The Governess Next Door

One

The Loire Valley, France

September 12, 1850

Of all the foolish mistakes Raphael Brontë made in the pursuit of love, the first was the one he remembered now. He was sixteen at the time and utterly unaware of his attractions.

Have you ever kissed a girl? Charlotte had asked.

No, he replied, ashamed to admit his inexperience.

"Would you like to kiss me?"

Yes, he would. Very much indeed. He’d always found her as bright and lovely as the day they were presently enjoying in the garden of the Yorkshire parsonage where she lived with her family. At the same time, however, he knew kissing her would be wrong. She was his cousin, after all. And while cousins often married, he knew her father would never approve of him as a suitor. Nor would his find her a suitable wife for his eldest son, who he expected to follow in his footsteps to the pulpit.

Raphe, nevertheless, was tempted. Charlotte was a quiet, thoughtful girl whose diminutive figure was much to his liking. Her face, too, was pleasing with its large almond-colored eyes and bowed mouth, which, at the moment, was stained with the juice of the strawberries they’d been picking. So was her little gauze dress with its faint green pattern of leaves.

I want to, but we shouldn’t. The day was warm and he was perspiring under his linen shirt and waistcoat. If we are found out, there will be the devil to pay.

Don’t be afraid of that. She stepped closer, tilted her head coquettishly, and began to play with the knot on his cravat. We can go into the garden shed where no one will see us. And if someone should come, we can pretend we were only looking for something. A basket or bucket, say, for the berries.

Though her plan seemed solid, Raphe remained too afraid of what their fathers would do if they were discovered. But, by and by, her powers of persuasion—helped along immensely by his raging teenage hormones—won out and he followed her into the dark and musty shed. When she turned to face him, he stood there awkwardly, unsure what to do next. He understood the mechanics of kissing, of course, but understanding how to do a thing and actually doing that thing were hardly the same.

When she set her hands on his shoulders, he felt a quickening above his collar and below his waistband. Holding his gaze, she tilted back her head, offering him that tempting berry-stained mouth of hers. Still, he hesitated, fearing the repercussions.

Somewhere outside, a crow cawed. The unexpected noise made his pulse race faster. He was sweating profusely now and the onrushing blood of arousal was making his cock grow hard.

She raised a hand to his face and ran her fingers along his jawbone. Don’t you want to kiss me, Raphe?

All at once, he felt strangled. I do, but...

She danced her fingertips over his lips. You are too handsome for your own good, dear cousin. Mark my words, your face will bring you trouble one day.

He swallowed before lowering his face to hers. And you are too clever and self-possessed for yours, dear Charlotte, which, I’ll wager, will bring you trouble in equal measure.

Before she could respond, he joined his mouth to hers. Her lips were soft and tasted of forbidden fruit. As he ran his tongue along their seam, he slid his hands to her buttocks and pulled her tiny body against his bigger one. When she moved against his hardness he thrust his tongue into her mouth.

Just as his hands found her breasts, the dinner bell rang, putting a stop to his pubescent explorations.

He’d never told anyone what happened that day—not even his brothers, with whom he shared most of his secrets (or used to, anyway, before he left England). Besides, he fancied himself a gentleman, in character if not in actual status, and a gentleman did not kiss and tell.

Picking up the parcel that triggered the memory, Raphe carried the package to his desk. Charlotte hadn’t been in touch since she went off to Brussels, so he couldn’t image what she might be sending him now.

He used his letter knife to break the twine holding the heavy brown paper in place. He was in the pavilion behind his patroness’s château, where he painted when the light was good—and napped when his muse refused to speak to him.

Today, he’d come mostly to forget his troubles—something only painting made possible. When he had a brush in his hand, everything else—the world, all his worries, and even the passage of time—magically fell away.

He tore the paper off the package, finding a letter and book within. The book was Jane Eyre, which he’d read three years ago, when it was first published. His mother had sent it to him from England with a note informing him Currer Bell was the pen name of his cousin Charlotte.

He broke the seal on the letter and, while unfolding the single sheet of vellum, stepped into the puddle of sunlight spilling through the front windows. The words, written in French, were in Charlotte’s small, slanting cursive.

My Dear Cousin,

Though we have not set eyes on each other for a dozen years, I’d like to think we would still recognize each other if we happened to meet on the street. I am certain I would know you—by your wild dark eyes and hair, if nothing else. Did you know you were my first love? Did you have any idea you’d stolen my heart long before I let you steal my kisses that long-ago summer?

Even if you could not see the girl I was in my face now, you would see her in the book I have enclosed. You might see a little of yourself, too, dear cousin, for I could not resist borrowing a few insights from your letters. These I have marked in the enclosed copy, to save you the trouble of hunting them down.

Raphe tasted strawberries as he turned the sheet over.

I hope Cupid has been kinder to you than he has been to me. His arrows have the habit of attaching my heart to the wrong men, an unfortunate fate that has brought me only suffering and searing regrets. But when I am at my lowest, I think of you, and that hour we spent in the shed. The poor do not need a great deal to live on—they ask only the crumbs of bread which fall from the rich man’s table—but if they are refused these crumbs—they die of hunger. No more do I need a great deal of affection from those I love—I would not know what to do with a whole and complete relationship—I am not accustomed to it—but you showed a little interest in me in days gone by, and I cling to those memories of our affectionate friendship. I cling to them as I would cling on to life.

Ever your devoted cousin,

Charlotte Brontë

Setting the pages aside, Raphe wiped a tear from the corner of his eye. Alas, the God of Love had been no kinder to him than to her. With a sigh, he turned his thoughts to another women with whom he’d been unlucky in love: the French countess with whom he’d lived for the past ten years. She now lay dying inside the château, her face and body ravaged by cholera.

When he was still in Paris, struggling to make a living as an artist, she had commissioned him to paint her portrait. One day, while sitting for him, she said, quite unexpectedly, I need a handsome man on my arm and in my bed, and you need my patronage to paint as you wish, so what would you say to being a kept man?

Having no money or better prospects, he accepted her offer, despite feeling little more than an artist’s attraction to her beauty. His optimistic heart, he supposed, hoped that kernel might sprout into love in time. To his great disappointment, a closer acquaintance with Fabienne had the opposite effect.

And yet, he stayed with her in spite of his disinclination. Why? Fear of poverty? Fear of failure? Fear of being alone? He couldn’t say. He only knew that to paint the way he longed to, he needed her patronage.

For as Charlotte so astutely observed, the poor must have something to live on, if only the crumbs and scraps which fell from a rich man’s table—or, in his case, a rich woman’s. But, soon enough, he would be poor again. How he would support himself he could not say. He only knew he’d much rather beg in the streets of Montmartre than return to England (and his father) as a failure.

Crossing to the empty fireplace, he lifted his gaze to the mirror above the mantle. The wild eyes of a fiend looked back at him. And yet, light still shone in their depths—a good and noble man hiding behind a thin curtain of bitterness and disappointment. Ill-usage could make even the gentlest soul mean-spirited. And he had been kind-hearted once—and longed to be again.

He might yet be redeemed, unlike his brother Gabriel, who, devastated by the death of his beloved wife, now roamed the Bleaklow Moors like a phantom. He’d often wondered if Emily had based the character of Heathcliff on Gabe, but now couldn’t help but think there were shades of himself in that poor wretch as well.

At least his lack of affection for Fabienne would spare him Gabe’s unbearable grief when she passed on. Would he miss her when she was gone? He rather doubted it. More likely, he would feel as if a great weight had been lifted from his chest...or the shackles he’d worn for a decade had finally been removed from his festering wrists and ankles.

Yes, these were terrible thoughts to have about the woman who’d supported him all these years. But how else was a man to feel about a woman who emasculated him on a daily basis? Intellectually, he understood her belittling remarks reflected her own defects more than his, but he still found it hard to take being berated like a naughty child whenever he said or did something displeasing to her.

Tearing his gaze from his reflection, Raphe returned to the painting he’d been working on when Charlotte’s package arrived. Dissatisfied with his progress, he dropped his head and rubbed the back of his neck. Like every other painting he’d attempted since coming to Tours, his execution in no way matched the vision in his head.

Fighting the impulse to put his fist through the canvas, he took up his brush and dabbed the stiff bristles in a glob of cobalt blue. Determined to persevere, he applied the paint to the image—a romanticized version of Persephone. He could relate to her plight, though, unlike her, he’d entered his hell of his own accord. And, in so doing, he sacrificed not only his muse and his passions, but also his confidence and self-respect.

When he saw Fabienne’s physician hurrying down the gravel path toward the pavilion, he set down his brush, threw open the French doors, and stepped into the warmth of the day.

"There you are, Monsieur le Comte, the out-of-breath doctor said as he stopped a few feet away. I have been searching for you everywhere. There has been a sudden change for the worse. It now seems quite probable your wife will not survive the hour."

Raphe felt an inner clutch that might have been guilt, grief, or a coiled combination of the two. Though he was neither a count nor Fabienne’s lawful husband, he saw no reason to give up the charade until he left this life behind. And, from the sound of it, that would be very soon.

She is very weak, the doctor said, herding Raphe toward the château, "and can hardly speak—but has been calling for you. You must go to her—at once, sil vous plait—and give her what comfort you can."

Still wearing his paint-spattered smock, Raphe hurried along. As he entered Cœur Brisé through the morning room, he found Fabienne’s stooped scarecrow of a priest waiting inside.

We have done all we can for her. His voice and expression were solemn. "But you are what she needs now. You must go to her, Monsieur. Quickly. There is not a moment to lose."

On leaden legs, Raphe climbed the stairs, made his way down the portrait-lined hall to Fabienne’s bedchamber, and seated himself in the chair beside her grandiose bed. The drapes, of the same lavender velvet as the bed curtains, were closed, making the room airless and dark. A pair of votives on the bedside table provided the only light. In the flickering glow they cast over her face, he could see the glistening dabs of the anointing oil of last rites.

Is that you, Raphael? Her voice was choked and tremulous.

Yes, Fabienne. It is I.

Raphe set his hand upon hers, which lay cold and withered upon the bedclothes. In his chest, his heart resided in a similar state of atrophy. If only she’d been more like Charlotte, he might have been able to care for her.

Will you not hold me?—even in my final moments?

Raphe’s bile rose in protest. In the ravages of cholera, her eyes had recessed into their sockets and her complexion had turned a ghastly shade of bluish gray. The thought of holding her repulsed him, but he flattered himself he was not hard-hearted enough to refuse her this simple final request.

Moving from the chair to the bed, he gathered her to his breast and held her there. This is what I have longed for—all these years, she said, her words weak and choked against his waistcoat. "A soupçon of tenderness. Why did you find it so hard to give? I have tried to be good to you, but you were never satisfied. I wonder if any woman could make you happy."

Raphe’s jaw tightened and his lips compressed. Perhaps she was right. Perhaps no woman could touch his heart. For, despite having lived now for five-and-thirty years, he had never come close to experiencing anything akin to the all-encompassing emotion described by the romantics he so admired.

At least he’d been faithful, which was more than he could say for most of his married acquaintances. Here in France, people thought nothing of taking lovers to feed their egos and lusts.

Raphe’s strict Protestant upbringing prevented him from following the trend. He had made his own choice, unfulfilling as it was, and took fidelity seriously. A good man did not seek another woman’s bed simply because he was unhappy. A good man struggled to conquer temptation and resist the weaknesses of his flesh.

Or so his father had drilled into his head.

Thus, he exercised his unmet needs in his studio, in his books of poetry, and in tending his botanical tribute to the things in life he most desired but had forfeited for creature comforts.

Love, passion, and tenderness being foremost among them.

Raphe laid Fabienne back on the bed and got to his feet. The air was heavy with the distasteful odor of the quicksilver cure-all the doctor had administered without result. Finding it hard to breathe, he went to the window. Drawing back the heavy drapery, he opened the sash to let in some air. As he filled his lungs, he looked down at his garden—the only thing he would miss about Cœur Brisé.

Raphael, where have you gone?

Fabienne’s desperate question spun him toward the bed. "I am here, ma chérie. At the window."

Come and sit beside me, she implored, struggling to speak. For there is something I must tell you...before the Heavenly Father calls me home.

He quickly reclaimed his chair, set his elbows upon his thighs, and steepled his fingers. When she did not proceed, he leaned closer. What is it you wish for me to know?

I have altered my will. Her voice was but a graveled whisper. You shall have Cœur Brisé for the duration of your life—and the funds required to maintain the estate and your comfortable lifestyle—unless and until you choose to marry.

His chest tightened and his hands curled into weak fists. Why would you make such an unreasonable request of me? Do you wish me to be alone for the rest of my days?

No. Her voice was no more than a rasp. That is not the reason.

Then pray, what is? For, I confess, I am at a loss to ascertain your motive.

I do not wish for you to marry because—she drew a rattling breath—I will not pay to have another woman enjoy what I was so cruelly denied.

Stung by her accusation, he lowered his gaze. It was never my intention to be cruel.

Nor did you make the least effort to return my love.

He bit his lower lip to keep the vitriol on his tongue from escaping. Return her love? Had her illness made her delusional? If she loved him, it was in the possessive way a child loved a pet. And he was not a dog who could wag his tail, careless of the deficiencies of the one who fed him.

Even so, he had tried to love her. He simply found he could not. Whose fault that was, he couldn’t say with certainty. She had chosen him for his looks and he had accepted her terms because he needed her money to paint as he wished. Too late, he realized his temperament was unsuited to a mercenary partnership—and she learned that love could not be bought. In the end, perhaps they both got what they deserved.

With a hard swallow, he asked, And if I should meet someone and decide to marry in spite of your wishes...?

The whole...of my estate...will go to...my nephew.

The mere mention of Lucien L’Hiver made his blood boil. Your nephew is a scoundrel, who will no doubt gamble the whole of your fortune away, including the château, within weeks of inheriting. Is that what you truly desire?

I would rather...see it lost...at the gambling tables...than squandered...on a rival.

Raphe stroked his unshaven chin. As much as he balked at the idea of giving in to yet another of her demands, he favored even less the prospect of returning to the hard life of a struggling artist—or the rented garret whose windows overlooked a squalid alleyway. At night, all the villains of Paris gathered there like the rooks in the graveyard beside his father’s church in Derbyshire. How those wretched creatures used to plague him when, as a boy, he sought solace among the headstones!

If he remained here, he would have Fabienne’s money without the burden of her constant criticism. And, if he ever happened to meet a woman he wished to marry—which seemed highly improbable—he would simply reconsider his options.

As his patroness wheezed her last breaths, he whispered, "Au revoir, Fabienne. In Heaven, may you find the love you could not here on Earth."

When she was gone, the door to his heart opened just wide enough to admit a ray of hope. Perhaps now he could be content or, at the very least, more at ease than he’d been living under her thumb. Maybe someday, he would fall in love with a beautiful heiress with the means and inclination to support a poor painter. For, as George Sand recently wrote so beautifully, the only happiness in this life was to love and be loved.

He believed that wholeheartedly. But whether he was capable of such deep feelings of attachment—or worthy of them—remained to be seen.

Two

Prudence Middleton pulled off her gloves and stretched her cold-numbed fingers toward the fire’s warmth. The fourteen-hour carriage ride from Le Havre to Tours had chilled her to the bone. Still shivering, she lifted her gaze to the painting over the mantle, which depicted a lion devouring a rabbit.

I know just how you feel, she said to the poor cottontail.

Shivering, she pulled her cloak more snugly around her small frame. She’d expected to find someone waiting to take her on to the château. To her great vexation, however, no one had been there to greet her. When she asked a porter if anyone had inquired after her, she received a negative response. Her only contingency, therefore, was to seek permission to wait in the parlor. And here she remained, an hour hence, with the worms of uncertainty and dread feeding upon her innards.

She moved her gaze to the painting beside the fireplace—a bust-length portrait of a striking man with wild black hair and fiendish dark eyes that stirred something in her she would rather not feel. Did such a man exist?—or was he merely a figment of the artist’s imagination? The larger part of her hoped he wasn’t real, as she was sure that should she meet such a handsome devil in the flesh, she would be reduced to a quivering, stammering puddle of uselessness.

She had little experience with men—and none with well-favored ones with fiendish eyes that seemed to stare straight into her soul. Suddenly overheated, she tore her gaze from the man’s arresting stare and, while stroking her throat, considered the artist’s signature. Though her mother had acquainted her with all the noteworthy artists of the day, the name she read there—Raphael Brontë—was unknown to her.

"Pardonnez-moi, Mademoiselle. Votre nom serait-il Middleton, par hasard?"

The Frenchman’s voice, from behind her, gave her a start. Turning sharply, she saw the porter she’d spoken to earlier addressing her from the doorway. Having learned the language from her mother, she understood him perfectly. He’d asked if her name was Miss Middleton.

"Oui, she replied with a trembling smile. Je suis Mademoiselle Middleton."

Someone has come for you from Château de Vouvray, he told her in French.

Prudence gathered her things and made to quit the room. Then, remembering the man with the soulful eyes, she darted her gaze back toward the portrait. That painting there—of the dark-haired man. Can you tell me about the artist?

"Oui, Mademoiselle. He is an Englishman. And that is a self-portrait he painted before he came to live in our midst."

Prudence cleared her throat and licked her lips. Knowing the man in the portrait not only existed, but also resided nearby, made her uneasy. He lives here in Tours?

"Non, Mademoiselle. Lord Brontë lives at Cœur Brisé, which lies a few miles to the north."

"Lord Brontë? Is he a titled gentleman then...as well as a talented painter?"

"Oui, Mademoiselle. He is no less than a count."

Biting her lip, Prudence hastened into the passage, where she found a tall, bewigged man in a blue livery uniform posted by the open outer door. Just beyond, in the cobbled road, stood a finer carriage than any she’d ridden in before. Even the elegant equipage owned by the last family she worked for humbled in comparison.

Is that all you brought with you? As the coachman posed the question in French, he pointed to her trunk in the passage.

"Oui, Monsieur."

After securing her luggage, he opened the door and lowered the folding steps. Gripping the door frame, Prudence climbed into the coach. Before taking her seat, she turned back to the driver. How long is the journey?

Ten miles or so, Mademoiselle.

He closed the door, climbed up to his high fringed perch, and off they went. As the carriage juddered along the rutted road, Prudence reached into the pocket of her cloak and stroked the folded letter from her new employer. She’d read it so many times in the fortnight since the offer arrived, she’d committed every word to memory.

If Miss Middleton, who advertised in the London Times last Thursday, is learned, accomplished, experienced, of a serious disposition, and can provide satisfactory references as to character and competency, a situation can be offered her as the governess of but one pupil, a young lady of seventeen years of age. Please send the aforementioned references and all other particulars to: Madame de Trouvé, Château de Vouvray, Tours, France.

Six years ago, when first Prudence set her mind to governessing, she’d thought how wonderful it would be to see more of the world. She’d been one-and-twenty at the time and had never ventured outside the small rural parish in Somerset where she was born and raised. And now, here she was in France on her way to no less than a castle!

She imagined Madame de Trouvé to be a wealthy young widow, and her daughter to be an older version of Adèle Varens in Jane Eyre, the novel she’d brought along to read on the crossing from England to France. Adèle was the lively and somewhat spoiled ward the hero had adopted after she was abandoned by her mother, a French dancer who’d once been his mistress.

Mr. Rochester wasn’t the girl’s father—an interesting authorial choice