the guests returning.”

With a nod, Sophia hurried to the door, stepping out into the hallway. She did not know where to go, wondering if she ought to make her way to her own rooms so she could be entirely alone – but she feared that if she set foot into her bedchamber, she would never step out from it again.

The library?

“Miss Friarton?”

Sophia, startled by an unexpected greeting, turned sharply and nearly collided with the gentleman behind her. Evidently, she had not been hasty enough in her steps. The mourners had already begun to make their way into the house.

“My apologies,” the gentleman said, stepping back at once and lifting his hands as if he feared being too close to her. “I did not mean to surprise you.” Tall, broad-shouldered, and dressed in somber refinement, the gentleman bowed to her, his auburn hair threaded with silver at the temples. Sophia looked back at him, bobbing a quick curtsy, aware that the shadows in the hallway were beginning to cloak her in their darkness. Soon, despite the hour, it would be time to light the candles. 

“Your Grace.” Sinking into a curtsy, as would be expected, she did her best to remember the duke’s full title. A duke he was, but his full title she could not remember, having only been introduced to the gentleman before the guests had departed for the funeral. “You have returned.”

“Indeed.” He cleared his throat. “I wish to offer my condolences to both you and your mother. I am not certain I will have the opportunity to speak with her, given the number of mourners present, so please do state that the Duke of Rackheath wishes to express his deepest sympathies over the loss of the viscount.”

Her shoulders dropped. “I thank you.” She stood there, unable to give him any other response, unable to say anything more than that. What could one say when words of regret and sympathy were given? Could one be truthful and say that while they were appreciated, they did nothing to soften the dull ache that had taken over her heart?

“It was an honor to know your father,” the duke continued, his tone low but his gaze steady and assessing. “I am sure you will miss his presence a great deal.”

The simple sincerity of the statement struck her harder than any flowery speech might have done, sending tears spiraling back into her eyes. “Yes,” she whispered, unable to garner any strength as her throat tightened painfully. “I shall.” Looking up at him, she took in another breath, trying to steady herself. “More than I can express.”

The duke nodded. “If ever you require anything, then you only ever need to send word. Your mother’s comfort and security is of the highest importance – as I am sure your uncle knows.” He cleared his throat and looked away. “This will be a very painful time for you all.”

Sophia did not know why, but as he spoke, something inside her broke, shattering into tiny pieces. Perhaps it was the sweet kindness of his words or the weight of the day finally pressing too heavily upon her. Whatever the cause, tears welled in her eyes, blurring her vision as she reached to pull out her kerchief. “That is very kind of you, Your Grace,” she whispered, her voice trembling despite her efforts to control it. A tear escaped, sliding down her cheek, and she sniffed, her grief beginning to press into her once more. She had to half lift her veil to wipe her tears, praying that he would not think her improper for doing so.

The duke stiffened visibly as she set her hand down, the veil falling back into place. “I think it best that you compose yourself, Miss Friarton. Such displays of emotion are not expected, even at this juncture.”

Stunned, Sophia’s breath caught painfully in her chest as another tear followed the first, though she did nothing to wipe it away. The kindness of the duke evaporated in an instant, replaced instead with a hardness that grated on her. “I beg your pardon?”

The duke’s jaw tightened, his blue eyes darkening. “One must maintain decorum. Even now.”

It was as if he had reached his hand back and had struck her, hard. The familiar but unwelcome strictures of society rose up before her, cold and unyielding while fire blazed in her chest. Her father was dead, buried in the cold ground while she and her mother wept – and now this gentleman, one she did not know and now wished not to know, told her she ought not to weep?

“It is not your place to insist upon my decorum such as you might expect, Your Grace,” she managed to say, her voice shaking with suppressed anger. “My father has just been laid to rest. If I am not permitted to grieve now, when, pray tell, would you find it acceptable for me to do so?”

The duke’s eyes flashed, then narrowed. His jaw worked, but Sophia held his gaze, her tears fading in the light of her upset. Finally, the duke turned on his heel, striding away from her as voices began to drift up toward them from the front of the house. “Forgive me,” he said, throwing the words over his shoulder. “Perhaps I ought not to have even thought to speak with you.”

Sophia could do nothing other than stare after him, disbelief warring with indignation. How dare he speak to her in such a way? How dare he think that, in the midst of her grief and loss, he could inform her that she was lacking composure? The coldness of his words and the ice in his eyes made her shudder, making her fully determined not to speak another word to him for the rest of the day.

The guests are coming. 

Sophia, closing her eyes, took another moment to push the anger from her veins, telling herself that it would be best to return to her mother. Yes, the duke might well be present, but she could make it quite clear to him that she did not desire even one further word of conversation. Turning slowly, she began to walk back toward the drawing room, determined now to support her mother and, if required, protect her from the Duke of Rackheath’s presence. She could not imagine him speaking to her mother in the very same way but, then again, he had been bold enough to tell her what she ought to feel and express, so mayhap he would do the very same to Lady Longsbury.

“Sophia?”

Looking over her shoulder, Sophia stopped short as her uncle came toward her. “Uncle,” she said, taking his outstretched hand for a moment. “The funeral is at an end, then?”

“It is.” He gripped her hand. “Where is your mother?”

Sophia tilted her head. “She is in the drawing room.”

“Then the guests can go to her,” he said, his eyes sharpening as they studied her. “Come with me for a moment, Sophia. It is best that we have this conversation in private.”

Sophia’s brows furrowed. “Conversation?” she repeated, as her uncle took her arm, leading her toward the parlor. “What must be discussed so urgently, Uncle?”

He did not answer her until the door was closed behind them both, shutting out the world outside. Candles were already lit, casting long shadows along the walls that seemed to grow heavier with every passing moment. Sophia swallowed a tension that began to knot in her throat, taking in her uncle’s green eyes that shifted from one point in the room to the next, as if he were thinking about what he was to say. His features were similar to her late father’s, but his face was more angular, his gaze a good deal less warm. Her heart beat quickly, her stomach lurching when his eyes finally settled on hers. 

“When I was standing at the graveside, the solemnity of the situation settled upon my shoulders in a new way,” he began, his voice low. “I have duties and responsibilities that were not known to me before. Therefore, I think it best that, very soon, we discuss your future.”

Sophia’s eyes flared, and she swept the veil back from her face. “My future?”

“Indeed.” His gaze was unyielding. “You shall have to wed.”

“Marriage?” she said, faintly, feeling as if the world were tilting one way and then the next, leaving her unsteady. “Uncle, we are only just beginning our mourning period. It would not be suitable – ”

“We cannot wait, I am afraid. I understand what society expects, but you are already nearing spinsterhood, and thus, we cannot delay. It is a necessity. You require stability and a sure future.”

“Uncle.” Trying to keep her voice calm despite the rising panic in her chest, she gave him a tight smile. “I cannot even begin to think of such things. My father’s loss has been a shock, and my heart is already struggling under the weight of emotion.”

“You do not have the luxury of time,” he snapped. “Your heart is of very little concern, either, since I will be the one selecting a suitable gentleman for you.”

Her breathing grew shallow. “You would not permit me my own choice?” It was a promise her father had always made her, for he had always reassured her that she would never be forced into any match that she did not desire. “Papa always said – ”

“Your father is no longer the viscount,” he interrupted, coldly. “You will have to understand that your father and I were two very different gentlemen, with very different intentions and expectations. You cannot expect me to uphold your father’s promises, Sophia. You will marry – and soon. I will select the gentleman without delay.”

Weakness stole away any response from her lips as she sank down into a chair, her fingers curling into the fabric of her black mourning gown. Her uncle quit the room without a word, leaving her in silence and with the weight of his demands pushing down upon her. Grief, shock, and sorrow tangled within her heart as she closed her eyes against the rush of tears. 

Her father was gone and, with him, it seemed, so was her freedom.

Chapter Two

Dominic let out a slow breath as the carriage wheels crunched over the gravel, making its way up toward his manor house. The sound was sharp against the evening quiet, his estate grounds seeming to roll out in welcome as familiarity loosened a lingering tightness in his chest. Norfolk’s wind-brushed fields greeted him, stretching out beneath a pink and purple sky as the last lights of day clung to the horizon. It was not yet particularly late, but the sun set early in the evening, permitting him the opportunity to watch the beauty of the winter evening. Two solid lines of oak trees drew near, bringing him closer to his house, to his refuge, to his home.

I cannot abide funerals.

Leaning back against the squabs, he closed his eyes and sighed, aware of the raw ache in his heart. It had been a requirement to attend Lord Longsbury’s funeral, given that they had dealt in business together, but had he been able to draw up even a flimsy excuse for his absence, he would have given it. 

Memories that he had spent hours trying to push out of his mind began to creep in once more, their fingers pressing hard against the edges of his mind. The weariness of his present journey made it nearly impossible to muster the strength to fight as whispers of that torturous day, now some years past, returned to him. His wife’s funeral had few mourners, for he had kept it as quiet and as small as he could. He could still see the way light had fallen through the stained glass of the church window, scattering fractured colors across her casket as if God himself were reaching out to take her from him. He could remember how his eyes had stung, how the jagged sharpness of his breath had almost broken him. 

He had not shown even a hint of his own agony, had managed to maintain his composure in front of every mourner. Once he had returned home, however, once he had been alone in his own rooms, he had quietly shattered, feeling as if the empty hollow in his chest would never again be filled.

“Your Grace?”

Dominic’s eyes snapped open, seeing not only that the carriage had stopped but that the door had opened, his tiger now waiting for him to climb out. With a nod, he stepped out, pausing to take in a deep breath of cold, clean evening air. The door of the house was already open to him, and he strode up the stone steps toward it, more than ready to return to his house and normality. The house was warm and welcoming, with lamps glowing softly along the hallway as the familiar scent of beeswax polish and wood smoke assailed him. For a moment, he simply stood there, listening to the muted sounds of the estate settling for the night and letting his lips curve at the peace he found here.

It was not to last.

“Your Grace.”

He turned, seeing the governess hurrying down the staircase toward him, her expression tight and her lips thin. “Miss Hargreaves, good evening.”

“Good evening.” She paused only to bob a quick curtsy, then came toward him, drawing herself up and lifting her chin. “I am sorry to speak to you so urgently, especially when you have only just returned home, but I am afraid that I must give you my notice.” Her shoulders lifted a fraction as if she were preparing for his rebuttal. “I will now be leaving your employ.”

Dominic closed his eyes briefly, frustration rising in an instant. This was not the first governess who had given her notice within a short period. “Might I ask your reasons?”

“I have found employment elsewhere.” Her words were clipped. “In addition, I am afraid that Master Tristan is uncontrollable, to the point that I have no further resources at my disposal.” A faint pink began to rise in her cheeks, her eyes flashing. “This very day, he locked me in the schoolroom cupboard and would not release me. It was only thanks to one of your maids that I was given freedom, by which time, your son was halfway across the estate on his horse.”

Wincing, Dominic looked across the room, his frustration still present but centered solely upon his son.

“If I may speak frankly, Your Grace, your son is willfully disobedient and destructive. No incentives nor punishments have altered his behavior; he is quite determined to do just as he pleases. The laughter that came from him when I realized I was locked in the cupboard was both cutting and humiliating. I do not wish to have to endure such a thing again.”

“Which I quite understand.” 

The governess closed her eyes, her voice quietening. “I cannot teach a child who refuses to be taught,” she said, as Dominic’s stomach twisted. “Nor will I tolerate being treated with such disrespect.”

Dominic could only nod; the silence between them was both thick and uncomfortable. He knew that his son had become somewhat difficult these last few years. The absence of his mother’s presence in the house was, no doubt, a reason for his behavior at present, but it was not an excuse.

He set his shoulders. “After all you have told me and all you have endured, I have no right to ask you to reconsider, but I shall do it all the same,” he said, at last. “You are the twelfth governess we have had in a very short time, and I can only imagine that my son does not fare well with all these changes. I will speak to him and insist on a change of behavior. He requires stability.”

Even as he was speaking, the governess was shaking her head. “I am afraid I cannot stay under these conditions, Your Grace. I believe you are correct, your son does require stability but also a firmer hand when it comes to discipline and, mayhap, some further attention to his interests and needs. I cannot offer him all that he requires, Your Grace, and you are rarely present to give of your time and your presence to him.”

The words were spoken without malice, but they cut all the same, making Dominic hang his head.

“I do wish you well, Your Grace, and pray that Master Tristan improves.” Inclining her head, she stepped toward the door. “I will be gone from this house at the first light of dawn.” With that, she turned and left, her footsteps echoing down the corridor like a final judgment. Dominic closed his eyes and raked one hand through his hair, his shoulders rounding as he searched desperately for the peace that he had grasped only briefly upon his return but was now determined to stay back from him. 

I return from the weight of the funeral to the weight of my son’s behavior, he thought, his limbs feeling heavy and wooden as he climbed the staircase toward his rooms. And to the business of the mines.

That thought made him scowl, a darkness returning to his mind with dreadful swiftness. Longsbury’s funeral had been difficult enough, but in addition to the grief and the loss was the heavy awareness that all his own hopes had shattered. The mines were some distance from Dominic’s estate, but they had been the source of his family’s good fortune for decades. Now, however, with floods and cave-ins increasing in regularity, the mines had been bleeding money for months, devouring resources and offering very little in return. Longsbury had been interested in buying them, believing that he could turn them prosperous again, and Dominic had been delighted at the prospect of handing over what was a slow, humiliating decline of his wealth and good standing. After the loss of his wife, he did not have the heart or the clear thoughts to do what was required when it came to the mines. This had been his opportunity to be free of them. 

Now Longsbury was dead, and with him, perhaps, Dominic’s final opportunity to save what generations of his family had built. He knew no one else who would be interested in purchasing the mines to improve them. Longsbury had been alone in that.

The knowledge sat like lead in his stomach as he closed the door to his rooms and made his way to his bed, sitting down upon it and putting his head in his hands. He had shamed himself at the funeral, having been looking down at the casket and thinking only of money, debts, and diminishing options. The guilt of that compounded his discomfort as he raised his head and let out a hiss of breath, thinking of just how indecent it had been to think of money in the presence of death.

“Then again,” he muttered aloud, just as a rap came to his door, “death has a way of making life feel painfully urgent in so many ways.” Rising to his feet, he called for his servant to open the door, offering a small smile to his valet. “Foyle. It is good to see you.”

Mr. Bernard Foyle, the son of Dominic’s steward, came into the room and closed the door behind him. He and Dominic had grown up as boys together and even now, when Foyle served as Dominic’s valet, there was nothing but friendship, solid and stalwart, between them. 

“The last few days must have been very difficult for you,” he began, helping Dominic to shrug out of his coat. “Are you glad to have returned home?”

Dominic sighed and shook his head. “In many ways, I am. The funeral was difficult indeed, but I return now to a home where my son has frightened away another governess, and the matter of the mines sits heavily upon my thoughts.”

“Yes, I did hear from the maids that Miss Hargreaves was intending to take her leave. I believe she has found another position in London.”

“She leaves tomorrow,” Dominic muttered as Foyle went to hang up his coat. “I do not know what I am to do.”

His friend looked at him. “You can only advertise, I suppose. The maids will take on Tristan’s care in the meantime, though they will not be able to give him much in the way of teaching.”

Dominic ran one hand over his chin. “That is all I can do.”

“You may wish to make your next advertisement a little more stringent,” his friend suggested, as Dominic handed him his waistcoat, more than ready to feel a little more comfortable rather than be buttoned and braced as he had been. “Might you say that you require a governess with an indomitable spirit, steady and courageous?”

Dominic chuckled despite his chagrin. “It would make Tristan sound as if he were some tyrant.”

His friend’s only answer was to arch an eyebrow, making Dominic laugh. 

“Very well, very well, I take your advice upon myself and shall do as you suggest,” Dominic said, with a slight bow toward his friend. His smile faded as he sat down in the chair next to the fireplace, grateful for the warmth. “Tristan should have always had a mother with him, alongside his father and his governess. I fear it is the loss of her presence that affects him so.”

“It may well be,” Foyle replied quietly, going to pour Dominic a glass of brandy from the decanter he kept in the corner of the room for nights when his thoughts became too heavy to bear. “Yet there must be something more that can be done for him, to encourage goodness in his character rather than ill-tempered nonsense.” He held out the glass toward Dominic, then pulled it back just as he reached for it, making Dominic frown. “Your son was still wide awake when I last walked past his door,” he said, the suggestion clear. With a nod and not even a single second of hesitation, Dominic pushed himself up out of his chair and strode to the door. If his son was awake, then his brandy could wait. 

Hurrying along the hallway, Dominic carefully pushed open the door to Tristan’s bedchamber, waiting to see if his son was still awake or, as he knew he ought to be, resting in slumber. Tristan was sitting up in bed, a book propped against his knees with two candles on the table beside his bed. When Dominic stepped in, Tristan looked up, only for his expression to light in an instant, his eyes bright with happiness. Throwing out his arms, he cast the book aside. “Papa!”

Dominic’s heart squeezed. Crossing the room in a few strides, he embraced Tristan tightly, breathing him in. His heart steadied, and his lips curved into a soft smile as his son’s arms tightened around his neck. 

“I missed you, Papa,” Tristan said, as Dominic released him and then perched on the edge of the bed. “You were gone for four days.”

“But I am returned now,” Dominic said, putting one hand on his son’s shoulder. “Tell me, what are you reading?” 

Tristan eagerly launched into an explanation, animated and bright, nothing like the terror described by his governess. Dominic shifted his seat so that he was next to his son, and immediately, Tristan rested his head on his shoulder, still pointing out more about the book he had been reading. Dominic brushed a hand through his son’s hair, his throat thick with emotion, missing his wife and missing the days when they had been a family wrapped with happiness and expectation.

Now, he was alone with his son, who was, by all accounts, causing all manner of trouble, and Dominic was at a loss about what to do. Why could he not be as he was now? Seeing Tristan at this moment, it was almost impossible for him to imagine him locking Miss Hargreaves in the school cupboard. 

He misses her, said a quiet voice in his mind, as he put a kiss to Tristan’s temple. Just as you do.

He rose from the bed, seeing the disappointment rush into Tristan’s expression. “It is time for you to go to sleep, Tristan,” he said, ignoring the stab of pain that lanced his heart. Yes, he could stay, yes, he could linger by his son’s side and be with him for some time longer, but whenever he looked into Tristan’s face, he saw echoes of his late wife and felt the space between them where she ought to have been. It was too great an agony to endure for long. 

“You will come and speak to me tomorrow, Papa?”

He nodded without speaking, walking to the door and casting one final look toward his son, who gave him a tiny smile.

“I will improve,” he murmured, half to himself and half to Tristan. “I will. Good night, Tristan.”

Closing the door gently behind him, Dominic leaned back against it and shut his eyes, his murmured promise echoing in the darkness around him.