In which our heroine has to explain herself

A swarm of thoughts ricocheting through Corinna's head, she stumbled along in a daze. Brewster would be back tomorrow and send her on her way to Demoral Park. All was arranged. The cunning beast had taken her agreement for granted and offered her services to the Marquis before ever speaking to her. That his lordship accepted so promptly bode ill for his niece's manners.

Corinna barked a laugh. Not that this would be her biggest problem.

She was headed straight for the fox's den when she should run the other way. How stupid was that?

The heel of her shoe caught in the same hole in the front stoop where it always caught, and she teetered. Just like she always did.

"Oh, combubble it all."

The door flew open, and Mrs. Tuckles peeked out. Strands of grayish hair had escaped from her trademark ruffled mobcap, and flour dusted her perky nose. From behind wafted the glorious scent of freshly baked scones.

"Tsk, tsk. You mustn't swear, my little lamb, you know? It's not proper speak, that's what it is. But come in, come in. You've arrived at the right moment. The teapot is ready. Though why you insist on rambling about the countryside for hours is beyond me. It's not ladylike, for sure. When I was your age—"

Corinna gave her old nurse a peck on the cheek. "When you were my age, girls sat quietly on the sofa and did their needlework without complaining once. I'll never be a good girl, you know that."

What her nurse didn't know was how bad a girl she had become.

"Corinna?" For an invalid, Mother's voice was amazingly strong.

"Yes, Mother, I'm coming."

She strode along the flagstoned hallway, holding on to her skirt. Twice already did the fabric catch on the rusty suit of armor parked next to the staircase. Only Mother's expert needlework had saved the gown from ending up with the rags.

"You must not walk so fast," Mrs. Tuckles said from behind. "A true lady measures her steps. It's improper, that's what it is."

There were lots of things forbidden to ladies, breeches included, which were so much more comfortable than petticoats. Well, the current fashion didn't require tight stays, something she'd always hated with a passion, and she would have to be content with that.

She entered the parlor, stuffed with furniture from the Hall. Once part of her childhood, the old pieces had become rejects just like Mother and herself.

There was the old dining table, all its panels taken out, so it would fit the small room. Lined up along the wall was a mismatched collection of chairs, all in sore need of fresh upholstery. The Turkish carpet also had seen better days, as did the chaiselongue, upholstered in tattered straw silk that clashed with the faded red velvet of the two bow-legged settees. The walls were adorned with paintings of the Wolverstoke ancestry, their artists forgotten, the colors darkened and dulled.

None of this had any value. Even the massive bowl that squatted on the dining table, filled with apricots and nuts, was made of silvered brass, not genuine silver.

But this crowded, stuffy room held everything that was dear to Corinna, everything worth her foray into capital crime.

This house was her home, and the two people in the parlor, one bustling about with the tea tray, one draped languidly over the chaiselongue, were the only family she had left.

She would defend them with her life.

Mother sat up, and her mohair shawl slid off her bony shoulders. "Oh, dearie me."

"Let me help you." Corinna dashed to the chaiselongue and draped the shawl around her parent.

"Thank you, my dear. Oh, have you been out riding? You smell of the stables." The dowager's disapproving gaze slid over her daughter. "How I hate that gown. Don't ever ask me to mend it again, for I won't do it." The voice had gone faint, which meant the smelling salts would come out next.

Armed with her vinaigrette and her failing voice, Corinna's mother could have held up an army.

"Yes, Mother. I'll change presently. I can't take my tea in all my dirt."

Mrs. Tuckles filled three cups. "Fiddlesticks, the tea is hot now, not later. Sit, sit, you make me nervous with all your fretting."

Corinna sat. The fretting couldn't be helped, though. Somehow, she would have to break the news about her new assignment to her parent who wouldn't take her sudden departure kindly.

Mrs. Tuckles arranged the scones and home-made raspberry jam on the plates. Then she reached for the sugar. She always did that.

"No thanks, Mrs. Tuckles. Not for me."

"You're as thin as a wisp-o-willow, my little lamb. You really should eat more."

Corinna suppressed an eye roll, since it would only lead to more arguments. She'd always cleared whatever hurdles life tossed in her path, but these two middle-aged ladies, one appearing so robust, the other one so frail, were a bigger challenge than a slippery trench.

She sipped her tea. Strong and hot, it eased some of her chafed nerve ends. Perhaps it was best to ride straight at the next hurdle. The news might be unwelcome, but the sooner Mother knew, the better.

"My ramblings have been to a purpose," she said.

Her mother raised a pale brow. "Meaning?"

"I have found suitable employment."

Mrs. Tuckles clapped her pudgy hands together. "Ah, that's favorable. Did Miss de Langtry find you a suitable position?" She leaned in. "Or is it with herself you will stay again? That would be capital, for sure."

Corinna emptied her cup and reached for the pot. "No, nothing like that. It's a post as a governess with the Marquis of Demoral's niece."

Silence fell. Only the old ormolu clock on the sideboard ticked the seconds into the sultry air, where dust motes danced and the reek of mold warred with the widow's lavender scent.

"You a governess?" Mrs. Tuckles giggled and tugged at her apron. She cleared her throat. "Are you sure?"

Corinna's mother struggled upright and shot her daughter a sharp glance at odds with her mild blue eyes. "You be careful."

Corinna couldn't help the snort.

"You hear me? He's a bad sort."

A distorted face rose in her memory, flushed with hatred and impotent fury. She shook herself.

"Pray, what do you mean by that, mother?"

"There are...rumors."

"About what? He beats his wife?"

The widow sank back into the pillows. "He's not married."

"Isn't he as rich as Croesus?"

"He is. When he came out, the matchmaking mamas tried to trap him for that very reason, but the young ladies crossing his path found themselves courted one day, and cold-shouldered the next. They have long since given up to coax him into marriage. No, that's not what bothers me."

Corinna drank another cup of tea. Nothing she did would ever speed up her parent. She would tell the story in her own time. Or not.

Her mother toyed with the fringes of her shawl.

Mrs. Tuckles swallowed the remains of her third scone she had been chewing. "They say he's not entirely natural."

Once again, the silence fell, but Mrs. Tuckles filled it fast. "Oh, not like you two at all. No, no. It's much, much worse."

The widow massaged her temples with the tips of her fingers. "I must admit, at times I find my gift quite unnatural and hard to bear."

With a gentle chink, Corinna returned her cup onto the saucer. "Fret not, Mother. These days, we are quite safe. Care to explain what you mean, Mrs. Tuckles?"

"They say he's a changeling."

1280 words

Now, what might a changeling be? Fairies? All will be revealed, I promise. 

This chapter is dedicated to one of my oldest Wattpad friends Nablai, who writes the most beautiful poetry and keeps winning prizes for it! You rock, Nab. 

Image is Gunter's Tea Shoppe from Jane Austen's World.