The Governess Read online

  What the future would entail had been something she'd avoided thinking about since her father's death. Perhaps she was still grieving even now, five years after he'd died. It was difficult to consider that she was effectively alone. It made the future difficult to contemplate.

  At least here, she wasn't expected to dine alone. The remoteness made everyone appreciate whatever company was available—even the governess.

  It was the first time the count had dined with them, sitting at the head of the table. Thomas' eagerness to please his father was obvious. In the strictest sense, he was too young to eat with the adults, according to these rules that seemed adamant on pushing people apart.

  "And what brings you so very far from your home?" Mr. Nemes asked her as he picked up his wine glass. "Are you quite the adventuress?"

  "Heavens no. I hadn't realized the position was quite so far away when I inquired about it, but it was a good position with a respectable family," she said, nodding slightly to the count, "so I could hardly say no. It is my first time outside of Great Britain."

  "We must practically be heathens." The twinkle in his eyes showed he was teasing her.

  "Merely exotic," she said back.

  "Exotic. Not sure I have been referred to as such before. And tell me, Miss Winstone, what is it that fires your heart?"

  "I am a governess, Mr. Nemes, much too sensible for playing with fire."

  He enjoyed her repartee; she could tell. "You English put too much stock on sensibility. It is not sensibility that makes a life worth living. It is passion. And this is a place with high passions."

  For some reason, wolves snuck into her mind, remembering the fear she'd felt in the garden when she'd worried hungry creatures with sharp teeth were watching her. She'd never really known such fear before. Getting startled by a naughty child was as far as her encounters with fear went, or reading a book with creaking old castles and ghosts.

  "High passions also lead to high falls," the count said without looking at anyone. His wine glass twirled in his hand, his eyes shadowed and dark.

  Again, discomfort crept up along her spine, remembering the bridge and the ravine below. Surely, he wasn't referring to that, but instead some disappointments in his life. Or was it some kind of tragedy that had led to the countess’ demise, a cause for her to seek such a fall. Again, a topic she didn't wish to think about returned to her head. The thought of anyone being distraught enough to take their own life made her queasy.

  "But such is life, a journey with highs and lows, that never stops," Mr. Nemes continued. "To avoid them, what is the point of living?"

  "Love," Estelle said without thinking.

  Mr. Nemes turned his attention back to her. "I think you are a romantic, Miss Winstone."

  She blushed. Yes, perhaps she was. It wasn't high passions she'd revered, instead steadfast love. "I am simply unsure love and passion are the same thing."

  "I would disagree," Mr. Nemes said. She noted the absence of a ring on his finger, which probably meant the man had not found the steadfast love that leads to marriage. "How do you feel alive without passion?"

  Perhaps there was no point arguing with a man like him, an entirely different kind of person from her. She noticed both the fencing master's and the count's attention was on her, assessing her—probably acknowledging that she had little experience with either. Even the thought of them considering her in those terms was mortifying.

  "No matter," Mr. Nemes said dismissively and Estelle was grateful he hadn't pushed on with the conversation. "A lovely meal grows to an end."

  "I recall you have a taste for cognac," the count said.

  "I could never say no to a glass from your cellar, my friend," Mr. Nemes said. "Perhaps we should not stand on formality and invite Miss Winstone to join us. A small pálinka suit the refined tastes of the fairer sex."

  Estelle had no idea what he was referring to, but was honored to be invited. It went against convention, but so had been inviting her to dinner, strictly speaking. "Perhaps only a small one." It would be nice to not be alone for a little while. She had spent most of the day by herself and too much of her own company made her weary.

  They rose and walked to a parlor where a fire roared in the grate. Balog served cognac to the men and a small glass of clear liquid to her. It had a distinct scent of peach. The alcohol rose up into her nose.

  "They say a small glass of pálinka every day is good medicine," the fencing master said with a small bow.

  It was unlike anything she'd ever tasted, but it was very nice. "I don't doubt it."

  "If all medicine was so tasty, eh?" He watched her for a moment, then turned to Thomas. "Now, show us what you have been practicing," he said.

  Balog retrieved a couple of thin rapiers. Thomas grabbed one with a flourish of steel to guard his hand. He stood sharply to attention and then crouched into a fighting stance while Mr. Nemes accepted another sword.

  Estelle's heart rate soared in worry that the boy would be hurt, while her head knew that a master would not let his charge get injured. If was definitely not her place to object.

  Swift movements and clinks of metal followed. It was mostly Thomas attacking and Mr. Nemes deftly deflecting, with the smooth movements of someone who was comfortable and confident with a sword in his hand.

  The count sat and watched in a chair, a glass of cognac in his hand. He looked relaxed and pleased, more so than she'd ever seen him.

  "You are perhaps a better student than your father," Mr. Nemes said, and the count tsked. "Or has he forgotten his sword skills?"

  "Never," the count said, rising to the challenge. "Simply a little out of practice."

  After taking his jacket off and draping it over the back of his chair, the count took Thomas' sword and prepared himself. Thomas had retreated to his father's chair and was looking on with bated anticipation.

  Mr. Nemes came alive, fighting to a level far more advanced than he had with the boy. Now it wasn't easy to see who was attacking and deflecting, because they moved so fast. The scraping sound of metal against metal jarred her ears. Sharp, quick steps and lunges strained muscles, creating a dance of attacks and retreats.

  She couldn't tell to what degree Mr. Nemes was holding back, if at all. Drezasse was holding his own fairly well, no doubt able to fight off anyone who challenged him. She could tell he enjoyed this sparring. It was very much like watching a performance of strength and skill, one that could end terribly. She had never been in a position to watch something like this, and both dread and anticipation gripped tightly around her heart, almost making it hard to breathe.

  The count was actually very good once he overcame his lack of practice, she concluded. The intent focus on his features showed his full attention was on his opponent and the fight. His dark eyebrows drew tight in concentration. In that moment, she could also see how much Thomas adored his father, but then all sons did, she had found.

  After a while, she rose and retreated from the parlor. The men hadn't noticed, were too absorbed in their enjoyment sparring against each other. The evening had felt a little surreal. Never had she seen men fight like that, sharp metal slicing through the air. Her heart still hadn't calmed down as she walked up to her room through the darkened castle. She wondered what strange dreams she would have that night—of handsome princes in grave peril, perhaps.

  Chapter 10:

  * * *

  Estelle's days seemed to grow longer. Most of Thomas' time was taken by Mr. Nemes, who was apparently leaving early the next day. After that, she would have more to do, at least in the mornings when she and Thomas had their lessons.

  Until then, another long day stretched ahead of her. For a couple of days, she had wandered the halls of the castle, noting interesting things along the way, including a Chinese vase, suits of armor and a display cupboard full of exquisite venetian glass. She had also found a music room which had stale air and a light covering of dust over every surface. The current count was also not a musically inclined man, it
seemed.

  The man himself was a bit of a mystery to her. Their last encounter had been curious. In a way, he had been respectful, and even deferential. There was perhaps even something a little teasing in his manner—not in the way of Mr. Nemes, of course, but a curiosity perhaps. Still, Count Drezasse's dark eyes made her nervous. When he looked at her, she felt his gaze heat her skin, not entirely sure what his thoughts were behind those nearly black eyes.

  All this time by herself was making her pensive and she wondered too much about things she shouldn't—like the count's handsome eyes. She needed to do something to keep herself occupied before she started wondering about other things about the count—lips perhaps, or the wide shoulders—which would not be a suitable topic for deliberation about her employer. Forcefully, she pushed away those thoughts and buried urges that sometimes plagued her, of men. Instinctively, she knew that figment of a man in her imagination was in threat of taking on a face, one with dark eyes.

  Returning to her room, she distracted herself by choosing to read for a while, the book about the Roman Empire, which although not a novel, was interesting and even fantastical—a culture so far from her own she had trouble understanding it.

  Lunch was a lonely affair, sitting in the massive dining hall on her own, the sounds of her cutlery echoing off the high ceiling. In fact, she hadn't spoken to a single person that day, except thanking Balog, who didn't say much in return.

  The weather cleared in the afternoon and she made her way to the rose garden. Vines were lying across the gravel walkway and weeds had grown tall. The mulch of previous seasons' growth lay decaying on the ground. No doubt the garden would bloom again, but it would be wild and sparse, the plants giving themselves to growth over flowering.

  Overcast skies loomed over her head and the air was cold, but the rain kept away for now. It felt like a respite, from the darkness of the castle and the loneliness of her room. An eagle flew overhead, its wings graceful as it soared from the mountains down over the valley, no doubt looking for its next meal. Her thoughts returned to the wolves, but she refused to give herself over to fear.

  Then raindrops started falling on her shoulders, chill soaking in through the material of her dress. The respite from the weather was over and it was time to return to the castle. She had managed to find a kitchen door, half buried in the ground, which she could use. The door was still heavy, made of thick oak, but it was easier to manage than the massive main doors.

  The kitchen staff were not welcoming of her presence, so she walked through quickly, to emerge up the steps in a butler's pantry attached to the dining room. She had to find some other door to use, but being a medieval castle, doors were sparse.

  Footsteps were heard in the hall outside and Estelle followed, seeing the count walking up the stairs.

  "I was wondering," she started and he stopped, half turning to look down on her, "if you would let me tackle the rose garden in my spare time."

  "It is not your garden to tackle," he said sharply. "It is impertinent of you to ask. You have a role here, Miss Winstone. If it is not suitable for you, perhaps we should discuss your departure."

  Estelle's eyes widened in shock and she didn't know how to respond. His sharp reply was unexpected and she didn't know what to do. "I'm sorry, I didn't… " He had already walked out of sight, refusing to let her apologize.

  Her mind was racing over her words, trying to decipher what she had done wrong. Somehow she had gravely overstepped her bounds and been censured. She had only been trying to help, but her offer had apparently been insulting. Was she in some way insulting him by the offer? Perhaps there had been some cultural norm she had misunderstood. Now she felt awful. Discomfort and regret sat like cloying tar in her chest. The fact that he wouldn't let her apologize hurt more than actually stepping over the line—she hadn't intended to, after all.

  Her mind wouldn't let it go as she returned to her room, this slight she had inadvertently given, as well as him referring to a potential return to England. Was it on his mind? Was that why he had brought it up?

  She had only been trying to help, she repeated to herself, but that wasn't her place. No, she had to limit herself and her expectations to the classroom. Did this mean she would no longer be invited to dine with them as well? She would be happy to comply; she just wished she knew what she was supposed to do, because apparently she didn't know where the boundaries were.

  Perhaps even her use of the rose garden was an imposition. She had no one to ask. Maybe Mr. Nemes could answer, but would she be making the situation worse by highlighting something her employer had censured her for, especially if he was simply being cantankerous and there was no cultural basis to his objection. It could be that his objection was something else entirely—something to do with the past and the person who had enjoyed that garden. She had no understanding of what that would entail, but there had to be something that would make him snap at her for a simple offer.

  *

  It was blistering cold outside when she stepped out of the main doors to see Mr. Nemes standing next to his carriage, ready to leave. Thomas was there too, saying goodbye. She could tell he was sorry to see his fencing master go, but also proud of the things he'd learned. Maybe she would ask him to show her later.

  Finally, Mr. Nemes shook Thomas' hand and stepped over to her. "Miss Winstone," he said and bowed to kiss her hand. It was rare anyone did that for her, so she blushed slightly. "You were very quiet at supper last night." It had only been the three of them; the count hadn't joined them. "Are you perhaps sorry to see me go?"

  Estelle genuinely smiled. "This place will be less for the absence of your interesting anecdotes, Mr. Nemes." Actually, the prospect of just her, Thomas and the count wasn't something she relished. She was sorry that Mr. Nemes was going.

  Still holding her hand, he tsked. "Do not let Drezasse be a brute," he said. "You cannot take thing he says to heart." It was as if he'd read her mind. She blushed even more now. "The men out here in the wilderness sometimes lose their manners, but he is a good man, at heart. His bark is much worse than his bite. Remember that. And if he loses his manners, you should tell him so in no uncertain terms."

  Somehow she couldn't entirely picture her berating the count on his deportment. "I will try to remember that."

  Mr. Nemes made a second, smaller bow before lightly stepping up into the carriage. "It has been a delight and a pleasure," he said before closing the door. "Until next time."

  There was a good chance she wouldn’t be there the next time. There might not be one at all as Thomas was to complete his schooling in Switzerland, but it wasn't her place to organize such things, or even comment on it. She was acutely aware that she mustn't step out of bounds again and make assumptions on managing any part of the house. "Have a pleasant journey."

  Inside the carriage, he tipped his hat and the driver slapped the rumps of the two horses and they set off, hooves and wheels clattering over the cobblestones.

  Thomas had already gone inside and she was out there on her own. Turning to the castle, she didn't actually want to go back inside, wanted to be outside, in the fresh, albeit freezing, air and be away from the dark corridors and heavy atmosphere. She also dreaded running into the count again, having no idea what she would say.

  Enough of her trepidations, she thought. She had work to do—work which was the only reason she was here, a duty she could not afford to be seen as neglecting. Not that she was, but admittedly in the last few days she had been near useless as Thomas had been occupied elsewhere.

  Hurrying through the castle, she made her way to the classroom where Thomas was already waiting for her.

  * * *

  Chapter 11:

  * * *

  She had decided with Thomas that they were going to study the Roman Empire and ancient Greece. Actually, she had recommended it and he had agreed. His geography was good, as was his arithmetic, so she had decided to focus on history, German and literature.

  Pale sunlight filtered
into the library from the conservatory. They were on the hunt for books on the topic and she was certain they would find some amongst the shelves here. If she could find a book on either of those topics written in German that would be even better. Perhaps they should read the Iliad, as well, if they could find a copy.

  She did love this room, she decided. It was the one part of the castle that didn't feel so dark. "Alright," she said. "You know what we are looking for. How about you start on the right and I will look on the left."

  "As you are taller, I will use the stairs," he said and ran over to pull the railed stairs over to his side, sliding along on them with force.

  They started looking along the multitude of spines. Some of the books were very old, and some in languages she couldn't even determine, but there was a collection of topics. Eventually she found one and took it down to place on the large table in the center of the library.

  "You know, there are peepholes in this painting," he said, standing below one of the portraits along one of the walls. It was a fearsome looking man with a beard and a grave expression. "The eyes lift up and you can look out."

  Estelle cringed. For some reason that was not welcome news—not that she thought the count was spying on her. "I wonder who put them there."

  "I'm not sure," he said. "Someone who wanted to spy on people."

  "Or who didn't trust the people in his own house."

  "Spying on his enemies."

  "Which he must have invited as guests. Times were certainly different in the past." Hopefully that was the past. She had never seen any of the eyes of the paintings move, but perhaps she wouldn't be able to stop herself looking now that she knew they were there. "Any other such paintings around?"

  "I think that's the only one, but there are many secret passages. The castle is riddled with them."