The House of Broken Hearts - Judy Colella (motivational books for men .TXT) 📗

a kind of smile in return. “Why, naturally, my girl! I would be only too happy to offer my advice and assistance.”

“Good!” Giselle was relieved and it showed in her expression. “Then I feel encouraged that my time here will be properly and well spent.”

“Before I forget, here is the key to this room. You may not feel a need to lock it, but if you have anything you wish left alone, I would suggest you do – the boys can be trying, you see.” She had lowered her voice on this last phrase, telling Giselle two things: that the woman had herself experienced this “trying” behavior, and that she now felt able to confide in the new governess

“I understand,” said the girl, vowing to keep the woman’s confidences locked away. “Thank you for the warning!”

With another smile, the otherwise stern-faced housekeeper took her leave. Giselle unlocked the bedroom door, went in and shut it, then stared at nothing for a moment, pushing back a sudden sense of isolation. She felt cold and not a little frightened. Here she stood in a strange house full of people she didn’t know yet who were counting on her to take over the duties of both a lost, beloved mother and a teacher; one of her charges was only three years younger than she; three of them were boys, a gender she had only recently begun to understand; and then there was Julian…

Giselle bit her lower lip, willing herself not to cry, and turned around to inspect her new room. Sooner than she’d have expected, she began to feel a bit better – its lack of familiarity was more than compensated by its lovely décor and the kind of coziness and warmth only a chamber in an older and very gracious home could provide. At one end was a fireplace covered by an intricately carved mantle, above that a magnificent painting of a sweeping field carpeted with wildflowers and ringed by towering, leafy trees. In the adjacent corner was a stately grandfather clock, a well-stocked writing desk sat beneath one of the tall, leaded- paned windows, and the wardrobe on the wall facing the hearth was an absolute work of hand-tooled art. Next to the wardrobe, the bed, canopied like Jocelyn’s but larger, was hung with pale blue velvet tied to the posts by light pink, satin ribbons. The bed hangings were echoed by the drapes at the windows, and on the dark golden oak floor was the most beautiful Persian carpet she’d ever seen. In addition to the wardrobe, there was a cedar chest at the foot of the bed where she could store things, giving her plenty of room and space for every need.

Her travel trunk had been set down near the wardrobe, so she busied herself removing her clothes, shaking them out and smoothing them carefully before hanging them up. She put her lingerie and personal items in the drawers beneath the wardrobe’s two main doors, and decided the cedar chest would be a good place for her books and the remaining miscellany of her former life. When she was done, she washed her hands and face at the lovely porcelain bowl and pitcher set in a mahogany stand on the wall across from the windows, then quickly changed out of her traveling clothes, choosing a simple green and pink evening frock, dark green slippers, and a light, cream-colored shawl of silky French lace. A quick glance in the small oval mirror above the washstand confirmed that her hair was still behaving itself and everything was in order.

Giselle, never having been fussed over by her parents about her looks, was very unassuming in that regard. The fact that her large, grey-green eyes were perfectly framed by thick, black lashes, or that her nose with its delicately-sculpted tip was exactly the right size, or that her naturally rosy lips were full and sensual in the extreme, was never mentioned and therefore of no consequence to her. In fact, she rarely gave her looks any thought at all, except to make sure she was presentable at all times. The only thing her mother had ever made a to-do about was her hair. It was dark, chestnut brown with glints of deep red and gold, thick, a bit curly, and when unbound, fell to just below her waist. Mrs. Moreaux had insisted that her daughter brush her hair at least three times a day to keep it glossy and healthy, and had made sure it was always clean. Giselle thought it rather amusing that while she herself was required to bathe only once every other day, her hair had to be washed daily.

Of course, none of these matters were in her mind at the moment, so she was oblivious to the effect her entrance into the dining room a while later had on the males sitting there, laughing and discussing what sounded to her like an adventure in hunting. The moment she came through the door, Giles Lanford, her new employer, got to his feet and cleared his throat. The others turned around and were struck silent – he didn’t even have to warn his sons to be on their best behavior. They were too busy gaping to act up, and while Giselle didn’t realize the significance of their silence, Mrs. Trellain apparently did and coughed delicately into a lacy handkerchief, excusing herself momentarily and nearly running out of the room.

“Good evening, Miss Moreaux.” Giles gave her a polite bow and a smile that somehow seemed much warmer and more welcoming than any like expression she’d witnessed at their first meeting. “I am so pleased you were able to move into Grey House this soon. Please – allow me to introduce my family.” He indicated the chair at the opposite end of the table, his own being at its head.

She stood behind its high laddered back and returned his smile, feeling unusually shy all of a sudden. The others stood now, too, and Giles waved first at Julian.

“My brother, I believe, you’ve already met.” Giselle nodded and he continued, turning to a dark blonde, slender teenager standing to his right. “This is my oldest son, Granville. He’s fourteen and as the oldest will be, I expect, able to help with the others.” He raised an eyebrow at the boy who barely noticed it, being far to busy falling in love with his new governess to pay attention to his father’s veiled admonition. “Er, Granville?” Giles gently smacked the boy on the arm.

“Wh- oh!” Granville blushed and gave Giselle an unnecessarily deep bow. “P-pleased to meet you…Miss, er…”

“Moreaux!” Giles supplied in a loud whisper, making it very difficult for Giselle not to burst out laughing.

Somehow, Granville’s face got even redder. “Miss Moreaux.”

Giles sighed and turned his attention to the boy standing next to Granville. “This is my next-oldest, Alaric.” The twelve-year-old had the same honey-golden hair as his little sister, angelic features, and was a bit on the heavy side. He, too, was plainly smitten by the lovely young lady standing at the foot of the table, but his reaction was not nearly as extreme as his older brother’s, and he managed a greeting devoid of stuttering. “This is Winchester, the youngest boy,” Giles continued, gesturing toward the boy opposite Alaric. He was frail-looking with dark brown hair and brilliant blue eyes, his features promising a sensuous attractiveness in later years. He had been giving Giselle a frank stare of appreciation and curiosity, and now greeted her in a polite, soft voice that was nonetheless self-confident rather than bashful.

At that moment, a middle-aged, balding man emerged from a side door and informed everyone that dinner was ready to be served.

“Of course. Thank you, Milo,” said Giles without turning to face the man. “If everyone would kindly be seated?”

Julian came swiftly to Giselle’s side and pulled out her chair. “Miss Moreaux?”

“Thank you, Mr. Lanford,” she murmured, sitting.

A small voice made an indignant harrumphing noise, causing Giles to pause in the middle of opening his napkin. “Ah! How awful of me!” he exclaimed, eyes crinkling at the corners as looked to the source of the sound. “Miss Moreaux, allow me to introduce my daughter, Jocelyn. Formally, at any rate, since I do believe you’ve already met, yes?”

“We have,” said Giselle, smiling the girl. “But I thank you for acknow- ledging her.”

A brief silence followed, but then Granville burst out, “Do you sing, Miss Moreaux?”

“I…well, I suppose to some extent, but why - ”

“It’s just that you have such a marvelous speaking voice, and I thought it only natural to assume you could sing, too.” The boy appeared to be gushing, unable to stop himself. He gave Giselle a horrifying grin. “I – I like to sing, you see, and…”

“Gran – let her answer,” Julian interrupted gently, then covered his mouth with his napkin to hide a very obvious grin of his own.

Giselle cleared her throat. “Yes. Well, I’ve never been trained as a singer, but of course I do enjoy it. I play the spinet a little, and sometimes sing while I play.”

His eyes bulging a bit, Granville replied, “Oh, I should love to hear you. We have a beautiful spinet in the music room – ha! Good place for it, what? Ha, ha!” It looked as if the poor boy was about to implode, but was rescued by the arrival of the servants carrying plates of food.

Giselle waited until everything had been served before responding. When she did, she made sure her expression was appropriately serious. “I would be delighted, Granville. In fact, if you would sing with me, I should feel much less self-conscious. Something tells me you might also have some talent in that area.”

The boy blushed again, eliciting a quiet snort from Alaric who had been watching his big brother’s wrestling match with this latest crush and obviously enjoying it immensely. Giselle didn’t miss this and added, “Alaric, perhaps you could harmonize if we chose the right song?”

The younger boy’s delight was momentarily jolted into oblivion – he had plainly not been expecting to be called out on his brotherly smugness. “Harm…harmonize? I’ve never, I mean, I don’t think – it’s…” He spluttered to a halt.

“I can teach you, if you like,” said Giselle kindly while somehow making it clear that very little was going to get past her.

Alaric, naturally, chose to ignore that aspect of her demeanor, latching instead upon her offer. That would mean more time with her himself –

“Well, I hope you don’t mind,” Winston chimed in, “but I have no ear for music, and would much rather learn more about writing and painting. And politics.” He seemed to have added this last subject for his father’s benefit, perhaps because the man was outright frowning at him.

“I believe we can do all of those things,” Giselle told him. “When do our lessons begin, Mr. Lanford?”

“Tomorrow morning, I should think. This only Wednesday, and assuming you’ve gotten yourself situated, I can see no reason to delay.” Giles shrugged and picked up his fork. “Well! The food is getting cold, so let us put off further discussion until after the meal, shall we?”

And thus began Giselle Moreaux’s new life, one that at the outset boded well if maybe tedious and not at all what she’d envisioned for herself. But she would soon learn that not even in her imagination could she have anticipated the reality that awaited her in Grey House.