The Governess’ shame
I was reading quietly by the fireside in the study, The oil lamp shone brightly and the firelight flickered as I whiled away the time before supper one cold dark February evening. A knock at the door brought me back from tales of derring do to the present. “Come” I directed, but instead of Cook announcing supper supper it was our governess Miss Williams who entered and she was in some evident distress. She had been with us for several years now looking after my son James and daughter Emily since my dear wife departed. Departed with Mr Wilmot the cuckold and all round scoundrel you understand not departed this mortal coil. “My Lord, I must speak with you,” Miss Williams urged. I looked at her. In the deep shadow cast by the oil lamp …