I washed my hair using a little soap that Oliver gave me, drying it in front of the fire and brushing it with an old and rather bald hairbrush, which he handed me. I then managed to put it up, pinning it in some semblance of order. I quickly dressed, and was relieved to feel warmer.
“It were my ma’s,” he said, nodding at the hairbrush.
There was a small mirror, so I looked at my reflection. I smiled, for even with this crude clothing and no make up, I thought I looked very attractive. It was also very nice to be warm and dry.
“You is very bootiful, Miss!” he said, identifying me as belonging to a class requiring some title.
“Thank you, Oliver, that is very gallant of you to say so,” I said, smiling at the lad. He went beet red and smiled shyly.
“Well, I have to go. Now, I suggest you say nothing about this to your father, so it will remain our secret. I promise that I will come back to return the clothes with some money for your trouble. What say you that we keep this a secret? I don’t want anyone hearing that I have been this way, as the bad men may try to find me again?”
He nodded and frowned.
“What is the matter?” I asked.
“Wot’s your name?”
“My name is Jane,” I said, recalling my researched name.
“A real lady?”
“There is nothing false about me,” I said, and smiled. He grinned. “And no telling your mates that you saw me naked.”
He went red again, but his grin broadened.
I held out my hand, which he shook sombrely.
“It’s a deal, then, not a word?” I asked.
“Mum’s the word,” he said. He passed me a long hooded cloak, which was just the ticket. I slung in over my shoulders, pulling the hood over my head. The skirts came to within a few inches of the ground.
I kissed him on the cheek and left him staring after me.
The shoes were a little tight, but they were much better than being bare foot. I walked a good eleven miles before I reached the town of Abingdon. It is a good-sized market town, nestling on the river Thames in the Vale of the White Horse just to the north of the Berkshire Downs.
I smiled at that word – Downs. Only the English could describe a range of hills as ‘Downs’. I accept that ‘Ups’ would be silly, but why not call them hills, or bumps, or at least something more accurate?
I received a few curious glances, but no more than any other stranger would receive. I knew that without money, I was unlikely to make any headway. My task, as daft as it may seem, was to remain alert to any untoward influences and incidents that would indicate a construct present who was attempting to interfere with the stream of history.
As I entered the town centre, I saw a sign on the notice board of the parish hall.
“Governess wanted for daughter of local military gentleman. Must be of good family, and must have French and knowledge of sewing, poetry and prose.
Apply at The Manor, Drayton Road.”
I asked a passer-by where Drayton Road was, and he gave me directions. Tired and hungry, I arrived at the Manor, Drayton Road. It was a large rambling house, with lots of character. Wisteria clung to the south-facing frontage and, despite being late autumn, the garden was well cared for, and obviously had a good deal of charm.
I went to the front door and rang the bell. An elderly man answered the door. He was dressed in sombre, dark clothing, so I assumed him the butler.
“Yus?” he asked.
“My name is Jane Chauncey and I have come about the advertisement for the Governess,” I said.
He looked me up and down, opening the door wide enough for me to enter. I walked into the large wood-panelled hall. Portraits of ancestors stared at me disapprovingly.
“Come in, Miss Chauncey, is it? I am Mr Groves, the Butler. The Major had almost given up. Young Katie is quite a handful.”
“How old is young Katie?”
“Eight.”
“Does her Mama not take her in hand?”
“It was tragic, Miss, her mama died giving birth to young master William, Katie’s brother, some eighteen months ago. A series of young ladies have tried to deal with her, but I am afraid they have all found her too much.”
“Then, here come the Marines,” I said.
“I’m sorry?”
“Nothing.”
He showed me into a library.
“Wait here, Miss, and I will inform the Major you are here.”
I was still wearing my cape and with the hood up. I looked around the library, surprised to see some quite famous works on the shelves. I took a volume down and leafed through it. I did not hear the door open.
“You have read the classics?” said a deep bass voice. I turned and saw a very tall man of around thirty, dressed in riding breeches, boots and a white shirt. He was broad in the shoulder and had short fair hair. It was longer at the back, where he tied it off with a short length of black leather. I was aware that wigs were sometimes fashionable in these times, but he obviously was not a paragon of fashion. He had a square jaw and was actually very good looking. His manner was similar to many officers and senior NCOs that I had come across. He was used to command and being obeyed. I wondered how his daughter had managed to twist him around her finger.
“Some, sir, but to be honest, I was not overly enamoured to them. I enjoyed the Iliad and the Odyssey, however,” I said, holding up the latter, which was in my hand.
To my surprise he laughed.
“Ah, I share your experience. I found the others a touch insipid for my taste.”
I smiled, feeling awkward standing there under his gaze.
“I am Roger De Lambert. You are?”
“Jane Chauncey, sir. I find myself on quite hard times, so am in the embarrassing position of seeking employment in order to help my position in life.”
“Ah, another younger daughter of a poor man?”
“My father died at Trafalgar, sir, leaving Mama with three daughters and no money. My sisters, useless things, sought favourable marriages, so I left, seeking my fortune and a life on my own.”
“You father?”
“Charles Chauncey, of Taunton, Devon. He was a Commander in the Royal Navy,” I said.
These facts the agency gleaned from records, and indeed the late Commander actually had three daughters. Since his death at Trafalgar in 1805, the elder two girls sought husbands, and went their separate ways, but each finding tragic ends. Jemma died giving birth to twins, and Emily went with her husband to India, dying of typhus after drinking dirty water. This left Mrs Prudence Chauncey with her youngest daughter Jane. Prudence took to her bed, and never recovered,; she dwindled away and died in her sleep.
Jane, was forced to leave the old house and to seek her fortune, and was never heard of again. The Agency discovered her body in the 1950’s during the excavation of an old well. Documentation was in a purse on the body. She had fallen, or jumped to her death. The Agency had procured all the information, and managed to prevent the spread of the knowledge of her identity. They also discovered that there were records of someone of that name having lived a good deal longer, so there was a mystery. By assuming her identity, I was bringing her back to life, but they wouldn’t tell me her history, for security reasons, they said.
“I’m a Major of Dragoons; I was wounded at Salamanca, where a damn musket ball damn near killed me. So I’m recuperating at the moment on half-pay, but sure to be called back to the colours should Boney try to rally France.”
“I am sure he will, at that,” I said.
“Oh, how so?”
“Sir, France is broken, while many generals still owe secret allegiance to Napoleon. Come the day, I believe that they will rally to his flag, after all, the French are patriotic and Napoleon helped them feel proud to be French.”