Hello readers, another story...not mine...but I invite you to give it a chance. Thank you.
In these historical pieces, I take certain liberties...especially since the leading lady is a woman of colour, and I realized, it might not always ring true...pertaining to history. But this is fanfiction, and just like the Tv series...where said leading lady...woman of colour...was a servant who became a Queen, I tend to overlook the colour aspect and everything in between, and enjoy tailoring these little stories to my favourite couple.
With that being said, I sincerely apologize for any offense caused...it was never my intention.
Original name: Rules For A Proper Governess.
Author: Jennifer Ashley
WINTER, 1885
His voice drew her, and Guinevere Browne...aka...Frankie, wanted to hear more of it. So she leaned forward on the balcony, to watch the man standing upright and arrogant, one hand touching an open book on a table in front of him, the other gesturing as he made his argument.
He was none other than Arthur Pendragon...known by the villains as 'The slugger' because, he always got a conviction.
He wore one of the silly wigs that all barristers wore, but his face was extremely handsome, and far younger than that of the judge who sat above him.
A wilted nosegay reposed in a vase in front of the judge...both judge and flower looking weary in the extreme.
The case had caught the attention of journalists up and down the country.
It was the sensational murder of a lady by one of her downstairs maids.
The young woman in the dock, Eliza, had been accused of stabbing her employer and making off with a hundred pounds' worth of silver.
Frankie knew she hadn't done it. Though she couldn't prove it.
But the deed had been done by Alban Rolfe and his mistress, only they'd set up Eliza to take the blame for it.
Frankie had known, she had heard his plans, but did the police listen to the likes of Guinevere Francesca Browne?
No.
Emphatically no!
Not that she was in the habit of talking to constables most days. She often stayed as far away from them as possible. And her dad and Aldo...her self-styled beau...made sure she did.
But she'd tried for Eliza's sake.
Hadn't mattered.
They'd arrested the poor girl anyway, and now she would get hanged for something she didn't do.
The handsome Arthur Pendragon, with his mesmerizing voice, was busy making the case that Eliza had done the crime.
She couldn't afford a defense, so she was here on her own in the dock, thin and small for her age...a maid who'd been in the wrong place at the wrong time.
Thinking about her friend's circumstances had Frankie boiling with anger, but she could only clench her fists and pray for a miracle.
Mr. Pendragon...despite his dire statements...had a delicious Scots accent...having grown up in Scotland, to a Scottish mother and an English father.
His accent wasn't so thick Frankie couldn't understand it, but his R's rolled pleasantly, and his vowels were long, especially the U's.
His voice was deep and rich, rolling over the crowd like an intoxicating wave, so much so, even the bored judge couldn't take his eyes off him.
He had broad shoulders and a firm back, obvious to all, even in the black robes.
He was tall also...dominating all in the room...the strength in his big, bare hands apparent. And he looked as if he'd be more at home on a Highland hillside, with a sword in hand, as he fended off attackers.
'One glare from those blue eyes, and his attackers would be running for their lives,' Frankie thought.
"If your lordship pleases," Mr. Pendragon said, his voice warming Frankie again, "I would like to call Alban Rolfe back to the witness box."
Frankie swallowed, a bit nervous.
Alban had already given evidence, that he'd found the body in the sitting room of the London house, then seen Eliza down in the kitchen, crying, with blood on her apron.
The silver had been gone, and no one had found it, so she must have hidden it somewhere, hadn't she?
The police had tried to get its location out of her, but of course, the poor girl hadn't known, seeing as she hadn't stolen the silver in the first place.
The judge sighed.
"Is it relevant, Mr. Pendragon? This witness has already told us his version of events."
"One or two more questions, your lordship," Mr. Pendragon said without hurry. "You will understand my reasons in due time."
Alban came back in, and was reminded he was under oath, as he faced Mr. Pendragon with all innocence on his face.
"Now, then, Mr. Rolfe." Mr. Pendragon smiled pleasantly, but Frankie saw a gleam in his eyes, that was a cross between anger and glee.
'What are you up to?' she thought.
"Mr. Rolfe," Mr. Pendragon said smoothly. "You say you opened the door of the sitting room to find the lady of the house on the floor, and her dress covered in blood. You'd been asked to refill the coal bin on your return from your day out and had gone up there to do so."
Barrister Pendragon glanced down at the notes on his bench, then went on.
"That day was the seventh of July. The middle of the afternoon, in the middle of summer. Quite the warmest day anyone could remember. The newspapers reported as such. A bit too warm for a fire, wouldn't you say?"
Alban blinked.
"Well...I...the nights were still nippy. I remember that."
"Yes, of course. Bloody English weather. Begging your pardon, your lordship."
People tittered.
The judge scowled.
"Please get on with it, Mr. Pendragon."
"You say in your statement that you saw quite a lot of blood," Mr. Pendragon said, not missing a beat. "On the sofa, on the floor, smeared on the door panels and on the doorknob."
"'That's right." Alban put his hand to his heart. "Gave me a turn, it did."
"So you fled the room and went down to the kitchen, where you saw the accused, wearing an apron stained with blood. She, however, told you, she got the blood on her, because she thought she'd help out the cook by stuffing the chickens for dinner. She also told you, the chickens were still a bit bloody, so she wiped her hands on her apron. Correct?"
"It's what she said, yeah."
"Now, I need your help, Mr. Rolfe. I must ask you a very important question, so think hard. Was there any blood smeared on the doorknob of the door to the back stairs?"
Alban blinked again. He obviously hadn't rehearsed this question.
"Um...I don't think so. I can't be sure. Don't remember. I was, you know, in a state."
"But you remember distinctly the blood on the doorknob in the sitting room. You were quite poetic about it."
More titters.
And Alban looked flustered.
'What the devil is Mr. Pendragon doing?' Frankie thought.
Her gloved hand tightened on the railing.
He was supposed to be proving Eliza did it, not that Alban lied...which he had, of course.
But how did Mr. Pendragon know that? It wasn't his job to expose Alban.
Frankie knew from experience, that courtrooms had procedures everyone followed to the letter. But, it was as if Mr. Pendragon had stepped onstage and started playing the wrong part.
"Was there blood on the doorknob to the back-stairs door?" Mr. Pendragon repeated, his deep voice growing stern.
"Um...yeah," Alban said. "Yeah, now that I recall it, there was. Another big smudge, like in the sitting room. I had to touch it to open it. It were awful."
A few of the jury shifted in their seats in sympathy.
"Except there wasn't," Mr. Pendragon said.
"Eh?" Alban started. "Whatcha mean?"
"The door to the back stairs...or the green baize door as it is also known...had a broken panel. It had been taken away, since it was a quiet day, to be mended. There was no door that day...not for you to open, nor for the maid to smear blood on."
"Oh." Mr. Rolfe opened and closed his mouth. "Well, I don't really remember, do I? I was, whatcha call it...agitated."
"Though you remember in exact detail, the placement of every item and every bloodstain in the sitting room. The accused said she didn't see you at all that day, and never knew about her employer's death until the police arrived. I'm going to suggest you went nowhere near the kitchen and never saw the accused. I believe you left the sitting room and the house entirely, returned later, found the police there, saw them taking away the accused and her bloody apron, and came up with the story about seeing her."
Alban suddenly looked worried.
"Yeah? And why'd I come back, if I'd killed the old bitch?"
The judge looked pained.
But Mr. Pendragon's eyes took on a hard light.
"You knew, that if you'd disappeared entirely, you'd be screaming your guilt. I believe, you left to dispose of the silver and returned as though you'd been gone all day. And never did I say, Mr. Rolfe, that you committed the murder."
Rustling and muttering filled the courtroom. And the judge looked annoyed.
"Mr. Pendragon, do I have to remind you that the witness is not on trial?"
"No, he's not," the barrister agreed. "Not yet."
Another round of laughter.
"I am finished with the witness, your lordship. In my summing up, I will be putting the case, that what we have here, is not a conniving young woman who killed her employer, smeared blood all over the room, and then remained quietly in the kitchen with an apron covered with the same blood. And, I might add...with no time to dispose of the missing silver. I am instead going to put forth my belief, that another person must've had much better opportunity...and strength...to commit the crime, and that we are coming dangerously close to a miscarriage of justice. Perhaps your lordship would like to retire briefly and prepare for my outrageous statements."
Mr. Rolfe's face was shiny with sweat at this point, although it was nippy in the courtroom on a winter day.
The judge growled as laughter began again.
"Mr. Pendragon, I have warned you about your behavior in my courtroom before. This is not the theatre."
'Oh, but it is,' Frankie thought.
Only the play was real, and the curtain, final.
Mr. Pendragon knew that too, despite his jokes.
"You are, however, correct, that I would like to recess briefly to gather my thoughts," the judge said. "Bailiff, please see that Mr. Rolfe does not leave."
The judge rose, and everyone scrambled to their feet. Then he disappeared through the door into his inner sanctum.
Finally, the journalists rushed away, and the rest of the watchers filed out, talking excitedly.
Frankie looked over the railing at Mr. Pendragon, who'd sat down, pushing his wig askew, as he rubbed the sunshine-colored hair beneath it.
It seemed as though the animation went out of his body as the courtroom emptied...as if he was a marionette whose strings had been cut.
He glanced around and up, but not at her...he was looking at no one and nothing.
And she was struck by how empty his face was.
His eyes were a strange shade of blue-gray, but clear and striking.
And as she watched, those eyes filled with a vast sadness, the likes of which she had never seen before.
His mouth moved a little too, as though he was whispering something, but she couldn't hear what was said.
She remained fixed in place, her hand on the gallery's wooden railing. But she couldn't take her eyes off the man below, who'd changed so incredibly, the moment his performance had finished.
Mr. Pendragon didn't leave his bench until the judge returned, and the courtroom started up again.
Then, he got to his feet, life flowing back into his body, becoming the eloquent, arrogant man with the beautiful voice once more.
The judge signaled for him to begin. And he did, after which, he summed up his case so charmingly, that all hung on his words.
A short while later, the jury went out and returned very quickly with their verdict about Eliza, finding her not guilty.
She was free.
Frankie had hoped for a miracle, and Mr. Pendragon had provided one.
She was elated, especially for young Eliza.
After much hugging, Eliza left Frankie and went home with her mum.
And Frankie found her dad and Aldo waiting for her outside the pub across the street.
They were furious.
Alban was Aldo's best mate, and he had just been arrested for murder and taken away by the police.
"'E's to blame," Aldo said darkly, jerking his chin at Mr. Pendragon, who was walking out of the Old Bailey, dressed now in a normal suit and coat.
And once again, Frankie noted how he had changed from a man who commanded a room, to a man who looked tired of life.
The afternoon was cold, darkening with the coming winter night, and Frankie rubbed her hands together in her too-thin gloves, then suggested that her dad and Aldo take her into the pub and buy her a half.
"Not yet," her dad said. "Just teach 'im a lesson, Frankie. Go on now, girl."
'Girl?' She was twenty-six years old.
"Leave him alone," she said. "He saved Eliza."
"But got Alban arrested," Aldo growled. "Whose side are you on?"
"Alban killed the woman," Frankie said. "He's a villain...he always was. I say good on Eliza."
Aldo grabbed Frankie by the shoulder and pushed her into the shadows of the passage beside the pub.
He wouldn't hit her in public...he'd take her somewhere unseen to do that...but his hand clamped down hard.
"Alban is my best friend," he said, his breath already heavy with gin. "You get over to that fiend of a Scottish barrister and fetch us a souvenir. We deserve it. The traitorous bastard was supposed to take Alban's side."
Aldo's grip hurt.
And Frankie knew if she protested too much, both he and her dad would let her have it.
But she couldn't do this.
"That fiend of a Scottish barrister is very smart," she argued. "He'll catch me, then I'll be in the cell with Alban, waiting to go before the magistrate."
Frankie's dad leaned in, his breath already reeking as well.
"You just do it, Francesca. You're like a ghost...he'll never know. And if he does see you, you know what to do. Now get out there, before I take my hand to you."
They weren't going to leave it.
In their minds, Mr. Pendragon was the villain and deserved to be punished. And if Frankie refused, her dad would drag her away and thrash her until she gave in.
Furthermore, if Mr. Pendragon went home while she was taking her beating, her dad would make her wait here every afternoon, until he returned for another case.
Either way, she was doing this.
And one way would simply be less painful than the other.
Frankie jerked free of Aldo's hold.
"All right," she snapped. "I'll do it. But you'd better be ready. He's no fool."
"Like I said, he'll never see ya," her dad said. "You've got the touch. Go on with you."
She stumbled when her dad pushed her between the shoulder blades, but she righted herself and squared her shoulders.
Taking a deep breath, she walked steadily towards where Mr. Pendragon stood waiting, his sad face and empty eyes focused on something far...far from the crowded streets of the City of London.
Arthur Pendragon pulled his coat close against the icy wind and drew his hat down over his eyes.
"Remember Sir Henry Davies, Lizzie?" he asked the gray sky. "Well, I potted him good today. Old Henry was nearly rubbing his hands, wanting to pronounce the death sentence on that poor girl. Bloody imbecile! She was no more guilty than a newborn kitten."
The sky grew darker...rain seemed imminent with the coming night.
It was so damnably cold here, not like the blistering heat of North Africa, where he had done his army time.
His younger brother, Albert, was always trying to talk him into traveling with him...to the likes of Spain, Egypt, or back to Rome at least, where winters were balmy.
But there was the question of Alexander and Anna...his very interesting children.
Arthur couldn't bring himself to foist them on Howard and Amelia while he traveled the world.
His brother and sister-in-law were starting their own family, their own life, and needed time alone.
'Maybe I should take them with me.'
He smiled.
"Wouldn't that be an adventure."
He imagined his two terrifying bairns on trains, carriages and carts, all the way to Italy, and shook his head.
"No, not the best answer."
Thinking about his kids, helped Arthur to avoid the one thought he had been trying to banish all day.
And now, as he stood in the cold, waiting for his coachman to bring the landau, the thought came unbidden.
'Seven years to this day you left me, Lizzie.'
Elizabeth Pendragon...Liz or Lizzie to those closest to her...had died of a fever, that threatened to take the children as well.
Seven years ago today.
"My friends and family expect me to move on, can you believe it? But they've not had the loves of their lives ripped away from them, have they? They wouldn't say such bloody daft things if they had."
He paused to look up again.
"Moving on sounds like forgetting all about you, Lizzie...my wife, my lover, my helpmeet and my best friend. And I'll never do that."
Lizzie didn't answer.
She never did.
But it didn't matter, the comfort Arthur drew from talking to her, out loud or inside his head, was the only thing that kept him sane some days.
"When you're ready for me to move on, I know you'll tell me...I trust you Lizzie."
Another gust of wind had him grabbing for his hat and clenching his teeth.
"Where the devil is Julius with the coach?" he mumbled and turned his eyes in the direction, his driver was supposed to be coming from.
The crowd was thick, everyone in London seemed to be going home for the night.
Arthur held on to his hat as he was buffeted.
Julius was taking a damn long time.
Arthur wasn't usually in a rush, but tonight was bloody cold, and the rain was starting to come down in earnest.
Just then, a shove and a thump sent him a swift step forward.
A young woman had stumbled into him, her shoes skidding on the wet pavement.
She struggled to keep her feet, but he had to put a steadying hand under her arm.
"Easy now, lass," he said.
She looked up at him...and everything stopped.
Arthur saw a dark hat covered with bright blue violets, then eyes the colour of melted caramel...clear and warm in this swirl of gray.
She was so lovely, with plump lips curved in a charming smile.
He'd never seen her before, and at the same time, he felt a jolt rock him, as though he'd been waiting for years for this encounter.
For a few brief moments, the two of them stood together in a warm stillness, removed from the rest of the world as it rushed around them.
"I'm that sorry, mister," the young woman was saying. "Some bloke put his elbow right in me back, and me feet went clean out from under me. You alright?"
"I'm whole," Arthur replied, as he forced himself back to the cold of the real world.
He studied her with his professional assessment, honed by a long career of watching criminals.
She wasn't a street girl. Game girls had a desperate look, and were too eager to be seductive.
This young woman was working-class, probably on her way home after a long day's drudgery. She wasn't dirty, but the sleeves of her velvet jacket were frayed at the cuffs, her gloves threadbare and much mended.
She was poor, but making the best of it.
Still, she didn't have the downtrodden appearance many factory women had. Her smile was sunny, as though telling the world, things could be better if given a chance.
"Well, that's good," she said. "'Night, mister. Sweet dreams."
Another smile, and in the sudden flare of an approaching light, all Arthur could see were her eyes.
Deep and brown, like the rich soil in fields.
This young woman was beautiful, with a beauty that went beyond her shabby clothes and working-class grin. She was a vision of light in the darkness, in a place where darkness had lasted too long.
Someone else shoved him, and Arthur turned to step out of the way. When he looked back for the young woman, she was gone.
He blinked at the empty space where she'd been, then lifted his gaze and spied her slipping through the crowd, the violets on her hat bobbing.
The detail of her ridiculous hat kept him from believing he'd dreamed her. But of course he hadn't.
Visions of beautiful women were of golden-haired sirens with perfect bodies, strumming on lyres perhaps, luring men to their dooms. Sirens didn't have lopsided smiles and plump faces, and brown eyes that pulled him out of his despair...if only for a moment.
But she was gone now, vision or no, and Arthur needed to go home.
Alexander and Anna, would've probably locked their new governess into the cellar by now, or accidentally burned down the house.
Or both.
They didn't mean to be bad, his little ones...well, mostly they didn't.
One of the governesses had claimed that Alexander was possessed by the devil. She'd even offered to contact a priest she knew, who could have him exorcised.
That governess hadn't lasted more than an hour.
A clock struck, and Arthur, out of habit, reached for his watch to compare the time.
His watch always ran a few minutes fast and having it repaired made no difference.
And buying a new watch was out of the question, because Lizzie had given him this one...
Which was no longer in his pocket.
Reality rushed back at Arthur with an icy slap.
His gaze immediately went to the violet-covered hat as it disappeared around a corner.
Good God, how stupid had he been?
He hadn't pegged the young woman as a pickpocket, because pickpockets usually didn't stop for a chat. They stole and slipped away before the victim was aware.
Her bad luck someone had tripped her. Or had it been luck?
All this went through his head as he whirled around and strode after the woman, his feet moving faster and faster as he went.
Gone was any thought of finding his coach and going home.
Nothing mattered, but getting that watch back.
He made up his mind he would find the young woman and take it away from her...even if he had to chase her to the ends of the earth.
Okay, so our usually sweet Gwen is from the rough side of the tracks in this one, which might make it more interesting to some...
Yay or Nay? Tell me...
Stay safe!