The Unconventional Governess

Henrietta blinked and then reached for her book. He had looked tired last night, she recalled.

“I hope he is well?” she murmured.

With the valet’s assistance, she climbed out of the carriage. The balmy summer day stood in stark contrast to the concern on the valet’s face. The sound of hooves grew louder as St. Raven pulled his horse up and dismounted. The sunlight drew attention to the pallid taint of his skin, the grooves at the corners of his eyes. The whites of his eyes were not yellow, though, and his pupils appeared normal.

“What are your symptoms, my lord?”

His lips pressed together. He shook his head. “Jacks, make sure Miss Gordon has all she needs.”

“Are you sweating?” She reached to touch his skin, but he jerked back. There was a strange sheen to his coloring. “Let me check your heart and lungs. Jacks, if you would be so good as to retrieve my leather satchel. Be gentle, for I’ve valuable items inside.”

“Go with him, now.” St. Raven’s words came out funny. Slightly garbled.

The carriage door remained open and Lord St. Raven stumbled toward it, in a lurching stagger that caught Henrietta by surprise. She slid to the side, allowing him room, but already she could see his eyes rolling back in his head. He fell into the carriage, drawing his knees up and lying on the floor.

His left arm jerked, the hand curled into clawlike rigidity.

Henrietta glanced down the road, noting the valet still digging in the other carriage for her medical supplies. The footman helped, and the coachman was nowhere to be seen. She grabbed the carriage door and half closed it, blocking the opening with her body. Lord St. Raven convulsed on the floor, his head knocking against the seat in a macabre, uneven rhythm.

Henrietta forced herself to keep looking, to watch even though her palms dripped and her heart wrenched in her chest. She had seen this before. The strange contortions, the stretched grimacing of the face.

In an asylum in France. When she was sixteen.

Epilepsy.

Finally the fit ended. St. Raven’s body relaxed, though guttural noises were coming from him. She wanted to go in and check to make sure his head had not been injured, but the valet was bringing her medical bag. She closed the door more, shoving the earl’s boots inside the carriage to do so.

“Your supplies, miss.”

“Thank you. The earl does not feel well and is lying on the floor. I shall need something soft, a blanket perhaps. Fetch Alice, please, as I will need to go in and examine his lordship.” It seemed forever, but finally the female servant Lady Brandewyne had sent to protect Henrietta’s reputation arrived. She’d ridden with the trunks in the other carriage. She wore a put-out expression that Henrietta ignored.

“If you will just stand right there.” She pointed to the side of the carriage, where it could be reasonably said that Henrietta had been chaperoned, and yet Alice would not be able to see the earl. She opened the door and climbed in, shoving her skirts to the side and hefting her bag onto the seats.

A bluish cast to his face told her he’d stopped breathing at some point, though now the forceful exhalations of sound indicated steady respiration. She put her ear to his chest. No distress. Perspiration stained his underarms.

Henrietta examined him quickly, gently putting the blanket the valet brought beneath his head. She kept the door slightly closed, leaving a mere crack, and waved away the worried eyes of his staff. When she emerged, she shut the door firmly behind her.

They stood at the side of the road, the bright sunlight drawing attention to their somber faces. After all, it had only been a few weeks ago that he’d been attacked. Their worry attested to their regard for their employer.

“Does he have these episodes often?” She set her bag on the ground and studied them, particularly the valet.

“Episodes? What do you mean, ma’am?”

Every face reflected confusion. Sighing, Henrietta tapped her hips as she thought of what to say. She didn’t care for the ratlike curiosity in Alice’s beady eyes. A gossiper, no doubt. She suspected his lordship’s condition was a secret that even his valet was not privy to.

Or else he was doing a splendid job of acting ignorant.

Either way, Henrietta had no desire to reveal St. Raven’s infirmity to this group. She cleared her throat. “Tiredness and fatigue. Perhaps it is a side effect of his cracked ribs. Let us take a short break and then be on our way. I shall ride with Alice and we will leave the earl to rest.”

“Will he be all right?” That from Jacks.

Henrietta nodded with force. Yes, he would be fine as long as no one in English society ever found out about his epilepsy.

She did not know much of the condition, but one thing she did know: those with it were often ostracized from polite society and confined to an asylum for the remainder of their lives.

How he had managed to escape detection, she could not fathom, but she would not be the one to expose his secret.

Chapter Six (#ud42ca2f8-c181-5e4d-a742-10605ce140c2)

An epileptic.

Henrietta could hardly believe the truth. A rare condition that she longed to research, but instead she sat quietly in the carriage with Alice. The loaner from Lady Brandewyne, while nicely made, could not compare to the comfort of St. Raven’s carriage. Alice’s company was not particularly enjoyable, either. She spent the rest of the ride clicking her knitting needles while Henrietta churned the facts over and over in her mind.

She knew very little about epilepsy. Only enough to recognize the symptoms. Surely St. Raven was resting now. He hadn’t emerged. The carriages had kept up a steady clop and now it had grown dusky and cool, a hint of rain in the air. They turned into a long drive lined by trees and statues. Henrietta’s window encompassed a view of the St. Raven estate. It was a smaller version of Lady Brandewyne’s. They rounded up the drive and then slowed to a stop.

Perhaps she’d be brought around back to the servant’s entrance? She gathered her bags, prepared to get out when told. Alice watched, her mouth a crimped line, reminding Henrietta that she was no more a servant than she was a peer.

In the middle. That was her new position. Neither privy to the confidences of the servantry, nor entitled to the privileges of the ton.

The carriage door opened and St. Raven peered inside. “We’re here,” he said, his grin lopsided. He looked no worse for wear. His cravat had been straightened and his skin had regained its color, as far as she could tell in the twilight.

With his help, she exited the carriage. Alice was behind her and then St. Raven guided her to the front door. “This is it. My humble abode.”

“Humble, indeed.” Square-shaped beds of grass decorated the front yard, carefully trimmed and verdant. The house itself was composed of rectangles and squares that sharply jutted into pointed roofs. The typical country home, resplendent and tight-angled.

A butler came out to greet St. Raven. She observed the earl, hanging back to watch his loose-limbed gait. He did move slowly, as though tired. There was no other evidence that only a few hours ago his body had contorted outside of his control.

Yes, she’d have to research more.

Behind her, the carriages rolled away and she realized that she was to follow St. Raven into the house. She joined him at the doorway, looking past him to the gilded entryway lit by several lamps along the walls.

He ushered her in, his eyes shadowed, belying the curved dimple in his cheek. “My childhood home.”

“It is lovely,” she said. “If you’ll show me my rooms, I’ll get situated.”

“Would you care for tea first?” His question was not a question. He guided her to a small parlor before she could say no.

St. Raven’s eyes were tenebrous in here, without the sun to make them sparkle. One could almost mistake them for a dark green.

He did not shut the door. He meandered to a corner of the room, next to a lit golden girandole whose worth appeared to be more than the annual earnings of a governess. The furniture was ornate, heavy. Strange lionlike creatures rose from the edges of the couch. All in all, an uncomfortable, auspicious room.

She faced St. Raven, and was reminded of his overall largeness in comparison to her size. She’d been called slight. Never had she felt so, until she stood next to St. Raven. A shiver crept through her at the intensity on his face. She rubbed her arms, conscious that her medical bag remained with her belongings.

“About earlier...” He trailed off, stroking his chin with long, well-manicured fingers.

Henrietta pulled herself taller. “Yes, your epileptic attack.”

“You saw.” His eyebrows narrowed, ebony lines against tan skin.