What a Lady Demands

by Ashlyn Macnamara

  “I was under the impression Sanford had financial difficulties of his own and thus could not help.”

  “He does.” At least according to his sister; but then, Cecelia had been playing fast and loose with the truth. Sanford’s debts couldn’t be too deep—after all, he’d scraped together enough blunt to support a wife. Sanford’s recent marriage was another oddity. He’d somehow renewed his relationship with his former betrothed and convinced the girl to wed him despite the fact that he’d thrown her over for another woman.

  “Yes, my lord. Shall I include his wife in the invitation?”

  “Yes, do.” Although that would mean finding a lady to fill out the places at the table, and Mrs. Sanford would require companionship after dinner while he and Alexander discussed trivialities over port. In their case, those trivialities would no doubt be confined to memories of their youth, unless Alexander wanted to expound on his experiences in India. God only knew, Lind couldn’t tell Sanford about his more recent troubles, not given Sanford’s annoying propensity to uphold the most honorable path wherever possible.

  On the other hand, Cecelia must know the woman. Perhaps having Sanford’s sister about the place would not be such an inconvenience, after all.

  —

  Cecelia followed Lindenhurst’s housekeeper up two flights of stairs to the top floor, passing sitting rooms, parlors, bedchambers, all decorated with the same heavy touch. Deep, masculine colors dominated this house—blood-reds, hunter greens, midnight blues set off darkly finished oak and walnut. How utterly gloomy.

  On the threshold to the governess’s chamber, Mrs. Carstairs looked her up and down. “And how long will you last, I wonder?”

  Cecelia paused in the middle of the tiny space under the eaves. Thank heavens the walls bore nothing more than a coat of whitewash, rather than the heavy colors of the more formal rooms.

  “I intend to stay as long as I am required.” As long as it took to prove to her brother she could be responsible.

  “Humph. The others all said the same.”

  A finger of doubt intruded on Cecelia’s confidence. “Have there been so many?”

  “Only enough that Lord Lindenhurst had to resort to advertising in the newspaper. All the London agencies refused to send any more candidates so far when they don’t last longer than a fortnight at best. And look what the paper’s brought us.” Beneath the white ruffle of her mobcap, the woman’s eyes narrowed. “Do you even have experience with children?”

  Well. For a doughy lump of a housekeeper, Mrs. Carstairs was outspoken enough. Cecelia raised her chin. “Lord Lindenhurst has seen fit to interview me and offer me the position. I did not realize I must also meet your approval.”

  “No, of course not.” Then Mrs. Carstairs’s gaze softened, and she brushed a hand along the polished wood of the doorjamb. “Do you know what you’re letting yourself in for?”

  Cecelia dropped the edge of the coverlet she’d been fingering. Unbleached and serviceable, but if she was to be in service, she could expect no better. “If you are implying something about our employer, I am already acquainted with the man. He attended school with my brother. I know he can be difficult.” Heaven only knew he’d just proven that much.

  “I wasn’t talking about Lord Lindenhurst. I meant his son. Have you met the boy?”

  “Why, no.” She moved around the end of the narrow bed to advance on Mrs. Carstairs. “But I see no reason why we shouldn’t get on together.”

  “Just as I suspected. Perhaps you ought to meet your charge before you go to the trouble of settling in.”

  Chapter Two

  Mrs. Carstairs led Cecelia down the passageway to an adjoining chamber, a bright, airy room with sunny yellow curtains floating on either side of an oversized window. Walls the color of butter enveloped the space in comfort and calm like a warm pair of arms offering a motherly embrace. Nothing to give off the sense that something was amiss, unlike the housekeeper’s dark hints.

  In the corner, a small boy crouched in front of a set of tin soldiers, squinting at his troops as he lined them up in perfect ranks. With one finger, he nudged an infantryman until he fell in with his fellows.

  “Master Blakewell,” Mrs. Carstairs called, “I’ve got someone here I’d like you to meet.”

  He looked up from his task, the smallest of puckers marring his forehead. With his straw-colored hair and brown eyes, he resembled the blond beauty Cecelia recalled from the house parties of her youth, though his father might be detected in the stubborn set of his chin. No grin graced his face in reply to Cecelia’s smile of greeting. Only the slowest of blinks acknowledged her presence.

  “This is Miss Sanford, your new governess.”

  The boy raised a shoulder and turned back to his task, his thoughts evident in the casual gesture. Another governess. Perhaps this one will last all of a week. He might have voiced the words aloud.

  Cecelia made doubly certain her expression did not falter. If anything, her cheeks ached with sunny disposition. She took a step toward the child and leaned down. “And what am I to call you?”

  “Everyone calls me Master Blake-Blakewell.” He didn’t even turn his head to acknowledge her question.

  Cecelia stole a glance at the housekeeper. Mrs. Carstairs stood, hands folded in front of her, as if nothing at all were wrong. And nothing was wrong, really, unless it be a lack of manners—understandable if the family was unable to retain the services of a governess.

  “Even your father? That seems awfully formal of him.”

  “My father doesn’t call me anything.”

  At the boy’s dull tone, Cecelia stiffened. My father. Not even papa. And the housekeeper wanted to make this out to be the boy’s fault. If anything was amiss, the fault certainly didn’t lie with the child.

  She tamped back a surge of annoyance and infused a good measure of cheer into her reply. “But you must have a given name.”

  “Jeremy.” That was it.

  “How old are you, Jeremy?” she tried again.

  He’d crouched once more to concentrate on his troops. “Five.”

  She stepped closer and bent to his level. “Perhaps you ought to introduce me to your men, as well. Very sporting of you to put them on parade for me.”

  The look he slanted at her might have come straight from his father. Skepticism personified, just as Lindenhurst had turned on her before with that dashed eyebrow. “I didn’t know you were coming.”

  “You have a point there, but you must have known you’d get a new governess sometime soon, if not today.”

  “I’ll leave the pair of you to get acquainted,” Mrs. Carstairs said from the door.

  “That should be perfectly fine,” Cecelia said, before turning a considering gaze on the boy. After all the housekeeper’s warnings, she must face this—whatever this was. While the child might lack basic manners, nothing was apparently wrong with him, beyond the slight stumble when he pronounced his surname. And she could teach him courtesy.

  Not today, though. No matter what Lindenhurst had asked of her, she wouldn’t jump straight to lessons. Let them feel each other out for now. Let them get acquainted, and then she’d see.

  “Did your papa give you the soldiers?”

  Jeremy nodded, but kept his concentration on the line of tin men.

  “You know, he was an officer. I remember him in his uniform.”

  That got the boy’s attention. “You do?”

  “Naturally, and a fine figure he cut in scarlet and gold braid.” Polished boots and tight breeches as well, but she preferred not to wax too enthusiastic in front of a five-year-old. Her sister and her friends were a better audience when it came to such considerations. “Perhaps we might ask him to show you his uniform.”

  The spark that had popped into Jeremy’s eyes for a moment faded. “I’ve asked him before. He wasn’t happy about it.”

  “Oh. Oh, well, no matter.” No doubt after his experiences fighting the French, Lindenhurst preferred to protect his son from
overblown notions of military glory. “Why don’t you tell me what kinds of things you like to do?”

  Once again, he turned that expression of utter skepticism on her. “I know what you’re doing.”

  Good heavens, this child had to be older than five. Many adults couldn’t pull off such a knowing tone. “Oh? What’s that?”

  “You’re just like the others. You’re going to try to find out everything about me, and then you’re going to use that to make me do lessons. I won’t do lessons. I hate them.” He swept an arm across his carefully lined-up ranks, obliterating them more efficiently than a well-aimed cannonball.

  Cecelia blinked, while her mind whirled. Her limited experience with children gave her little clue as to how to deal with such a display of temper. Alexander’s daughters had been well enough behaved and biddable. Not only that, she knew how to distract a young girl, but Jeremy wouldn’t be interested in tea parties or jewelry or hair ribbons. And his open show of rebellion put her at a complete loss.

  Yet it shouldn’t have. She knew exactly how he felt, except at his age, she hadn’t possessed the nerve to let it show. Good thing Mrs. Carstairs had taken herself off. Cecelia could toss away any sense of propriety along with the notion she might actually try to teach this boy something without the news running straight back to Lindenhurst.

  She folded her skirts beneath her and plopped to the floor, crossing her ankles. Casually, she reached for one of the fallen troops and set him back on his feet. “I’ll let you in on a secret.”

  He didn’t reply right away. Rather than look at the boy, she concentrated all her attention on setting the soldiers back up in the same precise line Jeremy had created. She didn’t need to see him to sense his rising tension or hear the rustle of fabric as he fidgeted.

  “You’re doing it wrong,” he burst out at last.

  “Oh? Why don’t you show me the proper way, then?” Let him mull over her secret. Eventually curiosity would get the better of him if he was the same as most boys.

  With a sigh, he reached out and nudged her line of soldiers over an inch or so to the left. “They need to stand just beyond the top of the hill, so the enemy can’t see them until it’s too late.”

  “Ah. How silly of me. I ought to have seen that right away.” And where did a five-year-old come by such notions of military strategy? “Did your papa teach you to set up your men in such a clever fashion?”

  “No.” Wonderful. They were back to monosyllables.

  “Then who showed you?”

  “Miss Crump. She came after Miss Bowman.”

  “It sounds as if you had at least some lessons you liked, then.”

  “Doesn’t matter. Father sent her packing.”

  Lindenhurst sent her packing indeed. Her lessons must not have been effective enough in his opinion. And Miss Crump had no doubt been an experienced governess from a London agency, someone who already knew more than one trick for convincing a recalcitrant child to learn. That hardly spoke well for Cecelia’s prospects.

  But the boy’s reaction also gave her a little insight into his reluctance. He’d been presented with a parade of governesses. Had any of the others had a chance to settle into a routine before Lindenhurst handed them their walking papers? Had any of them taken the time to get to know Jeremy and work out where his interests lay? Besides Miss Crump, of course. Clearly she’d hit on something with the military tactics.

  A pity Cecelia knew nothing about such things. But then, Lindenhurst doubtless had a book or two on the topic. She’d just need to borrow a volume and hope it didn’t send her to sleep in short order.

  Another silence fell between them as Jeremy finished aligning his troops.

  “And which battle are you re-creating?” Cecelia asked.

  “The Battle of Sal-Salam—”

  “Salamanca?” That he had difficulty pronouncing a foreign word was hardly a shock. What was surprising was him knowing the name in the first place.

  “That’s it.” He nearly smiled. “Salamanca. Wel-Wellington hid his men behind the cover of a ridge to trick the French into attacking.”

  “I see.” She nodded as if she did. Her memory of the recent wars was unfortunately thin. As a girl, she’d been too caught up in what her sister-in-law would certainly term frivolities to pay close attention when the adults lowered their voices to serious tones, as they did whenever they discussed the war. And who could imagine she’d need the details of a battle that England had fought and won nearly ten years ago? “Miss Crump seems to know a great deal about such matters.”

  “Her papa fought on the Pen-Penin-Peninsula. She told me the stories.” After a beat, he added, “So what’s your secret?”

  With a smile, she caught his eye and leaned in like a schoolgirl delivering a confidence. “I was never very keen on my lessons, either.”

  A slow grin took over Jeremy’s features, revealing a gap between his front teeth. His eyes twinkled with mischief. “You never liked lessons, but you’re going to give them to me?”

  “I can always try, can’t I? Or maybe we can pretend and see how long it takes to fool your papa.”

  “You’ll not get away with that for long. Father insists.”

  “It is important that you learn to read,” she allowed. “And write, for that matter. You’ll at least have to learn to sign your name. And do some figuring. You are your father’s heir. Someday you’re going to inherit this estate, and you’ll have to know enough to run it. A lot of people will depend on you to make a proper job of it. So even if you find the process tedious, there’s a good reason for you to learn all these things.”

  Inspiration struck, and she pushed herself to her feet, carefully holding her skirts so they would not knock over Jeremy’s latest arrangement. “In fact, why don’t we go have a look round the place? You can show me your favorite spots, and the walk would do us both good. We can’t stay cooped up here all the time, lessons or no.”

  He stared up at her, the spark fading from his eyes. “Father doesn’t want me to go outside if I can help it.”

  “Good heavens. Not go outside? A boy your age? Why, that’s positively barbaric.” Cecelia might not have a lot of experience with young children, but even she knew they needed to burn off their seemingly boundless energy, the better to sit still and listen when the time came for lessons.

  Jeremy’s lips stretched slightly, caught somewhere between a smile and a grimace. The expression was oddly adult. “Doesn’t matter. He still won’t stand for it. He’d rather I stay out of sight as much as possible.”

  Her heart turned over. The poor dear. Her fingers tingled with the urge to ruffle his hair. “We’ll see about that.” She infused her tone with briskness. Something told her he’d prefer that to pity. “I’ll go have a word or two with your papa and see if I can’t change his mind.”

  Jeremy shook his head. “Every other governess has said the same thing.”

  “I am not every other governess.” She affirmed the truth of that statement with a nod. After all, she wasn’t even a real governess. “And I know how to deal with men like your papa.” Not that she would expound on her methods before an innocent child. “See if I don’t convince him.”

  —

  Head high, Cecelia marched back down to Lindenhurst’s study. Thank heavens she could find her way. As a girl, she’d stayed as a guest on more than one occasion. In those days, Lindenhurst still saw fit to entertain.

  But the door to the study hung ajar. In the absence of the man himself, his desk dominated the room. A few spare papers lay strewn across its dark surface. She looked over her shoulder. No sign of a butler or footman or even the hall boy.

  No, she really ought to go in search of Lindenhurst and demand an explanation for his treatment of his son. His son. His flesh and blood. Keeping a boy that age cooped up in the nursery, not even wanting to see him, was inhumane. Even the Visigoths cherished their children more than that, she was certain.

  But the papers beckoned, and her curiosity aw
akened. It was like a child inside her, tugging at her hand, prodding her to take just one small peek. Go on. You know you want to.

  The corridor still lay empty. In fact, an odd silence blanketed the entire house like a shroud. Even the everyday sounds of her heels clicking on the parquet or the chatter of the maids as they dusted one of the sitting rooms farther along the corridor were muted. The entire place seemed to lie beneath a pall of sadness and no one dared raise a voice to break the unnatural silence.

  She shook off the feeling. Mere fancy, that. Her brother had always scoffed at her dramatic nature. Lindenhurst might no longer sport a swath of black cloth about his upper arm, but he still seemingly mourned his wife. Gracious, the woman had been dead nearly four years. There was no reason for everyone to behave as if the tragedy had happened a mere week ago.

  Yes, between his son and this oppressive house, Lindenhurst’s behavior had definitely taken an odd turn since she’d last known him. But that was before. Before his marriage, before he went to war. Before he returned from Napoleon’s defeat nearly dead of horrific wounds. Perhaps, before confronting him, she ought to find out a bit more. And just perhaps, she ought to start with those papers. They might well contain nothing useful, but they also might contain a clue to explain his state of mind these days.

  Another glance about confirmed she was still alone and unobserved, so she padded into the study and pulled the door toward the jamb, closing it just enough that a passerby might not spot her in her employer’s inner sanctum. But she wouldn’t risk the snap of the latch catching anyone’s attention.

  Columns of figures marched down the first sheet of paper, lined up as neatly as Jeremy’s soldiers. A ledger. Nothing of interest in the household accounts, surely. She was about to lay it aside when a name at the top caught her eye.

  Rowan Battencliffe. A former schoolmate of both her brother and Lindenhurst. The third member of their triumvirate. As boys and, later, young men, they had formed a solid friendship. Then. But after her brother left for India, she’d heard rumors of a rift between Lindenhurst and Battencliffe, vague tales that hinted at a dark scandal, but nothing firm. Nothing beyond speculation.