The Hollywood Governess: The BRAND NEW gorgeous, romantic story of forbidden love in Golden Age Hollywood from Alexandra Weston for 2024

By Alexandra Weston

A sweeping NEW historical romance set in the golden age of Hollywood from Alexandra Weston.

A governess bound by her own strict rules, a movie-star tormented by grief, a forbidden love story you won’t forget.

Hollywood, 1937

Hester Carlyle has no wish to look after the pampered offspring of the rich anymore, in spite of being a highly sought-after governess. But with her elderly father frail, and the roof of their rundown cottage in dreary Yorkshire falling in, she has no choice but to accept a dazzling new placement.

Movie star Aidan Neil is box office gold, but after the tragic death of his wife Dinah Doyle, he needs Hester’s help to raise their young daughter Erin. Aidan and Dinah were once the perfect Hollywood couple, but stars don’t shine forever…

At Aidan’s glittering Hollywood mansion, Hester finds a family struggling with their grief. Hester knows she can help little Erin, but Aidan’s torment is palpable. Brooding and reclusive, he is far from the picture-perfect hero Hester's seen in films. There’s an edge to him that makes Hester wonder if he’s hiding a dark secret of his own....

Was the marriage between Aidan and Dinah as perfect as it appeared to be? Was Dinah’s death really a tragic accident?

When it finally comes, the truth is more shocking than Hester could ever have imagined. And she knows that if revealed, it will destroy the family she has grown to love and ruin Aidan's Hollywood dream forever...

A sweeping new story from a talented new voice. Perfect for Fans of Taylor Jenkins Read, Wendy Holden and Natasha Lester.

Readers LOVE The Hollywood Governess!

"Set in the glamorous world of 1930s Hollywood, Weston has written a stunning book that I devoured in two days, with a heroine I was rooting for all the way. Full of surprises, this book gets five shiny Oscar-winning stars from me." Bestselling author Jenni Keer

" I adored this beautiful story. A glorious, unforgettable read." Bestselling author Renita D'Silva

"A page-turning, emotional story about forbidden love, heartbreaking loss and devastating secrets. I absolutely loved it." Bestselling author Siobhan Daiko

"Jane Eyre meets Rebecca meets Swing Time! I absolutely loved this beautifully written tale of old Hollywood - and Yorkshire! Mysterious, evocative and so compelling, I read it in 24 hours.” Bestselling author Jenni Fletcher.

"An exquisite, compelling read. I read it twice." Bestselling author Sylvia Broady

"I loved this book such a sweet and beautiful story! I thoroughly enjoyed reading it! Definitely 5 stars!" Reader Review

"One of the most charming books I've read in a long time" Reader Review

"Fabulous book!! It had some serious Evelyn Hugo vibes." Reader Review

"I can’t wait to read more from Alexandra Weston as this was fantastic." Reader Review

• Language: English
• Publisher: Boldwood Books
• Release date: Jun 26, 2024
• ISBN: 9781836039877

Book preview

PROLOGUE

Dinah Doyle Dies

The terrible news from Hollywood this week is the death of Dinah Doyle on 13 May. The thirty-year-old star of Charisma and The Paradise Club was married to her co-star, Aidan Neil. They have one daughter, Erin who is six.

Crown Pictures announced her death by draping the crown above the studio entrance in black crepe. A statement from the studio said, ‘We are deeply saddened by Dinah Doyle’s untimely death. She was one of the brightest jewels in our crown of stars. Everyone who worked with her will miss her enormously. As a mark of respect, we have delayed the release of Dinah and Aidan’s latest movie, Harlequin Nights which will now open on 1 July.’

Aidan Neil was not available for comment but released a statement via the studio. ‘I have lost my wife and my daughter has lost her mother in the most tragic and unexpected circumstances. I ask that you respect our need to grieve in private.’

The cause of death has not been confirmed. But a source at the studio told our reporter that Dinah drowned in a pool at a villa she was staying at near Newport, California. There have been rumours in recent weeks that the marriage of the perfect Hollywood couple was on the rocks with Dinah’s name linked to two of the most eligible men in the movie business.

FILM WEEKLY, 20 MAY 1936

1

WENSLEYDALE, YORKSHIRE, MARCH 1937

As Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers danced, as Cary Grant wise-cracked in screwball comedies and as Aidan Neil sang, the movie-going 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 mid-January 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.

‘I had an order to deliver,’ Meg says as she takes Rosie’s other arm. ‘Hester came to keep me company.’

Meg’s a talented dressmaker. As well as caring for Father, she makes clothes for the women of Wensleydale, creating dresses which look a lot like the fashion plates in Weldon’s Ladies Journal but at a fraction of the price. This afternoon, we’d delivered a light tweed suit to the doctor’s wife who was delighted with the fit and the exquisite embroidery on the collar.

‘Then we went to Meg’s favourite shop,’ I add. ‘But I dragged her into the bookshop afterwards so we’re even!’

Rosie laughs. We both know how long Meg can spend in the haberdashers. She adores them as much as I do bookshops and Rosie loves the brightly packaged arrays of face powder and lipstick in a chemist. Not that she’s old enough to use them to my mind but that’s an argument we fortunately haven’t had over the past few weeks.

‘I wasn’t that long,’ Meg protests. ‘And I found the perfect buttons for the dress I’m going to wear to the dance on Saturday evening.’

‘I don’t think Dan’s going to notice your buttons,’ I say with a smile.

Meg’s stepping out with Dan Berriman, the youngest vet in the practice in nearby Reeth. It’s only been four months but he’s obviously smitten and clearly makes her happy.

We turn onto the road home. Otterdene, our much-loved house sits a mile above the town, amongst the drystone walls and barns that Wensleydale is famous for. It’s a twenty-minute walk, partly across fields, with a steep climb at the end of it.

‘Can I go to the pictures with Beryl on Saturday afternoon?’ Rosie says. ‘Head Over Heels, the new Jessie Matthews film is on at the Elite.’

‘Will you be back by six? Someone needs to take Father his tea,’ I say. ‘I thought I could do it but I’ve been roped into making refreshments for the spring dance.’

‘Heavens!’ Rosie says. ‘Who on earth asked you to do that?’

‘The vicar’s wife.’ I force a smile which I hope hides the sour taste that’s been trapped in my throat since the request was made. ‘It’s only a couple of hours.’

‘It seems a bit much to land you in the kitchen with the old dears,’ Rosie says, her voice rising with irritation on my behalf. ‘You’re only twenty-eight.’

‘I think so too,’ Meg adds. ‘Hester’s being far too nice about it.’

‘It doesn’t matter,’ I say hoping the words will convince me as well as my sisters. ‘It’s one evening⁠—’

‘You should go to the dance with Meg,’ Rosie interrupts. ‘I know you haven’t been since… since you got back from America but isn’t it time you stopped hiding away? I’ve read about this new face powder which would cover your scar and, if you wore your navy dress, no one would see the one on your⁠—’

As always happens when someone talks about my scars, my hand goes to where the other one lurks, where my glove is tucked tightly into my left sleeve. Beneath the layers of wool and cotton, there’s a vicious red gash that runs from elbow to wrist.

‘I’m not going.’ My stomach curdles at the thought and it’s with some effort that I keep my voice steady. ‘No man is going to want to dance with me and I’d rather not be a wallflower, thank you very much.’

‘Dan would dance with you,’ Meg says.

‘Because he likes you.’ I know Meg means it kindly but this is a kindness I don’t want. If I’m going to dance with a man again, I want it to be with someone who wants me in his arms, not doing his duty by his possible future sister-in-law.

We reach the stile built into the drystone wall. I take Meg’s parcels and then pass them to her after she’s climbed over. ‘Honestly, it’s fine,’ I say, as my feet find the stone treads built into the wall. ‘I’ll do my stint at the village hall and be home for cocoa by nine.’

I offer Rosie a hand as she descends the stile and then we set off across the field. Sheep munch contently around us as we follow the path. I don’t want to argue with my sisters all the way home. I turn to Rose and say brightly, ‘How was school today?’

I’m putting a brave face on it. The vicar’s wife’s request hurt very much. It’s one thing telling oneself you’ve accepted your future as a bluestocking spinster, quite another finding that others see you that way too. My disfigurement has catapulted me into the ranks of unmarried women twice my age.

I’m sure she didn’t mean to upset me but she’s inadvertently made it clear that I would be foolish to harbour any romantic hopes. I thought I’d cast all of those thoughts aside after Julian but one or two must have lingered in a quiet corner of my heart or I wouldn’t feel so cast down now.

In truth, life is easier when I’m working. No one asks the governess to dance.

Two letters have arrived by the afternoon post. One has a familiar London postmark and is in a thick, cream envelope which screams quality. The other is a slightly scruffy manilla posted in Skipton. It looks like a bill. We do not need any more of those. My Belfast earnings have only just paid off the ones which built up while Father was in hospital.

Rosie heads to the kitchen to put the kettle on. Jaffa, our chocolate retriever, disturbed from his warm spot by the stove, wanders into the hall. He rubs his head against my leg and I absently put my hand down to stroke him.

‘Is that The Call, Hester?’ Meg says, managing to give the words capital letters.

‘Yes.’ With Meg, I don’t have to hide the confusion of emotions which come with the arrival of one of the agency’s letters. It’s always painful to leave my family and there’s trepidation at starting a new position but there’s also a thrill at the prospect of travelling and seeing new places. ‘I asked for something closer to home this time.’

Father was ill all winter. He caught flu in November which became pneumonia by December, leading to a prolonged stay in hospital. He came home at the beginning of January and with the emergence of the first daffodils, he’s finally lost the hospital pallor and regained a little of his appetite.

I tear open the cream envelope and extract the neatly typed letter. It’s headed:

Constance Padgett Agency

with the words,

Providing elite governesses since 1895

in smaller font underneath. Mrs Padgett was a formidable lady, a suffragist and leading proponent of women’s education, who having struggled to find an appropriately qualified governess to teach her daughter, decided to do something about it. Forty years later and now run by Mrs Padgett’s niece, the equally redoubtable Miss Wall, the agency has a reputation for providing reliable bluestockings to home educate girls from the best families and those who aspire to that exclusive club. They recruited me seven years ago, fresh from Oxford.

The letter is short and to the point as their correspondence always is.

I assured the family in question that we had equally competent ladies available who were more willing to travel but the family have requested you by name and wished me to assure you that they will offer more than generous terms. The offer is however conditional upon you being able to swim.

Swim? How curious. But easily dealt with as I no longer swim.

The rest of the details are scant: a girl of seven, recently removed from school, a family in California.

A heavy weight settles in my stomach. I think of the promise I made to myself as I stood by the ship’s railings and watched the Statue of Liberty grow smaller and smaller.

‘It’s America,’ I say without glancing at Meg. ‘I’ll tell Miss Wall I can’t do it.’

‘Oh, Hester.’ Meg looks at me with concern. I glance away, biting my lip. Pity, even from Meg, always hurts. ‘Are you sure? I mean I know you said you’d never go back but Miss Wall…’ Meg trails off. There is a frown line between her pretty blue eyes.

‘Will think I’ve blotted my copybook again. But don’t worry, there’s a get-out clause. The position requires me to be able to swim. I’ll tell her I can’t.’

‘But that would be an enormous fib!’

‘Which Miss Wall will never know. My school swimming medals aren’t on my CV. And anyway, I don’t swim any more.’

Without conscious thought, I cradle my left arm against my body and shield it with my hand. I’ve not been in a swimming pool since the accident. I’ve tried once or twice, but the thought of unfriendly eyes seeing my scars is more than I can bear. It’s another thing I’ve lost because of what happened to me.

I open the second envelope and pull out a thin sheet of paper. ‘It’s the quote for the roof. I’ve been— Great Scott!’

‘Bad?’ I read out the figure and her eyes widen. ‘Oh my word! We can’t possibly afford that.’

‘It says there’s dry rot in the trusses and water is already getting in. Did the builder mention that when he came?’

‘I don’t think so.’ Meg frowns. ‘He was up on the ladder for a long time and then he went in the attic.’

‘We’d better go and have a look,’ I say. ‘I’ll get some light.’

There’s no electricity in the attic so I take the hurricane lantern from the hook by the door, check it’s got enough oil and light the wick. I carry it carefully up the back stairs to the second floor.

There are only staff bedrooms and the nursery up here, all unoccupied. We’re too old to need a nursery and we’ve not had any servants since the Wall Street Crash brought our family’s finances tumbling down along with most of the rest of the world’s.

Meg’s waiting for me by the small door built into the end wall. ‘Ready?’ she says. As I nod, she opens the door. A strong smell of damp wafts out to us. By unspoken agreement, I go first, feeling my way up the stairs with one hand on the wall. The lantern illuminates narrow wooden steps thickly coated in dust. One set of footprints have been here before me, creating distinctive shapes on each step. I make a mental note to clean them before the dust congeals to produce a new kind of life form.

I straighten at the top of the stairs and hold the lantern up. It illuminates a rag-bag assortment of items. There’s a battered steamer trunk, which was Mummy’s, Father’s army kit and some very shabby Victorian furniture.

I hold the lantern as high as I can. The roof timbers look ghostly as if they’re draped in thick cobwebs. I follow the line of the timber and at the point where it joins the horizontal, there’s a cluster of asymmetrical red mushrooms.

‘Oh gosh! Look at these!’

‘Is that it?’ asks Meg. ‘They look like evil toadstools from a fairy story.’

‘Evil, yes. Fairy story, no.’ More investigation reveals the other timbers have the same wraith-like quality and there are fungal outbreaks in two other spots. A trail of damp is starting to seep through to the rooms below.

How on earth did this happen without any of us noticing? Is it my fault for being away so much? If I had been here, would I have thought to check? Probably not. An Oxford education is useful for many things but the syllabus most definitely does not cover detecting dry rot.

By the light of the lantern, I look again at the builder’s letter. There’s a paragraph I haven’t shared with Meg.

The next bad storm will likely result in water ingress which will damage the fabric of the building. I therefore strongly recommend that the repairs are started immediately.

Cold settles in my stomach. I have to find out what the family in California are offering and make a decision. It doesn’t matter how it makes me feel. The important thing is that we have a roof over our heads.

‘We’re never going to be able to find that kind of money,’ Meg says as she descends behind me.

I square my shoulders as I wait for Meg at the bottom of the stairs. I meet her gaze as she steps onto the uncarpeted floor. ‘Can you hold the fort here? If I go, I need to know you’ll be all right even if I can’t get home if there’s an emergency.’

‘But Hester, are you sure? You know what you said about America. And then there’s the swimming.’

Her words bring back shards of painful memories. I blink to try to shift them. ‘It’s not New York.’ My voice comes out unusually quiet and I swallow hard before I speak again. ‘The job’s in California.’

‘Won’t you have to go through New York to get to California?’ Meg asks. ‘I’m really not sure this is a good idea, Hester. Remember how you were when you came home…’

I shake my head to chase the past away. I remember exactly. Damaged in body and soul. Shaken to the core by the man I’d thought loved me. It took four months of Meg’s careful nursing and many hours of reflection before I was ready to face the world again.

‘Let’s not worry about that until I’ve spoken to Miss Wall.’ I cross the landing and start to descend the main staircase, the heels of my shoes rattling against the stair rods. ‘As I tell my pupils, it’s best to confront one problem at a time.’

‘We’ll be all right.’ Meg follows me down. ‘Even if Father gets ill again, we’ll manage.’

The reassurance does little to help. I wrap my arms across my chest, hugging warmth into my suddenly chilled body. Can I do this? When I came home from New York in ’33, I promised myself I’d never step foot in America again. I never imagined I’d find myself forced to choose between keeping that promise and keeping the roof over our heads.

‘I’ll telephone Miss Wall and find out how generous these terms are. Then I’m going to ask her to negotiate. If this family want me to go to California, they’re going to have to pay top dollar.’ I dust cobwebs from my sleeves, hoping my briskness hides my trepidation. ‘After all, I’m a Padgett governess. We’re supposed to be expensive.’

‘But new-roof-expensive! Who’d pay that?’

‘We are about to find out.’

2

Aidan Neil was hot property in Hollywood by the late thirties. There were more accomplished actors and far better dancers but he was a truly outstanding singer and commanded the screen like a true star.

HOLLYWOOD’S SECRETS BY M. E. CALVEZ

As I wait for the exchange to connect us, I lean against the wall of the wood-lined cubbyhole on the landing which houses the telephone. There is a door but I rarely close it because it feels like being shut in a vertical coffin.

After enquiring about Father’s health, Miss Wall gets down to business. ‘Mr Neil is a film actor,’ she says in the same tone as she might have said lumberjack or chimney sweep. ‘I understand he’s quite well known. Do you go to the pictures?’

‘Not often.’ I don’t see the point of sitting in the dark watching images conjured up by someone else’s imagination. I’d much rather be at home reading a book.

‘Mr Neil lives in Hollywood. He’s a widower,’ Miss Wall continues. ‘His wife, Dinah Doyle died last year. They’ve only the one daughter, Erin.’

‘Erin?’ I query. ‘The Gaelic word for Ireland?’

‘Is that what it means? How curious!’ Then Miss Wall’s voice turns brisk again. ‘The girl has had health problems since her mother’s death and Mr Neil has decided to remove her from school.’

The poor child. How awful to lose her mother at such a young age. I know exactly how hard it was for myself, Meg and Rosie when Mummy died. If I accept the position, I’ll have to expect that Erin’s bereavement may affect her behaviour and there may be more difficulties to deal with than I’ve encountered before.

‘And the swimming?’

‘Yes, Mr Neil was quite insistent but in the circumstances it is understandable. His wife drowned, you see.’

Miss Wall’s stark words do nothing to remove the horror of such a death. I shudder. ‘How frightful. But I don’t quite see…’

‘You would be required to supervise when the little girl is in the pool. The house has one.’ There’s a crackle on the line and then Miss Wall asks, ‘You do swim?’

I close my eyes as I try to imagine myself beside a Californian swimming pool. Sunshine glinting off the turquoise water; beautiful, tanned Americans and Hester Carlyle with her ugly, red scars. I force myself to remove the tanned Americans and replace them with an over-excited seven-year-old. I give her a pink swimsuit and plaits. She grins and reveals a gap-toothed smile. Perhaps I can do this if no one sees me but my pupil.

I take a long breath and say, ‘Quite well, actually. I was Yorkshire Schools’ Champion for two years in a row.’

‘Excellent. I’m sure Mr Neil will find that reassuring.’

‘And the terms Mr Neil is offering?’

‘Most generous especially considering your past history.’ Miss Wall never misses an opportunity to remind me that I once let the side down by quitting a job early. In her mind, a Padgett Governess never leaves her post.

She names a figure and I quickly do the maths. Even if I wire home every penny, it’ll take six months to pay for the new roof. The weather in Wensleydale means we don’t have that long.

‘That is generous.’ I’ve learnt it doesn’t hurt to be magnanimous in negotiations especially when you intend to drive a hard bargain. ‘But, Miss Wall, I don’t want to go to California and if Mr Neil’s going to convince me, he’s going to have to be more than generous.’

‘How much more?’

‘Another two pounds and ten shillings a month.’

There’s a sharp intake of breath on the other end of the line. ‘That would be extremely high even for one of our best ladies.’

My spine stiffens. I’ve spent three years with a black mark against my name, only offered the positions everyone else has turned down. If I do this then perhaps it’ll have the added bonus of rehabilitating my career. But first I have to persuade Miss Wall to go into bat for me.

‘You did say Mr Neil asked for me by name.’ I pause and see if Miss Wall will get the hint. She doesn’t so I plough on. ‘Which clearly means he believes I am one of your best ladies.’

Miss Wall sighs rather pointedly. ‘Very well, Miss Carlyle. I’ll see what I can do.’

‘Plus the usual terms, of course.’ The usual terms cover days off (one day a week plus additional evenings by arrangement), notice (two weeks on each side) and travel arrangements (second class).

‘Leave it with me, Miss Carlyle,’ Miss Wall says. ‘I’ll get back to you tomorrow.’

I replace the handset and take a deep breath. Can I really go through with this? As Meg has already pointed out, there’s no sensible route to California which doesn’t involve docking in New York. My heart is thumping just thinking about it. And what if Father gets ill again?

‘Hester?’ Father’s voice cuts through my thoughts. The door to his room is slightly ajar. ‘Come and have a seat,’ he says as I push it fully open. His voice is still wheezy. His lungs were damaged in the war and the pneumonia has compounded the problems. He sits in a brown, leather armchair with a rug on his knee. There’s a silver frame with a photograph of Mummy in the centre of the mantelpiece. Next to it, a vase of crocuses is bright against the faded William Morris wallpaper. The bed, a mahogany half tester with a pale-green quilt, takes up most of the room.

‘What are you reading?’ I switch on the electric light before scooping coal from the scuttle and adding it to the fire. It smokes sullenly for a few seconds before crimson flames lick the coal’s black edges.

‘A fascinating article on the excavations at Jervaulx Abbey in ’05.’ He gestures at the chair opposite him as he speaks.

I move three issues of Archaeologia and this morning’s The Times from the seat to the nearest table before I sit down. Since he came home from hospital, Father can barely manage the stairs. He uses his daughters as library monitors, frequently dispatched to fetch half-remembered books from downstairs.

‘Sounds interesting,’ I say. I really worry about Father when he stops reading. He didn’t pick up a book for three weeks when he was in hospital. That’s when I knew he was very ill indeed.

‘But not as interesting as your plans. Where is it to be this time?’

‘California but I haven’t accepted yet.’

He frowns. ‘I thought you weren’t going back to America.’

I swallow hard as I stand and cross to the window to draw the curtains. Should I tell him? The doctor’s instructions were to ensure a calm environment. He’d recommended a few weeks in a sanitorium but even with the Belfast brewer’s money, we couldn’t stretch to that.

‘Come on, Hester. My lungs may be decrepit but my brain is fully functioning.’

‘It’s the roof,’ I say as I sit down again. There’s a relief in telling him, even though I know there’s very little he can do to help. ‘It’s leaking.’

‘Oh, that is bad luck. How much?’

As I name the figure, Father’s eyebrows rise. He sits still for a long moment and then meets my gaze. ‘Are you sure about this, Hester? There must be another option.’

There is another option. It’s selling up or, if no one wants to buy a ramshackle Yorkshire manor house, seeing it demolished while we move into the gardener’s cottage. Meg, Rosie and I would survive but I cannot do that to Father. He loves this house. It’s part of who he is. If there’s another way, I’ll take it.

‘California might be interesting,’ I say brightly. ‘Mr Neil’s a film star. I imagine that’s a very different life to anything I’ve encountered before.’

‘You’ll have to ask Rose about that. It’ll be in those film magazines she’s always leaving about the place.’ He hesitates for a moment before adding, ‘Don’t write off an entire country because one bad thing happened. You’re braver than that.’

‘Am I? I’m not certain right now.’ Weariness washes through me. Being brave is such a burden. Then I force myself to shrug because I don’t want Father to worry about me as well as the roof. ‘Let’s see what Mr Neil says. My fate is in his hands. Or, more accurately, his wallet. I did ask for an awful lot.’

The book slips from his grasp and lands with a thud on the carpet. The tremor in his hands wasn’t there when I went to Belfast. If I go to America, what additional frailty will have befallen him by the time I get back? Tears prickle behind my eyes. As I pick up his book, I blink hard to chase them away.

‘It’s jam roly-poly for pudding.’

He meets my gaze and there’s a subdued twinkle in his faded blue eyes. ‘Don’t stint on the custard.’

‘Mr Neil?’ Rosie leans across the table, her eyes wide. ‘Do you mean Aidan Neil?’

‘I’m not sure.’ I’m chopping onions for dinner. My hands still as I meet her gaze. ‘All I know is that his wife was called Dinah and she died last year. They’ve one daughter, Erin. That’s who⁠—’

‘It is Aidan Neil!’ Rosie breaks into a delighted smile. ‘This is beyond anything! My sister in Hollywood! I’ll be the envy of all the girls at school. You’ll have to tell me everything. The clothes, the hair, the hats. They have incredible hats!’

‘I will if I go. I haven’t accepted yet.’ I slide the onions into the pan and start peeling carrots.

‘You have to,’ Rosie’s hands come together and she’s almost pleading with me. ‘It’ll be the Best Thing Ever.’

I smile because my sisters have such a talent for capitalising their words when they want to make a point.

‘What do you know about Mr Neil? Miss Wall only said he’s a film actor.’

‘He’s dreamy,’ Rose gazes into a corner of the kitchen as if there’s an image of the man projected there. ‘He’s tall and dark and his face looks a bit stern until he smiles but then he’s handsome as anything. It’s a good job you’re so sensible, Hester. I wouldn’t be able to concentrate at all if I was living in the same house as Aidan Neil!’

Sensible. The word stabs between my ribs. Rosie doesn’t remember when I was young and carefree. Sensible is what the world has made me. There’s little room for dreaming as a governess.

‘We were all heartbroken when Dinah Doyle died last year,’ Rosie continues. ‘It was tragic.’

‘Miss Wall said she drowned…’

‘Yes, that’s right. In a swimming pool at a villa she was staying at down the coast from Hollywood.’

I frown. ‘Could she not swim?’ It’s hard to imagine someone living in a house with a pool and not being able to enjoy it.

‘That’s the odd thing. She could. There were all sorts of rumours straight after it happened. But then the studio said she slipped and banged her head and that’s why she drowned.’

‘What did the rumours say?’ It’s probably none of my business but if I’m going to have sole charge of a grieving seven-year-old, I’d like to know what topics I should steer clear off.

‘That she was having an affair, which was poppycock. Everyone knew she wouldn’t cheat on Aidan. That she drank too much. That⁠—’

‘Good Lord!’ My eyes widen. ‘Where do you get all of this from?’

‘Film magazines. I swap them with my school friends.’

They hardly sound like suitable reading material and I bite my lip to stop myself saying so. Rosie’s not a little girl any more. Very soon she’ll be out in the real world where all of these things (and worse) happen. Perhaps these magazines are a better preparation than the Victorian novels I read at her age.

‘Miss Wall said Miss Doyle was famous too.’

‘Of course!’ Rosie says as if it’s the most obvious

Reviews for The Hollywood Governess

[Andrea Author · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

In 1937 Hollywood, talented governess Hester takes on the challenging task of caring for the grieving daughter of movie star Aidan Neil. As Hester delves into the family’s life, she uncovers hidden secrets and a tragic past that threatens to shatter their world.

This is a beautiful, heartwarming, and entertaining historical novel The romance is swoony with a mystery subplot as well. It also has a “found family” aspect that I find irresistible.

Thanks, NetGalley, for the ARC I received. This is my honest and honest review.