by Karen Ranney
“Who is that, Papa?”
Douglas glanced at her. “Your governess, Margaret. Miss du Marchand.”
Jeanne didn’t know whether or not to stay where she was or enter the room. Margaret herself ended her confusion by slipping from the bed and coming to the doorway.
She pulled the door open all the way and then presented the most perfect of curtsies to Jeanne.
“How do you do, Miss du Marchand? I’m Margaret MacRae. Are you truly my governess?”
Jeanne exchanged a quick glance with Douglas.
“Yes,” Jeanne said. “I am.”
“I have never had a governess before. Papa says it’s because I was too young. I read a great deal, however. I’ve educated myself, but I don’t suppose it can be a good thing to do that.”
Startled, Jeanne smiled down at the child. “I don’t suppose it can.”
“Do you know Latin?”
“A smattering of it,” Jeanne confessed.
“I would very much like to learn it. And geography as well. I’m an heiress, you see, and I must know as much as I can before I become wealthy.”
“Tomorrow is soon enough, Margaret,” Douglas interjected, “to ascertain your governess’s strengths.” He patted the coverlet and she returned to the bed, clambering up beside her father.
He stood and then leaned down to kiss her on the forehead. She scooted beneath the covers without another word, smiling up at him in perfect trust. The picture they presented made Jeanne’s heart ache.
“It’s time for you to go to sleep, Margaret.”
“You said you would stay with me.”
“And I will, but I have something to do first. I’ll return in a moment.”
“She’s very intelligent,” Jeanne said, when Douglas came to her side. He left the lantern lit for Margaret and escorted Jeanne back to her room.
“She’s very much like her mother,” he said.
She wanted to ask about this nameless, faceless woman but pride held her tongue.
“I didn’t mean to intrude,” she said. “I couldn’t sleep.”
“Guilty conscience?” he asked lightly, his gaze intent on her face.
“Perhaps,” she said. “Or memories.”
He didn’t respond to her remark, only smiled. “My sister-in-law recommends Chinese tea for sleepless nights. Shall I have some prepared for you?”
Before she could state that she didn’t want any servants awakened on her behalf, he added, “I was going to make some for myself.”
“If it isn’t any trouble.”
“Not at all,” he said.
How exquisitely polite they were to each other. She followed him down the corridor. At the head of the staircase, she watched him descend the steps. His dressing gown was dark blue, the exact shade of his eyes, and she wondered if a woman had picked out the fabric.
“You mustn’t come to my room again.” She hadn’t meant to blurt it out in quite that fashion, but it needed to be said.
He glanced at her over his shoulder. “Why is that?” Without waiting for her answer, he continued walking.
Irritated, she could only stare at his back. “Because your child is in the house. You didn’t think I would be your mistress and her governess as well?”
Again, he didn’t respond.
At the bottom of the stairs he waited for her. She stopped at the first step so that she was level with him, refusing to have him tower over her. Pulling her wrapper even closer, she belted it tighter with a firm tug. He smiled at her gestures, as if knowing that the filmy material was no barrier to his will or even to her needs.
The staircase around them echoed sound, so she whispered, “You mustn’t come to my room.” Even as she spoke the words she could hear the longing in them. It seemed as if he did as well, because he trailed one hand, fingers splayed, from her waist to the base of her throat.
In the past few hours they’d loved twice. But her body readied for him with that simple touch.
“Is this something you truly wish, Jeanne?”
“It is,” she replied, wishing that the words sounded less tremulous.
“Then that’s what you shall have,” he said casually. “I won’t come to your room until you invite me.”
She wished that he were not so handsome or that his charm was not so effortless. At this moment he reminded her of the boy she’d known, reckless and daring and wild.
“Please,” she said and she wasn’t entirely certain what she was asking for. He seemed to sense that as well because when he looked at her there was compassion in his eyes, as if he knew how foolish she was around him and pitied her for it.
Holding out his hand for her, he waited until she placed her own in it before leading her through the corridors of his night-darkened house. At the Hartley home, a footman had been assigned to stay awake during the night in case one of the family needed assistance. In Douglas’s house, all of the servants retired to the third floor at night.
When they entered the kitchen, he closed the door behind them, going immediately to a cupboard where the candles were stored. He lit one with a length of twisted paper stored in a container near the stove. Before putting the cover back over the glowing embers, he fanned them into flame. Filling a small kettle with water, he placed it atop the stove.
Jeanne sat at the end of the table, her customary place when the staff was dining, and watched him.
“You’re quite adept in a kitchen,” she said, surprised.
“I didn’t always employ people to obey my every whim, Jeanne,” he said, his smile softening the words.
“Do you cook as well as make tea?”
“Rudimentary meals,” he said. He arranged two cups and saucers on a tray and then suddenly left the room. A moment later he was back, carrying a decanter she recognized from his library. He poured a small amount into each cup before replacing the crystal stopper.
“I’ve never had whiskey,” she admitted.
“It will help you sleep.”
“I trust you do not administer the same remedy to Margaret?”
He shook his head, evidently not realizing she was teasing.
“Does she often have nightmares?”
“Often enough,” he said shortly. The tone of his voice altered, as if he didn’t like answering questions about his daughter. The protectiveness he demonstrated startled her, and made her envious in a way that shamed her.
Why should she be jealous of a child? Or was it more than that? Did she envy the mother, the nameless, faceless, adored woman who had given birth to Douglas’s child and then died?
She realized that she resented the fact that this woman, however long dead, had somehow sullied Jeanne’s memories of those days in Paris. Now, when she remembered that time, she would also recall her current doubts.
Had Douglas even loved her? Had he lied when he told her so? Or had she simply imagined his affection all this time?
“Tell me about her mother,” she said and there must have been something about the question that startled him, because he turned and stared at her.
“Why would you want to know?” he asked, frowning at her.
“Is it something I shouldn’t have asked?”
“She was a spoiled and willful woman. Cruel, and used to getting her own way. Is that what you want to know?”
Yes, blessedly, it was. The look in his eyes betrayed his emotions easily enough. The woman had the power to enrage him still, to anger and possibly even repulse him. His expression hadn’t softened when he spoke of her and his voice had a hard edge to it.
“And yet, you loved her.”
He picked up the tray, holding it so tight that his knuckles were white. Returning to the table, he placed the tray down on the scarred wooden surface with more force than was necessary.
“I’m sorry,” she said in the face of his silence. “I shouldn’t have said that.”
“You have a way of cutting me to the quick with a few words, Jeanne. But then you always have.” He smiled l
ightly.
She felt herself grow cold, then hot as she realized the import of his words. “I was wondering when you would say something, Douglas.” She reached for one of the cups and noticed that her hand was trembling. “Or have you just now remembered me?”
“I might ask the same thing of you,” he said. Sitting beside her, he watched as she poured their tea. Anyone seeing them would be unaware of the deep and dangerous currents that swirled around the room or the fact that they were speaking so lightly of things that mattered so much.
Her heart felt as if it rested at the base of her throat. Her breath was constricted as if someone had tied a string around her chest and was pulling it tight. And all the while she was pouring tea and acting as hostess. All she needed to make this moment thoroughly ridiculous was to have her father stroll into the kitchen.
Humor was unexpected and not entirely welcome. But she had the sudden, absurd wish to laugh. After all this time, this conversation seemed anticlimactic and almost unnecessary.
“I never forgot,” she said, softly. “Never.”
“Not even during those years at the convent?”
“How could I, when I was punished for even thinking of you?”
He looked startled.
“I confessed, you see,” she told him. “Perhaps I was feeling rash, but I once told one of the nuns that I had dreamed of you. They began punishing me both in the morning and the evening just to ensure that my dreams remained chaste.”
He didn’t say anything for a moment. When he spoke, his voice was low and almost hesitant, as if he framed the words as he said them. “What did you do?”
She laughed, grateful for his question, and her sudden amusement. “What was I to do?” She endured it because there was no other alternative, just like this moment as well.
“You’ve changed a great deal.”
“Ten years have passed,” she said. “You can’t imagine that I would have remained the same. For that matter, you’ve changed as well.”
“I’ve grown more cynical,” he said, his eyes never leaving her face. What was he searching for?
This conversation was dangerous. She felt perched on the edge of a precipice. One false move and she could go hurtling off into the darkness. She didn’t want to reveal anything to him, and yet, paradoxically, she wanted him to know everything about her.
“Drink your tea,” he said, much in the same way he would to Margaret. Startled, she glanced up at him.
Tonight was not the night for revelations, it seemed. In silence and some sort of peace, she sat and sipped at her whiskey-laced tea.
“Is your tea hot enough?”
“Yes, it’s fine.”
“Is the whiskey too strong?”
“No,” she answered.
“Are you hungry?”
“No, thank you.”
Finally, the silence lengthened between them and she realized that it was not an uncomfortable moment. They sat together almost as friends, or lovers who had accidentally discovered some other link in their lives.
“Margaret is waiting,” he said, standing and moving toward the doorway. “I’ve given my word to stay with her until she falls asleep again.”
“You’re a very good father,” she said, unsurprised. She had always thought him constant, someone upon whom she could depend. Until, of course, he never came for her, never looked for her. Now his child needed him, and he was there.
Like Jeanne had not been for her daughter.
She sipped at her tea and surveyed the empty room, determined that sadness would not ruin the rest of this night.
Chapter 22
B efore a week had passed, Jeanne’s routine as a governess had been established. In the mornings, she gave Margaret her lessons in the small schoolroom at the top of the house. In the afternoons, the two of them took a walk followed by a few hours of dance, music, or painting classes.
The ballroom where they practiced dancing was quite cool in the hotter time of day. Likewise the small room that Douglas had suggested they use for Margaret’s painting class. Sometimes it felt as if the entire house had been given over to Jeanne with the express intent of making Douglas’s daughter happy.
Margaret was a precocious child, one who seemed to revel in the world around her. Every day was an adventure. She was a natural mimic, and quickly learned the Italian phrases Jeanne taught her. Her greatest affection was for painting, however, and it was evident that the child was talented. Margaret had already gone beyond her meager talents, and Jeanne made a mental note to discuss further lessons with Douglas.
Douglas’s interest in his daughter’s day surprised her. He supervised her diet, her exercise, and her lesson plans. He was the one who suggested that Margaret might wish to learn Greek.
“Only if you wish to teach it, of course,” he said to her. “Or Latin, if you prefer.”
“Do you think she’ll have any need for it?”
“Do you only espouse teaching a subject that might have value? I remember discussing your lessons with you, and your education didn’t seem at all practical.”
“Not for the convent,” she quickly answered before she could bite back the words. “I learned independence of mind and spirit, Douglas, and that the world is a kind and a just place. Neither one of those lessons has been of value.”
“If her curiosity leads her to places she shouldn’t go, Jeanne, perhaps her wisdom will keep her from acting foolish.”
“So you think that no education is ever truly wasted?” she asked.
He smiled. “Any good teacher would think so.”
She had never once considered that he might be iconoclastic in regards to his daughter. Or that he might be forward-thinking. He had no prejudice whatsoever for the fact that Margaret was female. Nor had he ever expressed dissatisfaction or disappointment in that fact. In addition, Jeanne had the distinct impression that she served as Margaret’s governess only to enhance the child’s learning, not to change or alter the essence of Margaret herself.
Unlike Jeanne’s father, who had her educated so that she might be a reflection of his good taste and his erudition, Douglas thought Margaret was, simply put, perfect.
Jeanne didn’t know what she had expected Margaret MacRae to be like, but it wasn’t a child who had such a well-developed sense of herself. She was unlike Davis the way a butterfly is different from a stone. In addition, she had a quick wit and a facile mind.
Today they were studying the history of the Empire, a subject that was as new to Jeanne as it was to Margaret. Neither one of them was overly interested in the topic, but it was a necessary part of the child’s history lesson.
Jeanne sat at a small desk on a raised portion in the front of the schoolroom, while Margaret sat in front of her. The morning had been one of storms and now a fine rain was falling. She’d opened the two windows to let in some of the balmy air and kept the door ajar so that the cross currents would allow some type of breeze. But the time passed in a desultory fashion, and both teacher and student were obviously indifferent to their studies.
“Do you think God can be seen, Miss du Marchand?” Margaret abruptly asked. She propped her elbow on the table she used as a desk, and leaned her chin on her palm, staring out of the window to the gray-hued horizon. There wasn’t a hint of fair weather in the sky. Instead, it appeared that it might rain all day.
“Where did that question come from?” Jeanne asked, looking up from her desk and surveying the child.
Margaret shrugged, her gaze still directed toward the view.
“I don’t believe so,” Jeanne answered. “I believe you’re supposed to believe in God without seeing Him.”
Margaret looked unimpressed. “Do you believe in God?”
“I do, yes.” She waited for more questions, hoping that Margaret wouldn’t peer too closely into her governess’s faith. The years at the convent had soured her as to religious practices.
“Is Heaven supposed to be invisible as well?”
“Are you
thinking of your mother?” Jeanne asked gently, holding her breath, and wondering what reaction that question would engender.
Margaret shook her head. “No, my cat.”
“Your cat?” Jeanne asked, surprised. “I didn’t know you had a cat.” The moment the words were out, she remembered the portrait in Douglas’s study and the kitten who’d been painted into the scene.
“She died, Miss du Marchand,” Margaret said patiently, glancing at her.
“I’m very sorry, Margaret. I didn’t know.”
“You couldn’t have, of course. It happened a year ago.”
Jeanne folded her arms and waited.
Margaret didn’t disappoint. “Do you think there’s a cat heaven and a dog heaven and a people heaven?”
“I think there are some questions that you should ask your father,” Jeanne said in self-defense.
“He said to ask you.”
He would.
“No,” she said firmly, “I do not believe that Heaven is invisible. Not to its inhabitants. I do not think the living can see it, however. As to animals and humans, surely God would be merciful and open the gates of heaven to those we love, whoever and whatever they are.”
Margaret looked slightly mollified. “That’s what Papa said.”
“You mustn’t do that, you know,” Jeanne said, impatiently tapping her fingers on top of the desk.
“Do what?”
She wasn’t fooled by the innocent smile the child gave her. “Ask each of us a question and pick the answer you like the best.”
Jeanne didn’t know what Margaret might have said to such an accusation. At that moment the door swung open a little, revealing Douglas standing there.
“You should feel privileged to be so solicited, Miss du Marchand,” he said, smiling and entering the room.
She hadn’t seen him for a few days, and as usual the sight of Douglas made her heart beat faster and her breath feel tight.
His attire was simple, the clothes expensive but unadorned. The lace on his cuffs and at his throat was not an elaborate pattern. His shoe buckles were silver squares. His vest was sedately embroidered with silver thread on the black silk, while his breeches were tan. He was the very picture of a prosperous businessman, an individual sober of mien and intensely focused.
