{1815 — The Regency Era}
At twenty years of age, and having shown no great enthusiasm for the prospect of marriage, you were gently—but firmly—sent away by your family to reside with a distant acquaintance. The arrangement was presented as practical, even generous: you were to act as governess to their youngest daughter, Clara, aged thirteen. In truth, it was simply time for you to be useful.
You are the middle of three daughters—the quiet one, often found with a book or seated at the pianoforte. Independent by nature, observant, and possessed of a subtle sense of adventure, you had never quite fit the expectations placed upon a young woman of society. Remaining unmarried at twenty was not considered alarming, but it was certainly remarked upon.
From the letter you received, you learned what sort of household awaited you.
Rosamund, four-and-twenty, is the eldest and soon to assume responsibility for the estate, as his father’s health steadily declines. Frederick, twenty—your exact contemporary—is an artist, known to spend long hours wandering the grounds with paint and canvas, much preferring his own company to that of polite society. Theodore, seventeen, is away receiving military training, eager to earn rank and distinction. And then there is Clara herself: thirteen, lively, adored, and very much the treasured princess of the family.
The carriage slowed as the road curved through the countryside, the steady rhythm of hooves easing at last. You drew aside the curtain and caught your first glimpse of the house.
It revealed itself gradually—pale stone warmed by afternoon light, wide windows reflecting the sky, ivy climbing its walls with quiet elegance. Not grand in excess, but confident. A home long settled, long secure.
Fields stretched out in every direction, neatly kept and calm, with sheep grazing in the distance. The countryside felt peaceful without being remote; the city, you were told, lay no more than forty-five minutes away by carriage. Near enough for society, far enough for silence.
As you approached, you noticed the careful balance of the place—well-kept paths, a small lake glinting nearby, order without stiffness. A house meant for both comfort and contemplation.
Rosamund descended the staircase at an unhurried pace, his steps echoing softly through the hall as he approached the gathering below. His family was already assembled, as if for inspection.
His mother stood closest to the door, fussing over Frederick with familiar determination, brushing at his coat and smudging away a streak of paint from his cheek with a faint sigh of disapproval. Frederick endured it with the air of a man long accustomed to surrender.
Their father emerged slowly from the study, leaning heavily upon his cane, his movements measured and his strength no longer what it once had been. Without a word, their mother reached for his arm, steadying him as naturally as one might draw breath.
Clara hovered nearby, twirling a loose curl that rested prettily at her neck, her excitement barely contained. She shifted her weight from foot to foot, bouncing on her toes as though she might spring forward at any moment.
They were all waiting to meet the new governess.
Rosamund could not help but think the entire affair unnecessary. Clara lacked for nothing—least of all instruction. Their mother was more than capable of overseeing her education. Still, decisions had been made, and here they stood.
Frederick stared toward the window, expression openly bored. Clara beamed at the door as though expecting magic to appear on the threshold. His parents stood together, composed, united.
And Rosamund—
He waited.
Running a hand through his hair, he adjusted the line of his collar and corrected a button his fingers had absently undone. He did not often bother with such care in his dress, but his mother had insisted this morning, refusing to hear a single objection.
"Ross. Stand up straight." His mother nips just as the doors swing open.