I'm delighted to showcase fellow
Historical Hearts author, the lovely Maggi Andersen on my blog today with her Victorian mystery,
The Folly at Falconbridge Hall.
THE FOLLY AT FALCONBRIDGE HALL
MAGGI ANDERSEN
KNOX ROBINSON PUBLISHING
Review: The author deserves high praise for her ability
to capture the reader's attention and engage one in both the mystery and the
romance of this delightful story!
Margaret Faria
InD’Tale
Magazine
BLURB:
Vanessa Ashley felt herself qualified for a
position as governess, until offered the position at Falconbridge Hall. Left
penniless after the deaths of her artist father and suffragette mother, Vanessa
Ashley draws on her knowledge of art, politics, and history to gain employment
as a governess. She discovers that Julian, Lord Falconbridge, requires a
governess for his ten-year-old daughter Blyth at Falconbridge Hall, in the
countryside outside London. Lord Falconbridge is a scientist and dedicated
lepidopterist who is about to embark on an extended expedition to the Amazon. An
enigmatic man, he takes a keen interest in his daughter's education. As she
prepares her young charge, Vanessa finds the girl detached and aloof. As Vanessa
learns more about Falconbridge Hall, more questions arise. Why doesn't Blythe
feel safe in her own home? Why is the death of her mother, once famed society
beauty Clara, never spoken of? And why did the former governess leave so
suddenly without giving notice?
EXCERPT:
The
room she entered was also gloomy. A gas lamp glowed where a man sat in
shirtsleeves and braces, his dark head bent over a desk. She took two uncertain
steps and paused in the middle of a crimson Persian rug. Vanessa clasped her
hands together and inspected the room. Shelves of leather-bound books lined one
wall. Heavy bronze velvet drapes, pulled halfway across the small-paned windows,
framed a narrow but magnificent view of parkland where broad graveled walks
trailed away through well-grown trees. She suffered a sudden urge to walk
across, pull the curtains back and throw open a window.
Lord Falconbridge put down the butterfly under-glass he
had been examining and pushed back his leather chair, rising to his feet. As she
edged closer, he donned his coat and came to shake her hand. “Miss
Ashley.”
“How do you do, my lord?”
He
motioned her to sit then sat himself.
He
would be in his mid-thirties, she guessed. His good looks made her feel even
more untidy. His dark hair swept off a widow’s peak, and he had a deep cleft in
his chin. He removed his glasses, and his eyes were a similar bright blue to the
butterfly. Dark brows met in an absent-minded frown as if she was an unwelcome
distraction. “Welcome to Falconbridge Hall. I hope you had a good
journey?”
“Yes, thank you, my lord.”
“You’ve come quite a long way. You must be
tired.”
“I
broke my journey with an aunt in Taunton, my lord.” Her aunt was quite elderly,
and Vanessa had slept on the sofa, but she didn’t feel at all tired. She
expected fatigue would strike once the initial rush of excitement had
faded.
“My
sympathies for your loss, Miss Ashley.”
“Thank you.”
“You have had no experience as a governess, I
believe.”
“No.”
“Do
you like children?”
“Very much, my lord.”
“Then you have had some involvement with
them.”
“Yes, I was very fond of my neighbors’ children. I minded
them quite often as their parents were both in business.”
“You had no opportunity to marry in
Cornwall?”
“I
had one offer, my lord.” The widowed vicar, Harold Ponsonby, had offered, in an
attempt to rescue her from the heathenish den of iniquity in which he found her.
He
eyed her. “And you refused him?”
Might he think her imprudent? “Yes.”
“Do
you have a particular skill, Miss Ashley, which you can impart to my
daughter?”
“No, my lord.” She drew in a breath. She had not expected
such a question. “Sadly, I did not inherit my father’s artistic talent, but I
have my mother’s enquiring mind and her interest in history and politics.”
“Politics?” He stared at her rather long, and she wished
again that she’d had time to tidy herself. “We shall see how you get on. The
rest of the day is your own. We will discuss your duties in the library tomorrow
at ten. Mrs. Royce, my housekeeper, will show you to your room.” With an
abstracted glance at his desk, he rose and went to pull the bell.
The
mahogany desktop was completely covered with pens and papers, a microscope, a
probe of some kind, a set of long-handled tweezers, a large magnifying glass and
a small hand-held one, tomes stacked one on top of the other in danger of
toppling, and the butterfly in its glass prison, its beautiful wings pinned
down, never to soar again. Caught by its beauty and premature death, Keats’s
poem Ode to a Grecian Urn, rushed
into her head. “Thou, silent form, dost tease us out of thought…As doth
eternity.”
The
viscount swiveled, and his eyebrows shot up. “Pardon?”
Vanessa jumped to her feet as heat flooded her cheeks.
She'd said the words aloud. She must have had too much sun. “Keats, my
lord.”
“Are you a devotee of the Romantics?”
“Not especially.” Annoyed with herself and, irrationally,
with him for pursuing it, she said, “Forgive me, it was a random
thought.”
He
folded his arms and studied her. “You are given to spouting random philosophical
thoughts?”
She
tugged at her damp collar. “Not usually. I’m a little tired, and it’s been so
hot.” Hastening to change the subject, she stepped over to the wall covered in
framed butterflies of all sizes and colors. One particular specimen caught her
eye. “Exquisite.”
She
felt his presence disturbingly close behind her. “Which?”
She
pointed. “This one, with patches of crimson and deep blue on its
wings.”
“You have a good eye. That’s a Nymphalidae from Peru. Do you know much
about butterflies?” She looked at him, finding his blue eyes had
brightened.
“Very little, I’m afraid,” she said, aware her
contribution to this discussion would prove disappointing. “We get many orange
ones with black spots in Cornwall.”
“Dark
green Fritillary.” The interested light in his eyes
faded.
“That can’t be. They’re orange,” she
said.
“That is their name, dark green
Fritillary.”
“Why would they call it dark green when …?” Her voice
died away at the impatience in his face.
“That species is common and of little interest.” He
studied her. “Unless you took notice of some interesting aspect of their
habitats?”
“No, not precisely, my lord … uh, they seemed to gather
in trees and grasses ….” She nipped at her lip with her teeth, as he nodded and
turned away. Would a governess be required to know much about butterflies or
botany? Beyond Cornwall, her knowledge of flora and fauna was barely worthy of
comment.
A
woman entered the room, her neat figure garbed in black bombazine, with a lacy
cap over her brown hair and a watch pinned to her breast. A large bunch of keys
jangled at her waist. Vanessa thought her to be in her early-forties. She had a
pointed nose and sharp eyes that looked like they would miss
little.
“Ah. Mrs. Royce, this is the new governess, Miss Ashley.
Please give her a tour of the day nursery and school room and introduce my
daughter to her before you take her to her quarters.”
“Yes, milord.”
“Miss Ashley.” His lordship nodded. “I shall see you here
again at ten o’clock tomorrow. We’ll discuss your plans for teaching my
daughter. I’m extremely keen that she becomes proficient in mathematics, the
French language, and botany.”
“Botany, my lord?” Vanessa’s fears were realized.
Completely unprepared, she looked around wildly at the books lining his shelves.
Might she have time to bone up on it?
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