The Observations of a Curious Governess by Viveka Portman

nay, not anything or anyone else.’
    ‘Then you are being foolish, Mr Reeves.’ I said, then lamented the wounded expression that crossed his face, thus I softened my tone. ‘What you suggest is impossible, or extremely unlikely at best. Please, let us remain friends.’
    He brought his hand up and kissed my palm, the sensation of which made those rude parts of me slacken and pulse.
    ‘Of course. Forgive my outburst,’ he smiled ruefully.
    ‘You are forgiven,’ I smiled, glad that the awkward moment had passed. ‘I really must be at the library now. My charges will be waiting and most impatient.’
    ‘You shall make very fine governess, I think, Miss Swan,’ he said, a tell-tale note of longing still flavouring his words.
    ‘Why, thank you. I do try.’
    ‘Speak with me, however, if you ever find Lord Stanton’s address of you inappropriate.’
    I remembered the lewd conversation at last evening’s dinner, and worried my lip. ‘Of course,’ I agreed, though I would do no such thing. The last thing Mr Reeves needed was to fly into a chivalric rage over some vulgar slight by Lord Stanton to me, and lose his position of trust with His Lordship.
    ‘Good day then, Miss Swan.’
    ‘Good day, Mr Reeves.’

Chapter 4
    Wednesday 16 th June 1813
    Over the next few days, on my morning constitutional walks, I was met in the maze by Mr Reeves. It transpired that he was staying in the vicarage not far from Stanton, the vicar being his cousin on his father’s side.
    On these walks Mr Reeves would regale me in tales of His Lordship’s tenants as well as vicar and his wife. I had naturally seen them at the church on a Sunday, but I’d been granted no formal introduction. The wife was by all accounts a naturally gregarious woman, gifted at healing, who seemed quite at odds with her stern and pious husband. It amused Jonathan, as much as I, that her light spirit contrasted so starkly with her husband’s, and we made jest of the union between them.
    I find Vicar Reeves’ sermons most pious. Last Sunday, he had, perhaps, lingered overlong on history of Job, a biblical tale I feel focuses too heavily on heavenly retribution rather than worldly good deeds and salvation. It irritated me, as I believe there are many more pertinent chapters in the Bible to be used in the presence of Lord Stanton than those Vicar Reeves had chosen. After the two hour-long sermon (during which Lord Stanton actually fell asleep!), I could understand why Mr Reeves took leave of the vicarage early in the day. If indeed Vicar Reeves was as tiresome in conversation as he was in sermon, I’d scarcely be able to keep my eyes open at breakfast.
    This morning on our walk, I had just thought to enlighten my companion to this amusing thought when a sound most ill fitting our walk reached my ears. A grunt and a cry, followed by the unmistakeable symphony of flesh against flesh.
    ‘Nancy …’ I heard the scoundrel mutter.
    ‘Oh yes!’ she giggled in reply.
    I froze in the morning sun, and there was no way I could hide my reaction to the sound. Nor could I ignore poor Mr Reeves’ expression of mounting shock. I looked to my left; we had long passed the maze and the walled kitchen gardens, and were now at the orangery. The door to the orangery was open wide, and the sounds of rut came loud and shameful from it.
    ‘Good God!’ Mr Reeves cursed. ‘Who in Heaven’s name is that?’
    ‘What?’ I said, taking his arm and offering it a none-too-gentle tug. ‘I can’t hear anything. Let us return to the maze, I believe I saw a peony flower’ It was a shamefully weak lie, but I could not allow Mr Reeves of all people to witness the magnitude of scandal that occurs within Stanton.
    He seemed as immovable as stone however, and looked sternly towards the orangery. ‘Who the devil would dare behave so? Miss Swan, I suggest you return to the house. I’ll call this rutting devil out!’
    I felt verily sick. ‘No, Mr Reeves, really, we ought visit the