Page 46 of When She Was a Governess
“When they took him away, the household was disbanded within the month. I remember Mrs. Ellsworth weeping in the kitchen over you children. She would have kept you herself if she could have.”
“She works for my brother James now,” Sophia said.
“I heard that. It makes me smile to think of them reunited.”
Mrs. Bromley, who’d been standing quietly by the door, spoke softly. “I’ll leave you two to talk. Mrs. Shaw, take your time.” She slipped out, closing the door behind her.
“What was she like? My mother?” Sophia asked.
Mrs. Shaw’s severe expression softened completely. “She was lovely, miss. Not just in looks, though she was beautiful—fair like you, with those same blue eyes. But lovely in spirit. My mother spoke of her often, even years later. Said she was the kindest mistress she’d ever served. Never raised her voice, never treated anyone poorly. And she loved your father and her sons so dearly. The whole household could see it.”
Sophia hung on every word. “What else?”
“She was thrilled to be expecting again,” Mrs. Shaw continued, her own voice thick. “My mother said Her Grace held you just once before she passed. She looked at you and smiled, and said you were perfect. That you were her little miracle.”
Little miracle.This was the second time she’d been called a miracle on the very same day.
“Did she?” Sophia’s voice broke completely. “I never knew that.”
“She did, miss. And she would be so proud of you now. So proud of the woman you’ve become, even after everything they did to you.”
Sophia couldn’t speak. She could only sit there, tears blurring her vision, as this woman gave her back pieces of her mother she’d thought lost forever.
Mrs. Shaw rose and crossed to the washstand, dampening a cloth. She returned and handed it to Sophia. “Here, miss. Dry your eyes.”
Sophia took the cloth gratefully, pressing it to her face. When she could finally speak again, she asked, “How did you know of this position?”
“Mrs. Bromley wrote to me a few days ago. She’d heard through a mutual acquaintance that I was seeking a new position. My previous mistress, Lady Morris, passed in January. When Mrs. Bromley told me the new Lady Montrose would be Sophia Ashford, daughter of the Duke, well, I knew I had tocome. To present myself to you. I cannot explain it other than it felt like divine timing.”
“It does seem so.” Sophia stared at this woman who’d appeared like an answer to a prayer she hadn’t known to make. “Mrs. Bromley said you had excellent references.”
“I do, miss. I’ve served in several fine houses since leaving Ashford Manor. I know how to dress a lady properly, arrange hair in the latest fashions, care for fine clothes, navigate the social requirements of your station.” Mrs. Shaw’s expression grew more serious. “I remember what it means to be an Ashford. And I would be honored—deeply honored—to help you reclaim that birthright.”
“I have not been a lady. Not until now,” Sophia said. “I must confess to feeling nervous. I’ll need a lady’s maid who can guide me. Gently, of course. I am a rather sensitive soul.”
“You were a sensitive child. I can remember reading the story of Joseph and his coats of many colors from the Bible when you were only seven years old. You cried for Joseph as if your heart would break. It was stunning to see in a young child.”
“I do not remember that either. I wish I did.”
“Perhaps I can share more stories with you. If you should choose me, that is.”
“I don’t know how I could not,” Sophia said. “Can you start right away? Everything is happening at once and poor Mrs. Bromley is overwhelmed taking care of me and the household. My brothers arrive this afternoon. We have the wedding tomorrow.”
“I can began immediately, my lady. Shall we prepare you for the rest of your day?”
“Yes, please,” Sophia said, wiping away the last of her tears. “I’ve been out by the water with Amelia and Henry and am need of your services.”
Mrs. Shaw rose and began assessing Sophia with a professional eye. “We’ll start with your hair. Sit.”
“I’m afraid it’s quite tangled.” Sophia settled at the dressing table while Mrs. Shaw began unpinning her hair. The older woman’s hands were gentle but efficient, brushing through the strands with practiced ease.
“My mother said your mother had hair like this,” Mrs. Shaw said softly. “So fair it was almost silver in the sunlight. She wore it simply most days, but for formal occasions, my mother would dress it with pearls and ribbons. You have the same texture, the same thickness.”
Mrs. Shaw worked methodically, sectioning Sophia’s hair with expert fingers. She heated a curling iron over the small spirit lamp she’d brought with her, testing the temperature carefully before taking a front section of hair and wrapping it around the iron.
The gentle tugging as Mrs. Shaw worked was surprisingly soothing—the warmth of the iron, the sweet scent of the light pomade she smoothed through each section. She created soft ringlets to frame Sophia’s face, then gathered the remaining hair at the crown, twisting and pinning it into an elegant knot. She left a few curls loose at the nape of Sophia’s neck, softening the overall effect.
“There,” Mrs. Shaw said finally, stepping back. “Simple enough for daytime, but refined.”
