A Lady Becomes A Governess. Diane Gaston

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      Her eyes must be deceiving her. She blinked twice, but her mirror image remained.

      The other woman laughed nervously. ‘I—I do not know what to say.’

      ‘Neither do I.’ What did one say to one’s exact likeness?

      ‘It is most unsettling.’ The young woman straightened. ‘But forgive my manners. Allow me to present myself. I am Miss Tilson. A governess. Nobody you would know.’

      Rebecca extended her hand. ‘Lady Rebecca Pierce. It is a pleasure to meet you.’ She almost laughed. ‘To meet me.’

      Miss Tilson accepted her handshake.

      The hatch opened and a gentleman descended.

      They moved to one side so he could walk by them. Miss Tilson turned away from him.

      He glanced at them as he passed. ‘You ladies should stay in your cabins. The sea is rough. Do not fear. A seaman will bring your meal to you.’

      Had he noticed their resemblance to each other?

      Rebecca and Miss Tilson did not speak until he disappeared into one of the cabins near the end of the corridor.

      ‘We should do as he says, I suppose.’ Miss Tilson opened a door to a space as tiny as Nolan’s. ‘My cabin is here.’

      ‘I would like to speak with you more,’ Rebecca said hurriedly, before Miss Tilson left her. ‘I am quite alone. My maid suffers the mal de mer and remains in her cabin.’

      The young woman lowered her gaze. ‘The sea has never bothered me. I suppose I have a strong constitution that way.’

      As did Rebecca.

      ‘Will you talk with me?’ Rebecca’s pulse quickened with excitement. ‘Maybe there is some sense to make of this.’ She made a vague gesture in the air between them.

      Miss Tilson gazed into her cabin. ‘You are welcome to come in, but there is very little room.’

      ‘Come to my cabin, then,’ Rebecca said. ‘We may be comfortable there.’

      The two women settled in Rebecca’s cabin, seating themselves across from each other at the small table. Through the small porthole choppy waves spewed white foam.

      Rebecca bit her tongue. Instead of blurting out Why do you look like me? she asked, ‘Where are you bound, Miss Tilson?’

      ‘To a family in the Lake District. Not a family, precisely. Two little girls whose parents were killed in an accident. They are in the care of their uncle now, the new Viscount Brookmore.’

      ‘How sad.’ Rebecca had been nearly grown when she lost her parents to illness.

      ‘And you, Lady Rebecca? Where are you bound?’ Miss Tilson spoke without the hint of an Irish brogue, Rebecca noticed. As did Rebecca. She’d lost her accent in a Reading boarding school.

      ‘To London,’ she replied.

      ‘London!’ Miss Tilson smiled. ‘How exciting. I was there once. It was so...vital.’

      ‘Vital, indeed.’ Except Rebecca had no wish to go there. London would be a prison to her. With Lord Stonecroft.

      Miss Tilson’s eyes—so like her own—narrowed. ‘You sound as if you do not wish to go.’

      Rebecca met her gaze. ‘I do not. I travel there to be married.’

      The young woman’s brows rose. ‘Married?’

      Rebecca waved a hand. ‘It is an arranged marriage. My brother’s idea.’

      ‘And you do not wish to marry this man?’

      ‘Not at all.’ She straightened in her chair. Marrying Stonecroft was the last thing she wished to talk about. ‘May I change the subject?’

      Miss Tilson blinked. ‘Forgive me. I did not mean to pry.’

      Rebecca shrugged. ‘Perhaps I will tell you the whole story later.’ She leaned forward. ‘For now I am bursting with questions. Why do we look alike? How can this be? Are we related somehow?’

      They traded stories of parentage and lineage, but nothing seemed to connect them. Miss Tilson’s family had been gentry. Her mother died giving birth to her and her overwhelmed and grieving father put her in the care of nurses and governesses and finally to school in Bristol when her father died, leaving her to fend for herself. She’d come to Ireland to be a governess and was now on her way to a new position.

      Rebecca, on the other hand, was the daughter of an English earl whose estate was in Ireland, but she’d spent much of her life in England, in that boarding school in Reading.

      Rebecca blew out an exasperated breath. ‘We are no closer to understanding this. We are not related—’

      ‘But we look alike,’ Miss Tilson finished for her. ‘An unexpected coincidence?’

      There was a mirror affixed to the wall. They stood and gazed into it.

      ‘We are not identical,’ Miss Tilson observed. ‘Look.’

      Rebecca’s two front teeth were slightly more prominent, her eyebrows more arched, her eyes a bit wider.

      ‘No one would notice unless we were standing next to each other,’ Miss Tilson added.

      ‘Our clothes set us apart. That is for certain.’ Rebecca swung away from the mirror to face Miss Tilson instead of her image. ‘If you wore my clothes, I’d wager anyone would take you for me.’

      ‘I cannot imagine wearing fine clothes like yours.’ Her likeness sighed.

      ‘You must wear them then,’ Rebecca said impulsively. ‘Let us change clothes and impersonate each other for the voyage. It will be a great lark. We will see if anyone notices.’

      Miss Tilson shook her head. ‘Your clothes are too fine for you to give up. Mine are plain.’

      ‘Precisely. But I believe people pay more attention to dress than to other aspects of one’s appearance. Perhaps even more than one’s character. In any event, I think there is nothing undesirable about wearing a simple dress.’

      The other woman touched the fine vigonia wool of Rebecca’s travelling dress. ‘I confess, I would love to wear a gown like this.’

      ‘Then you shall!’ Rebecca turned her back to her. ‘Unbutton me.’

      They undressed down to their shifts and traded dresses, acting as each other’s maids. Miss Tilson pulled Rebecca’s hair into a simple knot at the back of her head. Rebecca placed Miss Tilson’s hair—it even felt like her own—high on her head and arranged curling tendrils around her face.

      They checked their images in the mirror again and laughed.

      There was a rap at the door.

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