Page 6 of The Governess and the Brooding Duke
It would be foolish, and it was certainly not something she could ever endure again.
She was being honest when she told him she had no desire for a husband or children.
She had no designs on men, not in that way. There was no mystery left to men, not for her.
She could not ever look forward to a wedding night the way a blushing bride might. In some ways, she counted herself lucky for that reason.
She was not a sad young woman forced into spinsterhood. She had chosen it. There was no great mystery to her when it came to men, and she was glad to have clear eyes.
She prized her freedom. Acknowledging that within the confines of society, as a woman, her freedom would always be limited.
She saw no merit in railing against this truth. Just as she saw no merit in bitterness. It wasn’t that she didn’t feel anger, she did, and she found it on occasion to be a powerful motivator. But bitterness...
Bitterness had turned her mother into a victim of every circumstance. Bitterness had made her mother an ineffective champion for her daughter. For any of her children.
Bitterness saw you sitting down in the mud to die, to spite someone who never cared for you to begin with. And Mary refused to allow bitterness to dictate how far she could go in life. She had refused to sit in the mud. She had given up her child that he might have a better life, and if she did not go and pursue a better life for herself, then what was the purpose of the sacrifice?
She would have saved her child from the mud, only to consign herself to it, and she could not see the purpose in that.
And so while she might wander the earth with anger burning in her breast, she chose to make that into action.
Into change.
She did not rail against circumstances she could not alter. She moved in the world as it was, with clear-eyed pragmatism. One thing a life like hers did not afford was blind optimism or fate of any kind. She believed in what she could see. What she could touch. She did not secretly hope that humans might be better than their circumstances, better than the way the world had shaped them to be. Just as now she knew that the Duke was not acting with any sort of compassion. He was acting out of interest for his own convenience, and she would appeal to that.
Why try to appeal to his heart? She had yet to see evidence that men acted with their hearts. Yes, Lachlan, the leader of her clan, had acted with compassion. He was a good leader, and he used his position in the clan as that of a father. What he had done was what she had imagined a true father might have done for his daughter. Her own would have killed her.
But Lachlan Bain, leader of Clan McKenzie, was different. Still, she did not believe his actions came from his heart as much as it was inspired by his wife.
The sponsorship offer she had received from the Duke of Kendal had likewise been based on something other than emotion. It was a matter of honour for him, based on his connection to Penny, she was led to believe.
However they had behaved, the world was not run by the hearts of men, but rather the greed of them. And the desire for their own comfort, power and convenience. And this was the perspective by which she moved within the world.
‘You will start immediately. But do not expect that you will be here long-term. It is likely the children will have run you out by day’s end.’
His expression was cool, entirely neutral on his disturbingly pleasing face. His hair was dark, his eyes a shocking blue. His jaw was square, his chin strong. His bearing of power, the mantle of strength that seemed to rest upon his broad shoulders, extended beyond the physical perfection, and yet the physical perfection of the man could not be ignored.
She could only be grateful that she would not see him. Not often. Eventually, most of her communication would be between herself and the housekeeper, she had no doubt.
A man of his status would hardly be interested in his children. As long as there was no issue, she imagined they would communicate largely through written report. And whatever he said, she did not foresee there being an issue.
He spoke of his children as if they might be feral beasts. But he had no idea. Her siblings had been quite literally feral. There had been no adult supervising their actions. They had been responsible for dressing themselves, feeding themselves. And often there had not been food. They had foraged for it. Begged for it.
Before Lachlan had returned to Clan McKenzie, life had been very dark. Circumstances in the Highlands were difficult. Poverty was more common than not.
And that was something she knew the Duke of Westmere would never understand. It did not matter how difficult his children were. It did not matter that she was in a working position, which would be perceived as being low by many. In her work she could be comfortable. In her work she always had food. She always had clothing. She was part of the household, she was protected.
She had set out to build a life that would insulate her in ways her upbringing never had. Never could.
Children, no matter how difficult or wild due to the loss of their mother, would never be a deterrent. Not when she knew what was actually waiting out in the rest of the world for young women.
Miss Mary Smith was a pragmatist, because Mary McLaren had been a victim.
She would never be that girl again. Not ever.
‘Then let us go to the nursery.’
Chapter Two
