The Governess Bride: A Sweet Mail Order Bride Historical by Eliza Lewis

The Governess Bride
    by
    Eliza Lewis
    Copyright © Eliza Lewis
    All rights reserved.
     
     
    "You're leaving?"
     
    Gideon McCabe's brows were drawn in consternation and confusion as he watched the matronly and no-nonsense Mrs Abigail Abercromby wheeze and circle around him, gathering up her final few possessions, tucking this and that into her reticule as she went about it.
     
    "My dear young man," said the old lady breathlessly, "those two darling nephews of yours are more trouble than a woman my age can ably handle. Now, I had planned to stay long enough to settle in your new w—, ahem, your new Governess ," she went on, "but mark my words, if I have to chase those babies around the pasture one more time I shall not live to tell the tale."
     
    Governess ? Gideon squared his shoulders, folded his arms and set to clenching and unclenching a muscle along his jaw. Unless he was very much mistaken, a meddle was afoot.
     
    "A Governess, Mrs Abercromby?"
     
    "Why, ye-es," the old lady faltered, eyeing Gideon carefully. "That is, yes – and no," she added slowly, trying her best to gauge Gideon's reaction.
     
    "Yes and no? Well now, either a Governess is arriving – or she isn't."
     
    At this, Gideon was somewhat puzzled to note a deep, pink flush spread rapidly across Mrs Abercromby's usually powder-pale face. Just what exactly was going on here? he wondered.
    "Mr McCabe, allow me to just come out with it plain and simple.
     
    "Please do." Gideon's tone was polite enough. But there was more than a touch of weariness in it.
     
    The old lady cleared her throat and straightened herself to her full four feet and eleven inches. Gideon towered over her.
     
    "Mr McCabe," she asserted confidently, "I am of the opinion that you are in need of a wife."
     
    The taught muscle in Gideon's jaw set to clenching again, but he simply put his hands to his hips and dipped his head, keeping his annoyance in check. Mrs Abercromby wasn't the first. She likely wouldn't be the last, either .
     
    The weary rancher opened his mouth to furnish the old mischief maker with his stock response: I have neither the time, nor the inclination, to find myself a wife… But the unstoppable Mrs Abercromby held up her hand. She would not be interrupted, it seemed.
     
    "Before you say another word, Mr McCabe, let me also state my opinion that the babies in your care need a mother. Not some stand-in housekeeper like me neither. A good woman and a kind woman. A woman who'll give you more than a summer or two before she's off getting married and getting busy with her own babies…"
     
    For reasons he couldn't quite figure, that stung. Gideon was by now standing quite still, and concentrating hard on not voicing his extreme irritation.
     
    Buoyed by his silence, and oblivious to the thunder in his dark eyes, Mrs Abercromby continued apace.
     
    "And that is why," she went on, "and please do bear with me Mr McCabe, I, ah – I took the small liberty of placing an advertisement in one of my ladies' journals.
     
    "You advertised in a ladies' journal. For a Governess." Gideon's voice was about as flat as a pancake on hearing this little nugget.
     
    A strange little whimper came from Mrs Abercromby at that, followed by a long, leaden silence. It hadn't slipped Gideon's notice that the old lady had begun to fiddle needlessly with the clasp of her carpet bag.
     
    She was keeping something from him , the rancher realized.
     
    Gideon continued to stand his ground. Thunder in his eyes, arms folded across his chest, one eyebrow raised. Silent. Waiting.
     
    After an uncomfortable few minutes, Mrs Abercromby stopped fussing with her reticule and lifted her chin to a defiant tilt. She must have been working up the courage for it. Because the next thing she did was look Gideon directly in the eye, clear her throat, and announce:
     
    "Not a Governess, Mr McCabe. A wife."
     
     
     
    * * *
     
    Three months earlier:
     
    With a heavy heart, Clara Hamilton stood