The boy’s mother, Lady Pibble, trailed in after him. No laughing! Not even when her housemaid ushered in a boy wearing a brocade curtain pinned like a Roman toga-although the gleaming blue that coated his arms and face clashed with the senatorial drape of the curtain. As the owner of the most elite agency for governesses in the whole of the British Isles, she had to maintain decorum at all times. Not only did she have to keep those delicious details to herself, she couldn’t even burst into laughter until she was in private. She knew which of the Duke of Fletcher’s offspring had stolen a golden toothpick and an enameled chamber pot and, even better, what he had done with them.
For example, she knew precisely how the Countess of Ardmore’s second-best wig had made its way onto the head of a terrified piglet, which dashed across the terrace when the vicar was taking tea. A lady who has attended fourteen lectures about Chinese porcelain will Ming this and Tsing that all evening a baron who has published an essay about vultures in a zoological magazine will undoubtedly hold forth on the unpleasant habits of carrion-eaters.Įugenia Snowe’s area of expertise, on the other hand, would have made dinner guests howl with laughter, if only it were appropriate to share. Nothing ruins a dinner party like expertise. Snowe’s Registry Office for Select Governesses
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