“Good morning, Miss Winterton. You are happy in your exertions, I deduce.”
“Oh!” She scrambled to her feet, smoothing her apron as best she could and wondering if her hair was dreadfully disordered. “Good morning, Lord Brackenwood.” She dipped a curtsy to him, and he bowed, but he was smiling. How much better he looked when he smiled! That sad, worried look was quite vanished. “I was just sorting out the books.” Which was a particularly stupid thing to say. He could see clearly what she was about.
He picked one up and flicked through the pages. She guessed he had just returned from his habitual morning walk, for he wore a disreputable old pair of boots beneath a moth-eaten greatcoat. Three dogs hung about his feet, tongues hanging out. He needed only a shotgun to complete the image of a gamekeeper.
“Do you have everything you need for your lessons?”
“Oh… no. I would prefer a big table to these desks — so formal! As for materials, there is not much here. I have a few books of my own, but—” She reached for a sheet of paper. “I have a list.”
He frowned. “Globes? An instrument? We used to have such things here. Perhaps they are in the play room.” He marched across the room to the locked door in the corner and rattled the handle. “Hmm… why would this be locked? Wait, let me fetch the keys.”
He strode out of the room, and she heard him galloping down the stairs, the dogs lolloping after him. Several minutes later, he came back into the room jingling a big ring of keys, a boyish grin on his face, as the dogs panted enthusiastically around his feet. “Right, let us see if we can break into the play room.”
It was the seventh or eighth key before the lock turned with a satisfying clunk. He pushed open the door and Annabelle followed him into the room. She had expected a dusty store room of toys, but instead she saw a neatly appointed bedroom. The furnishings were surprisingly luxurious, the bed hangings the sheerest gauze, and the dressing table and wardrobe made of finely polished wood. Apart from a desk under the window, it was every inch a lady’s bedroom, the brushes and pots of cream still in place before the looking glass.
“I had forgotten about this,” the earl said, staring at the bed with an unreadable expression on his face. “When I was a boy, this was the play room, where the toys were kept, but Eloise… my wife liked to sleep up here sometimes. She had a proper bedroom downstairs, much larger and grander, but this room was quieter, she said, and more conducive to her repose, and cooler in summer, on this side of the house. She was never well after her last confinement — a boy, born dead. No, no, say nothing of it, for it is a sorrow much softened by time, and I have never cared as much about the need for an heir as my mother has. I have a perfectly fine heir in my second cousin, who is a splendid young man and will make an excellent earl. Far better than I,” he added, almost inaudibly.
“What is behind these two doors?” she said hastily, for his face had fallen into its sad mask again.
One led to another of the spiral service stairs, but the other was locked. Annabelle could guess the size and shape of the room beyond it, however.
While the earl fumbled with keys, Annabelle said, “This arrangement is the mirror image of my own rooms. Does every corner room have a small room within it, and service stairs?”
“Yes,” he said absently, his attention on the keys. “A dressing room, or maid’s room.”
“The governess’s room, perhaps,” she said, amused. She was delighted with her spacious suite, but it was excessively generous for her station. She had expected an attic room, too hot in summer and too cold in winter.
He smiled, but shook his head. “We never use these small rooms as bedrooms. The library has been rearranged somewhat to make a larger inner study, where I keep my paperwork and deal with business with Mr Cross’s assistance. The library is smaller as a result, but that is only my retreat, so I need nothing bigger. The others are all as they were. As for the stairs, they are closed off at the lowest level, for the servants never use them now, but the upper ones are still in occasional use. Mine connects my bedroom with the library, which is very useful if I need a fresh book in the middle of the night. Ah, there we are.”
He swung the door open, and there were the toys and books and globes, a rocking horse, an elderly pianoforte and even a baby house. Several large boxes promised hours of enjoyable exploration to come.
“Wonderful,” she said. “Thank you, Lord Brackenwood. I am sure I shall find everything I need in here.”
“Good.” He took her hand, held it palm up and dropped the keys into it. “There. If you need anything else, just let me know. And of course, my library is at your disposal, whether for teaching purposes or… how did you describe it? Distraction!”
She laughed, but before she could reply, a voice called out, “Miss? Are you in here, Miss? Do you want your tray here?”
Milly’s face was a picture when the two of them emerged from the play room, and Annabelle imagined that juicy piece of gossip whispered around the servants’ hall. ‘In her ladyship’s bedchamber, all alone! Just fancy!’
“What an excellent idea,” Lord Brackenwood said cheerfully. “Let us take breakfast together, Miss Winterton, for I am minded for company this morning. Milly, tell Portman to bring my tray here, and then you will stay with us while we eat, for propriety.”
It was a little late to consider the propriety of being alone together, Annabelle thought in amusement, and eating together would no doubt spark even more gossip, but she could hardly object to the earl’s expressed wish.
For the first time, she realised how precarious her position was as a paid employee in his house. Today he ordered her to take breakfast with him. What orders might he give tomorrow? And what would happen if she refused? But she smiled and took the tray from Milly’s hands, reminding herself that the earl was a gentleman and would deal with her honourably. Or so she must hope.
5: Pupils
Allan found himself walking with a spring in his step all day. His good humour was not, he told himself sternly, because Miss Winterton was young and pretty and embodied his ideal of the feminine form. No, it was her novelty, and the freshness of her manner which inspired him to break out of his boring rut.
Taking his breakfast in the schoolroom took him back more than twenty years — almost thirty, perhaps. There had been a square table at one end of the room where they had eaten their meals, the four of them. Duncan, always laughing and full of mischief. Mary and Lizzie, their heads together, giggling. And himself, the youngest of them and the most timid. There had been a governess then, too, or rather, a succession of them, plain, harassed women who never stayed long. Then Duncan had gone to school, and the light had gone out of their lives for weeks on end until he came home for the holidays. Christmas, Easter, the long summer days — those were the good times. By the time Allan was sent away to Eton, Duncan had moved on to Oxford. Not that he stayed there long. Then everyone went off to London — Papa, Mother, Duncan, Mary and Lizzie. Two marriages in rapid succession and then…
But he would not think about that, not today. He had been gloomy for too long. Today, he was not in the least gloomy. In the chapel, he joined in the responses with unusual energy. His hour with Mr Cross passed without the usual wearisome debate about the pasture at Hillend Farm or the not-so-subtle invitations to visit families who just happened to have marriageable daughters. Then he went to the stables to clear his mind after the lowering effect of business. An hour’s ride and then home, to spend the afternoon in his chair in the library. Or perhaps he might call on Sir Henry, and invite the old man to dinner. Yes, he would do that.
No sooner had he settled on this plan than the sound of a carriage could be heard on the drive. A caller. Probably for his mother, but still, he hesitated. There were days when he was not in the least minded for company, but this was not such a day. He could surprise his mother by appearing in her morning room without being summoned, for a change.
He spun on his heel and strode through the house to the hall.
“Papa! Papa!” Two small figures bounded up the steps and through the door Portman was holding open. They screeched to a halt, then curtsied demurely, before peeping up at him mischievously. “Is she here? Is she?”
“She is. You will find her—” But they were already gone, hurtling up the stairs with two nurse maids in pursuit.
One, slightly taller, figure remained. “I suppose she’s hideous.”
“Not in the least hideous,” he said, with a smile. “But go and see for yourself. She will be in the schoolroom, I daresay.”
“Perhaps later,” Dorothea said coolly. “Or tomorrow. If I feel like it.” She lifted her chin and glared at him defiantly.
Such a troublesome child! Eloise had complained of her constantly, and poor Miss Winterton was likely to have a difficult time of it. He said firmly, “Certainly tomorrow, Dorothea, and you will be in the schoolroom every day thereafter, except Sundays. Just as with your mother.”
She set her lips in a thin line, but dared not defy him further. Bobbing a quick curtsy, she stalked away up the stairs, head high.
~~~~~
‘Dearest Annabelle, I hope you are well, and settled into your teaching routine now. We are all well, except for Robin’s father, who cannot seem to shake off this heavy chest that has plagued him all winter. We have had word that Robin’s cousin Charity is to return from Italy with Lord Ramsey very soon, but certainly in time for the season. Or so they say, but they have changed their minds before. Never has a honeymoon lasted so long! How are you getting on with Lord Brackenwood and the Dowager? You have not mentioned them, but perhaps your paths do not often cross. It is sometimes so in these great houses. Are you confined to the schoolroom and your own apartment? Or do you occasionally spend an hour in the drawing room with your pupils? Do let me know if the fashions are much different there. I hope you are not too lonely. Your loving sister, Rosamund.’
~~~~~
Annabelle spent the evening fending off the attentions of Mr Cross, the secretary. He engaged her in conversation before dinner, sat beside her during the meal, and then tried to arrange a card game that would include her. She resolutely refused to play, however. In this scheme she was aided by Lady Brackenwood.
“Sit down, Cross. You may partner me tonight.”
“Whist, my lady?”
“Yes, of course whist. We always play whist.”
“Shall we not play loo for a change, my lady? That’s an amusing game, and Miss Winterton may play also. Or she may take my place and I’ll watch, don’t you know.”
“No, indeed,” Annabelle said. “I have no intention of playing. Pray do not change your arrangements on my account.”
“But—”
“Whist,” Lady Brackenwood said with asperity. “Sit, Cross, and shuffle.”
Annabelle settled herself with her sewing, but there were not sufficient candles to enable her to move far from the card tables. Two minutes later, Mr Cross called out, “I have an excellent hand, Miss Winterton. I shall do very well, I fancy.”
“I am glad to hear it, sir,” she replied.
Five minutes after that, he again called across to her, “I was not so lucky after all, Miss Winterton, but I am certain the next hand will be to my advantage.”
“You would play better if you paid more attention to the game,” Lady Brackenwood said with asperity.
Annabelle agreed, and decided it would be advisable not to encourage him by replying further.
They proceeded in silence for some time, but then Cross burst out again, “Miss Winterton, I have just enjoyed the most magnificent hand. I led with the king first, but then his lordship countered with the ace, and so I thought it was all up for me. But no, because Penicuik made the mistake of playing his queen, and so I was able to—”
“Will you stop talking, Cross?” her ladyship said. “I never knew such a rattle.”
“Beg pardon, my lady. I did not mean—”
“Tomorrow I shall ask Anne to play, and you may play cribbage with Beth, for I am sure you are the most irritating man I have ever encountered.”
“I humbly apologise, my—”
“Will you shuffle, or must I do everything myself?”
Lord Brackenwood looked across at Annabelle for the first time. “Have you enough light to work by, Miss Winterton? Portman, bring some more candles and set them on the table beneath the mirror over there.” He smiled at her, that warm smile that lit his whole face. “That will be easier on your eyes for such delicate work, and the sofa will be a more comfortable seat for you.”
“Thank you, my lord,” she said, dipping a curtsy and scuttling away to the far side of the room, safe at last from Mr Cross’s attentions, although he still threw long glances her way, and occasionally waved to her. As she stitched, she had leisure to wonder what his interest in her was — simple pleasure in a new face, a light flirtation or… something more? He was only a secretary, so could he afford to take a wife? Or had he something more sinister in mind?
She went early to her bed, exhausted by Mr Cross’s attentions and the prospect of a full day with her pupils tomorrow. She had met them only briefly, for she had been out walking in the gardens when they arrived home, and was only permitted a quick visit to the nursery. The two younger girls had smiled and looked friendly. The older girl had glowered. She would have her hands full with that one, she could see. Well, she would have to be firm with her, and assert her authority.
Still, she arose in a cheerful mood. The schoolroom, she discovered, had been transformed. The line of formal desks had gone, replaced by a rectangular table. The teacher’s desk now sat in front of one window, although there was little enough light there, for it faced north and the January sky was ominously heavy. She set out several books on the table ready for her pupils, then settled at the desk to write a list of subjects upon which to test them — reading, numbers, knowledge of the world, deportment, French… she had determined from Lord Brackenwood that he preferred them to learn French, not Italian.
“It is the old alliance,” he had said, eyes brimming with amusement. “The Skeltons are of Scotch origins, you see, and the Scotch have always aligned with the French against the English. Indeed, there is French blood in the family.”
“We are all one nation now, Scotland and England,” she had said, raising an eyebrow.
“That is what we want you to think,” he had said gravely, making her laugh.
So, French it was to be. There were only a few sheets of paper in the desk drawer, and she had found no other supply. Perhaps there were more in the play room. She went through to the odd bedroom, so well appointed, and looked about the room. She could not remember seeing any supplies of paper in the smaller room with the toys, but the desk bore a writing set, so there must be paper in one of the drawers. She sat down and began to search.
The first drawer contained no paper. Instead it was filled with bottle after bottle of medicines, tonics and sleeping draughts and several that she could not identify. She hesitated, not liking to touch the late countess’s effects, yet reluctant to leave such things here, so close to the schoolroom. She could lock the door, but if she came in and out to retrieve equipment from the small room, sooner or later the door would be left unlocked.
Then she remembered that one of the big storage boxes in the small room had contained several inner drawers, each with a key. That would be a safe place for all her ladyship’s medicine bottles and pill boxes. She cleared out everything in the drawer, and then searched meticulously through every other drawer and cupboard in the room until she was sure that everything had been safely locked away. Only after that did she go back to the desk.
The other drawers were crammed with notebooks. Lots and lots of notebooks, all filled with a single hand, small, rounded, very regular. Every page bore a date, and the lessons set for that day. ‘Clark’s Guide To England, copy 1 page, 1 hour. Numbers, adding, 1 hour. Breakfast, 1 hour. Exercise, walking round the room, 1 hour. Bible, copy 1 page, New Tes
tament only, 1 hour. Sewing, 1 hour.” Then, at the bottom of each page, a chilling number of additional comments. ‘D very rude, no breakfast.’ ‘D’s work very poor, to be repeated instead of exercise.’ ‘D would not sit still, had to lash her to the desk, and she made so much noise Fl and Fr cried.’ ‘D rebellious, had to beat her three times before she would work.’
Annabelle cried out as she read these words. Lashed to the desk? Beaten three times? It was unimaginably cruel.
And yet, between the pages of the books, pressed flat, she found several dried flowers, all of the same delicate type, with tiny petals that had once been pink and leaves with distinctively crinkled edges. She had never seen any plant with such a flower, or such leaves, but she wondered a little at a woman who could treat her own daughter with such cruelty, and yet admire the beauty of a simple flower.
Noises in the schoolroom alerted her to the arrival of her pupils. Her hands trembled as she stowed the notebooks safely away again. Blinking back tears, she went through to the schoolroom to greet them. Only the two younger girls awaited her, gazing in surprise at the new arrangement.
“Good morning, Lady Florence. Good morning, Lady Frederica. How are you both this morning?” They turned moon faces towards her, wordless. “Have you seen how dark the sky is? We shall have snow soon, I fancy.”
It was fortunate that they were not at all alike. One was fair, the other dark. One had blue eyes, the other brown. One had long, slender fingers, the other stumpy ones. But they were both small and thin.
They curtsied uncertainly, then said, “Good morning, Miss Winterton,” not quite in unison, so their words sounded like an echo. “Shall we write the lessons on the board?” Florence said.
The Governess (Sisters of Woodside Mysteries Book 1) Page 5
