Here's a taste!
Virtue of a
Governess
Blurb
In 1867 Nicola Douglas attends a London lecture that
inspires her to change her life. With no family, but a good education, she
boards a ship to Australia with high hopes of a fresh start in a new country as
a governess. But Sydney is full of young women with similar hopes and equally
poor prospects. When Nicola is at her lowest, she meets Nathaniel West. Try as
she might, her attraction to Nathaniel West grows. She also meets a visiting
American, Hilton Warner. As both men shower her with attention, Nicola reaches
a crisis. She came to Australia expecting to be a governess, but finding love,
and being married, shows how empty her life has been since her parents' death.
Her achievements at the Governess Home are vital to her. Can she have both? To
reject both men would relegate her to spinsterhood, but if she makes that
choice, would her career ever be enough to sustain her?
Excerpt:
Nat shook the sweat
from his eyes, ducking his head and weaving to the side, making sure he kept
his shoulders and fists up high to protect his chin. From the corner of the
chalked square, he made out the old hunched-back man, who stood and, holding
the brass bell aloft, rang it heartily three times. Cheers and shouts went up,
there was a surge towards the fighters but the organiser’s men held the rowdy
mass back.
“Christ man,
what’s taking you so long?” Tristan thumped Nat’s back, laughing. “You should
have had him in the first minute. The man is lead-footed.”
Nat wheezed the air
into his lungs and wiped the sweat from his eyes. “I want to keep out of his
reach, he can hit like a hammer.”
“Nonsense, man. He’s
like a windmill, arms everywhere.”
“Shut up will you,
and get me some water.” Nat closed his eyes for a moment, trying to block out
the sight and noise of men baying for his blood. What possessed him to agree to
this fight? He was no longer a young man of twenty. It’d been a few years since
he celebrated his thirtieth birthday, which should have been enough warning to
give up this sort of sport and stick to cricket. He hadn’t been practising in
months, and it showed.
Tristan thrust a
crude tin cup into his hands and water sloshed over his wrist. “It’s only
water, perhaps you need something stronger.”
“Sod off.” He gulped
the water down just as the hunchback rang the bell again. Surging to his feet,
he berated himself once more in agreeing to this madness. Already his opponent,
some dockland fellow with missing teeth, had jabbed him in the ribs, which
ached when he moved. Another lucky punch had caught his eye and likely tomorrow
he’d have the bruise to show for it.
He raised his fists,
keeping light on his feet as he’d been taught as a schoolboy back home in
England. His wiry opponent gave a little jab, testing the way it was to be in
this round, but Nat was tired of the game. It’d been a spur of the moment
decision to enter the square, a desperate need to burn off some restless energy
that bedding with his current mistress didn’t do last night.
Weaving, ducking, he
circled the opposite man, looking for a way to end the match so he could return
to his club and drown his sorrows for another day. He thought of her then, the
woman who’d haunted his mind. Nicola Douglas. His blood grew thick in his veins
as an image of her face swarmed before him.
He never saw the
punch, just felt the intense pain of the other man’s fist hitting his jaw. The
impact made him bite his tongue and the stinging pain joined the thudding ache
of his face. He staggered, tasted blood. The crowd, mainly all working class,
shouted encouragement to their champion and jeered at Nat when he readied
himself again.
Anger cursed through
Nat and brought him awake and into focus. Thinking of that damned woman had
been his downfall. He’d be on his back if he didn’t concentrate.
Uttering a filthy
swear word, he pivoted on one foot, danced a side-step and taking the fellow
unawares gave him a quick three jab attack that sent the man to his knees. Nat
jigged away, hopping from foot to foot at the edge of the square, waiting to
see if he regained his feet, but the fellow knew he was beat and surrendered
the purse.
Declared the winner
by Mr Kent, the organiser, Nat was given the purse of four guineas. The unruly
crowd went into a frenzy, the shouts and yelling growing into a deafening roar,
as not many had backed Nat. He knew their thinking, a workingman’s strength up
against a toff who did nothing but sit around in his club all day. But who’d
got the last laugh this time? Little did they know that he enjoyed physical
pursuits and had been fighting since he was a small boy. Not many had the
better of him.
“Excellently done,
West.” Tristan once more thumped his back and gave Nat his shirt and coat. Nat
winced, moving his shoulders to ease on the shirt over the wet stickiness of
his sweat-soaked body.
“Let’s get out of
here.” Nat grabbed the rest of his belongings from Tristan. Now the fight was
over, it wouldn’t pay to stay in this rough neighbourhood. The four guineas was
hardly worth it really, but then it’d never been about the money, just the
sheer joy of beating another. However, today the win left him with a sour taste
in his mouth that had nothing to do with the bloodied tongue and lip.
“Wait, I’ve yet to
collect.” Tristan disappeared into the press of workingmen.
Nat groaned in
frustration. Hanging around would only be asking for trouble. Already he was
sensing a change in the atmosphere. He kept his head down but managed to glance
around, taking in the situation. Mr Kent was arguing in the corner with five
men, all baying for blood. They’d lost heavily by the looks of it. Shrugging on
his jacket, Nat walked backwards a bit, heading towards the barn doors and the
alley beyond. Damn Tristan, where was he?
“Mr West!”
Nat swung around and
waited for Kent to wield a path through the thick of the crowd towards him. “I’ve
an appointment, Kent, got to go.”
“Can I book you in
for another fight next month?”
“No, not this time.”
He wasn’t stupid. Kent had scored a high profit today.
Tristan joined them,
hurriedly stashing coins into his bulging pockets like a child stealing sweets.
“Nice afternoon’s entertainment,” he said with a grin.
“Let us go.” Nat
made for the door, glaring at any man who made eye contact with him. Lord, he
was stupid to risk his neck at these back alley fights. If anything happened to
him, Frances would be alone.
Once clear of the
old barn, he squinted in the harsh sunlight. The squeal of pigs came from the
slaughterhouse on the right. He shivered, despite the mild spring warmth of the
September day.
“Shall we have a
drink at the club?” Tristan replaced his hat as they headed left.
“I don’t
particularly care. I just want to be clear of that lot in there.”
“You think it could
have turned ugly?”
“I’m sure of it. Too
much money changed hands. Kent has pulled a fast one I think. He’s seen me
fight before but that was a new crowd.” As if to justify his words, a shout
came from behind them. When Nat turned and saw the dozen or so men spilling out
of the barn, yelling fit to be tied, his guts squeezed dread. He turned to
Tristan and had to smile at the shock on his face. “Well, friend, I hope you
can run fast.”
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1 comment:
Congratulations on your new release Anne. An historical romance with the problem with love vs. career. That's different.
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