GOVERNESS.—A clergyman is desirous of RECOMMENDING A YOUNG LADY, the orphan of a vicar, to the situation of GOVERNESS in a family where she will have charge of their young children. She has been expressly educated for the purpose. Apply by letter, postpaid, to the Rev. P.R. at 14 Dorchester Street, Tunbridge Wells.

Envelopes began appearing in the vicarage post box. One letter in particular stood out. A Mary Whitstone, writing from a quiet street in northwest London, described a comfortable life with her barrister husband and two well-behaved children, Beatrice and Ned. The children had been brought up by a nanny, but it was time for them to begin a proper education. The new governess would have her own accommodations. She’d be with the children six hours a day, six days a week, and might be expected to accompany them on holiday. Other than that, her time would be her own. A well-rounded education, Mrs. Whitstone wrote, should, in her view, include occasional excursions to museums and musical concerts and even perhaps the theater. Evangeline, who’d never done any of these things, was intrigued. She answered Mrs. Whitstone’s many questions dutifully and at length, sent off her letter, and waited for the reply.

Despite her provincial ingenuousness, or perhaps because of it, she impressed the lady of the house sufficiently to receive an offer of employment: twenty pounds a year, plus lodging and meals. It seemed to Evangeline an extravagant sum. To the bishop, and the young curate poised to begin his new life in the vicarage, it was a godsend.

Over the next few days at Newgate, Evangeline thought desperately about reaching out to someone, anyone, who might come to her aid, but could think of no one who might testify with great conviction to her good name. Though as the vicar’s daughter she’d been accorded a modicum of deference, her father’s decision to keep her close to home meant she’d made no real friends in the village. She wondered about contacting the housekeeper at the vicarage, or maybe the butcher or the baker or one of the shop clerks she’d been friendly with, but she suspected the word of an ordinary villager wouldn’t carry much weight. She didn’t know anyone in London other than the Whitstones.

She hadn’t heard from Cecil.

By now he would have returned from Venice. By now he should’ve gotten the news. A small part of her clung to the hope that he’d act honorably and step forward. Perhaps he’d send a letter: You were wronged. I’ve told them everything. Maybe he’d even come and find her.

She needed to look presentable if he arrived. When the guards brought a clean bucket of water, she scrubbed her face and neck and swiped under her arms with a rag. She blotted her bodice and parted her hair with her fingernail and smoothed it down, tying it back with a strip of rag.

“Who’re ye cleaning up for?” Olive wanted to know.

“No one.”

“Ye think he’ll come for ye.”