Governess Worthington

Governess Worthington

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I have registered a new website at www.governessx.com/uk and I will gradually transfer The Practice Nursery to this. I have been so overwhelmed by interest in my Nursery that I am creating a website devoted to the care and discipline of the adult infant and ward. The title of 'governess' is most suitable for the austere style of The Practice Nursery and its focus on discipline and it allows for a range from newborn to pupil. I am Nanny, Mummy and Mistress all rolled into... GovernessX!
I am pleased that you babies are enjoying the nursery pages and trust me that there are many more treats in store for you all.
Thank you for creating the very well written Nursry website and journal.It is great to be able to see what happens at the nursery, especially for those who have never visited a nursery before. At the very least, you must be a very special Nanny and lady.
Hi May I say how well you write Bye Paul
Believe me - writing is not the only thing that Mummy does superbly.....! She is the perfect Mummy; Nanny; Governess too. Baby Colcol :@

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The Library of Spanking Fiction: Wellred Weekly
The Englishwoman's Domestic Magazine The Test by Thomas Armstrong Rolf und die Gouvernante by Paul Kamm

Pages: 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17

A brand new book in a brand new series!

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Available from Blushing Books on 11th September 2015, here’s a sneak peek at the first
©Louise Taylor and Blushing Books® 2015
The rough shout of the coachman jerked Elizabeth to wakefulness. Somehow, despite the rocking and juddering coach, she had managed to fall asleep pressed against the carriage wall. Now her journey north into Yorkshire had concluded, and she had reached her destination.
She adjusted her best bonnet, now sadly showing the strains of traveling the more than two hundred miles from her home back in sleepy, sunny Sussex to this grim, dramatic northern county. It had taken her the best part of a week, and if her new employer hadn’t arranged traveling expenses for her, she would have never been able to take the position of governess at Briarstone Manor at all.
Shrugging aside the feelings of homesickness and regret, Elizabeth did her best to make herself presentable as she heard the coachmen unloading her valises and cases from the roof. She was the only passenger left. There had been a vicar with thin lips and a suspicious stare who had stayed as far as York itself, along with a widowed older lady who had insisted on her smelly pug being allowed in the carriage with them, instead of being strapped securely in a closed basket on top of the coach, as it should have been. To the great relief of both Elizabeth and the vicar, she had departed the coach in Leeds, taking the pug and the smell with her. Now the coach was in the middle of the famously dark and deserted Yorkshire moors at the gates of Briarstone Manor. Elizabeth was about to start a new chapter of her life as governess to the young daughter of the household.
The coach had stopped at the gates of the long gravel drive that led to the manor house. Torches burned brightly in their holders that were screwed to the side of a small cottage just before the gates. This was the home of the gatekeeper, who had clearly been waiting for Elizabeth to arrive. He was an old man, his hands swollen with arthritis, but that didn’t stop him picking up the two cases, leaving her with two small valises to carry.
“You be the governess, then?” he asked, his Yorkshire accent so thick that Elizabeth struggled to make out the words.
He started to trudge up the gravel drive, and Elizabeth hurriedly followed him. “I am,” she said, peering ahead into the gloom. “I’m La—Miss Huntley.”
She winced in the darkness and hoped the old man was slightly deaf as well as arthritic. Her first time introducing herself in a new county, hundreds of miles from anybody who knew her, and she almost gave the game away. She had to get better at hiding her real title.
“Tom,” the old man said after a while, which seemed to be all the information that she was going to receive.
“Nice to meet you, Tom,” Elizabeth said automatically, years of training with her own governess falling seamlessly into place. “You’re the gatekeeper here?”
“Used to be a gardener, till me hands started to seize up,” Tom told her.
Or, at least, that’s what Elizabeth thought he said. His accent really was quite thick.
“So now you work at the gate,” Elizabeth said, glancing around at the impenetrable darkness. There could be gardens at the side of the drive, but it was far to dark to see.
“Aye,” confirmed Tom, and that was the end of the conversation.
They trudged on up the drive for what seemed like an age, until they finally turned a corner and saw Briarstone Manor itself by the light of the moon that obligingly came out of the clouds for a few moments. It was a huge old house in the old fashioned E shape favored by Tudor builders long ago. The long front range of the house hid the three wings from sight, and a large portico had been added in order to break the simple line of the building and try to give it a little elegance. Out of the darkness loomed tall towers, awkwardly added at the ends of the wings, creating an air of Gothic gloom.
Perhaps it would be more cheery in the daylight, Elizabeth thought hopefully. Now, in the dark, the tall house loomed over her, with secrets hidden at each unlit window. She craned her head back while Tom used the heavy metal doorknocker. She thought that she made out four separate stories to the house, with a few windows dotted in what must be the attics for servant quarters.
One of those could be her room, she realized, feeling a weary tide of dread rush through her, sending her pulse racing and her stomach turning. A drab attic room with a little rag rug would replace her old chamber, with its snug fireplace and writing bureau and window seat, where she’d curl up for hours reading.
She smoothed her hands over her dress, trying to push some of the wrinkles away along with her memories. Sussex was a long way away now, and the girl who had grown up there was now a woman who was leading a very different life. Thinking about the past wouldn’t help her.
The front door opened with an almighty squeal that made Elizabeth wince. A soberly dressed, middle-aged man appeared and nodded at Tom.
“The governess?” he asked, and Tom nodded back.
This was apparently all the conversation that was needed, as Tom tugged his cap towards Elizabeth, then turned and disappeared into the darkness back towards his gatehouse.
“I am Meadows, the butler,” the man in the black coat told her. “We have been expecting you, Miss Huntley.”
“Thank you, Mr. Meadows,” Elizabeth said, remembering just in time to add the honorific in front of his name.
Only the family would refer to him as Meadows. Although her position as governess ranked her higher than the household servants, she was not a member of the family. She still had to defer to his authority.
“I trust your trip was pleasant,” he told her, using a tone that implied that he knew very well that it hadn’t been, and he wasn’t interested either way.
He motioned with a hand to two footmen, who were dressed in deep green livery. They darted forward and scooped up her cases and the valises.
“Edward and Daniel will see that your cases are put in your room,” Meadows told her, gesturing that she should enter the house. “I am to take you to Mrs. Barton, the housekeeper.”
He turned away from her and marched briskly into the house, leaving Elizabeth no choice but to follow him. She got brief glimpses of heavy doors shut firmly in their lintels, as well as portraits of what she assumed were former inhabitants of the manor. Gas lights perched at intervals along the walls. They were used in London and other cities to light the streets, but she’d never seen them in a private home before. The lights from the lamps bounced off the shining wooden floor, and there was a distinct smell of beeswax in the air. Isolated this house may be, but it was a clean one. That little detail comforted Elizabeth a little.
Meadows continued to twist and turn down corridors until he came to a room where the door was half open. He tapped at the door and entered immediately, Elizabeth following behind.
The room was a small parlor, lit by more of the gas lamps in their settings on the wall. The parlor was decorated in calming shades of green, and the few paintings on the walls were of flowers. The fireplace held a comfortable fire, and the heat from it made the ends of Elizabeth’s fingers tingle, even in her gloves. The coach had been cold, and the heat from this little room was bringing life to her extremities. A fireguard protected the pretty green rug from embers, and chairs were organized in front of the fire around a small table.
This must be the housekeeper’s office, Elizabeth judged, noting the work-desk positioned near a window, where one might take advantage of natural light. It was definitely a woman’s room, although it was somewhat nicer than the room that the housekeeper at home had been used to. Clearly the master here at Briarstone Manor was good to his servants, or, at least, his lady thought to see that they were comfortable.
“Miss Huntley, do come in and warm yourself by the fire,” a woman said, standing and extending a welcoming hand to her. “I am Mrs. Barton, the housekeeper.”
Behind her she could hear Meadows’ footsteps fall away, but the sight of the table before the fire made Elizabeth forget her manners and bid him farewell. The table held a large teapot and plate after plate of sandwiches, cakes, and other small delicacies. It had been a long time since the coach had last stopped at an inn, and she hadn’t been able to afford much more than a bowl of soup, even then.
“Thank you, Mrs. Barton,” Elizabeth said, unbuttoning her traveling cloak and pulling at the strings of her bonnet. “A fire would be most welcome.”
“As would a good meal, no doubt,” said Mrs. Barton, picking up the teapot. “Come and sit down.”
Mrs. Barton, like Meadows, was unmistakably from Yorkshire. However, her accent wasn’t as broad as Tom’s had been and had an air of refinement about it that had been lacking in Meadows’.
Her chair was comfortable, and the cup of tea that Mrs. Barton made her was hot and blissfully sweet.
“I cannot imagine what your journey was like,” the housekeeper went on as she piled sandwiches onto Elizabeth’s plate. “Such a long journey for a young girl like yourself to make on your own.”
Unspoken questions hung in the air. Elizabeth paused after finishing her second sandwich, and tried out her carefully rehearsed story.
“It was a long journey,” she said, “but I am alone in the world, and not so young. I’m twenty-five. My parents have both passed away, and as such I must support myself.”
Mrs. Barton nodded, so Elizabeth’s story must be convincing. It should, Elizabeth reflected; it was nearly all the truth.
“I had been looking for a suitable position for some time, when I came upon the advertisement in The Times. I understand that it was you who placed it, not the lady of the house?”
That had confused Elizabeth. The advertisement had told of a position as a governess for one girl, aged eight, available immediately in rural Yorkshire. Mrs. Barton’s name had been given to contact, but Elizabeth had assumed that Mrs. Barton was the lady of the house. Now she had been shown otherwise, she was confused.
“I did place the advertisement,” Mrs. Barton said, pushing a slice of delicious-looking pound cake onto Elizabeth’s plate. “The master – that is, the Marquess of Hamilton – he requested that I see to it, there being no marchioness at present.”
Elizabeth choked on a crumb of cake, and had to accept the handkerchief that Mrs. Barton hastily offered her.
“The Marquess of Hamilton?” s
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