Page 12 of The Earl's Disguised Governess
But she hurried along the cold, frosty cobbles, keeping her head down. The one thing about being a governess was the freedom. A fine lady of the Ton was noticed walking alone, but a governess was not, and Claire always made sure to dress simply but prettily, enjoying the freedom that came with her role. A lady wore fine things like she was born for it and would never dream of wearing even a plain night dress. Claire let herself blend into the background with that as an advantage.
She had attended the Haberdash Bookshop several times in the last three weeks to acquire new reading material for Lady Florence when the use of a carriage was permitted. Lady Florence was not confident enough to request the books from anybody else, and she was afraid of judgement or words getting back to Lady Katherine about her reading material.
Claire did not know Lady Katherine well enough, but she could guess that a woman of her rank did not want her great niece to be reading about lovers who fall to taking their own lives out of a desperate love for one another.
“Miss Gundry!” came the call of Mr Lawrence Kent, the store owner. He wore a jaunty hat tucked down at an angle and a fine, red sash along the length of the hat. True to his name and appearance, he had been a haberdasher before retiring to open a bookstore when the war had happened, and a need for hats lessened while the need for escapism through books heightened. Everybody wanted to buy the latest account of the Battle of Waterloo only six months prior, and every bookshop wanted to be the one selling out copies and bringing in the profits.
Mr Kent nodded his head at her.
“Good morning, Mr Kent,” she greeted, nodding and resisting the urge to curtsy.
“And a cold, blustering one it is, my dear,” he said. Age lined his face, but his smile was friendly, and she felt comforted around him. “I might assume you are here to pick up a certain edition of a book for Lady Florence?”
“I am indeed.” She smiled broadly as he produced a book wrapped in brown paper and slid it into a fine velvet box. “You are ever so kind as to have helped us acquire this edition. It must not have been easy.”
“Indeed, it was not, but I have my connections.” He winked and tapped his nose as Claire handed the payment over. She had bought the book from her own wages and did not mind, for it must have been some time since Lady Florence had received a gift. “Miss Gundry, if I may suggest, do have a look around and find something you like for yourself. If you are interested in the new biographies of any of the fallen captains or generals in the Battle of Waterloo, we have those. The writers worked quickly to ensure we had the latest material prepared.”
“Thank you.” She bowed her head in gratitude before moving deeper into the shop. He was right: she did deserve such a gift for herself. She bypassed the biographies he mentioned. Perhaps it was uneducated of her, but she did not care for the war heroes. Claire thought they were valiant but did not need to read a book on them.
She much preferred the classical literature near the front of the shop and went over to bury her afternoon in those stacks. Emma, one of the most recent Jane Austen novels, had come out in the last year. Claire had heard a few things about it from the other maids who could read, and she was interested. Emma, the main heroine, sounded an independently witty woman who could hold her own while being a hopeless romantic.
I would like to read such a book, Claire thought.
The bookshop reminded her of her father’s old library in Bristol. It was small and quaint, well-stocked and loved,and where there was no room, books were stacked artfully. It was cosy, with armchairs dotted about, as Lawrence had no problem with customers trying before buying. In fact, he often encouraged it.
Just as she had found Austen’s name on the shelf, she overheard Lawrence greeting another customer. “Ah, Lady Granting, how lovely to see your smiling face this morning. I dare suggest you are here for your order of the poetry books your husband is fond of?”
“Indeed, I am, Mr Kent. You are ever so observant when it comes to your customers!”
Claire tuned out the rest of their conversation as she hid her face, suddenly interested in those war biographies, just to hide from Lady Granting, a Ton lady she had once known. A lady whose house she had frequented several times in one summer for afternoon tea as they gossiped over suitors with other women.
Her heart raced. I cannot be recognized! Ton ladies are always catching people out.
But as she whimpered in panic, trying to think about the unladylike action of outright crouching to the floor, Lady Granting walked past without sparing her a glance. The bell above the door tinkled, signalling that the woman had left, and Claire remained anonymous.
Oh, she thought. Lawrence Kent gave her a funny look, and she realized she had hunched in panic. She straightened her back, giving him a nervous smile.
It was … disheartening, she thought, to have not been recognized. While it secured her identity and kept her safe from gossip or stares, and she had buried her past self for a reason, it was saddening to realize just how truly invisible she was. How easily forgotten. If Claire had overheard anyone asking if a lady recalled Lady Claire Garner, would people know her? Would they remember her name?
With her heart sinking, Claire thought she had buried herself too well. It was her intention, of course, but it hurt to feel so insignificant to those she once surrounded herself with. Was she really so forgettable?
“Viscount Archibald White. Interesting choice.” A male voice behind her had Claire spinning around; her lips parted in surprise. People rarely talked to her while she shopped. A man with grey-streaked hair and dim green eyes looked at her almost nervously. It was a man who looked like he had seen a few terrible things, which had taken a toll on him. Despite the gray in his hair, he was still young, perhaps only a few years older than her, in his early thirties. He nodded at the book she had pretended to look at to hide. “I knew him well.”
“Oh,” she said, blinking. “I wasn’t—I’m not …” She sighed helplessly.
“Will you be buying it? No doubt it shall be half fabricated. I do not think the book mentions how White couldn’t hold his liquor but pretended he could or was a terrible sap at heart. A full romantic, that one was. Or that, no matter what, he fought for his men to his last breath.”
Claire was wide-eyed, nodding. “I was looking for Emma,” she whispered, as if she had done something wrong.
“Oh,” he said, laughing, and although he spoke of clear grief, he still had an easy smile. “Is she your friend?”
“Rather a book,” Claire answered, smiling. “It is one of Austen’s latest.”
“Emma, the book! Of course, how foolish of me.” He gave her a quizzical look. “Do you recognize me at all?”
She shook her head, and perhaps she would have, but her mind was scrambled, still on Lady Granting. Only as she thought about it did her panic rear its head again. Do I know him from my former life, too?
The man saved her the honour of giving herself away with a guess when he said, “I am Graham Courtenay. I worked alongside your employer, Ernest Barnes, in the army. He is a terrific medic.”
