The Governess Club: Louisa (3 page)

He rubbed his bald head and gave her an exasperated look. “Mrs. Brock, fetch some tea for yourself and come sit down. That is an order,” he added when she opened her mouth to object.

Stifling an indignant huff, she did as she was bade and returned shortly with a small tea tray. Settling her skirts around her legs as she sat, she folded her hands over her lap and waited for the tea to steep. She met his gaze straight on, refusing to give him any hint of anxiety or intimidation.

Not that she felt either, but that was beside the point.

He had waited for her return to resume his seat himself, fingering the feathered quill in his hand. Once she was settled, he squeezed himself into his small chair. Louisa watched him do so, closely. He braced his large hands on the curved arms and gingerly brought his body down onto the seat as though he was afraid he would break the chair. His bottom settled as close to the edge as he could possibly get it before sliding back. He paused for a moment, holding his breath; she wondered if he realized he looked to be waiting for the furniture to collapse beneath him.

Once assured it would support him yet again, he released his breath and leaned back. He affected what she assumed was to be a calm pose, but the disparity between furniture and man was too great for him to be truly comfortable. She thought for a moment if the impending conversation also contributed to his discomfort.

Well, she was in no way going to make this easy on him. She maintained her solid stare and kept her lips pressed together.

“Where are you from, Mrs. Brock?” he asked, breaking the silence.

Louisa did not even blink at his opening salvo. “South.”

“South where?”

“South England.”

The corners of his mouth tugged. “I assumed you are from England, Mrs. Brock. Your accent betrays that much.”

She did not reply. The less she said, the less he would know.

“And your family?”

“What of them?”

“Where are they?”

“I could not say.”

“Your husband’s family did not take you in after his passing?”

“What do you think?”

He lifted a hand. “Pax, Mrs. Brock. I am not your enemy.”

Louisa busied herself in checking the steeping tea. It was not yet strong enough for her preferences but she prepared herself a cup anyway to prolong the silence. Milk and sugar were added, the clinking of the spoon against the cup filling the room.

Mr. Taylor tore a piece of bread from the small loaf on his own tray and popped it into his mouth, watching her closely. As he chewed, he cut slivers of cheese, his eyes darting between her and his task. When he had several slices, he added one to his mouth and took a gulp of ale. He grimaced and peered into his tankard before setting it aside.

When his mouth was clear, he asked, “Have you heard of the Five Hit Wonder?”

Louisa held her cup of tea close to her mouth. “No.” She sipped her tea.

One side of his mouth tilted and he offered her the plate of bread and cheese. “I am not surprised. The Five Hit Wonder is a pugilist. In the fight that made him famous, he felled his opponent in just five blows.”

Louisa took a piece of bread and cheese and nibbled on it. Her stomach demanded more but she restrained herself.

“Few women follow pugilism. It’s a masculine domain.”

She spoke up, not a flicker on her face. “Prizefighting is barbaric.”

“Such is the chant of many a temperance march. It takes a special female to be able to be a spectator at a match. But that is another matter. The Five Hit Wonder is—was—the reigning champion. For years. The best since Jack Broughton, many said. Broughton civilized the sport, by the way, by introducing more rules to reduce the gore and chaotic nature of the bouts.”

She tilted her chin. “I fail to see the civility of a sport where the object is to beat a man to a bloody mess.”

Mr. Taylor drank more ale and held some bread and cheese in one of his large hands. “It can be quite lucrative. The prizes are monetary, some purses more than you would imagine.”

She sniffed. “The slave trade is lucrative; hence the reluctance of the slavers for its demise. Yet you will not see me condoning that either simply because the color of the coin is pretty.”

He popped the food into his mouth and waved a hand, indicating the room. “So lucrative, in fact, that it facilitated the purchase of this inn.”

Louisa stared at him for a moment before a quick laugh escaped her. “Are you telling me that you are the Five Hit Wonder? Ridiculous.” She continued to laugh, but misgivings began to tickle her spine. The man had the size to be a prizefighting champion.

Without speaking, Mr. Taylor stood and crossed to a door at the back of the room. He opened it and took one step inside the room. She could see a shelf of books and the corner of a bed as he pulled out a brown book with a plain cover. It must be the bedroom he mentioned. Closing the door behind him, he moved back to the desk and held the book out to her, and after a moment she had no choice but to take it. The misgivings grew into dread as she opened it to find playbills and articles pasted to the pages. The playbills proclaimed the coming bouts of John Taylor, the Five Hit Wonder. The more recent ones had pictures of him stripped to the waist, poised in a fighting stance with a fierce look on his face. The articles spoke of his accomplishments, his history, his revolutionary approach to the sport.

Louisa swallowed and focused on a piece of information in one of the articles. “You were in the army?”

He had resumed his seat. “The King’s Twenty-sixth Grenadiers. But armed service is bloody boring when there is no active combat. It is where I started boxing as a way to amuse myself.”

She shot him a disapproving look and said, out of habit more than anything else, “Your language is still in the prize ring, I see. Please be more mindful.”

He raised his eyebrows in surprise and chuckled. “Oh, well done, Mrs. Brock. You would make a fine governess with that prim tone.”

Louisa shut her mouth and pressed her lips together.

Mr. Taylor leaned forward and folded his arms on the desk. “Who I am is not a secret; I do not intend it to be. But I told you this story because I want you to know that I understand the need to begin anew. My questions are not meant to interrogate you. I merely want to know if an angry husband or some other family is going to appear and cause trouble.”

When she didn’t speak, he continued. “I have been watching you since you started here and I can tell that you have never been a maid before. Your language, your inefficiency, even your dress does not speak of life in service. I have no intention of holding it against you. Everyone can learn a new trade. But I am putting myself and my inn at risk if I am harboring a runaway wife or daughter or even convict. I need to know that my investment in you is sound and that there will be no issues.”

Louisa swallowed and lifted her chin. “There is no husband, family or constable looking for me. There will be no such trouble.”
I hope.

A ghost of a smile tugged at his lips and he sat back. “Good. As I just said, I will be lenient as you learn your job. How goes the room cleaning?”

She hated to say it, but the man said he would be lenient. “I may need more time than a week. I have only managed to clean four of the rooms.”

He nodded slowly. “Fine. There is not much need for them just yet, the customers mainly being the locals looking for food and drink.”

She stood and he followed her. She picked up her tea tray. “If there is nothing else, sir, I should start getting the kitchen prepared so Mr. Packard can begin the evening menu.”

“Of course.” He watched as she moved to the door. “Just keep in mind, Mrs. Brock, a fresh start can be a good thing.”

Louisa didn’t stop as she exited the office, happy in the knowledge that she hadn’t betrayed the state of her muscles. She took the tray over to the sink and washed up, thinking she would have to be careful where Mr. Taylor was concerned. He was more observant than he appeared to be.

L
ouisa sat back on her heels and wiped the sweat from her brow. This was the last room. She glanced around the small space, now glistening in the sunlight provided by the window. For the life of her, she could not feel a sense of accomplishment in completing her task. Now that they were all clean, she knew it was only a matter of time before the rooms were used and once more needed to be cleaned. To be certain, they would not likely need such focused attention again, unless there was a particularly inconsiderate guest, but still.

She was too tired and sore to revel in her success.
Good Lord
, she thought, rubbing her neck.
I was not meant for service.

With a sigh, she pushed herself to her feet and collected the cleaning supplies. She tossed the dirty water out the window and carried the rest down to the kitchen. Mr. Packard gave her a nod when she came in, his pipe dangling from his mouth. “Mrs. Brock, I need the big pots from the office.”

She forced herself to smile at the portly cook and nodded. “Of course, right away.” It stuck in her craw to be deferential, but she needed the money. Mr. Taylor had given her wages yesterday, reduced due to her room and board, but it felt good to have her finances on the rise again, meager as her earnings were.

Depositing the cleaning supplies in a closet, Louisa went to the office and poked her head in before entering. She had avoided Mr. Taylor as much as possible since their encounter in here several days ago. She had succeeded surprisingly well, it being an average-sized inn and they the only three employees. Besides, if he wanted to see her, he knew where to find her.

Several casks inhabited one corner of the office, filled with what, she did not know. Above the casks was a shelf filled with dried spices, sugar, flour and other dry goods in clay pots. Above even those, several large pots hung from the ceiling. Stretching on her toes, Louisa could not even brush the lowest one with her fingers.

Pressing her lips together, she scanned the room for something to knock the pot off its hook on the ceiling. No broom or other such long-handled device was in reach to aid her. Spying Mr. Taylor’s chair, she dragged it over and lifted her skirts to step up onto it, using her free hand on the back of the chair to steady herself. The chair itself wobbled, enough to give her a moment’s doubt, but she persevered. She took hold of the shelf and reached up to the pots. Her fingers just managed to brush the bottom of the lowest one.

“How in the blazes did they get up here?” she muttered to herself before extending her arm again, this time going up on her toes.

Her fingers were nearly close enough to dislodge the pot. If she were quick enough, she would be able to catch it as it fell. If not, well, after spending so long with children, her ears could withstand one loud commotion.

She stretched farther, wishing to get that extra inch that might serve her purpose. She tightened her grip on the shelf, hoping it might boost her farther. The chair wobbled beneath her, teetering to one side. “Come on,” she muttered through gritted teeth. “Almost there.” She shifted to balance the chair better, but the wobble worsened. She managed to lift the pot off the hook a bit, but lost her grip and it settled back down. “Oh no you don’t,” she growled at the pot and tried again. She placed her fingers in the same spot and lifted the pot again. One more half inch and she would have it.

But the chair had other plans. Too unbalanced, it tipped to the side and Louisa felt herself fall with it. Her hand on the pot flailed, trying to right herself and the chair, but to no avail. The shelf shuddered under the unexpected weight of her panicked grip, the clay pots jostling together, ringing in the quiet of the office. She gasped, “Oh no,” before feeling all the support underneath her give way and she knew she was falling.

Just as the chair slid that final inch from under her and her fingers lost their grip on the shelf, quick footsteps came up behind her and strong arms circled her waist, lifting her to safety. The chair clattered to the floor and the clay pots settled, the office resuming its previous tranquility.

“Are you all right? Injured in any way?” Mr. Taylor’s deep voice rumbled in her ear. He held her effortlessly against him, her legs dangling in the air.

The breath from his voice warmed her ear and neck, causing a flutter to travel down her spine. Louisa blinked as she registered the hard chest against her back and the arms around her waist. They were strong, confident, and she knew that he would not drop her; it was beyond his ability to do so. Her back curved into his body, instinctively adjusting to him, and she had to fight the urge to lean her head back onto his shoulder. Good Lord, but he truly was Giant Johnny, easily surpassing his fellow men in both size and strength. The knowledge trilled through her blood.

What in the blazes am I thinking?
she asked herself, shaking herself out of this surprising reverie. She cleared her throat. “Release me now.” Her voice was clipped and she consciously softened it to add, “Please. I am fine.”

She felt his hesitation, but he slid her down after a moment, holding on to her waist until her feet were steady on the floor. “You are certain you are uninjured?” he asked.

Louisa stepped away from him, the distance between their bodies welcome despite her skin itching to return to his embrace. That would not do. “Yes.”

He was rubbing his head when she turned to look at him. “What were you thinking?” he asked. His tone was irate.

She lifted her chin. “Mr. Packard sent me to fetch him one of the pots.” She gestured to the dangling instruments, still swaying from the incident.

“And you thought the best way to fetch one was to stand on a damaged chair?”

“I could not reach. What would you have me do?”

“Did it occur to you to find someone who is taller than you?”

“Why would it? The chair was convenient and was serving quite well. I had no need for anyone’s help.”

Mr. Taylor’s eyes narrowed and they turned black with anger. “No need? Then what do you call falling off the chair and my keeping you from harm? Was that not needing help?”