Chapter ONE
WHERE IT ALL BEGAN, SEVEN YEARS BEFORE …
Georgie stared up at the strange building while her stepfather’s latest dour housekeeper supervised the unloading of her things from the back of the hackney.
It didn’t look like a school.
A school would surely be more imposing than this neat white townhouse on the unfashionable outskirts of Mayfair. At least, unfashionable was what the driver had claimed it was when they had swapped conveyances from the Ipswich post an hour ago, although the area still looked very smart to her. Certainly smarter than she was used to, at any rate.
“Well, what are you waiting for, girl?” The housekeeper waved her forward. “Knock on the door and go in! I haven’t got all day.”
Georgie put her foot on the first step, then paused, anxious. “Are you sure we have the right address?” Only this cheerful four-story residence, with its shiny black railings, pristine lace curtains, and sparkling windows did not seem to be the sort of place her miserly stepfather would send her to. But then again, her being sent away to school in the first place had been grossly out of character for him too because the colonel did not believe in the education of girls, so this was all as bizarre as it was sudden. His housekeeper clearly agreed that something odd was afoot as she pulled the folded piece of paper from her reticule to check, then glanced up at the nearby street sign to be sure.
“Number three Half Moon Street is what it says here, so this is definitely it.” Even so, the older woman still searched for a plaque of some sort and frowned when she found nothing. “This is your home now.”
Was it?
The colonel had neglected to mention that when he had informed her she was going off to learn how to be a governess so that she could earn her own living one day. It wasn’t as if Georgie was his, after all, so she could hardly expect him to be responsible for her in perpetuity.
“Will I be going back to Ipswich to visit for Christmas, at least?” Not that she really had a connection with anyone, bar a few of the friendly servants in his latest house, thanks to the nomadic life they lived due to his always more important military career. Nor was there any love lost between her and the man her mother had been forced to marry after she had been left a penniless widow, but still … Having all her flimsy ties cut with the place that was currently “home” was beyond daunting.
“You’ll have to take that up with the colonel. My only instructions were to ensure that you got here in one piece.”
The coachman placed Georgie’s trunk on the pavement beside her with a sympathetic smile. “I’m sure it’ll all be all right, miss.” His wink did little to reassure her. “This is Mayfair after all, so how bad could it be?”
No sooner had he tipped his hat than the housekeeper had already turned back to the hackney, ready to climb inside.
A wave of panic hit her. “Aren’t you staying with me for a bit?” Georgie had loathed the housekeeper for the entire two months she had known her, but right now, she wanted to cling to something familiar for as long as she could before she was cast adrift into the unknown again. This time completely alone.
“I’ve got to get back.” There wasn’t an ounce of compassion on the woman’s pinched face. “I’ve got the colonel’s house to run, so I don’t have the time to mollycoddle you.” She curled her lip in disgust in the exact same manner as the colonel always did whenever he deigned to glance her way. “You’re not a child anymore, Miss Georgina. You turned sixteen today, it’s long past time you grew up.”
With that heartfelt happy birthday, the door slammed shut and the carriage lurched away.
Left by herself on an alien pavement, with not a single soul in the world who cared one jot about her, Georgie had the sudden urge to weep. In case she did, she sat on the tatty old trunk filled with all her hastily packed belongings and sucked in a calming breath.
She hadn’t had a soul who had cared in six years, so that was nothing new, and this was vibrant Mayfair, after all, and not a joyless army barracks, so how bad could it be?
For good measure, she clutched her mother’s locket as if her life depended upon it. Usually, despite having only fading memories of her mama, the dented gold pendant soothed her, but today, even that precious talisman wasn’t working. She was too scared. Too confused by where she was and what lay ahead to find any comfort. Three days ago, before he had unexpectedly shipped her off, all the colonel had barked was that he was finally getting shot of her, which hardly filled her with any hope that her miserable lot in life was about to improve—even if this was Mayfair.
A big, fat tear drizzled over her cheek, and she let it fall. It felt like a final act of rebellion as the colonel had never had time for tears. The only emotions he made time for were disdain, disappointment, disinterest, or his customary outright disgust whenever she dared to open her mouth. She had concluded long ago that, seeing as any word she uttered, no matter how innocuous, seemed to infuriate him, she might as well be hung for a sheep as a lamb, so she had made sure each word counted. Defiant pride and rebellion were the only weapons she had in her pathetic arsenal, so she had honed both to cause the maximum impact. She had assumed that was how things would be until she reached her majority and had lofty plans of making a rousing, vitriolic speech before she flounced out of his oppressive house on the day she turned one and twenty. However, had she known that her recent outspokenness and tendency to poke fun at his pomposity would have ended with her swift banishment, she might have curbed her tongue and her redhead’s temper.
Might have.
Even now, in enforced exile on this faraway pavement, she had to scoff at the preposterousness of that ludicrous thought. Curbing her tongue for that humorless, granite-hearted despot would have felt too much like surrender, and it would be a cold day in hell before she ever allowed that to happen. She didn’t only hate him for herself—but for the complete disregard he had treated her dear mama with too, so good riddance to him! Good riddance to his frigid, disagreeable character and his latest soulless household and all his stupid, pointless rules! If the colonel was glad to finally be shot of her, she was gladder to be shot of him. In fact, if she ever saw him again, it would be too soon!
She steeled her shoulders and swiped the second tear away before she remembered that she was crying to spite him, and then decided that she would howl like a baby right this second, simply because she could. And she would have, too, if the shiny blue front door to the supposed school hadn’t opened to reveal three beaming female faces, which were all about the same age as hers.
“You wouldn’t happen to be Georgina Rowe by any chance, would you?” A pretty blonde was the first to bound down the steps.
She nodded. “I am—but I prefer Georgie to Georgina.” Her stepfather had hated that nickname with a vengeance and had forbidden anyone to use it after her mama had passed, so it felt good to resurrect it. A fresh start for … whatever this was.
“I’m Lottie.” The blonde grabbed her hand and shook it firmly, as if they were two robust gentlemen rather than two young ladies. “Well, it’s Charlotte really, but Charlotte is much too formal and proper and I’m not quite ready to behave like a young lady yet.”
“By that, she means that she doesn’t know how to behave like a young lady because she has grown up in a house full of men and would still be wearing the beloved breeches she turned up in if Miss Prentice would let her get away with it.” A brunette stepped forward and held out her hand. It was covered in ink stains. “I’m Portia.” Her handshake was exactly like a young lady’s should be, but as she let go, she winced at the navy ink all over her fingers and shrugged. “I am in the midst of writing a treatise reiterating everything Mary Wollstonecraft argued in A Vindication of the Rights of Woman, as I find it staggering that over two decades have passed and still nobody has thought to reform Parliament.”
“She’s our resident bluestocking.” The other, slightly darker brunette pushed between her friends to shake Georgie’s hand too. “And I’m Kitty—the resident disaster.”
“Because she daydreams all of the time,” said Lottie with a roll of her eyes. “That is how she spotted you out here during our first deportment class. She was gazing out of the window rather than at the tutor. She seems to do that a lot. I’ve only known her two days and I swear she’s spent half of them wool-gathering.”
“Are you new too, then?” Somehow that made Georgie feel better.
“We all are.” Lottie gestured to the other two. “We four make up half of the new cohort of first-years.” She included Georgie in the next sweeping gesture, and that made her feel better still. Part of something when she hadn’t been anything but alone in forever. “We all arrived on Saturday, but Miss Prentice told us to leave a quarter of the wardrobe free for you, as you’d be coming later.”
“You drew the short straw, I’m afraid, as you have to share a room with us for the next few years—or most especially, me. I shall apologize in advance as I am bound to drive you all to distraction.” Kitty smiled and pointed to the windows on the third of the four stories. “That’s our room right there. It’s a bit of a tight squeeze with all the beds, but at least we get a good view of all the comings and goings of Mayfair and Piccadilly.” She jerked her thumb in the direction of that busy thoroughfare, which was within spitting distance, and pulled a joyfully scandalized face, unaware the thought of staying in the same room for the next few years sounded like absolute heaven to Georgie. Thanks to the colonel, she had been forced to uproot and move every few months since the age of five. “It all seems to go on in Piccadilly.”
“We should move you in before Miss Prentice returns.” Lottie threaded her arm through hers. “She was expecting you tonight and will be most upset that she wasn’t here to greet you personally—but she will be thrilled that you are here for afternoon tea. Afternoon tea is apparently sacrosanct here at this school and happens on the dot of three every day. Cook puts sultanas in the scones.” Her new friend sighed as if she could taste them. “Miss Prentice insists upon it, as she is of the humble opinion that a plain scone is too dry. Now that I’ve tasted one stuffed with sultanas, I concur.”
None of that sounded bad at all to Georgie. If anything, things definitely seemed to be looking up. She would have a permanent bed—apparently at least for the next few years—and seemed to have friends already. Three of them! All while being spared the depressing and oppressing sight of the colonel!
Kitty and Portia grabbed the handles of her trunk and led the way up the four neat steps to the house, leaving Georgie to follow, arm in arm with the lovely Lottie.
“Who is Miss Prentice?”
The three girls stopped on the threshold and blinked at her as if she had gone mad before Kitty answered, wafting her arms around the neat hallway. “Why, she is the proprietor and sole benefactor of this school. I’d have thought that you would have known that, seeing as she personally handpicked you to receive one of her coveted scholarships.”
That was more news to Georgie. “She … picked me?”
“Of course she did,” said Portia as she and Kitty dragged her trunk upstairs. “Miss Prentice’s protégés-in-training are always handpicked, that is what makes them so special, so you should feel very honored to be one of us.”
“That is Miss Prentice.” Lottie paused on the stair before a portrait of a kindly faced woman with a profusion of silver curls. “She was an exceptional governess in her day, then in later years, went on to be a lady’s companion and did such a good job of it that the old lady she worked for left her this house and all of her money. So obviously she set up a school to pass on her wisdom. By the time you leave here as a full-fledged protégé, Georgie, she’ll have equipped you with all the skills you need to earn your own decent living. Everyone who is anyone knows that a protégé of Miss Prentice can command twice the salary of any of the other governesses, ladies’ companions, or secretaries out there. Once we graduate, the world will be our oyster as we shall be the crème de la crème and highly sought after—just as she was. But that’s because we are taught the Four D’s and all those other girls won’t be in the know.” She winked and patted the side of her nose. “It is the secret of Miss Prentice’s unique success.”
Lottie smiled at Georgie’s baffled face and pulled herself upright to mimic the commanding air of what Georgie assumed was the mysterious Miss Prentice. “The Four D’s are the cornerstones of this school’s proud ethos and every girl who leaves here epitomizes them to her very core—duty”—she counted them off on her fingers—“decorum, diligence, and discretion at all times.” Her new friend giggled. “Although I have absolutely no idea why Miss Prentice handpicked me, as I currently possess none of those proper attributes.”
Neither did Georgie, who was now more confused than ever by this strange, but seemingly fortuitous, turn. “But how could she handpick me when I’ve never heard of her, let alone met her?”
Portia shrugged. “So far, that remains one of life’s great mysteries. I was stunned when my letter arrived out of the blue a few months ago. We all were, weren’t we, girls?”
As they all nodded, Kitty took up the tale.
“All we know is that Miss Prentice is selective about who she teaches. Scholarships to this school come via her exclusive invitation only, and absolutely all her protégés have two distinct things in common.” She held up her arm and pointed to it as if that held all the answers. “We all have blue blood lurking somewhere in our impoverished veins but possess none of the dowries or prospects or connections that usually go with it…”
Chapter TWO
MISS PRENTICE’S SCHOOL FOR YOUNG LADIES, MAY 1820 …
“I think it is time to face facts.” Miss Prentice glanced at the latest rejection letter lying on her desk with a pained expression. “Interviews are not your forte, Georgina.”
Unfortunately, that was a statement Georgie could not argue with. Eighteen months after graduating as a fully-fledged protégé, thirty-three interviews, and thirty-three similarly depressing rejections, it was looking increasingly likely that she would never secure a position as a governess anywhere decent. Or anywhere at all for that matter, as the current curt but cruel missive on her beloved mentor’s desk was testament. The Steadman family weren’t particularly good ton and didn’t even reside in London, but desperate times had called for desperate measures, so Miss P had put her forward for the job in the hope that they wouldn’t be too picky.
While that was humiliation enough, the uppity Lady Steadman hadn’t tried to be polite in her rejection either. Instead, she had stated plainly that she hadn’t given Georgie the job, not because there was a better candidate who had pipped her to the post, but because “regrettably, and despite her glowing references from the school, Miss Georgina Rowe had too much to say for herself and did not pass muster at all.” The at all had been underlined.
Twice.
“What on earth did you say to upset this family?” It was clear Miss P’s legendary patience was wearing thin.
“I am not entirely sure…” Which was a lie because Georgie had felt the palpable and frigid change in the wind the moment Lady Steadman had brought up the touchy subject of discipline early in the interview. “I very definitely did try to bite my tongue, exactly as you cautioned.”
Two wily blue eyes locked with hers. “You tried.”
“I most definitely did. I tried really hard to curb my regrettable and rash inbred tendency to speak my mind.” The eyes were relentless now, boring into her soul to get to the whole, unvarnished truth. “I genuinely tried my best this time.” Which she had—right up until the moment that she hadn’t and the real Georgie had spoken.
But the most galling thing was that she had been working hard on suppressing that rebellious aspect of her character because there really wasn’t a need for it now that the sanctimonious colonel and all his ludicrous rules were very much in her past. Georgie hadn’t seen hide nor hair of her stepfather since the day he had dispatched her to Miss Prentice’s, and she had no reason to rebel. Here, within these calming walls, were reason and affability. Voices were rarely raised because they did not need to be, and everyone treated everyone else with respect, no matter their age. Yet still, Georgie could not tolerate unfairness. She abhorred injustice, ignorant stupidity, and pointless rules. The slightest whiff of any of that and, as her friend Lottie was so fond of saying, she instantly turned into Joan of Arc. Fully armed and ready to march into battle.
“Tried implies that you tried—then failed.” When Miss P glared, it was too potent a weapon to ignore. Georgie instantly began to wither beneath it until she could stand it no more.
“All right … we had a minor disagreement about the phrase ‘spare the rod and spoil the child.’” An overused quote of the colonel’s, usually before he threw something at her, which never failed to raise her hackles.
“Not again.” Miss P’s palm slapped her forehead before she huffed out a sigh of resignation. “How many times must we have this same conversation, Georgina? How many times do I have to tell you that vocalizing your principles aloud and acting upon them quietly in the background are two entirely different things? When the simple truth is a family hire a governess to keep their offspring from being underfoot and frankly do not care what methods that governess employs to keep the little dears quiet while she does it.”
She could feel herself bristling again in zealous rebellion, because “children should be seen but never heard” was another one of the unimaginative colonel’s lecturing mantras and yet another old adage she fundamentally disagreed with. Children should be both seen and heard. Listened to. Engaged with. Their rampant curiosity about everything nurtured and encouraged. Fed with all the answers and then emboldened to ask all the questions, even those that had no answers yet. Because, if history had taught the world anything, it was that independent thought was something to be celebrated, not oppressed.
Copyright © 2024 by Susan Merritt
