The Hollywood Governess by Alexandra Weston EPUB & PDF – eBook Details Online
- Status: Available for Free Download
- Authors: Alexandra Weston
- Language: English
- Genre: Historical Romance
- Format: PDF / EPUB
- Size: 6.4 MB
- Price: Free
WENSLEYDALE, YORKSHIRE, MARCH 1937
As Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers danced, as Cary Grant wisecracked in screwball comedies and as Aidan Neil sang, the moviegoing public saw what the studios wanted them to see. Glamour,
sophistication and elegance. But behind that glittering façade there
were some dark secrets.
One of those included me.
— HOLLYWOOD’S SECRETS BY M. E. CALVEZ
Smoke billowing, the engine huffs into Hawes Station. As it eases to a halt,
there’s a sharp hissing as steam swirls around the wheels. Doors bang open.
I stand looking for my youngest sister, Rose among the few passengers. I
wave my umbrella when I spot her but then see the look on her face. I turn
to my other sister, Meg who’s remained sitting on the bench.
‘She doesn’t look thrilled to see us,’ I say. At twenty-three, Meg is five
years younger than me.
‘I told you she wouldn’t be.’ Meg gathers her brown paper parcels
before she stands. ‘She likes to walk part of the way with Beryl.’
‘Well, I don’t know how much longer I’m home for and I want to spend
time with both my sisters.’ I adjust my scarf against the chill breeze blowing
down the dale. ‘She can tolerate us this once.’
I’ve been home for six weeks, returning to damp, grey Yorkshire in midJanuary after five months in Belfast schooling the daughter of a brewing
magnate as she recuperated from scarlet fever.
Rose parts with her school friend and waves as she comes towards us.
Her felt hat is askew and her gym slip rumpled. She’s sixteen which makes
our relationship complicated. Ever since our mother died when she was
two, I’ve been more of a parent than a sister to her.
‘What’s this?’ She grins as she does up the buttons on her navy coat.
‘An escort to make sure I get home safely?’
‘Certainly.’ I take her arm as I join her. ‘There are rumours of
highwaymen on Bellow Hill.’
‘Hester!’ She gives me a look of barely suppressed irritation. ‘I’m not
eight.’
I squeeze her arm with a glove-clad hand. ‘I know.’
I’m good with eight-year-olds. As a governess, I’ve had plenty of
practice (my pupils are rarely younger than seven or older than fourteen).
I’ve got much less idea of how to converse with a sixteen-year-old.
‘What brought you into town?’ Rosie asks as we pass through the picket
gate into the station yard.
A dray is being unloaded. The horse stamps a hoof as it waits. As we
pass, the man breaks off from hefting barrels to tip his cap at Meg. Then his
gaze switches to me and he stares.
Meg is pretty; the kind of pretty which makes men look twice as she
walks down the street. In a couple of years, I expect Rosie will turn as many
heads as Meg. I am not similarly blessed. Even before the accident, I had
the kind of face the polite would call ‘strong featured’. Now that it is
marred by a three-inch scar across my cheek, I am generally looked at with
either pity or disdain.
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