The Aloof Count's Novice Governess

The great wooden doors swung open before she could even raise a hand to knock. A middle-aged woman with a ramrod-straight posture and a serious but kind face approached, accompanied by a gentleman in an impeccable black tailcoat.

"Miss Maria Clara Duarte?" the woman asked, inclining her head.

"Yes." Maria Clara offered a smile, trying to mask the tremor of nerves.

"I am Doralice, the housekeeper, and this is Olavo, the butler." Her tone was firm, but a flicker of relief softened her eyes. "We've been expecting you. Come in, please."

"Welcome to Alencastro Manor." Olavo inclined his head in a shallow bow.

He stepped forward to take Maria Clara's suitcase.

"I'll have this taken to your room."

With another nod, Olavo retreated, leaving Maria Clara with Doralice.

The young woman crossed the threshold, and a chill washed over her as the temperature seemed to drop several degrees. The interior was majestic, but for all its opulence, the atmosphere felt hollow. Empty. And far too silent.

"The Count is not at home," the housekeeper said, her footsteps echoing softly as she led the way. "He spends most of his time at his company's office in the city. He may return later, or perhaps tomorrow. We never know for certain."

"I see," Maria Clara murmured. "And the children?"

Doralice hesitated for a fraction of a second.

"They are good children, just... traumatized by everything that happened."

Maria Clara didn't ask what "everything" meant. Not yet.

"As you were told, Helena is seven," Doralice continued. "She is a very active, intelligent, and sensitive girl, which means she is starved for attention. That's what makes her a bit... rebellious."

Doralice let out a faint sigh. "Thomas, however, is four. He's a very shy, quiet boy. He does everything his sister tells him."

They proceeded down a wide corridor to a room lit by large windows overlooking a sprawling garden.

"This is the children's sitting room," the housekeeper explained. "They usually spend their afternoons here."

The moment Maria Clara stepped inside, she heard the scuffle of small feet and frantic whispers. Something shot out from under a table: a small wooden cart with a hideous rubber rat tied to its top. It skittered across the polished floor, zipping past her feet with only inches to spare.

"My God!" she gasped, jumping back.

A burst of childish, mischievous laughter echoed from the corners of the room.

Doralice closed her eyes, a pained expression on her face.

"Kids... please," she pleaded.

Maria Clara lifted her gaze and met two pairs of eyes fixed on her: curious, suspicious... and utterly defiant.

Thomas and Helena.

Thomas had a messy mop of dark blond hair falling over his round face. His rosy cheeks were a stark contrast to eyes that seemed too dull for such a young child.

Helena was beautiful, with long, golden curls cascading down her back. She held her chin high, her posture proud, her dark eyes flashing with defiance.

"Hi," Maria Clara said with a small wave.

Helena turned to her brother, speaking just loudly enough for Maria Clara to hear.

"Bet this one doesn't last a week."

Thomas just gave a slight, solemn nod. Then, in a flash, the two of them darted away, their laughter echoing down the corridors.

"They... have been very difficult since the Countess passed away," Doralice said, her voice softening with sorrow. "Nothing holds their attention for long. We've already lost three governesses this year alone."

"I understand," Maria Clara said, her voice serene. "They're just children. And sad children often cry in different ways."

The hardness in Doralice's gaze softened into something warmer.

"Come," she said. "There is still much to show you."

The two walked through corridors lined with portraits of stern-faced ancestors—somber men in military uniforms and women as rigid and pale as marble statues.

"This entire wing is for the children," Doralice explained as they entered a new room. "This is the study room."

The room was spacious and bright, but cold. There was nothing childlike about it. The large, somber desks seemed far too big for small bodies. The only jarring note of modernity was a pair of computers sitting on one of them.

"They have their lessons here," Doralice said.

"A room built to crush spirits, not nurture them," she murmured to herself.

But Doralice heard.

"The Count... prefers things this way. Order. Silence. Discipline. These are the children's schedules."

Doralice held out a folder to Maria Clara. She opened it.

Inside, a detailed timetable dictated the children's lives from the moment they woke until they went to sleep. She set it aside. Too rigid, she thought, but said nothing.

They moved on to the next room.

"This is the children's music room."

It was another spacious room with high ceilings and tall windows overlooking the garden. The furniture was dark and cold, but in the center stood a beautiful black grand piano.

"You were recommended because you are also a music teacher."

"Do the children play?"

Doralice sighed.

"Helena has talent. Her mother played beautifully and started her on the piano. But after her mother died... she lost interest."

"I see," Maria Clara murmured.

"But I must warn you." Doralice's expression grew nervous. "Avoid giving lessons when the Count is at home. He... doesn't like to hear the piano." She lowered her voice. "There is another music room, but it's sealed. No one enters without the Count's permission."

"It seems the Count is a very strict man."

"He is a good man, but one who has been struck by tragedy," Doralice corrected gently. "Come, I have something to show you that I'm sure you'll like."

Maria Clara followed Doralice to a set of double doors, richly carved with floral and sacred symbols.

As soon as they were opened, Maria Clara's eyes lit up.

The small chapel at Alencastro Manor was like a reliquary preserved in time. The walls were paneled in fine wood, with twisted columns, intricate arabesques, and delicate gold friezes.

On the raised altar stood a large crucifix. Beside it was a beautiful, old statue of Our Lady of Fátima, brought from Portugal, while other saints occupied smaller niches. Light filtered through two stained-glass windows, illuminating the solid wooden pews.

The very air seemed to invite prayer.

"When the Count's mother lived here," Doralice said in a low voice, "these doors were always open. I believe the Count won't mind if you say your prayers here, so long as you keep them closed afterward."

Doralice shut the doors carefully.

"There is still much more to see, but you must be tired. Perhaps you'd like to bathe and change."

She gestured for Maria Clara to follow.

"Come, I'll take you to your rooms."

Despite all the beauty, everything felt too cold.

They returned to the main hall, where Doralice led her up the majestic hardwood staircase.

"The Count's rooms are in the opposite wing from the children's."

At the far end of the corridor stood a large set of double wooden doors bearing the family crest. The Count's chambers, she presumed.

They continued down the wide corridor, which was crowded with centuries-old furniture and paintings.

"This is the children's room."

Doralice entered and held the door for Maria Clara, who wasn't surprised to see more dark furniture and two canopy beds. The only things that marked the room as belonging to children were the colors of the bedding and pillows. One bed was dressed in pink, the other in blue.

Doralice crossed the large, carpeted room to a carved wooden door.

"This door leads to your room."

Beyond it, Maria Clara found herself in a beautiful chamber, luxuriously decorated in the same aristocratic style.

"I suggest you keep the connecting door closed at night," Doralice advised.

"I understand."

Maria Clara suspected the advice had something to do with the welcome she'd just received.

"Well, I will leave you to settle in. Dinner is served at eight o'clock." Doralice paused at the door. "You will take your meals in the staff dining room. The children are meant to dine with the Count in the great hall, but as he is rarely present, they usually eat in the small dining room. You will accompany them on those occasions."

Maria Clara listened, thinking that these children didn't need more discipline. They needed attention. They needed affection.

"Thank you," she said simply, keeping her thoughts to herself.

As soon as Doralice left, Maria Clara looked for her suitcase but saw no sign of it. She opened the large hardwood wardrobe and found that someone had already carefully put her belongings away.

She stepped out onto the balcony and took in the view.

The manor stood on high ground, overlooking a large garden that invited a long walk.

That was when she saw him: a tall man striding toward the manor's main entrance. She could only see him from behind, but she couldn't help but notice the proud, elegant way he carried himself.

She guessed it was the Count, finally arriving home, and waited for a summons. She waited for some time, but no one came.