Supervising Sally

James

Chapter One

Phoebe Kingston looked across the bed at her sister with a mixture of amusement and irritation. It was just like Jane to arrive and start issuing orders. She had always been like that, but since her marriage had become even more autocratic.

Jane Bradshaw was tall and had been stately as a girl. Now, approaching her thirty-fourth birthday, she had grown stout and regal. She favoured highly embellished gowns in dark colours, puce, pewter and chocolate being her favourites. The stoutness could be ascribed to her presenting her husband with six pledges of her affection within little more than twelve years, but Phoebe thought it might also have something to do with the large meals her husband Reginald, a Yorkshire mill owner, demanded.

Phoebe herself was tall, but slender. The sisters both had dark hair which refused to curl. How their fair-haired, diminutive, delicate mother and red-haired father had produced two such tall dark daughters was a mystery. Both, they were told, took after Doctor Kingston’s father.

Mrs Kingston, lying in the bed, was so tiny she barely raised the blankets. She spoke now, in a hoarse whisper. ‘I knew you would help us, Jane.’

‘Well, of course. Reginald and I always meant to help you, after Papa died, but you wanted to be independent. I would have come earlier but for my lying-in. I came as soon as I could safely leave little Hubert with his wet-nurse. Reginald’s sisters are quite capable of dealing with the servants, though they are not as strict as I am. However, as soon as you are well enough for the journey, I will take you to Yorkshire. We have an excellent doctor and I will hire a competent nurse.’

Phoebe pressed her lips together tightly. She would not rise to Jane’s provocation. Did she think they had no good doctors here in Buxton? And as for a nurse, none could have cared for her mother with the same devotion she had used during the past two months.

Mrs Kingston had contracted a chill in September, which had turned to an inflammation of the lungs, and was only just recovering. Doctor Watkins had praised Phoebe for her dedication, and said that without her Mrs Kingston would not be alive today. The medicines she had needed, and the invalid food, had eaten into their tiny income, however, and it had been to save her mother fretting about how they would manage that Phoebe had written to Jane to ask if she would invite Mrs Kingston to stay with her for a few months.

She had not, however, anticipated Jane’s response that they must both come and make their home with the Bradshaws.

‘You are living here in two rooms, since you had to give up Papa’s house. How can you entertain your friends properly in such inferior lodgings? And look at your clothes, they are not at all fashionable.’

Since Jane’s clothes were anything but fashionable, according to what Phoebe had seen in even last year’s copies of La Belle Assemblée, given them by a friend, she ignored this slur. Jane automatically disapproved of everything Phoebe did, ignoring their straitened circumstances.

‘All our friends are here in Buxton,’ she protested. ‘We could never entertain them at your home. The rooms may be small, but we are content.’

‘You will soon make new acquaintances. We have a wide circle amongst the Yorkshire gentry and mill owners, and we entertain regularly, for Reginald’s commercial interests, you know. As for being content, how can you be without some of the refinements of life? You cannot even afford to pay for the subscription library, or attend the theatre or concerts.’

‘We could before Mama was ill, and needed so many medicines.’

Jane snorted. There really was no other word to describe it, Phoebe thought, suppressing her sudden desire to laugh. She was eleven years older and had dominated the nursery and schoolroom. When she married, ten-year-old Phoebe had celebrated by making a bonfire of every possession Jane had left behind her. Clothes, books, sketch books and painting materials had all been heaped on the smouldering embers of the gardener’s bonfire, and it had been stirred to glorious life. Phoebe had been discovered capering round it, chanting what she fondly imagined were magic incantations against Jane’s ever returning, and tossing the leaves of Jane’s diaries onto the flames.

Her punishment had been severe. Papa had never previously thrashed her, and the most she had ever been confined to her room on bread and water had been a day. The week of solitary confinement during which she had nursed her bruises had, she defiantly maintained, been worth every minute.

Jane, when told of the wickedness, had claimed to forgive her, but in the thirteen years since had rarely let any meeting pass without some reference to it. If she had not teasingly thanked Phoebe for destroying her diary’s youthful indiscretions, it had been a laughing reminder that Reginald had been forced to buy new clothes for her on their return from their wedding journey.

‘When will Mama be fit to travel?’ Jane now asked Phoebe when they left their mother to sleep and retreated to the drawing room. ‘I do not wish to leave Reginald and the children for long. And it would be better if you could be settled before the Christmas festivities.’

‘Doctor Watkins says she must not travel for at least another two weeks.’

‘I cannot remain here for so long a time. If the weather is clement I will send the carriage for you in two weeks, with a maid I can trust to help you if I have not by then hired a nurse. Fortunately it is only forty or so miles, and if you start early you can do it in a day, while taking it easy for Mama’s sake. But my coachman can be trusted to take good care of you.’

‘Thank you, we are grateful,’ Phoebe said. She had to be. There was no alternative, and if her mother wished to remain in Yorkshire it would certainly ease their dire financial situation. Until her illness they had, with care, managed on the tiny income her father had left them. Perhaps her mother would not find it as irksome as she would to be forever grateful to Jane and Reginald, and expressing this gratitude in suitable terms every day.

‘It is my duty,’ Jane said. ‘As for you, Phoebe, you can help me by teaching the children. Their governess has given notice, the ungrateful wretch. Just because I asked her to teach Mary, when she said she had only been hired to teach Reggie and Anne. As though a three-year-old made any difference! And the older boys are at school during term time, but she objects to looking after them during the holidays.’

Phoebe gulped. She had always hated the idea of being a governess, but to be such to Jane’s children, spoilt brats as they were, would be intolerable. ‘What salary are you offering?’ she asked.

‘Salary? Don’t be ridiculous. How can I pay a salary to my own sister? When I offer you and Mama a home the least you can do to repay me is help with the children.’

* * * *

Relishing her Lady Bountiful role, Jane sent Phoebe shopping the following day, instructing her to purchase the items on the list she had written, and nothing else.

‘The money should be sufficient, if you are careful not to be cheated. Keep a record of what you spend on each item.’

Phoebe seethed with annoyance. As if she had not been doing the marketing for the past four years, since her father had died so unexpectedly after a fall from a horse. If anyone knew how to stretch the pennies she did. Donning her old pelisse, which Jane had sneered at, and her much-darned gloves, she managed to leave the house without replying. An argument would upset her mother, who had been allowed to get up and sit beside the fire in the drawing room.

Could she endure to live with Jane? After only one day she was feeling hurt, angry and resentful of her sister. She had no desire to teach young children, and from what she knew of Jane’s brood, they were sly, whining creatures. She was not surprised their governess had left.

What alternative did she have? Becoming a governess in some other household would be preferable, and at least she would be paid for her efforts. Or she might become a companion to an elderly lady. There were plenty of these living in Buxton, or who visited to drink the waters since the last Duke of Devonshire had attempted to rival Bath with his new buildings. Perhaps she should visit one of the Registries and enquire about openings. She knew she was temperamentally unfit for either position, but she could, she decided rather bleakly, curb her natural high spirits and behave with decorum. That was something she could not do in Jane’s household. Her sister managed to annoy her with almost every word.

Mama would be hurt, and would not understand. Since Papa’s death she had clung to Phoebe, and become withdrawn. She still met her oldest friends occasionally, but she was no longer lively, keenly appreciating the ridiculous, laughing with Phoebe at the exaggerated dress some of the dandies wore.

Phoebe sighed. Would it be better to find herself a position now, rather than come to blows with Jane, something she knew would be inevitable if they lived together, and leave then? At least if she left now, they could remain on good terms, she hoped. Jane would be offended initially that Phoebe had rejected her children, but that would soon pass.

She was deep in these thoughts when a lady passing by touched her arm. She was in her thirties, a small, slightly plump woman with short curly brown hair and sparkling hazel eyes. Elegantly dressed in a dark blue fur-trimmed pelisse, close-fitting dark blue hat, and carrying a sable muff, she looked warm and comfortable, unaffected by the sharp wind which was blowing Phoebe’s thin pelisse around.

‘Phoebe, my dear.’

‘Lady Beatrice! I didn’t know you were in Buxton.’

Lady Beatrice Drayton was an old friend of her mother’s who lived near Jane in Yorkshire. Her husband was elderly and had rarely left his home in the past few years.

‘We arrived at the Old Hall two days ago. Lord Drayton needs to consult Doctor Watkins, and I need some new gowns, since we are having a large house party for Christmas, and my wardrobe is sadly out of date. I intended to call on your mother, but I heard she was ill. Not serious, I trust?’

‘She is recovering. She was very ill for some weeks, but Doctor Watkins has been very good.’

Lady Beatrice nodded. ‘He is one of the best doctors here, but nothing like your dear father. He was the only one who could cure Lord Drayton when he had that persistent ulcer. Is your mother well enough to receive visitors?’

‘I’m sure she would love to see you, Lady Beatrice. You were such a good friend when Papa died, helping us to find accommodation. But we will be going to Yorkshire in two weeks, if Mama is well enough to travel.’

‘Yorkshire?’ Lady Beatrice looked concerned. ‘It’s not a good time of year to travel over the Peak if your mother is at all frail.’

‘I know, but Mama wants to go, and Jane will send her carriage. We will be quite comfortable.’

‘So you are going to stay with Jane for a while. I heard she had another son. This is the fourth, is it not?’

‘It is. Reginald will have plenty of heirs for his mills. But we are going to live with them.’

Lady Beatrice raised her carefully plucked eyebrows. ‘Live with Jane and her family? Forgive me, child, but will you enjoy that?’

Phoebe laughed ruefully. ‘No, I will not, especially as she intends me to take the place of her children’s governess, who has just given notice.’

‘I cannot see you as a governess, my dear,’ Lady Beatrice said, and Phoebe’s determination to avoid such a fate strengthened.

‘Well, I have to become that or a companion. I would rather work for someone who will pay me, however.’

‘You mean Jane will not give you a salary?’

‘She believes giving us a home is sufficiently generous.’

Phoebe paused. Here was an opportunity that might not come again. Lady Beatrice knew lots of people, was well connected, part of a large family. She might be able to help.

 ‘Lady Beatrice, do you know of anyone who needs a companion? I think I would prefer that to teaching children.’

‘I will think about it. I will come and see your mother in a few days. Do give her my best wishes for a full recovery.’

* * * *

Zachary Walton, Earl of Wrekin, handed his hat and riding gloves to her ladyship’s maid when she opened the door of their suite at the Old Hall.

‘Thank you, Turner. Is my sister in?

‘Yes, my lord. I will send for some madeira.’

He nodded, and knocked lightly on the parlour door, before walking in. She rose from her escritoire, where she had been writing letters, smiled at him, and came across the room to reach up and kiss him on the cheek.

‘Zachary, you made good time. It’s good to see you after so long. You look well. Can you stay?’

‘A night only, I’m afraid, then I have to go to London. I expect to be sent to Brussels soon after Christmas, and there are many things to arrange first. But I will make sure I come to Ridgeway Park for your party.’

‘Brussels?’ Lady Beatrice looked thoughtful as she sat down again, and Zachary grinned at her. What was she plotting now? Beatrice was five years older than he, but they had always been good friends, except when she tried to force him to do things he objected to, like make offers to her young acquaintances. When he finally married, and he knew that one day he must, he intended to choose his own bride, not have one foisted on him by his sister, however fond of her he was.

‘Not everyone is in Vienna at the Congress,’ he said, and she laughed. ‘There is some diplomatic activity going on elsewhere too, and perhaps more successfully than with those laggards in Vienna.’

‘I do know. My sister-in-law’s husband is there.’

‘Sir William Benton? I heard he had some new diplomatic duties. Do you wish me to take him your good wishes?’

‘Not precisely. I wish you to take him his daughter.’

‘I beg your pardon?’ What was Beatrice up to now? ‘Is she another of the damsels you keep thrusting under my nose?’

‘Oh, by no means! Sally Benton is too young for you. She’s only seventeen, and a handful. That’s why her mother wants to be rid of her.’

He clasped his brow theatrically and staggered to collapse onto a chair by the window. ‘I think you’d better explain.’

Beatrice laughed. ‘Sally’s mother, Clara, is busy remodelling Benton Manor. You know she inherited a fortune from her godfather?’

‘Yes, but William is rich enough to do up his own house if he wants to, without that.’

‘Clara and William do not, I’m afraid, have a great deal in common. They have lived separate lives for the past ten years, since she produced her son. He is happy for her to entertain herself with architectural improvements while he moves in diplomatic circles.’

‘Hasn’t he recently returned from Brazil?’

‘Yes, and he is now in Brussels.’

‘But why must Sally go there?’

‘Her governess has retired, and Sally is a handful.’

‘I do recall some outrageous pranks when she was younger, and visiting you and Gregory.’

‘Clara is unwilling to leave her architects and present Sally this coming Season, and she told me she felt it was time William took a hand in rearing her. With him fixed in Brussels, and as most of the polite world seem to have transferred themselves there, or to Vienna, it provided her with an ideal opportunity.’

Zachary frowned. ‘You almost make me feel sorry for Sally. Does her father want her?’

‘I’m sure he doesn’t, her presence will severely cramp his style. He has a reputation with the ladies, you know.’

‘Yes, I do,’ Zachary replied, recalling some of the more deplorable stories circulating in the clubs. ‘Can’t he refuse to have her?’

‘Clara has threatened to prevent young Frederick from visiting his father during his summer holidays if he refuses to have Sally.’

‘William sounds like a puny sort of fellow if he puts up with that.’

‘He is the sort of man who prefers a peaceful life without domestic strife.’

‘Then he should never have married Clara! It sounds as though Sally takes after her mother.’

‘He did marry her, and has to live with it.’

‘If you say so. But what is this about my escorting Sally to Brussels? It’s impossible! Think of the scandal of the two of us travelling together.’

‘But you would not be alone with her. I can provide Sally with a companion she will like, and she will have her maid. You will have your valet. You will be quite a large party.’

He shook his head. He should have known Beatrice better. ‘You have it all planned, I see, and it’s pointless my arguing. Very well, I’ll bear lead Sally to Brussels, but I will have no more to do with her once I have handed her over to her father. Was that what you wanted me to say?’

‘Dear Zachary, I knew I could depend on you.’

* * * *

Mrs Kingston held out her hand and smiled. She was a small woman, still pretty, but ill health had faded her looks. Her gown was an old favourite, the skirt wider than fashionable, but it was neat, and she had a warm if old Paisley shawl about her shoulders.

‘Do forgive me for not rising, Lady Beatrice.’

‘Of course you must not. I know you have been very ill, and I came to see how you were.’

‘Much better, thank you. That dreadful cold and cough have gone, thank goodness, but I still feel dreadfully weak from being confined to bed for so long, unable to take my usual walks.’

‘Phoebe tells me you are going to live with Jane in Yorkshire. Your friends in Buxton will miss you.’

Phoebe thought she saw a shadow cross her mother’s face. ‘I’ll miss them too, but it seems best for everyone if I accept Jane’s kind invitation and go to live with her and her family. The past few weeks have been difficult for Phoebe with so much extra to do, looking after me.’

‘Mama, you know I haven’t minded.’

‘You’ve been very good to me.’

Lady Beatrice smiled at her. ‘Well, at least we can see you often there. Ridgeway Park is only ten miles away from Bradshaw Towers, and maybe you could spend some time with us. I rarely go away now, with Lord Drayton preferring to remain at home most of the time. It does not seem