Chapter 1

Lady Evelyn stood in the shadows of Aunt Agnes' bedchamber, her heart heavy with the weight of impending loss. The room, once a sanctuary of warmth and laughter, now felt oppressive, its darkness mirroring the grim reality of Agnes' condition. The heavy curtains, drawn tight against the world outside, seemed to trap the very air within, making each breath a struggle.

Agnes lay still upon her bed, her chest rising and falling in an uneven rhythm. Evelyn's gaze lingered on her aunt's frail form, so different from the vibrant woman who had swept into her life months ago. The silence was broken only by the laboured wheezing that escaped Agnes' lips, a constant reminder of the illness that had stolen her vitality.

Evelyn's mind wandered to the plans they had made, now nothing more than wisps of smoke. America, with its promise of adventure and new beginnings, had seemed so tangible when Agnes first proposed the idea.

They had pored over maps, debating which cities to visit, which sights to see. Agnes had spoken of introducing Evelyn to her circle of friends across the Atlantic, opening doors to a world far removed from the stuffy drawing rooms of London society.

"We'll make quite the pair, you and I," Agnes had declared, her eyes twinkling with mischief. "They won't know what's hit them."

But fate, it seemed, had other plans. Agnes' illness had come swiftly and without mercy, robbing her of the strength to even leave her bed, let alone embark on a transatlantic journey.

Evelyn moved closer to the bed, her fingers whispering over Agnes' hand. Though not bound by blood, their connection ran deep. Agnes had taken her under her wing when Evelyn was adrift, offering guidance and affection without reservation. She had been more than an aunt; she had been a confidante, a mentor, a friend.

"Oh, Agnes," Evelyn whispered, her voice barely audible. "What I wouldn't give to see you well again."

Agnes' eyes fluttered open at the sound, a ghost of a smile touching her lips. For a moment, Evelyn saw a flicker of the woman she had been—strong, vivacious, unbound by convention. It was gone in an instant, replaced by a look of pain and resignation.

Evelyn swallowed hard, fighting back the tears that threatened to fall. She would be strong for Agnes, just as Agnes had always been strong for her. Yet as she watched her aunt's struggle for each breath, Evelyn couldn't help but mourn for the future they would never share, the adventures left unexplored, the memories unmade.

Evelyn quietly withdrew to a seat in the corner of the room, smoothing her dress softly as she settled into the worn armchair. She cast a final glance at Agnes, relieved to see her aunt's eyes had closed once more, her breathing slightly steadier in sleep.

With a heavy sigh, Evelyn reached into her pocket and pulled out a folded letter. The paper was crisp and its edges slightly worn from the countless times she had taken it out. She read it, and tucked it away again without reply. Amelia's neat handwriting stared up at her, a reminder of the world beyond this sickroom.

Evelyn smoothed the letter on her lap, her eyes skimming over Amelia's warm inquiries about her well-being and tentative questions about her future plans. The caring words brought a lump to her throat. How could she explain the tumultuous events of the past weeks? The excitement of America, dashed by Agnes' sudden illness?

She reached for the small writing desk beside her, pulling out a fresh sheet of paper and a quill. For a moment, she hesitated, the nib hovering above the page. Then, with a deep breath, she began to write.

"My dearest Amelia,

I hope this letter finds you well. I apologise for my delayed response; recent events have left me quite overwhelmed.

I'm afraid I must share some distressing news. Dear Aunt Agnes has fallen gravely ill..."

Evelyn paused, her pen trembling slightly. She glanced towards the bed, where Agnes lay motionless save for the shallow rise and fall of her chest. Turning back to her letter, she continued:

"Her condition worsens by the day, and I fear... I fear we may not have much time left together. Our plans for America have been set aside. Instead, I find myself playing nurse, watching helplessly as she slips away.

Amelia, I confess I am at a loss. Aunt Agnes has been my anchor these past months, guiding me through the stormy waters of society with her wit and wisdom. The thought of a future without her counsel leaves me adrift."

Evelyn set down her quill, staring at the words she had penned. The ink glistened in the dim light, a stark contrast to the pristine paper. She hesitated, her hand hovering over the letter as if to snatch it back and start anew. The melancholy tone of her missive weighed heavily upon her, and for a moment, she considered tearing it to shreds.

With a sigh, she dusted the letter with sand to dry the ink before folding and sealing it with a drop of wax. It wasn't fair to burden Amelia with such gloom, but the words had poured forth unbidden, a reflection of the fear that gnawed at her very core.

Evelyn's gaze drifted back to Agnes' still form. The steady rise and fall of her aunt's chest offered little comfort. What would become of her when Agnes was gone? The thought sent a shiver down her spine, colder than any winter wind.

She rose from her seat, pacing the room with silent steps. The walls seemed to close in, a physical manifestation of the uncertainty that threatened to suffocate her. America had been a beacon of hope, a chance to escape the suffocating expectations of London society. Now, that dream lay in tatters, as fragile as Agnes' health.

Evelyn's mind wandered to the Judge, his stern visage looming in her thoughts. She could almost hear his voice, cold and unyielding, speaking of duty and family obligation. The mere thought of returning to his household, of being once more under his thumb, made her stomach churn.

She pressed a hand to her mouth, stifling a sob. The fear she had been holding at bay surged forth, threatening to overwhelm her. Where would she go? What would she do? The questions swirled in her mind, each one more daunting than the last.

Evelyn forced herself to take a deep breath, then another. She couldn't afford to fall apart, not now. Agnes needed her, and she would be strong for her aunt's sake. But in the gloom of Agnes' room, with only the sound of thick, syrupy breathing to keep her company, Evelyn allowed herself to acknowledge the truth she had been avoiding.

She was afraid. Terrified, even. The future, once so bright with possibility, now loomed before her like a yawning chasm. At the edge of that chasm stood the Judge, waiting to drag her back into a life she had fought so hard to escape.

A week had passed since Evelyn sent her letter to Amelia, each day blurring into the next as she kept vigil at Agnes' bedside. The inevitable finally came in the early hours of the morning, Agnes slipping away with a quiet sigh that seemed to echo through the now-silent room.

Evelyn sat motionless in the chair beside the bed, her eyes fixed on Agnes' still form. The weight of grief pressed down upon her, threatening to crush her very soul. She had known this moment was coming, had tried to prepare herself, but nothing could have readied her for the stark reality of Agnes' absence.

The world outside continued its relentless march forward, oblivious to the loss that had shattered Evelyn's world. She felt adrift, untethered from all that had anchored her. The future she had once dreamed of with Agnes by her side now seemed a cruel jest, mocking her with its impossibility.

As the morning light crept through the cracks in the curtains, Evelyn's thoughts turned to the Judge. The spectre of her past loomed larger than ever, a dark cloud on the horizon of her uncertain future. She shuddered at the thought of returning to that life, of once again being under his control.

A knock at the door startled Evelyn from her grim reverie. She rose slowly, her limbs heavy with exhaustion and grief. Who could it be at this hour? She hadn't sent word of Agnes' passing to anyone yet. Rather than rouse one of the servants, Evelyn went down to open it herself, groggy from grief and fear.

Evelyn opened the door; her eyes widening in surprise as she beheld the familiar heart-shaped face before her, the calm blue-grey eyes and golden curls peeking out from beneath her bonnet. "Amelia?" she breathed, scarcely believing her eyes.

Without a word, Evelyn threw her arms around her friend, nearly knocking her off balance and clinging to her as if she were a lifeline in a storm-tossed sea. The tears she had been holding back for days finally broke free, and she began to sob, her whole body shaking with the force of her grief.

Amelia gently led Evelyn into the drawing room, her touch a comforting anchor in the chaos of emotions. Evelyn sank onto the settee, her body trembling with exhaustion and grief. Amelia sat beside her, still holding her hand, a silent pillar of support.

"Oh, Amelia," Evelyn whispered, her voice cracking. "I don't know what to do. I just have nowhere to go, nothing to hide behind." She looked down at her hands, clenched tightly into the folds of her skirt. "What if the Judge finds me? What if—"

Amelia reached out and clutched Evelyn's hand, squeezing reassuringly.

"You're not alone, Evelyn," she said softly. "We'll figure this out together."

Evelyn took a deep, shuddering breath, trying to calm herself. Amelia's presence was a balm to Evelyn's raw nerves, her quiet strength a reminder that not all was lost. She continued to fret inwardly, her body still tense as if preparing to flee. Amelia listened to all of her anxieties, murmuring sympathetic sounds.

The first light of dawn was creeping through the windows when Evelyn felt her eyelids growing heavy. She fought against the exhaustion, afraid that if she closed her eyes, she'd wake to find Amelia gone and herself alone once more.

But sleep was a relentless foe. As Amelia's soothing voice washed over her, Evelyn felt herself drifting off, her head coming to rest on her friend's shoulder. Her last conscious thought was one of gratitude for Amelia's unwavering support.

As Evelyn drifted off against the unstoppable tide of sleep, she could just hear Amelia saying, "I may have an idea..."

Evelyn awoke with a start, momentarily disoriented by the unfamiliar surroundings. The events of the previous night came rushing back, and she felt a fresh wave of grief wash over her. Agnes was gone, and the world seemed a colder place for it.

Forcing herself to rise, Evelyn dressed quickly, her movements mechanical. There was work to be done, no matter how much she wished to hide away from the world. Agnes' great-nephew, a man Evelyn had never met, was eager to claim his inheritance. The thought of it made her stomach churn.

As she left the drawing room, she found Amelia already at work, a white dustcloth draped over her arm. The sight of her friend brought a small measure of comfort to Evelyn's aching heart.

"Good morning," Amelia said softly, her eyes filled with concern. "I've begun in the drawing room. How shall we proceed?"

Evelyn took a deep breath, steeling herself for the task ahead. "We'll need to take inventory of everything," she replied, her voice hoarse from crying. "And settle the servants' accounts. The new master of the house will want a clean slate, I'm sure."

They moved through the rooms methodically, Evelyn's heart constricting with each familiar object they catalogued. Every piece of furniture, every trinket, held a memory of Agnes. Amelia worked quietly beside her, offering silent support as she draped dustcloths over chairs and tables.

In Agnes' study, Evelyn paused before her aunt's writing desk. How many letters had Agnes penned here, full of wit and wisdom? How many plans had been made at this very spot? Plans that would now never come to fruition.

"The funeral," Evelyn said suddenly, her voice tight. "It's to be held the day after tomorrow. Far too soon, if you ask me, but the great-nephew insists."

Amelia looked up from the ledger where she'd been noting the contents of the room. "That seems awfully rushed," she agreed, frowning. "Surely he could wait a few days more?"

Evelyn shook her head, bitterness creeping into her voice. "Apparently not. He's eager to take possession of the house. Agnes is barely cold, and already he's counting his inheritance."

She turned away, blinking back tears. The thought of strangers living in Agnes' home, using her things, sleeping in her bed – it was almost too much to bear. But what could she do? She had no claim here, no right to protest.

As they continued their work, Evelyn found herself growing increasingly agitated. The hurried funeral arrangements, the eager great-nephew, the methodical dismantling of Agnes' life – it all felt wrong, disrespectful to the woman who had meant so much to her.

As Evelyn and Amelia worked through the morning, the repetitive nature of their task provided a welcome distraction. Evelyn was trying to focus on each item, carefully noting its description and value, leaving little room for her mind to wander to darker thoughts.

The constant movement from room to room, the scratch of pen on paper, and Amelia's quiet presence beside her created a bubble of focused activity that kept her anxieties at bay.

It wasn't until they paused for a light luncheon that Evelyn's mind began to drift. As they sat in the kitchen, picking at cold meat pies neither of them had much appetite for, Evelyn suddenly remembered Amelia's words from the night before.

"Amelia," she said, setting down her barely touched plate. "Last night, just before I fell asleep, you mentioned something about an idea. What did you mean?"

Amelia's hand paused midway to her mouth, a flicker of uncertainty crossing her face. She lowered the sandwich, her brow furrowing slightly as she seemed to consider her words.

"Well," Amelia began, her tone cautious. "I'm not entirely sure it's a suitable solution, but..." She trailed off, her eyes darting away from Evelyn's gaze.

Evelyn leaned forward, curiosity piqued. "Go on," she encouraged, desperate for any glimmer of hope in her current situation.

Amelia took a deep breath before continuing. "I recently came across a job posting in the newspaper. It's for a governess position in the West Country, at a baron's household."

Evelyn blinked, taken aback. "A governess?" she repeated, the word feeling foreign on her tongue. She had never considered such a role for herself, having been raised to expect a life of leisure and society.

"I know it's not what you're accustomed to," Amelia said quickly, "but it could provide you with a respectable position, away from London and... certain individuals."

Evelyn's mind whirled at the prospect. A governess? The idea seemed almost laughable, yet... The promise of distance from London, from the Judge and whatever lackeys of his might still be lurking there was undeniably tempting.

"I... I don't know, Amelia," she said, her voice hesitant. "I've never even considered such a role. And children? I hardly know the first thing about them."

Memories of her own rigid upbringing flashed through her mind. Stern-faced nannies, endless lessons in etiquette and deportment, the constant pressure to be the perfect little lady. She had never truly experienced childhood as most would understand it.

Amelia leaned forward, her eyes bright with encouragement. "Oh, come now, Evelyn. It's not as daunting as you might think. Besides, how much can a country baron truly expect in terms of manners? I'm sure you're more than qualified to teach a child which fork to use for fish."

Evelyn couldn't help but smile at her friend's enthusiasm. Still, doubt gnawed at her. "But how would I even secure such a position? I have no experience, no references."

A mischievous glint appeared in Amelia's eyes. "Well," she said, lowering her voice conspiratorially, "I could write you a letter of reference. It wouldn't be lying, exactly. Just... embellishing the truth a bit."

Evelyn's eyes widened. "Amelia! You can't be serious."

"Why not?" Amelia replied, her tone light but her eyes serious. "You're intelligent, well-educated, and more than capable of instructing children. The fact that you haven't done so before is merely a technicality."

Evelyn bit her lip, considering. It was a mad idea, surely. And yet... The thought of escaping to the countryside, far from the Judge's reach, was undeniably alluring. Perhaps, in such a setting, she could finally breathe freely, find her footing in a world that had suddenly become so uncertain.

Wordlessly, she nodded, and with a simple gesture, her future was decided. Outwardly, she maintained her calm exterior, but inwardly, her stomach roiled and clenched nervously, the few bites of the meat pie turning to lead. Despite her best efforts, she was once again cast adrift, her future in the hands of others.

Chapter 2

James Ayles, Baron Hastings, stood at the edge of the field, his keen grey eyes surveying the assembled farmers and farmhands. The late summer sun beat down upon them, casting long shadows across the freshly ploughed land. A gentle breeze rustled through the nearby trees, carrying with it the scent of earth and green things.

Before the group, a man in a crisp black suit gesticulated wildly; his voice rising and falling as he expounded upon the virtues of some newfangled drainage method. James observed the dubious expressions on the faces of his tenants, their weathered brows furrowed in scepticism.

"And so, gentlemen, by implementing this innovative system, you'll see a marked improvement in crop yield within the first season!" The man in black concluded with a flourish.

A low murmur rippled through the crowd. James caught fragments of hushed conversations, peppered with words like "nonsense" and "waste of time". He suppressed a sigh, running a hand through his dark hair.

"Any questions?" the suited man asked, his enthusiasm undimmed by the lukewarm reception.

Silence fell over the gathering. James could practically feel the weight of unasked questions hanging in the air. He cleared his throat, drawing all eyes to him.

"Perhaps Mr Hodgson might share his thoughts?" James suggested, nodding towards a grizzled farmer near the front.

Hodgson tugged at his cap, clearly uncomfortable with the attention. "Begging your pardon, m'lord, but we've been draining these fields the same way for generations. Why change now?"

The man in the suit launched into another explanation, but James tuned him out. He studied the faces of his tenants, noting their barely concealed frustration. They were good people, hardworking and loyal. They listened out of respect for him, but their patience was wearing thin.

James felt a familiar tightness in his chest. He wanted to do right by these people, to ensure the estate prospered for the sake of his daughters. But change was a delicate thing, especially in a community as rooted in tradition as this one.

"That's enough for today," James interrupted, his voice carrying across the field. "Thank you for your time, gentlemen. We'll discuss this further in private."

Relief washed over the crowd as they began to disperse. James caught snippets of conversation as they passed.

"Right waste of an afternoon, that was."

"The Baron's a good sort, but this new-fangled nonsense..."

"My granddad would be rolling in his grave if he heard all that rubbish."

James watched them go, a mixture of fondness and frustration warring within him. The estate had to move forward, but how could he convince them when they were so set in their ways?

James watched the last of his tenants disappear into various cottages and barns, their grumbling voices fading into the distance. The weight of responsibility settled on his shoulders like a physical burden, and he exhaled slowly, his eyes scanning the fields stretching out before him.

The land looked parched, even after the recent rains. Two years of poor harvests had left their mark, not just on the soil, but on the faces of his people. James could see the worry etched into their weathered features, the fear of what another bad year might bring.

He ran a hand over his face, feeling the rough texture of his burn scar beneath his fingers. The memory of fire flickered at the edges of his mind, but he pushed it away. There were more pressing concerns than old wounds.

Starvation. Poverty. The words echoed in his head, grim spectres that haunted his every decision. James was no stranger to loss, but the thought of failing those who depended on him sent a chill through his body despite the warmth of the day.

He turned away from the fields, his boots crunching on the dry grass as he made his way back towards the manor. The new drainage system could make all the difference, he knew that. But convincing the farmers to embrace change was like trying to move a mountain with his bare hands.

James's face was clouded with concern as he walked, his mind churning over the problem. He was a man of few words by nature, preferring action to lengthy speeches. But perhaps that was part of the issue. His tenants needed more than just a silent, brooding landlord. They needed reassurance, guidance.

The thought of opening up, of sharing his concerns and hopes with them, made James's stomach clench. He'd kept people at arm's length for so long, it was second nature now. But if it meant the difference between prosperity and ruin for his estate, for his daughters' future...

James paused, looking back over his shoulder at the fields. The sun was setting now, casting long shadows across the land. In the fading light, he could almost see the ghosts of better years past, of abundant harvests and content faces.

With a quiet determination, James set his jaw and continued towards the manor. He had decisions to make, and they couldn't wait. The fate of his people, his legacy, hung in the balance. As was his habit, he walked with his head down and tilted slightly to the side. It was a posture unconsciously done these days to minimize the view of the burned side of his face.

James strode towards the manor, his hands clasped tightly behind his back, lost in thought. The weight of his responsibilities pressed down upon him, each step feeling heavier than the last. He pondered the challenge of convincing his tenants to embrace change, the risks of another poor harvest, and the uncertain future that loomed before them all.

So engrossed was he in his musings that he failed to notice the approaching figure until she was nearly upon him. Mrs Turnbell, his housekeeper, bustled up the path, her face flushed and her usually neat white cap askew.

"My lord," she called out, her voice strained. "I must speak with you at once."

James halted, surprised by her sudden appearance and the clear agitation in her manner. "What is it, Mrs Turnbell?"

The housekeeper drew herself up, her chest heaving with exertion and what James suspected was barely contained frustration. "I regret to inform you, my lord, that your girls are simply unmanageable. I cannot... I will not mind them any longer."

He blinked, momentarily at a loss for words. The girls had always been spirited, yes, but unmanageable? And to have Mrs Turnbell, who had been with the family for years, refuse to look after them...

"Surely it can't be as bad as all that," James said, trying to keep his voice level despite the worry gnawing at his insides.

Mrs Turnbell's eyes flashed. "With all due respect, my lord, it is precisely that bad. You've no idea the sort of mischief they get into these days. Why, just this morning, I found one of them—well, it won't bear repeating, but suffice to say, if they were my children, I'd—"

"Thank you, Mrs Turnbell, I believe I understand the way of it." James felt a headache building behind his eyes. Reflexively, he turned away slightly, his jaw working. He had known the girls were becoming more difficult to handle, but he had hoped... what? That the problem would simply resolve itself? He suppressed a sigh, acutely aware of Mrs Turnbell's expectant gaze.

James felt his jaw tighten as he considered Mrs Turnbell's words. Surely, this was just a passing phase. The girls were growing, testing their boundaries. It was natural, wasn't it?

"Now, Mrs Turnbell," he began, trying to keep his voice calm and reasonable. "I'm sure it's not as dire as all that. Perhaps if we—"

But the housekeeper cut him off with a sharp shake of her head. "Begging your pardon, my lord, but it is precisely that dire. I have my own duties to consider, and I simply cannot be chasing after your daughters at all hours of the day and night."

James felt his shoulders sag slightly. He knew Mrs Turnbell was right, but the thought of admitting it aloud made his throat constrict. "What would you suggest, then?" he asked, though he feared he already knew the answer.

"A governess, my lord," Mrs Turnbell said firmly. "Someone who can devote their full attention to the girls' education and behaviour."

James drew up short, his whole body tensing at the suggestion. A governess, a stranger in his home, privy to their private lives, to the girls' vulnerabilities? The very idea made his skin crawl.

He opened his mouth to refuse outright, but his eyes caught sight of the bare fields stretching out beyond the manor grounds. The dry, cracked earth seemed to mock him, a stark reminder of all that hung in the balance. His mind began to wander, calculations of crop yields and potential losses clouding his thoughts.

"My lord?" Mrs Turnbell's voice cut through his distraction. "What shall I do about the girls?"

James blinked, forcing himself to focus on the matter at hand. The fields could wait. For now, he had to address this more immediate concern. But even as he tried to formulate a response, he could feel his attention slipping away again, drawn inexorably back to the problems of the estate.

James felt the weight of Mrs Turnbell's words settle upon him like a yoke. His mind raced, torn between the pressing concerns of the estate and the immediate issue of his daughters' behaviour. He opened his mouth to speak, but Mrs Turnbell, her patience clearly at an end, cut him off.

"My lord, if you won't consider a governess, then I'm afraid there's only one other option," she said, her voice firm. "The girls will have to be sent away to finishing school."

The words hit James like a blow to the chest. His breath caught, and a cold, creeping fear gripped his heart. The thought of his daughters leaving, of being sent away from him, was unbearable.

There wasn't much that he feared; the idea, though, of his girls being taken from him, was one that never failed to make him break out into a cold sweat underneath his crisp linen shirt.

He felt his face harden, muscles tensing as he struggled to maintain his composure. The scar on his face pulled a little tightly as he worked to keep his expression blank, a stark reminder of loss and the fragility of life.

With a herculean effort, James forced his features into a mask of stern resolve. When he spoke, his voice was low and controlled, betraying none of the turmoil within.

"Very well, Mrs. Turnbell. I will... consider candidates for a governess."

The words tasted like ash in his mouth, but he knew it was the only way. He would not, could not, send his girls away. The risk was too great, the potential for loss too devastating to contemplate.

Mrs. Turnbell nodded, relief evident in her posture. "A wise decision, my lord. Shall I begin making inquiries?"

James gave a curt nod, not trusting himself to speak further. As Mrs. Turnbell hurried away, he turned his gaze back to the fields, his mind already grappling with this new challenge. A governess. A stranger in his home. But better that than the alternative, he thought grimly. Better that than losing his girls forever.

James made his way back to the manor, his mind still wrestling with the prospect of hiring a governess. As he approached the grand oak doors, he noticed an unusual stillness about the place. No sounds of laughter or running feet echoed through the halls, no shrieks of childish delight rang out from the gardens. The silence was, in his experience, rarely a good sign.

With a weary sigh, he pushed open the door and stepped into the cavernous entrance hall. The quiet seemed to press in on him from all sides, broken only by the soft ticking of the grandfather clock in the corner.

"I hereby declare," James called out, his voice echoing through the house, "that any guilty parties involved in mischief-making who present themselves in my study within the next ten minutes shall be shown leniency."

For a moment, the silence persisted. Then, from somewhere deep within the house, a barely suppressed giggle broke free. James recognised it instantly as Julia's, his lips twitching despite himself. That girl could never quite contain her mirth, even in the direst of circumstances.

"And what terms are you offering for this... amnesty?" Augusta's voice floated down from above, cool and measured. James tilted his head, trying to pinpoint her location, but his eldest daughter remained hidden from view.

"Full amnesty," James replied, his tone firm but not unkind. "No punishment. A clean slate, as it were."

There was a pause, during which James could almost hear the gears turning in Augusta's head. Then, primly, she spoke again. "Very well. We accept your terms, Father."

James sighed heavily as he retreated to his dressing room, his boots echoing on the polished floors. Not bothering to ring for his valet, he shrugged off his brown jacket, still warm from the afternoon sun, and changed into a fresh shirt and waistcoat. The weight of the decision he'd made pressed upon him, but he steeled himself for the conversation ahead.

Returning to his study, James was unsurprised to find his twin daughters standing before his desk, the picture of innocence. Julia fidgeted slightly, her eyes darting around the room, while Augusta stood perfectly still, her gaze fixed on him. They wore matching light blue pinafores with halos of golden-red curls that refused to stay plaited.

He sat behind his desk, eyeing them sternly. "Girls," he began, his voice low and measured, "your behaviour of late has been... concerning."

Julia opened her mouth to protest, but James silenced her with a look. Augusta's eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly.

"Your tendency to act like wild boys rather than young ladies has left me with no choice," James continued. "I've decided to engage a governess to... civilise you."

The words hung in the air for a moment before both girls erupted in protest.

"Father, you can't—" Julia cried.

"This is completely unnecessary—" Augusta began.

James held up a hand, and the room fell silent once more. He met each of their gazes in turn, his expression unyielding. "This is not a discussion," he said firmly. "I am informing you."

Augusta, ever the strategist, spoke first. "You said we wouldn't be punished," she said with just the hint of a pout.

James felt a flicker of pride at her quick thinking, even as he shook his head. "This is not a punishment, Augusta. It's... it's an opportunity. An opportunity to learn, to grow, to become the young ladies I know you can be."

The words tasted hollow in his mouth, and James wondered if he truly believed them himself. He watched as his daughters exchanged glances, a silent conversation passing between them.

"May we go, Father?" Julia asked, her voice uncharacteristically subdued.

James nodded, and the girls filed out of the study, closing the door behind them with a soft click.

Alone once more, James leaned back in his chair, running a hand over his face. He hoped, desperately, that he had been truthful in his words to Augusta; that this governess, whoever she might be, wouldn't be a punishment for all of them.

Chapter 3

The carriage jostled along the rutted road, each bump and sway a stark reminder to Evelyn of how far she was travelling from the familiar streets of London. She gazed out the window, watching as the sprawling city gave way to rolling hills and patchwork fields. The further they went, the tighter her chest felt, a growing knot of anxiety twisting in her stomach.

Evelyn clutched her reticule, her fingers tracing the outline of Amelia's letter within. The offer had seemed a godsend at first—a chance to start anew, to bury the whispers and sidelong glances that had dogged her steps in town. But now, as London faded into the distance, doubt crept in like a chill.

"I say, are you quite all right, miss?"

Evelyn startled, realising she'd been staring unseeing at her fellow passenger. The elderly gentleman peered at her with concern. It was a little unnerving, having a strange man speak to her without an introduction. His eyes, though, crinkled in a friendly manner that put her at ease.

"Perfectly fine, thank you," she managed, forcing a smile. "Just... taking in the scenery."

He nodded, settling back into his seat. "First time to the West Country, is it?"

"Is it that obvious?" Evelyn asked, self-consciously reaching up to adjust her bonnet.

"Oh, most visitors have that same look about them," he chuckled. "Like a fish suddenly finding itself on dry land."

Evelyn's smile faltered. That was precisely how she felt—out of her depth and gasping for air. The thought of being so isolated, so far from the bustle and life of the city, made her heart race. What if she couldn't adapt? What if the quiet drove her mad?

The carriage lurched, and Evelyn gripped the seat. She'd grown up navigating cobblestone streets and crowded markets. How would she manage muddy lanes and open fields? The air already smelled different—earthy and green, lacking the familiar tang of coal smoke and river muck.

As they passed through a small village, Evelyn caught sight of women gossiping by a well. Their curious glances followed the coach. She shrank back, suddenly aware of how her London fashions would stand out. Every eye would be upon her, the newcomer, in a place where everyone knew everyone else's business.

She'd spent a few days with Amelia in London, packing away her finest dresses. However, it was immediately obvious that even the more sedate ones she'd packed would draw attention.

Evelyn took a deep breath, trying to quell her rising panic. She'd made her choice. There was no turning back now. But as the coach rolled on, carrying her deeper into the unknown, she couldn't help but wonder if she'd made a terrible mistake.

Evelyn shook herself from her reverie, chiding herself for her doubts. It was too late for all that now. She'd made her decision, and there was no use in fretting over it. The countryside rolled by, a patchwork of greens and browns that blurred together as the coach rumbled on.

At each stop, more passengers disembarked, until Evelyn was left alone in the carriage. The silence pressed in around her, broken only by the creak of wheels and the steady clip-clop of hooves. She shifted uncomfortably on the hard seat, her body protesting after days of travel.

As the journey stretched on, Evelyn's discomfort grew. Her muscles ached, and her head pounded from the constant jostling. She longed to stretch out, to walk more than the few paces afforded during their brief stops. But she endured, reminding herself that each mile brought her closer to her new life.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, the coach lurched to a halt. Evelyn peered out the window, her heart quickening as she realised this must be her stop—the last stop on the route. She gathered her belongings with trembling hands, suddenly unsure of what awaited her beyond the carriage door.

As Evelyn stepped down, her legs wobbled beneath her, stiff from the long journey. She steadied herself against the side of the coach, blinking in the bright sunlight. Before she could get her bearings, a loud thud made her jump.

The coach driver had unceremoniously hauled her trunk from the roof, dropping it with a splash into the muddy road. Evelyn let out an involuntary squeak of alarm, her eyes widening at the sight of her precious belongings now sitting in a puddle. The coach driver merely grunted at her distress, shrugged, and disappeared into a small tavern that faced the muddy road.

Evelyn stood rooted to the spot, her gaze darting from one unfamiliar sight to another. The village, if one could call it that, consisted of a mere handful of buildings scattered haphazardly along the muddy road. A weathered sign creaked in the breeze, its faded letters barely legible. The tavern where the coach driver had disappeared seemed to be the only sign of life.

Her heart raced as the reality of her situation sank in. She was utterly alone, with no idea where to go or whom to turn to. The weight of her decision pressed down upon her, threatening to crush what little resolve she had left. Evelyn fought back the urge to cry, knowing it would do her no good.

Just as panic began to set in, the clip-clop of hooves drew her attention. A wagonette rolled to a stop beside her, driven by a sturdy man whose face was hidden beneath the brim of a wide hat. He made no move to look at her directly, seeming content to chew on the piece of straw protruding from his mouth.

Evelyn cleared her throat, hoping to catch the man's attention. "Excuse me, sir. I'm looking for—"

The man cut her off with a grunt, still not meeting her gaze. "You'll be the new governess, then?"

His gruff manner caught Evelyn off guard. She straightened her spine, reminding herself that despite her current circumstances, she was still a lady. "Yes, I am. L—Miss Bane," she said, hurriedly correcting herself, "here to—"

Another grunt interrupted her. The man jerked his thumb towards the back of the wagonette. "Best get in, then."

Evelyn hesitated, eyeing the muddy wheels of the wagonette and her trunk still sitting in a puddle. "My luggage—"

The man turned his face slightly toward her, revealing part of a scarred face. Evelyn took an involuntary step backward. "I'll see to it. You just get yourself settled."

Evelyn eyed the mud-splattered wagonette with growing dismay. The wooden bench, exposed to the elements, bore a patina of grime that made her skin crawl. She hesitated, glancing down at her travelling dress—one of her plainer ones, but still far too fine for such rough accommodations.

With a resigned sigh, she gathered her skirts and gingerly placed her foot on the step. The wagonette creaked ominously as she hauled herself up, and she winced at the thought of what this jarring ride might do to her already aching muscles.

As Evelyn settled onto the hard bench, a horrifying realisation dawned. There was no separate seat for passengers—just this single, narrow perch. She'd have to sit right next to the driver, mere inches from this gruff, scarred stranger.

Her heart began to race. This was improper, indecent even. What would people think, seeing her arrive in such a manner? She'd hoped to make a good first impression, to establish herself as a lady of refinement despite her new position. Instead, she'd be perceived as some common trollop, practically in the lap of the first man she'd encountered.

Evelyn's fingers twisted in her lap as she fought the urge to leap down and flee. But where would she go? She was utterly lost in this strange, muddy village.

The driver finished securing her trunk and climbed back up. Evelyn held her breath as he settled beside her, his bulk causing the bench to shift. She pressed herself against the side of the wagonette, desperate to maintain some semblance of propriety.

The scent of hay and horses filled her nostrils as the driver clicked his tongue, urging the horse forward. Evelyn sat rigidly, her spine straight as a poker, refusing to lean back lest she brush against her silent companion.

As they lurched out of the village, Evelyn's mind raced. What sort of place was she going to, where this was considered an acceptable way to transport a governess? She thought of Amelia's letter, full of warm assurances about the kindness of her new employers. Had her friend been mistaken? Or worse, had she deliberately misled Evelyn about the nature of this position?

Evelyn couldn't help but steal glances at the driver as they rattled along the rutted road. Despite her discomfort, she found herself impressed by his ease with the reins. His hands rested lightly on the leather straps, guiding the horse with the barest of movements. It was clear he knew these roads like the back of his hand.

The man's foot was propped up on the footboard, his posture relaxed despite the constant jostling. Evelyn envied his comfort, acutely aware of her own rigid posture. She shifted slightly, trying to find a position that didn't leave her bouncing like a rag doll with every bump and dip in the road.

As she fidgeted, her skirts rustled against the rough wood of the bench. She winced, imagining the state her dress would be in by journey's end. Another bump sent her lurching sideways, and she barely caught herself before colliding with the driver's solid frame.

"Something wrong, miss?"

The gruff voice startled her. It was the first time he'd spoken since they'd set off. Evelyn straightened, smoothing her skirts with trembling hands.

"No, not at all," she lied, forcing a smile. "I'm simply... adjusting to the ride."

The driver grunted, his eyes never leaving the road ahead. "Not used to country travel, I reckon."

Evelyn felt her cheeks flush. Was her discomfort so obvious? She'd hoped to maintain some semblance of dignity, but it seemed she was failing miserably at every turn.

"I confess, it is rather different from what I'm accustomed to," she admitted, trying to keep her voice steady as they jolted over another rut.

Evelyn bit her lip, trying to regain her composure. The driver's blunt observation stung, but she couldn't deny its truth. She was woefully unprepared for this new world.

"What did you expect, miss?" the driver asked, his tone gruff but not unkind.

The question unleashed a torrent of frustration that Evelyn had been struggling to contain.

"I expected..." she began, her indignity rising. "I expected that a Baron would have at least had the decency to send a proper carriage. Perhaps even a female servant to meet me." The words tumbled out, gaining momentum. "Is this truly how a gentleman of his standing treats his employees? And these roads! They're hardly fit for beasts, let alone people. There's mud everywhere, coating everything. How does anyone manage to keep clean?"

Evelyn knew she was being unladylike, complaining so vociferously to a stranger, but she couldn't seem to stop herself. The discomfort of the journey, the uncertainty of her future, and the shock of her new surroundings all conspired to loosen her tongue.

"I've never seen such a state of affairs," she continued, gesturing at the rutted road before them. "How can anyone live like this? It's barbaric!"

The driver remained silent throughout her tirade, his eyes fixed on the road ahead. His lack of response only fuelled Evelyn's indignation, and she found herself listing every perceived slight and inconvenience she'd encountered since stepping off the coach.

Finally, Evelyn fell silent, her cheeks flushed with emotion and embarrassment. She hadn't meant to lose control like that, but the words had poured out of her like water from a broken dam.

The driver said nothing for a long moment, and Evelyn feared she'd offended him beyond repair. Then, without taking his eyes off the road, he spoke.

"It's the first good rain we've had in weeks, miss," he said, his voice low and steady. "Sorely needed, it was. Might be ruining your hem, but it means the folks around here stand a chance of not starving."

His words hit Evelyn like a physical blow. She felt her face grow hot with shame as the reality of her selfishness sank in. She glanced around, as if seeing the fields dotted with tiny houses for the first time. Here she was, complaining about mud and discomfort, while the people around her were facing the very real threat of starvation.

She'd never been confronted with true privation before. Of course, she knew that people were hungry in London—she wasn't naïve—and of course the infamous rookeries. However,  she'd never had to confront true hunger and want before.

Evelyn fell silent, chastened by the driver's words. She stared at her gloved hands, twisting in her lap, as shame washed over her. After a moment, she gathered her courage and decided to change tack.

"I... I see," she said softly. "Perhaps you could tell me, what sort of master is the Baron? I confess, I know little about him."

The driver turned his head slightly, surprise evident in his scarred profile. He chewed on his piece of straw, considering the question.

"Well now," he began, his voice thoughtful. "The Baron, he's... he tries his best to be a fair man, that's certain." He paused, adjusting his grip on the reins. "Looks after his tenants, does what he can to keep 'em from the poorhouse."

Evelyn listened intently, grateful for any insight into her new employer.

"Course," the driver continued, "some might find him a bit rough around the edges. Not one for fancy words or manners, the Baron. But he's got a good heart, underneath it all."

Evelyn pondered this information. A fair man with a good heart was certainly preferable to some of the alternatives she'd imagined during her journey. Still, the phrase 'rough around the edges' gave her pause. What exactly did that mean?

Before she could ask for clarification, the driver spoke again. "He's had his share of troubles, the Baron has. But he does right by his people, and that's what matters most out here."

Evelyn hesitated for a moment, then decided to press further. "And how is the Baron to work for? I imagine you must have some insight, being in his employ."

The driver tilted his head slightly, shifting the brim of the hat a little so that Evelyn caught a glimpse of a sharp profile. He chewed thoughtfully on his piece of straw before answering. "I suppose you'd have to ask one of his servants."

Evelyn's brow furrowed in confusion. I thought I did just ask one of his servants, she thought. Then it dawned on her: This man was likely just an outdoor staff member, someone dispatched to pick her up like she was a sack of grain for the horses. He wasn't the coachman at all!

The revelation hit Evelyn like a splash of cold water. Her fingers tightened on the fabric of her skirts as a wave of indignation washed over her. The Baron couldn't even be bothered to send his proper coachman to collect her? Instead, he'd dispatched some common labourer to ferry her to her new position?

She pressed her lips together, fighting to maintain her composure. It wouldn't do to unleash another tirade, not when she'd just made a fool of herself moments ago. But the slight stung, adding to her growing list of grievances against her new employer.

Evelyn turned her face away, staring out at the passing countryside without really seeing it. Her mind raced, conjuring images of the Baron as a neglectful, uncaring master who couldn't be bothered with the comfort or propriety of his staff. Was this how he treated all his employees? Or was she being singled out for such disregard?

 Evelyn's story will be available very soon! Until then, Read Rosalind's story at Tame A Rake Duke by clicking Here!