just like the others on the street, tall and narrow, red brick with plain windows curtained in heavy dark velvet. Next to the glossy black door, a polished brass plaque read “Mrs Goddard’s School For Disadvantaged Females”.
The sign did not say the “disadvantaged females” were former prostitutes seeking a new, respectable life within these quiet walls. Or that one of the school’s teachers was Lady Emily Carroll, plain Miss Carroll, as she was known here. It would be quite ruinous if anyone ever found out her association with women of low morals.
It was her secret alone, and sometimes this work was her one truly bright, worthwhile moment all week. These women needed her—and she needed them. It was only there that she knew she was useful, where she could indulge her desire to help people.
She paused next to a looking glass in the small foyer to remove her bonnet and tidy her hair. The fine, pale strands always slipped from their pins, making her look more schoolgirl than teacher. She smoothed them back and scrubbed at a smudge on her cheek, barely noticing the curve of her dimpled chin or the wide green eyes that sometimes were the only things anyone noticed.
Emily paused to stare into those eyes, bright with exercise and the excitement of her Tuesdays. Her parents had always considered her—and their—best asset to be her prettiness. They had told her that since she was very young. She knew better than to put all her hopes on something so ephemeral and empty. Looks would pass soon enough, and while they were here it wasn’t enough to gain her family what they wanted—a ducal son-in-law.
But what could she do except marry? How could she even begin to find out who she was, really, deep down inside? She was always lost and sad, seeking love and approval, a purpose to her life—until she was fourteen years old, and Miss Morris became her governess.
Emily had never known anyone like Miss Morris before. The young governess was so lively, so passionate about learning, and people and the world. She’d made Emily feel passionate about them, too, had made her see the world and herself through new eyes. She was surely not just shy, mousy, pretty Lady Emily Carroll—she was herself, smart and loyal, with a great deal of love in her heart and a lot to offer.
Miss Morris took her on nature walks in the country, teaching her about the world around them, rocks, flowers, trees. In London, she took Emily on educational walks of a different sort. She took her out of Mayfair and into the poorer streets, showed her the true desperation and sadness, and taught Emily how she could use her assets to help others.
It was a great revelation, and Emily had never completely despaired of herself after that. Perhaps she did not have the lively wit society valued, the flirtatious wiles to attract men, but she did have other things to offer. And she would never settle for less than a life—and a husband—of serious purpose and calm steadiness. The Duke of Manning was surely not that.
“Emily! There you are, my dear,” a voice called, pulling Emily out of her daydreams.
She turned to see Miss Morris, now Mrs Goddard, standing in the office doorway. Though the white cap on her brown curls and her grey silk dress were plain and austere, her dark eyes were bright with laughter, her lips creased in a smile.
“I’m so sorry to be late,” Emily said, hurrying to kiss Mrs Goddard’s pink cheek. To see her was always so wonderful, like seeing her second mother. “My sister-in-law wanted to talk, and—”
“Quite all right, my dear. I know how hard it can be to get away. Liza has got the girls started on today’s lesson.” Mrs Goddard led her up the stairs to the first floor, where all the classrooms lay. The women who came here seeking a new life under Mrs Goddard’s charity were given lessons of all sorts, beginning with reading, writing and simple sums. They moved on to deportment, sewing, cooking, elocution, whatever might help them find a new, respectable livelihood. They also lived in the house, in rooms on the second and third floors.
When Emily first came to help her former governess last year, she taught reading and a little sewing. Now she taught some French and fine embroidery to girls more advanced in their lessons who wanted to be ladies’ maids and milliners. To help them in even such small ways, to see them find a new way in the world, made her concerns about not becoming a duchess seem silly indeed! These women lived with the terror she felt when Mr Lofton tried to kiss her in the garden every day, only on a far worse scale than she could ever imagine. The women needed her help, and she was never happier than when she was here being useful.
“Bonjour, Mademoiselle Carroll!” her pupils called when she stepped into the classroom. A row of young ladies in fine black gowns turned to her with smiles of welcome.
Emily laughed happily. Maybe she disappointed at home, but not here. “Bonjour, mesdemoiselles! Comment allez-vous aujourd-hui? “
“It’s about time you got home. I’ve been waiting an age.”
Nicholas had barely stepped into his library at Manning House, the afternoon post and various messages from his estate managers in hand, when he was brought up short by his brother Stephen’s words. Stephen lounged in an armchair by the fire, a snifter of brandy in his hand and the newspapers open on his lap and scattered across the floor.
“I see you’ve had no trouble passing the time, though,” Nicholas said. “I just got that case of brandy from the wine merchant.”
“And excellent stuff it is, too,” Stephen said with a laugh. He tossed off the last of his drink and sighed happily. “You always do have the best brandy, Nick, and the best chef, too. I had luncheon earlier, it was superb. I should visit you in town more often.”
“You come often enough as it is,” Nicholas said. He tried to sound grumpy about the unexpected invasion of his life and wine cellar, but in truth he was glad to see his brother. He was always glad to see any of his family. Life in town could be a lonely, dull affair, and their affectionate jokes and banter, their exuberant pranks, always kept that coldness away. With them, he did not have to think so very much. He did not have to remember. He could just be Nicholas, living in the here and now.
But they were all very busy of late. Stephen had inherited their mother’s estate at Fincote Park, where she had retired in quiet sadness after their father, the duke, eloped with his lover Lady Linwall. Stephen worked hard to transform it from a place of dark memories into the finest stable and racetrack in England. Their half-brother Leo helped him in that task, travelling the Continent in search of suitable horseflesh for the stable. They sometimes heard from him, but not often.
And their half-sisters, Justine, Annalise and Charlotte, were occupied with their own growing families. They wrote often, usually to gently enquire when he, too, might enter the blessed, blissful state of wedlock as they had.
But he doubted he would ever find such great matches as theirs, love pairings all. He had tried that once, and it all ended in pain and despair. He knew his duty well enough, to provide heirs for the dukedom, and he would do it. Just not quite yet.
And since he had returned from Italy he had felt a strange distance from his family. He had lost the lightness of heart he once had with them, and he could sense their worry. He just didn’t know how to reassure them—or how to find the joy in life again.
For some reason, an image of Lady Emily Carroll flashed through his mind. He remembered catching her in his arms last night as she tumbled from the stairs, the soft, warm feel of her body against
