A Drowning

Cyril Hardy sighed down at the empty school room. At 10 am in the morning, it should have been filled with his four boys, however they were nowhere to be seen and neither was their Governess.

Faint screams in the distance alerted him to the probable location of his sons, even before the pounding footsteps of a lackey's solid shoes announced the arrival of Jenkins, his gentleman's gentleman.

 “Sir, Mrs. Greenthorne has fallen into the old well,” the venerable chap informed him.

Cyril needed no further information. He dashed out of the house and down towards the old well, stripping off his jacket as he went. Bounding about the well like a pack of mud daubed savages, his sons whooped and cried with glee. Aged between five and ten, they had lost their mother five years ago and, left in the care of a father who knew only of explorations and expeditions, they had grown wild and unruly. Cyril had hoped that a stern governess might bring them to heel. It appeared he had been wrong.

Ignoring his sons for the moment, Cyril clambered into the well. He had played in it often as a boy, and although it was deep, and filled with stagnant water, one could climb in and out of it if one knew where the footholds were.

Floundering about in the bottom of the well, clinging to a rocky ledge, her skirts logged with water and threatening to drag her down, the pale face of his children's governess registered relief. Cyril was a big, tall, strong man, hardened from years of journeying in the African climes. He lowered his body into the water beside the frightened woman, flashed her a charming wink and offered his back to her.

“Care to come for a ride, Mrs. Greenthorne?” Cyril thought it best to try to lighten the situation as much as possible.

Whimpering pitifully, Mrs. Greenthorne, a middle aged woman who had come recommended as a lady of principles, took hold of his shoulders, wrapping her arms around his neck.

 “Hold tight,” Cyril ordered as he began to ascend from the well. When they arrived back at the surface, Jenkins was present with warm towels and blankets.

 “How did you come to fall into the well, Mrs. Greenthorne?” Cyril inquired, wrapping a large blanket around the poor woman's sodden shoulders.

 “They tricked me. The children told me they had seen a baby deer out this way and they lead me over the well, which they'd covered in leaves and sticks. I fell through.”

Cyril's eyes narrowed with dark displeasure. His sons, carried away with their own sense of achievement at having bested their governess, had not yet seen sense and spirited themselves away.

 “Get to your rooms,” Cyril ordered them, in the tone that told them with no uncertainty that they had gone too far this time. As a pack, they turned and scampered back to the house.

 “Master Hardy, by your leave, I think I shall resign my position here, I am not of sufficient youth to withstand such encounters,” Mrs. Greenthorne said with quivering politeness. Her teeth were chattering, and Cyril applied another blanket around her shoulders.

Cyril sighed inwardly, he could not refuse her, and he certainly did not welcome the prospect of paying off her family in case of her death at the hands of her sons. “Of course Mrs. Greenthorne, let me first fetch a doctor to ensure that you have not sustained any serious injuries.”

As he helped the poor woman back to the relative safety of his home, Cyril was furious. His children were out of control. It was their late mother's fault. The soft hearted woman that she was, she had made him promise on her deathbed, as the little baby Charlie lay in his cot not one day old, that he would never strike the children. He had given his word, but he had more than once regretted it. The boys took after him in spirit, but he had grown up subjected to the firm hand of a governess and the stout cane of a tutor. They were benefiting from neither, and at the rate they were going, it was only a matter of time before he was bailing them out of jail.

Something had to be done.

 

A Solution

A day later, Cyril took a rather interesting call from an old friend.

“She's French, you say?”

 “Yes, French, and she comes very highly recommended. Honoraria was having terrible pains with the children, but this young lady came along and set them straight without laying a finger upon them!”

Cyril wondered if such a feat could truly be achieved.

“Well Byron, send her to me at once. I am in need of a Governess immediately. I fear the boys will tie cook to the oven and spear her if they are left without proper charge for another day.”

The Lord Byron chucked down the phone. “I will send her on the next train. I must warn you Cyril, though this young lady has a sterling reputation when it comes to childcare, she has been found rather difficult by many employers.”

 “What? Does she drink? Is she a lush? Does she consort with the other servants?” Cyril asked.

 “No no, nothing like that. I'll let you see for yourself old chap, toodles!”

And with that mysterious warning, Byron rang off. Cyril put down the phone and frowned. Perhaps it was ill advised taking on an employee with a reputation for being difficult. On the other hand, if this young lady could tame his sons, Cyril wasn't sure he would mind if she drank herself silly and held orgies in the kitchen.

An Arrival

The new governess arrived on the Wednesday morning by coach. Cyril had not had the time to pick her up from the station himself, instead he had sent Jenkins to do the duty. His first impression of the woman, made from the window of his office which was located on the ground floor at the front of his home, was of a pale frocked slip of a young lady who wore a straw hat, and, unless his eyes very much deceived him, was chewing upon a piece of straw.

With a quirk of a smile on his face, Cyril watched the young lady refuse Jenkins' hand down from the carriage, where she had chosen to ride up front, and leap down lightly to the ground with a pleased smile on her face. Freckles dotted her face across the bridge of her nose and gave her an impish appearance.

Making haste to greet his Governess, Cyril was just in time to see the young lady picking up her bags, much to the consternation of Jenkins.

“Please, madame, let me do that for you,” Jenkins said as she struggled under the weight of an unwieldy case.

 “Nonsense! My brother, I can lift a case as well as you can!” the young woman declared, whirling about with it towards the front door and swinging it as she did, transforming herself from a woman into a dangerous missile threatening to topple into the garden at any moment. Cyril thought it best he intervene before she damaged herself.

Catching the case in one hand and steadying the woman with the other, Cyril frowned down at the young woman Byron had assured him would set his children on the straight and narrow. She looked up at him with bold, unashamed eyes and he noted that they were hazel, flecked with gold and blue tints.

 “Bonjour,” she smiled and bobbed into a curtsey.

“Good morning, madame,” Cyril said courteously. “Welcome to Crag Heath.”

 “Oh, you must be Monsieur Hardy, it is so lovely to meet you!” the young lady exclaimed with enthusiasm. Her accent, though charming, was fairly light, Cyril was pleased to discover. His children would not be able to claim that they did not understand her next time they set the barn on fire.

 “I am afraid I was not accorded the honor of knowing your name,” Cyril apologized.

 “Oh, I am Francine Trublay,” Francine said with that alluring French accent. Cyril had always found French women to be quite attractive; indeed, his first wife had been half French on her mother's side.

 “An interesting name, how do you spell it?” Cyril inquired.

 “T r o u b l e – Trublay,” Francine declared with a flourish.

Cyril inclined his head. “Once again, Welcome to Crag Heath, Miss Trouble,” he said, dropping the French inflection entirely. Francine did not seem to mind.

 “Oh I just adore the way the English pronounce things, please, call me Frankie. The captain of the boat I took across the channel would call me Frankie,” Francine bubbled happily.

“I think I will call you Francine,” Cyril said dryly. Really, what had Byron landed him with? In spite of her obvious charms, this Miss Trouble seemed almost as wild as his children.

“Come into my office and we will discuss the terms of your employment, Miss Francine. Jenkins, see to it that Miss Francine's bags are taken to her room.”

 “As you wish, Monsieur,” Francine demurred, following him into the foyer of his home, where Cyril noted that two of his sons laid in wait. Today they had done their best to look presentable, and each boy was wearing a freshly pressed pair of brown shorts and a neat white shirt, and hair slicked back fashionably with more hair oil than Cyril imagined most dilettantes would apply to their hair in a decade.

“Francine, these are my two eldest sons, Connor, who is ten years old, and James, who is almost nine.”

 “How lovely to meet you!” Francine cried with pleasure. Her enthusiasm had the boys glancing at one another conspiratorially. Like their brothers, they had their father's dark hair and deep blue eyes. Connor was starting to look more and more like his father every day as his jaw broadened with an increasingly stubborn lift.

 “Are you French?” Connor asked bluntly.

“Mais oui,” Francine replied with a wink.

 “Is it true that you eat snails?” he asked.

 “When we are not feasting on frog's legs and little boys, yes,” Francine replied with a wide smile.

Cyril saw Connor and James glance at one another with a touch of horror in their gaze.

“You wouldn't eat a little boy!” James piped up.

“Well no, not if he was good. Are you good?” Francine inquired.

James nodded vehemently. “Excellent! Then you are safe!” Francine declared. James giggled, though Connor looked much less convinced.

“That is enough for now, you can get to know Miss Francine later, run along now boys,” Cyril dismissed his sons.

“Delightful children,” Francine noted as Cyril guided her into his study.

“Yes, I adore them, but I must warn you Miss Francine, they are a handful.” Cyril gestured towards a seat for Francine and sat down behind his large desk.

“But of course, what children are not?” Francine smiled. “It is a child's duty to be a handful.”

 “And what is it a governesses duty to do?” Cyril inquired.

 “It is a governesses' job to ensure that she watches her step and does not fall into the water traps,” Francine quipped lightly.

 

Master Hardy

 

Cyril did not appear to be pleased with her, Frankie could tell that much. Like many English gentlemen she had known in her time, he appeared to prize the traditional British stiff upper lip.

“Miss Francine, my children have suffered for a lack of a mother and from a lack of discipline,” Cyril said, sitting back in his chair and folding his hands.

Francine observed him from top to toe. He was one of the tallest men she had ever seen; indeed he towered over her by more than a foot. Lord Byron had told her a little about her new master, that he had lead many expeditions into Africa, that he had lost his wife years ago in childbirth, and that he was now restless at home in England, tending to four wild boys.

Though he was undoubtedly handsome, with a warm mouth and deep eyes that threatened to draw her in completely, there was a lingering sadness about the man. Frankie determined that she would do as much as possible to alleviate his pain during her stay.

 “I promised their mother that I would not use corporal punishment on them, it is a promise I have deeply regretted and I believe they may be suffering for, but a promise is a promise and I am told that you are able to persuade children to behave without recourse to such methods.”

Frankie nodded. “Of course, it is barbaric to hit other people, doubly so if the other person is a child!”

A smile quirked at the corner of Master Hardy's mouth, a smile that confused Frankie

“Do you not agree, Monsieur Hardy?” she inquired.

“I do not. I believe that a firm hand is necessary to keep order in a household.”

Frankie smiled pertly. “Then I believe that your sons' mother did them a great service.”

“Oh do you, Miss Francine?” Cyril inquired dangerously, softly. Again, Frankie was given the impression that something about her did not please Monsieur Hardy.

 “Monsieur Hardy, have I said something to offend?” she asked.

He shook his head. “No Miss Francine, I must confess however, that I find your ways very,” he paused a moment as if searching for a word, “free.”

Francine frowned slightly. “You find them free? Am I not free? Are we not all free?”

 “We are free, but we should behave with decorum proper to our station. When you are speaking with me or when you are tutoring my boys I expect you to maintain a proper level of decorum.”

Offended, Frankie bowed her head. “As you wish, Monsieur.” As much as she wished she could tell this suddenly odious man, who had forgotten how to truly smile, to boil his head, she needed this job very badly, and it paid very well.

 “You will find my children in the school room. I have had them assembled there for you to meet them all. You need not teach them any lessons today; however I expect lessons to begin on the morrow.”

 “Oui, Monsieur,” Frankie acquiesced, avoiding his gaze which now seemed to pierce her, plumbing her soul for all its secrets. She took her leave with a quiet curtsey.

The children were indeed in the school room, waiting quietly for their governess to arrive.

 “Hello children,” Frankie greeted them with a warm smile, seeing them lined up dolefully at their desks. They were little Russian miniature dolls of their father, each of them regarding her with a serious expression.

 “I am Madame Francine, but you may call me Frankie,” she said with a wink.

The smallest boy giggled. “Frankie is a boy's name!” he declared.

 “Is it?” Frankie asked, “And what is your name?”

 “I'm Charlie,” the little boy replied. “That's Kane,” he said, pointing to the slightly larger child sitting next to him.

 “Hello Kane, how nice it is to meet you,” Frankie smiled at the boy, who did not return her smile.

 “And James and Connor, I remember you from our meeting earlier in which you told me how much you wanted to try eating frog's legs.” She said the words with a dead pan expression, withholding a smile as Connor and James howled in dissent.

 “No, Miss Frankie, we don't want to eat frog's legs!” they cried, squirming in disgust at the thought.

“Oh really? I thought you did? I thought we might all have frog's legs for afternoon tea, and we could wash them down with some swamp water, what do you say?” It was impossible to hold her dead pan expression, and she smiled as the boys howled once more, even the serious Kane let a little laugh slip.

 “No? Oh well, I suppose we could have jam and scones instead,” Frankie said.

“Yes! I love jam and scones!” James burst forth.

 “Good, well then, if we can all behave ourselves and not drown anyone for the next few hours, I think we can probably manage some tea with our jam and scones, what do you think about that?”

A rousing cheer from the boys indicated their agreement.

“I have to go and unpack my things, would you boys like to help?” The boys looked at one another and nodded as Frankie had anticipated they would.

 “Where is my room do you think?” Frankie said, walking into the dining room. “Is this it? Shall I sleep on the dining table?”

 “No!” the boys howled with laughter at the idea, and Connor took Frankie by the hand and lead her upstairs to the room that had been prepared for her.

 “Oh thank you Connor, you are so helpful!” Frankie praised him. Connor grinned and blushed to the roots of his hair and Frankie got the impression that the boy hadn't heard much praise in his short life.

It did not take long for Frankie to set all four boys to work helping her unpack her things. They seemed to enjoy the company and attention. Watching the joy on their faces as she praised them and told them where things were to go, Frankie soon formulated a theory that the boys were suffering not so much from a lack of discipline, but a lack of attention.

The smallest boys were perhaps the most enthusiastic, and little Charlie soon got the idea into his head that the best way to help Frankie put her clothes away was to try and put them on himself.

 “No no silly Charlie, you can't wear that!” Frankie laughed, watching Charlie try and slip himself into a lacy negligee.

 “He most certainly cannot!” Cyril's dry tones cut through the room, instantly killing all merriment. The boys stopped where they were, the oldest two on the bed where they had been sorting through Frankie's books, Kane on the floor, halfway in and out of Frankie's large case, and Charlie, clutching at her nightgown with his chubby little hand.

 “What's going on here?” Cyril inquired, leaning up against the door, his arms folded across his chest, an eyebrow raised at Frankie.

“We're helping Frankie put her things away, she was going to live under the dining room table, but we stopped her!” James informed his father stoutly.

 “Really? Is that what Miss Francine said?” Cyril inquired.

“It is what I said, fortunately, Connor showed me my room before I managed to hang my undergarments on the chandelier,” Frankie replied, setting the boys into gales of laughter and momentarily stunning their father.

 “Boys, I think I need to speak to Miss Francine,” Cyril said in tones that sent ominous shivers down Frankie's spine. She was not sure why, but the way he was looking at her made her stomach flip flop in place.

 “Go down and tell cook that Miss Francine wanted you to have a big pot of tea and a heaping plate of jam and scones for being so good,” Frankie smiled at the boys, who leapt back into life at the mention of jam and scones and happily ran past their father, laughing and jumping down the stairs.

With his sons safely out of earshot, Cyril stepped into the room and closed the door behind him.

“Miss Francine, we need to have a little discussion, I think,” he said, stepping towards her.

“If you wish, Monsieur,” Frankie agreed.

“I do believe I was quite clear on the necessity of you maintaining decorum when you are around my children. Yet I come here and discover them calling you Frankie and playing about in your undergarments. To make matters worse, you speak to me flippantly.”

 “Well, Monsieur, they were helping me, there is nothing wrong with that, is there?” Frankie said, artfully dodging his point. It did not work.

 “That is neither here nor there, Miss Francine. I made it clear that I expected you to maintain decorum and you disobeyed me. In this house, disobedience leads to discipline.”

Frankie colored, her temper rising as he spoke to her as if she were a child herself.

 

“Monsieur, I am neither a child nor a servant to be disciplined! I am here, at your request, as a guest.”

 “A paid guest,” Cyril reminded her, his brows drawing together in disapproval, “and an entirely too spirited one. If you continue to disobey me, young lady, you will learn that there is a price to be paid.”

“Are you going to dismiss me the same day I arrive? Should I have Charlie come and wear my delicates back into my suitcases?” Her tone was flippant, and Cyril frowned at it, stepping closer still, looming over her.

“No, Miss Francine, I will discipline you in the only fashion a smart mouthed young lady can be disciplined. Over my knee.” His eyes held hers firmly.

Returning his gaze equally firmly, Frankie folded her arms defiantly across her chest.

 “This is England, not Africa. Here you must treat women in a civilized fashion. That does not extend to hitting them!” Frankie lectured him sternly.

To say that Cyril was taken aback would have been an understatement. He began to get the feeling that the ground was slipping out from under his feet with this woman who did not acknowledge his authority and thought that she could lecture him.

“Be careful, Miss Francine, I am not one of your students, I am your employer and you are subject to my rules. Consider this your first warning. If I find you breaking the rules I have set out for you, you will be spanked.”

He growled the words, then spun on his heel and left the room. As the door closed behind him, a pair of panties sailed through the air and landed on the door handle.

 “Damn. Missed.” Frankie cursed to herself, retrieving her panties and carrying on with her unpacking. If Cyril Hardy thought that he could intimidate her with threats of violence, he was very much mistaken.